High Deryni (28 page)

“De Lacey, I have not heard your answer.”

De Lacey averted his eyes for a long moment, then rose stiffly from his seat and slowly sank to his knees in place. “Forgive my seeming indecision, young Sire, but I am an old man, and the old ways die slowly. I am not accustomed to disobeying either my archbishop or my king.”

“Unfortunately, it appears that you shall be obliged to disobey one of us, my lord. Who is it to be?”

De Lacey bowed his head. “I shall ride with you, Sire. If I might have a horse-litter instead of a warhorse, however…I fear that my bones are too old to travel astride a horse at the pace you will demand.”

Kelson inclined his head in agreement. “Captain, see to a litter for His Excellency. And Archbishop Corrigan—what about you? Must I ask each of you individually? Surely you have had time to decide by now.”

Corrigan was ashen, his fat face clammy and glistening with perspiration. He cast long looks at his colleagues, at his henchman Loris in the soldiers' bonds, then pulled a large handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his face as he lumbered slowly toward Kelson. When he had come to within a few paces of the young king, he cast a final look behind him at Loris, then cast his eyes down and studied his hands, twisting his handkerchief between stubby fingers.

“Forgive me, Sire, but I am old and tired and unable to fight any longer. Much as I fear you are wrong, I have not the strength to oppose you—and I fear I could not survive your dungeon. I ask permission to return to my estates outside Rhemuth. I—I am not well, Sire.”

“Very well,” Kelson said quietly. “If I have your word that you'll not oppose me, you are free to go. My lords, I thank you for not making this any more difficult than it had to be. And now, Morgan, Warin, Lord Hamilton, I wish to be riding out of here by noon, if at all possible. Please see to whatever needs to be done.”

IT
was late afternoon, not midday, before the combined armies were ready to move out, but Kelson gave the marching orders anyway. By traveling through the night and not stopping until the following midday, they could hope to cross most of Corwyn before having to rest. Then, a short stop until the early morning hours of the next day, and they could be in Dhassa by noon of the second day.

From there, it would take at least another two days to combine this army with the other already waiting outside Dhassa. In all, it would be nearly a week before they could hope to meet Wencit's forces farther north. Kelson prayed that it would be soon enough,

The shadows were lengthening, but no one felt the slightest urge to complain at the late start as the advance battalions pulled out of Coroth and began their trek to the northwest. Royal lion banners vied with the gray and black falcon standards of Warin's former rebels, both flags interspersed with the episcopal purple of Cardiel's elite troops brought down from Dhassa. Supply carts creaked their way along the roads, while mounted cavalry thundered across the grass-green of the fields through which they passed. Pack animals snorted and squealed as their drovers bullied them along in the wake of the main army, gay tassels and braid bright and cheerful in the afternoon sun. The richly embroidered surcoats of Morgan's rescued liegeman were interspersed with the uniform tunics of the Royal Haldane Lancers, the Joshuic Foot, the Haldane Archers Corps, lord and commoner alike bound in the common tie of loyalty to the young king who rode in the vanguard.

On returning to his camp, Kelson had once again donned the gold-washed mail of the kings of Gwynedd, had laced his boots with cords of gold, bound his slim waist with a belt of snow-white leather edged with gold, on which hung the gold-chased greatsword that his father had carried in war at a similar young age. Kelson's golden helmet glowed like burnished sunlight as he rode out that afternoon, a jeweled golden circlet fixed to the helm and a crimson plume bobbing jauntily from the top.

Around his shoulders was a cloak of scarlet, on his hands gloves of scarlet leather. The white charger between his thighs pranced and arched its neck as Kelson curbed it, red leather reins supple and sleek between its rider's gloved fingers. At Kelson's side rode his lords: Morgan, Duncan, Cardiel and Arilan, Nigel and his son Conall, Morgan's lieutenants, a host of others.

So they were arrayed as they rode out of Coroth that day. So they would appear when they joined battle with Wencit a few days hence. But for now, it was enough that they were united and riding once more, heading toward a rendezvous with other loyal troops, secure in the knowledge that at least a moral victory had been won within Coroth's walls.

