High Deryni (34 page)

“Look at this. Now I am certain they did not die here. Many of the wounds do not even match the blood and rents on the clothing. They may even have had their uniforms changed to make them look better at a distance. For that matter,” he started to remove the helmet of the next man, “some of these men might not even be our—”

As he tugged at the helmet, he gave a sudden, horrified gasp as it came away empty in his hands. The corpse that had borne the helmet was headless, with a blackened stump of neck extending where the head should have been.

Arilan attempted to cover his consternation by moving on to the next corpse, but removal of this helmet produced the same result: another headless body. With a muffled curse, Arilan moved to another and another yet, each time knocking empty helmets from headless shoulders. In fury he turned away from the others and slammed a fist into an open palm.

“Damn them all to eternal perdition! I knew him ruthless, but I did not think even Wencit capable of this!”

“This—this is Wencit's work?” Nigel managed to stammer, swallowing down bile as he surveyed the carnage.

“So we must assume,” Arilan murmured.

Nigel shook his head in disbelief. “My God, there must be half a hundred men here.” He had to struggle to choke back a sob. “And I would be willing to wager that every one of them is headless. These men were our friends, our comrades in arms. Why, we don't even know
who
they are! We—”

He broke off and turned away abruptly to bury his face in one gloved hand, and Kelson dared a quick look at Morgan. Other than the nervous clenching and unclenching of gloved fists, the Deryni duke was standing impassively, showing no outward sign of emotion. Duncan, too, was controlling his anguish well—though at what cost, Kelson could not even begin to guess, for they had believed these to be Cassani and Kierney men, Duncan's own.

Morgan must have sensed Kelson's eyes upon him then, for at that moment he looked up, brushing Kelson's shoulder in reassurance as he moved past to confront the rest of the company.

“A burial detail will be required, gentlemen—no, a funeral pyre. There is no time to bury this many men. Someone must see to the ones across the plain, in the ravine, too. Sire,” he turned slightly toward the king, “what is your feeling about informing the men what has happened?”

“They must be told.”

“I agree,” Morgan said with a nod. “And I think we must stress that these men were dead before they were brought here; that in all likelihood, they died in honorable battle—not spitted like so many wild animals.”

“That should give
some
measure of comfort,” Arilan agreed, “yet still remind them why we are fighting—and the measures a ruthless enemy may take to achieve his ends.”

Kelson nodded, his composure returning. “Very well. Uncle Nigel, have your men take them down and prepare a funeral pyre.”

Nigel nodded agreement.

“And Warin, if you and such of your men as you feel necessary would attend to the others in the ravine…”

Warin bowed stiffly in the saddle. “As you wish, Sire.”

“Bishop Arilan, Bishop Cardiel—there will be no time for proper services just now, but perhaps you and your brethren can say a few words while the men prepare the pyres. And if any of you should find any indication of the identities of the victims, I—I should like to be informed. It is difficult, I know, without the heads, but—” He shuddered and averted his face slightly. “Please do what you can.”

With his head lowered, Kelson walked briskly back to his horse, turning the animal's head as he mounted so that he would not have to look for even a second longer at the terrible sight he was leaving. As he cantered up the slope alone to rejoin his other generals and bishops, Arilan watched him go, watched Warin and his men start toward the ravine with Cardiel, watched the men of Nigel's escort dismount and begin the grisly task of laying the slaughtered men to rest. As the soldiers spread through the ranks of the dead to gently lift each man to the ground, Arilan moved slowly to where Morgan and Duncan stood watching dumbly, coming between them to lay a comforting arm across the shoulder of each.

“Our young king is sorely troubled, my friends, as am I,” he said in a low voice, watching with morbid fascination as the soldiers slowly cleared a path in the terrible forest of stakes. “How do you think this will affect him in the days to come?”

Morgan snorted and crossed his arms across his chest. “You have a talent for asking questions I cannot answer, Bishop. How will any of us react? Do you know what worries me more than this?”

Arilan shook his head, and Duncan looked at him in apprehension.

“Well,” Morgan continued in a low voice, “for now these are just bodies—horribly defiled, I will grant you, but still only bodies. For all we know, they could be dead Torenthi soldiers dressed in captured Cassani livery—though I doubt it.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed.

“But somewhere, someone knows who those men really are. The bodies may be here, but the heads are somewhere else—and I dread what may happen when we find those heads.”

THEIR
departure from that place was delayed yet another hour while the funeral pyres were lit, and then each column of soldiers must make its final salute as it passed the smoking pyres of the dead men. There had been rumblings among the ranks as the news of the slaughter spread, and the expected fears and speculations as to the identities of both victims and perpetrators. But in all, the army had taken the incident in stride. None could now question the evil of Wencit of Torenth, who could condone such atrocities upon a vanquished enemy—even if the mutilations had been done after the men were dead. Such a man deserved no mercy from the King of Gwynedd. When battle was joined in the morning, it was certain to be hard and bloody.

So the army had marched on, leaving in its wake two smoldering beacons whose greasy smoke spiralled upward in an ever-widening swath of black against the sky. They encountered no further harassment as they went, perhaps because the enemy had deemed the spectacle of the previous hour sufficient; or perhaps they were merely saving their strength for the battle in the morning.

Whatever their reason, Kelson was glad of it as they reached their final campsite, for darkness was falling. The day had been long and grueling, the past hours emotionally draining. The army would need all of the rest they could get.

It took nearly three hours to make camp, but finally Kelson was sufficiently satisfied with the camp's defenses to retire to his tent for a light supper. Morgan, Duncan, and Nigel joined him, but they kept the tone light all through the meal, none of them wishing to discuss the day in detail. After the last glasses of wine had been poured, Kelson stood and held his goblet aloft, the others rising as well.

