High Deryni (4 page)

“Cloven hooves, indeed!” He snorted. “Morgan, for a moment you almost had me believing you.”

“One cannot labor under tension
all
the time, Sire,” Morgan said with a shrug and a faint smile. “Now, what news since we left? What has been happening to put you in this agitated frame of mind?”

Kelson shook his head. “There's nothing new, really. That may be why I'm so uneasy. I am still trying to decide the best way to end this internal contention, and that brings us back to the basic question of how best to honorably reconcile ourselves with my clergy and my rebellious subjects.”

Duncan washed down the last of his meat with a swallow of wine and nodded in Kelson's direction. “We have also given that matter considerable thought in the past few days, my prince. And we've about reached the conclusion that the most reasonable approach is first to attempt a reconciliation with the six rebel bishops in Dhassa. They
want
to help you; their quarrel is with Alaric and me only. You are not involved.”

“That's true,” Kelson agreed, considering. “If you could be formally reinstated and cleared of the charges that the Curia brought against you, I could accept their aid without worrying about compromising their honor. I have been reluctant until now to even communicate with them because of just that factor. If they have been loyal to me so far, it's because I am the king—and maybe a little because they know and trust me personally. At least Bishop Arilan does.”

Morgan wiped the blade of his dagger against the side of his boot and returned it to its sheath. “That is certainly a factor, my prince. It is one reason we considered this proposition so carefully, before even discussing it with you. Whatever we do, we would not wish to endanger that trust which the Six in Dhassa still hold for you.”

“Yet you propose to go to Dhassa and attempt a reconciliation,” the king said. “Suppose you don't succeed? Suppose the Six cannot be persuaded?”

“I believe I can put your mind at ease on that matter, Sire,” Duncan said. “If you'll recall, I was on Bishop Arilan's staff for some time. I know him fairly well. I believe he will deal fairly with us, and in doing so, will persuade his colleagues to do likewise.”

“I wish I could be as sure.”

Kelson drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair, then folded them together in his lap. “So you would throw yourselves on the mercy of the bishops, on the strength of your trust in one man.” His grimace of distaste showed reluctance as well. “Yet, the fact is that both of you
are
guilty of the charges for which you were excommunicated. There is no denying the events at Saint Torin's. To be sure, there were extenuating circumstances—and hopefully, canon law will support your defense, at least in the major issues. But if you should fail, if the excommunication should stand, what then? Do you think the Six will let you walk out of there?”

There were the sounds of low voices outside the tent, a verbal altercation of some sort going on, and Kelson paused to glance in the direction of the doorway. As he did, a sentry withdrew the flap and stepped inside.

“Sire, Bishop Istelyn wishes to see you. He insists it cannot wait.”

Kelson frowned. “Admit him.”

As the guard stepped back into the dusk, Kelson glanced quickly at the faces of his companions, especially Morgan and Duncan. Istelyn was one of Gwynedd's twelve itinerant bishops with no fixed see, one of those who had not been in Dhassa when the Curia had split last winter.

But Istelyn, on hearing of the events in Dhassa, had declared himself to be on the side of Arilan and Cardiel and the rest of the Six, and several weeks ago had attached himself to Kelson's army here at the Corwyn border. He was regarded as a sober, even-tempered prelate, not given to flexing his ecclesiastical power. For him to force himself on a royal meeting as he was about to do was quite out of character unless something were drastically wrong. Kelson's face almost betrayed his anxiety as the bishop stepped through the tent opening, a sheaf of parchment in his hand and a very solemn expression on his face.

“Your Majesty,” Istelyn said with a grave bow.

“My Lord Bishop,” Kelson replied, standing slowly at his place as the rest followed suit.

Istelyn glanced around the tent and nodded acknowledgement, and Kelson motioned the rest of his menie to be seated.

“I surmise that your news is not good, my lord,” the king murmured, not taking his eyes from Istelyn's.

“You surmise correctly, Sire.” The bishop moved closer to the king and extended the sheaf of parchments. “I—regret being the bearer of these, but I felt you should have them.”

As Kelson took the pages Istelyn offered, the bishop bowed and backed off a few paces, unwilling to meet the young monarch's eyes any longer. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Kelson scanned the top sheet, his lips compressing in a thin, white line as he read. The gray eyes grew colder by the second as he flicked over the too-familiar seal at the bottom of the page and then skipped to the second sheet.

His face blanched as he read, and it was with a visible control of emotion that he kept his hands from crumpling the parchment then and there. Veiling the icy Haldane eyes beneath long lashes, he began to bend the parchment sheets into a fat roll, not looking up as he spoke.

“Leave us, please—all of you.” His voice was chill, deadly, not to be disobeyed. “And Istelyn, you are to speak of this to no one until we give you leave. Is that clear?”

Istelyn paused to bow as he moved toward the doorway. “Of course, Sire.”