There would be other, more glorious days for Kelson King of Gwynedd. But doubtful it was that any of the others would be remembered with quite such fondness in years to come. For the day that King Kelson rode out of Coroth at the head of an army marked his first true military victory, despite the fact that not a sword had been raised. Spirits would still be high when they reached the gates of Dhassa two days hence.

THEY
arrived in Dhassa as planned, and had been there for a night and a day making final plans for the Cardosa campaign, but news from the front was scarce. There had been no word from the armies of the north for nearly a week—indeed, no word from anywhere at all north and east of Dhassa—and concern was growing hourly. Now that the main armies of Gwynedd were once more united, the outcome of the approaching war was beginning to look more promising as far as sheer numbers were concerned. But the continuing silence in the north augured ill for the days ahead. Morgan was especially concerned that he had not been able to reopen communication with Derry.

It was not for lack of trying. The night before, as they had on numerous occasions since that last fleeting touch the night of the reconciliation, Morgan and Duncan had joined their efforts and attempted to make contact with Derry through the medallion spell they had used successfully so often in the past.

But all their efforts were for naught. Morgan had been confident that he could at least discover Derry's location, especially at this relatively close range; but of the young Marcher lord there had been no trace. Even by stretching his powers almost to the limits of his endurance, Morgan had not been able to make the slightest contact.

Reluctantly, he could only conclude that Derry either was dead or else in the grip of something so monstrously powerful that he could neither detect Morgan's call nor be detected. Morgan sadly feared that it was the former: a particularly sobering thought, after the heady successes of the week before.

Nonetheless, the business of planning for war must go on. On the night before the king's armies were to depart for Cardosa, the candles burned late in the bishop's palace at Dhassa. Bishop Cardiel had graciously set aside the great Curia chamber for a meeting place, that Kelson and his generals and military advisors might have a proper place to work. Outside the city walls, in the valley beyond the guardian lake, the soldiers of Gwynedd slept beside a thousand campfires while their leaders plotted and planned.

The king's war council was in session. In the Curia chamber, the dishes and cutlery of the evening's supper had been cleared away some hours ago to make way for the maps and charts and books of military strategy which were the generals' stock in trade. Amidst the dull rumble of half a hundred gruff voices, the head-work of making war continued as bright-colored markers on painted maps were advanced and withdrawn and scarred fingers traced out positions and troop movements. A light collation of cheeses, fruit, and bread had been brought in an hour before, and some of the men picked at the fare distractedly.

But no one was particularly interested in food at this point. Though wine goblets dotted the tables, and might be raised in burly fists from time to time, the atmosphere was essentially a sober one. Generals and tacticians worked shoulder to shoulder with princes of the Church, who sometimes were able to suggest startling innovations, despite their disclaimers of secular knowledge. Even minor officers of foot and horse were recruited for their specialized expertise, when warranted. The hall echoed to the ring of steel-shod heels on marble flags, to the clunking of scabbards against sturdy oak furniture as the men came and went.

The king, for his part, had made it his business to remain on the fringes of what was going on, circulating among the clergy and lesser nobles of his court to soothe pre-battle nerves and leaving all but the most critical decisions in the able hands of Morgan and Nigel and the other generals. To that end, he had elected to remain inconspicuous, clad in the simplest of crimson lion tunics and with raven head bare of any princely adornment, taking special care to reassure those among his nobles who had little to offer besides their goodwill.

When requested, Kelson would break away from whatever he was doing and rejoin the generals to consider some important point of strategy, to make some decision which only he could make. But he was astute enough to realize that, in the main, his generals and military advisors knew far more of war and military cunning than he did, for all the fact that he was the son of Brion Haldane, who had been an almost legendary leader of men. In the short term, it seemed the single most effective thing he could do was keep quiet and offend no one. For, without the support of every man in the royal army, they could not hope to stand against Wencit of Torenth in the week ahead.