“Gentlemen, I give you a final toast. To the loyal dead—and to victory: may it come tomorrow to the just!”

“And to the King!” Nigel added quickly, before Kelson could raise the cup to his lips. “Long may he reign!”

“To victory and the King!” the others repeated, and tossed off their drinks.

Kelson allowed himself a wan smile, then raised his own cup and drank, finally setting it on a small table and sinking back into his chair. He glanced at each of them wearily, then shook his head and sighed.

“If any of you are half as tired as I am…” He sighed again. “But, no matter. We all have further duties to attend to. Morgan, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Certainly, my prince.”

Kelson nodded. “I should like you to see the Lady Richenda and inform her what has happened today—without elaborating on the graphic details, of course. She is a very refined lady. Tell her that I shall think no less of her if she chooses not to try appealing to her husband tomorrow.”

“From what I have heard,” Duncan said with a wry chuckle, “he will have his hands full convincing her of that. The Lady Richenda may be a very refined lady, but she seems to me a very stubborn one.”

Kelson smiled. “So I have come to suspect. But I cannot fault her when that stubbornness is for the Crown. Morgan, try to make her understand what we are up against. I have no right to ask her assistance under the circumstances. I shouldn't even have allowed her to come.”

“I shall do my best, my prince,” Morgan agreed.

“Thank you. Now, Uncle Nigel, I wonder if you would come with me to look over the northernmost defenses. I am not convinced that they are adequate, and I should like your opinion.”

As Kelson pulled out several maps to show to his uncle and went on with his briefing, Morgan took his leave and slipped out of the royal pavilion. Kelson's request both pleased and troubled him, for he had not been at all certain it was wise to seek out Richenda of Marley again—not after their all too brief but emotionally potent meeting at Dhassa.

A part of him, of course, positively yearned to see her again; but another, more cautious part of him—a part which, he strongly suspected, was closely bound up with his personal sense of honor—that part warned him to stay away, warned that no honor could come of permitting himself to become more emotionally involved with another man's wife—especially if he might have to kill that man on the morrow.

But now the matter had been taken out of his hands. He had been given an order by his king, and he must obey. Pushing aside a curious sense of elation at being thus forced to circumvent the proddings of his conscience, he made his way through the camp until he came to Bishop Cardiel's compound.

The bishop had not yet returned, was probably overseeing troop placement with Warin and Arilan somewhere, but the bishop's guards passed the King's Champion unchallenged. Very shortly Morgan was moving across the torchlit common before the Countess of Marley's bright blue tent. Torches blazed to either side of the entry-way, but he could see through the open flap that the interior was lit by the softer glow of candles.

Swallowing nervously, Morgan stepped to the open flap of the tent and cleared his throat.

“My lady countess?” he called softly.

He heard a faint rustle of fabric, heralding the appearance of a tall, dark form in the opening to the tent. Morgan's heart missed a beat for just an instant, then resumed its normal pace, for the woman was a sister, not the Lady Richenda.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” the sister murmured, inclining her wimpled head. “Her Ladyship is within, putting the young master to bed. Did you wish to speak with her?”

“If you please, Sister. I have a message for her from the king.”

“I shall tell her, Your Grace. Wait here, please.” As the sister withdrew, Morgan turned to gaze out into the darkness beyond the circle of torchlight. After what seemed like only a few seconds, another rustling heralded the appearance of a different form: Richenda of Marley, with a sky-blue mantle drawn over a flowing white under-robe, her flame-colored hair trailing loosely down her back. A single candle held in a silver holder shed a golden light across her face.

“My lady.” Morgan inclined his head in salute, trying not to look too closely at her. Richenda dropped him the slightest of curtsies and also inclined her head.

“Good evening, Your Grace. Sister Luke mentioned something about a message from the king?”

“Yes, my lady. I suppose you have heard somewhat regarding the delay this afternoon, before we reached our campsite?”

“I have.” The answer was quiet, direct, and the woman lowered her eyes, gesturing for him to enter. “Please come in, Your Grace. Your Deryni reputation will not be enhanced if you are seen loitering outside my tent. Nor will mine.”

“Would you rather have me seen
entering
your tent, my lady?” Morgan quipped, ducking his head to step inside.

“I am certain that Sister Luke can attest to the propriety of our meeting,” she replied with a slight smile. “Pray, excuse me a moment while I make certain my son is asleep.”

“Of course.”

The pavilion was divided within by a dense but faintly translucent curtain of royal blue. He could follow Richenda's movements behind the curtain by the glow of her candle, but he could not make out details. Presumably the sleeping accommodations for the countess, her son, and the sister were in the second chamber, since he could see no such preparations on the side where he was now standing.

The furnishings of his present location seemed to consist of two folding camp chairs, a few small trunks, and a rack of yellow candles set near the center pole. Carpets had been laid underfoot to keep the dampness out, but they were not of any special quality—doubtless borrowed from Cardiel's stores, with such short notice. He hoped that the lady and her boy were not enduring too much discomfort.

Richenda slipped back into the outer chamber and held a finger to her lips, a tender smile on her face.

“He is asleep now, Your Grace. Would you care to look in on him? He is only four, you know, but I'm afraid I am terribly proud of him.”

Seeing that she wished it, Morgan nodded acquiescence and followed her into the inner chamber. As they entered, the sister looked up from a stack of bedclothes she was sorting and bowed slightly as though to leave, but Richenda shook her head and led Morgan to the small pallet where her son slept.