High Deryni (22 page)

With those eyes, Warin could bore into a man's soul, they said; could heal in the manner of the ancient prophets and holy men. Out of the north had he come, preaching a violent end for those of Deryni blood, calling for holy war to rid the people of the Deryni scourge that had lain too long upon the land.

Warin was appointed by God—or so he believed. At any rate, his successes, the charismatic leadership he seemed to display over his men, all appeared to point to the truth of that statement. Even the Curia of Gwynedd had been swayed to his cause, though Gwynedd's Primate, Archbishop Edmund Loris, had been himself a foe of the Deryni for lo, these many years.

Now militant rebels and curial forces stood shoulder to shoulder behind the walls of Castle Coroth, ready to wage war against the city's lawful lord and her king. They had captured the castle through the trickery of a few key men inside the walls, had taken proud Coroth without a single death or major injury.

Morgan's staunchest adherents now lay in the dungeons deep below Coroth Keep, fed and cared for, but nonetheless prisoners of the fanatical religious forces that had occupied the city. Warin's charisma had swayed even the citizens of Coroth, winning them over from their age-old loyalty to duke and king.

Now, peering down from his sheltered vantage point atop the walls of Coroth, Warin surveyed the enemy anew. A scabbard scraped against the wall behind him, and one of his lieutenants coughed to clear his throat.

“They bring many men, Lord. Will the walls keep them out?”

Warin nodded. “For now, Michael. At least for now. This Morgan was no fool when he fortified his city. He is certain to have defended it against every kind of attack he could foresee. How, then, can he breach his own defenses?”

A second man, Paul de Gendas, shook his head. “I like it not, Lord. You know what kind of villain this Morgan is. Remember what he did at Saint Torin's, while not even in full command of his powers. Now he is joined by more Deryni: the priest McLain, the king himself, perhaps even the king's uncle and his uncle's sons. All of the Haldane line are to be feared, Lord.”

“Be not anxious,” Warin said softly. “I have reason to believe that even Deryni powers cannot broach these walls without considerable difficulty. Where are my lord archbishops, by the way? Have they been informed of what is happening here?”

“They're coming, Lord,” said a third man, bowing slightly in response to the question. “His Grace of Valoret was infuriated when he heard.”

“No doubt he was,” Warin murmured, allowing the briefest of smiles to cross his lips. “His Grace of Valoret is a man of violent appetites. Happily, he is not afraid of Morgan face-to-face. He will be our most formidable spokesman this afternoon.”

Around him, all along the wide battlements, archers and spearmen were taking their positions on the castle ramparts. Great piles of stones had been readied in the days just past, and now strong men in sweat-stained jerkins stood ready to hurl the missiles down on unprotected attackers, should the need arise. As Warin turned to scan the towers to his rear, he saw the archbishops' colors break from the top of the highest tower. His own falcon standard already whipped in the brisk sea breeze on a less lofty tower. And as he watched, the banners of nine more bishops appeared along the ramparts proper, interspersed with the lesser banners of nobles who had been persuaded to join the holy cause.

Warin returned his attention to the plain below and noted that the enemy leaders were assembling before the massed army, a white-cloaked rider approaching the king. At that moment, Warin was joined by Archbishops Loris and Corrigan and several of the lesser bishops. Loris was dressed in a plain working cassock of somber purple, a cloak of the same fabric pulled around his shoulders against the chill sea air. A skullcap made a halo of what wispy white hair could escape from beneath its confines, and Warin found himself idly wondering what kept the cap on in this breeze. A silver pectoral cross and a bishop's ring were Loris's only adornment against the somber violet of his robes, and his face was set and pale.

Corrigan, at his side, had put on flesh since Dhassa, three months prior, and his pale, fearful eyes darted nervously past Loris and Warin to the array on the plain below.

Warin's lieutenants bowed from the waist as the prelates joined them, and Warin inclined his head in greeting. Loris gave a curt nod as he moved closer to the parapet wall.