Nor was Kelson alone in his determination to smooth ruffled feathers and make peace among the nobles of Gwynedd. Across the room, Morgan and Bishop Conlan were wrangling with three of Morgan's western barons who had joined them at Coroth. Several of the younger lords and Nigel's son Conall watched and listened with wide eyes. Prince Nigel, too, had been a part of the debate until a little while ago, but now he had returned to the main table to arbitrate some minor difference of opinion between Warin and the Earl of Danoc.

Only Duncan seemed not to be caught up in the taut bustle of the night's work, Kelson thought, as he caught a glimpse of the priest gazing moodily out an open window. Duncan had kept himself somewhat apart for much of the evening, declaring himself no authority on military matters, any more than Kelson was. Yet, Kelson knew that Duncan was a trained swordsman, a duke's son, and must have learned the rudiments of strategy at his father's knee before he heard his calling to the priesthood. As two more bishops approached Kelson with some new query, he wondered what was troubling the priest. It was not like the usually gregarious Duncan to be so distant.

Duncan sighed and leaned an elbow against the windowsill, unconsciously shrugging back the plaid that had begun to slip from one shoulder. His blue eyes were hooded as he searched the inky darkness of the mountains east of Dhassa, and the slim, ringless fingers of one hand tapped restlessly against the stone of the casement edging.

If questioned, he could not have said just why he was so pensive tonight. Certainly, the ceaseless wrangling was beginning to wear on all their nerves, and the pressure was increasing hourly as departure time approached. But he was also worried about Derry—and more, about Morgan's growing concern over the missing Marcher lord. All aside from the obvious loss to Gwynedd's service, if ill had befallen Derry, Duncan knew that the young earl's death would have a profound effect on Morgan. Derry, for all his youthful exuberance and even occasional recklessness, had managed to forge a depth of friendship with Morgan that was enjoyed by few humans. If Derry had died as a result of Morgan's instructions to go out “a-spying”—even though the idea had originally been Kelson's—Duncan knew that it would be a long time before Morgan would be able to bring himself to forget.

And then there was the matter of Duncan's own sorrow, of a vocation held and not held, which could not be resolved until he could come to grips with his Deryniness—because he
had
lied about it to get himself ordained, defying canon law and his own conscience.

Wolves howled in the distant hills, and Duncan let his gaze roam the city walls once more. He could see torches approaching the palace gates from the lake, half a dozen dancing points of light borne by men on horseback. As they drew nearer, he watched the postern gate open to admit them, leaning out then to survey a handful of horses crowding through into the narrow courtyard below.

One of the riders—a page or squire, by the look of him—rode low on his horse's neck, his head lolling alarmingly as the horses jolted to a stop. It was difficult to be certain at this distance, but the lad's mount appeared to be footsore and badly winded. More torches flared in the darkness as stablemen approached.

As one of the men grabbed at the reins of the foundering animal, the beast staggered and went to its knees, pitching its young rider out of the saddle to land in a heap. The unfortunate lad picked himself up painfully and held onto one of the guards for support, then glanced up toward Duncan's window before staggering toward the stair on the man's arm. As he did so, his muddy cloak parted to show a flash of the livery underneath.

Duncan clutched at the windowsill and stifled a gasp, staring after the lad as he disappeared into the stairwell entrance. The sky-blue silk of the boy's livery was long-familiar, known from earliest childhood, as was the sleeping lion badge emblazoned on the chest in silver-gray.

But the sky-blue had been grimy and ragged, stained with a hue more red than mud, the lion badge almost obliterated by a great rent that ran from throat to waist. What could have happened? Had the lad brought word from Duke Jared's army?

The flash of a blade dispatching the foundering horse ended Duncan's stunned speculation, and he came to his senses with a start. The lad would be brought directly to Kelson, he was sure. Duncan was just turning to look for Morgan and the king when the great doors of the chamber were thrown back to admit a guard and a grimy, towheaded page of perhaps nine or ten. Beneath a guard's borrowed cloak, Duncan could see the tattered remains of McLain livery, stained, as he had feared, with the rich red-brown of blood long-dried. The lad sported a great bruise under his left eye, and a crusty, ugly-looking cut on his left elbow, in addition to other scrapes and bruises. His dazed gaze flitted anxiously around the room and he stumbled as he came through the doorway. He would have fallen then and there, had not his escort caught him under his good arm and supported most of his weight.

“Where is the king?” the boy gasped, reeling against his supporter and trying to keep his young eyes in focus. “I must see the king. I have urgent news of—Sire!”

At that instant he spotted Kelson, who had started toward him even as he spoke his first words. The boy reached out a grimy hand and started to sink to his knees, then winced and began to crumple. The guard eased him down, and Kelson was at his side almost at once. Morgan and Duncan pushed their way through the crowd to kneel down on either side, Morgan cushioning the boy's head against his knee. The four were quickly surrounded by a bevy of astonished and apprehensive lords.

“He's passed out from exhaustion,” Morgan said to no one in particular, touching the boy's forehead and shaking his head. “He's feverish from his wounds, too.”

“Conall, bring some wine,” Kelson ordered. “Father Duncan, he wears your father's livery. Do you know who he is?”

Duncan shook his head, white-lipped. “If I saw him before, I have forgotten, Sire. I saw him arrive, though. He rode at least one horse to death to get here.”

“Hmm,” Morgan grunted, running his hands over the boy's body to ascertain additional wounds or broken bones. “He's certainly been through one devil of a time, I'll say that much for—here, what's this?”

He had felt an odd bulge under the boy's tunic, next to his heart, and further investigation revealed a tattered scrap of silk, tightly folded.

He fumbled as he tried to open it, for the silk was stiff with blood. Kelson reached across and took the other edge, and together they unfolded what was obviously part of a battle pennon. In the center of the silk was a leaping black hart on a white circle. The rest of the banner, where it was not caked with mud and gore, was a brilliant, flaming orange-red.

Kelson whistled low under his breath and released the silk, unconsciously wiping his palms against his thighs in distaste. There was no need for further words, for all knew the leaping hart badge of Torenth and what its presence on the bloody standard suggested. In shocked silence, Kelson turned his eyes on the pale face of the unconscious page. Conall returned with the wine, to observe as Morgan took the cup and held it to the boy's lips. The boy whimpered as his head was lifted slightly and supported against Morgan's left arm.

“All right, let's drink up here, young fellow,” Morgan murmured, tipping the cup to let a little of the wine trickle between the boy's teeth.

The boy moaned and tried to turn his head away, but Morgan was relentless.

“No, drink some more. That's a good lad. Now, open your eyes and try to tell us what happened. His Majesty is waiting.”

With a suppressed sob, the boy forced his eyes open and squinted up at Morgan, at the face of Kelson opposite, at Duncan peering down from above, then closed his eyes momentarily and bit at his lip. Morgan gave the goblet back to Conall and laid a gentle hand on the boy's forehead.

“It's all right, son. Tell us what happened, and then you can rest.”

The boy swallowed and wet his lips before opening his eyes again, then fixed his gaze on Kelson, as though it were only the royal presence that kept body and soul together. It was obvious even to those totally without medical training that he was on the verge of passing out again.

“Sire,” he began weakly, “we are undone. Terrible battle…traitor in our midst…Duke Jared's army, all…gone….”

His eyes rolled upward and his voice trailed off as he lapsed into unconsciousness again, and Morgan anxiously felt for a pulse. His expression was grim as he looked up at Kelson.

“He doesn't appear to have any major injuries—a few cuts and bruises, despite the bloody clothes. But he's too exhausted to bring around again. Maybe in a few hours…”

His voice trailed off expectantly as he gazed across at the king, and Kelson shook his head.

“It's no good, Alaric. We can't wait that long. A battle, a traitor in their midst, Duke Jared's army ‘gone'…We've got to find out what happened.”