“I was on my way when your messenger arrived,” he said, eyeing the army that surrounded them on three sides. “How do you think they will move?”

“They appear to be preparing to parley, Excellency. I doubt they would attack this close to dark. There at the front, though, you can see the king in the crimson, there beside a white rider. And over there, Bishops Cardiel and Arilan and the rest of the rebels, the prince Nigel. And of course, Morgan and the priest McLain are with them, as we expected they would be. Apparently they have induced the rebel bishops to believe in their innocence, since they wear normal battle attire.”

“Their ‘innocence,' indeed!” Loris snorted. “God knows, I don't have to tell you of their ‘innocence,' Warin. You were at Saint Torin's!”

“So I was, my lord,” Warin said mildly. “And the fact remains that the ‘innocents' are now camped before us, and apparently wish to parley. Is this agreeable to you?”

Loris flounced to the edge of the parapet and leaned out briefly for a better look, then rejoined Warin. A small party was detaching itself from the rest and beginning to ride slowly toward the city walls. The white-cloaked rider now bore a white parley banner.

“Very well, we will at least listen. Signal your men to hold their fire and honor the flag of truce.”

As Loris spoke, the white-cloaked rider broke from the parley party and began riding a slow zig-zag pattern toward the castle walls. Bareheaded and, to all outward appearances, unarmed, he bore a banner of white silk, the staff gleaming silver and gold in the wan sunlight that yet remained. As Warin lifted a spyglass to his eye, reading the device on the rider's surcoat, he identified the youth to be Prince Nigel's eldest son.

Warin put the glass from his eye and watched as the young man drew rein perhaps fifty yards from the wall. Warin raised a hand to stay his men from hostile action, and bows and spears were lowered all along the wall. The young rider resumed his approach, this time at a walk, to draw rein perhaps twenty yards out from the walls. Warin watched as the youth scanned the parapets, guessing that he was looking for someone of rank to address.

“I bear a message for Archbishop Loris and the man called Warin de Grey,” the lad called, his raven head raised defiantly to search the faces appearing along the battlement.

Loris stiffened slightly, then moved forward, Warin at his elbow. The lad saw them and made his horse prance sideways, closer to their position. Even Warin had to admit that he was a fine rider.

“My lord Archbishop?” the lad called. His tone was slightly sharp, his boy's voice high-pitched with nervousness.

“I am Archbishop Loris, and Warin de Grey stands beside me. What message have you?”

The young man bowed slightly in the saddle, then gazed up at the two. “My lord cousin, Kelson King of Gwynedd, bids me say that he wishes parley with you. He asks only that the truce marked by this banner be upheld so that he and several of his retainers may approach to speaking distance. Will you grant this request in honor?”

Loris cast a sidelong glance at Warin, then nodded. “I will grant it in honor,” he replied formally. “But tell His Majesty that unless he has a mind to make peace with the Church he has forsworn, and to surrender into our jurisdiction the two Deryni he harbors, this talk will do little good. There are certain things about which we are adamant.”

“I will so inform him, my lord,” the lad said with a bow.

With that, he wheeled his horse and cantered back to his escort, the white silk banner snapping in the breeze. Warin and Loris watched him go, watched as he and his escort approached the crimson-clad figure waiting in the front lines of the enemy army. Then Loris made a fist and hit his hand lightly against the stone merlon beside him.

“I like it not, Warin,” he murmured. “I like it not at all. You'd best send your lieutenants among the men, just in case there is treachery afoot. I fear I do not trust our king any longer.”

WITH
the royal army, Kelson gazed up at the two figures standing on the distant castle parapet, sacerdotal purple and rebel gray, then replaced his crowned helmet and signed for the parley-banner to strike out again. As the lad rode out—he was but a year younger than Kelson—the king touched spurs to his mount and began to follow, flanked on his left by Morgan and on his right by Bishop Cardiel. The royal standard-bearer cut ahead of them and moved into position directly in front of Kelson and a little to the right, and two noble men-at-arms ranged themselves at the king's back. The wan sunlight gleamed on the narrow gold coronet circling Kelson's helmet, on the green-plumed helm of Morgan, and on Cardiel's simple miter.

As he rode, Kelson glanced up at the golden Haldane lion snapping in the breeze, aware of the lion device repeated on the crimson surcoat he wore. Morgan, on his left, wore a cloak of brilliant green over his leather surcoat and mail. Cardiel, to his right, carried a bishop's crozier footed in his stirrup instead of a lance. Ahead, his cousin Conall bore the white parley banner as though it, too, were a royal one, his raven head held high and proud. As they approached the wall to where Conall had halted before, Kelson looked up to see Loris staring down at him, Warin beside him, and swallowed a little nervously as the rebel leader's eyes touched his for just an instant.

Then the standards, white and crimson, were drawing aside to flank him and his noble escort, and other faces were peering through gaps in the crenellated battlement above. Squaring his courage with a slow, measured breath, the temporal ruler of Gwynedd stared up at the spiritual ruler of Gwynedd and spoke.

“Good greeting to you, my lord Archbishop. My thanks for your permission to approach.”

Loris inclined his head slightly. “When a king approaches in true contrition, Sire, what priest could refuse?”

“Contrition, Archbishop?” Kelson glanced to Cardiel for reassurance, then returned his attention to Loris. “My Lord, I will not quibble over words. I have resolved to reconcile our differences and be one again in mind for Gwynedd. This internecine bickering must cease, and now, or we shall all be overcome by the peril in the north.”

Loris folded his arms across his chest and raised his chin a trifle higher. “I will be pleased to make a reconciliation with you, Sire, if you will do me the courtesy to explain why you consort with heretics and traitors. Or can you have forgotten what has brought us where we are? Those who ride beside you know whereof I speak.”

Cardiel cleared his throat and eased his horse a pace forward. “My lord, I and my brothers in Christ are satisfied that Duke Alaric and his cousin have returned to us in true contrition. They have been received back into the communion of Holy Mother Church, and with that, all strife among us is resolved.”

“That is absurd,” Loris said flatly. “Morgan and McLain were excommunicated by lawful action of the Gwynedd Curia. Even they are aware of that. You and your rebellious colleagues were party to that action.” He glanced toward the assembled bishops back at the front lines, dismissing their presence with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “And now you presume to rescind the action of that Curia by the will of six men? I will not hear of it.”

“We are eight now, my lord, not six. Two more have joined us, who were not present that day. And we freely acknowledge that we were in error. Accordingly, the Duke of Corwyn and Father McLain have been reinstated in our grace, as have His Majesty and all his loyal followers who suffered by our judgment.”

Loris half-turned away in disgust. “That is preposterous. You cannot overturn the Curia's ruling. Why should I even listen to you? You are clearly mad!”

“Then, listen to your king, Archbishop,” Kelson said, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he stared up at Loris. “We have another quarrel with you: namely, the actions of your supposed supporter and ally, Warin. His bands have been marauding through Corwyn for nearly six months now, intimidating my barons, burning fields, preaching insurrection against me—”

“Not against you, Sire,” Warin said stiffly. “Against the Deryni.”

“And am I not half-Deryni?” Kelson countered. “And if you preach against them, do you not also preach against me?”

Warin stared down at Kelson with cold gray eyes. “It is regrettable that you bear Deryni blood, Sire; but we choose to overlook that, because you are our king. We crusade against the true Deryni, like the one who sits there at your side. You should not be in such company, Sire.”

“Do you presume to rebuke your king?” Kelson snapped. “Warin, I have not the time nor the inclination to debate the Deryni question with you. Wencit of Torenth is poised on our borders, ready to invade—and he is an evil man, even were he not Deryni. The civil strife that you and the archbishops have raised must please him beyond all accounting.”

Loris shook his head angrily, striking a defiant pose. “Do not blame
us
for Wencit of Torenth, Sire. Wencit is not the issue. I will not compromise the will of the Lord, not even for the will of the king.”