“Thank you. On second thought, Morgan and Father Duncan, please stay.”

The pair had been moving toward the doorway with the others, but paused to exchange puzzled glances before turning to regard their undoubtedly distressed sovereign lord. Kelson had turned his back on the departing lords and stood rising up and down slightly on the balls of his feet, tapping the roll of parchment lightly against the palm of his left hand.

Morgan and Duncan returned to stand expectantly by their former places, but when Nigel paused as though to join them, Duncan lifted a restraining hand and shook his head. Morgan, too, moved as though to bar the way, and with a resigned shrug Nigel turned on his heel to follow the others from the pavilion. His departure left only the three of them within the blue canvas walls.

“Are they all gone?” Kelson whispered. He had not moved during the silent exchange with Nigel, and his only movement now was the slight tap-tap of the parchment roll against his hand—that and his controlled breathing.

Duncan raised an eyebrow at Morgan and glanced again at the king.

“Yes, they're gone, Sire. What is it?”

Kelson turned to eye both of them, the gray Haldane eyes lighting with a fire the two men had not seen since Brion's time. Then he half-crumpled the parchment sheets and flung them to the floor in disgust.

“Go ahead, read them,” he blurted, turning then to fling himself across his bed on his stomach. He slammed a lean fist into the mattress with all his might.

“Damn those bishops to thrice-cursed perdition, what are we to do? My God, we are undone!”

Morgan blinked at Duncan in blank amazement, then moved closer to the king in concern as Duncan retrieved the discarded documents.

“Kelson, what is it? Tell us what has happened. Are you all right?”

With a sigh, Kelson rolled over to prop himself on his elbows and gaze up more blandly at the pair, the anger in his eyes now damped to a slight, cold fire.

“Forgive me, you shouldn't have seen that show of temper.” He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling of the tent. “I am a king. I should know better. It's a fault, I know.”

“And what of the fault with the message?” Morgan urged, glancing at Duncan's calm face as he scanned the documents. “Come, tell us what has happened.”

“I'm excommunicated, that's what's happened,” Kelson replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “In addition, my entire kingdom is under Interdict, and any who continue to pay me fealty are likewise excommunicated.”

“Is
that
all?” Morgan exhaled, a long, relieved sigh, and beckoned Duncan to bring the documents Kelson had discarded in such heat. “By your reaction, I thought it to be truly horrible news.”

Kelson sat up straight in the center of the bed.
“Is that all?”
he repeated incredulously. “You obviously don't understand. Father Duncan, explain it to him in words of one syllable. I am
excommunicated
, and everyone who remains with me! And Gwynedd is under
Interdict
!”

Duncan folded the parchment sheaf in half and creased the center sharply, tossed it lightly to the bed. “Worthless, my prince.”

“What?”

“It is worthless,” he repeated calmly. “The eleven bishops sitting in conclave at Coroth still have not gleaned a twelfth: a requirement that is as firmly fixed in our canon law as any dogma of faith. The eleven at Coroth cannot bind you or anyone else unless they gain a twelfth.”

“A twelfth—by God, you're right!” Kelson exclaimed, scrambling upright to snatch up the offending documents and stare at them again. “How could I have forgotten?”

Morgan smiled and returned to his chair, where a half-finished cup of wine awaited him. “It is understandable, my prince. You are not as accustomed to anathema as we are. Remember that Duncan and I have been truly and legally excommunicated for nearly three months now, and are little the worse for wear—which brings us back to our original discussion.”

“Yes, of course.” Kelson got to his feet and returned to his chair, still shaking his head as he stared at the documents in his hand. Duncan, too, returned to the circle of chairs and sat down, helping himself to a small apple as Kelson finally put the parchment sheaf aside.

“What you are implying, then,” the king said, “is that this makes it all the more urgent that you get to Dhassa as quickly as possible. Am I correct?”

“You are, my prince,” Morgan said with a nod.

“But suppose Arilan's colleagues won't follow his lead? They are our only hope for reconciliation with the rest of the clergy, and if they should fail us, especially with this new Interdict and excommunication hanging over us—why, we'd never be able to make Loris and Corrigan listen.”

Morgan made a steeple of his forefingers and tapped them lightly against his lips for a moment, then glanced at Duncan. The priest had not changed his relaxed position next to him, and appeared to be chewing unconcernedly on a bite of apple, but Morgan knew that he was thinking much the same thing. Unless they could eventually reach an agreement with Loris and Corrigan, the ringleaders of the curial hostility against Duncan and himself, Gwynedd was doomed. Once the spring flooding was done, Wencit of Torenth would be sweeping into Gwynedd along the Rheljan Range, using high Cardosa as a base. And with internal factions warring in the south and no reinforcements available, it would be a relatively simple matter to cut off Kelson's three armies and destroy them at leisure. The controversy in Corwyn must be resolved, and soon.

Morgan shifted forward in his chair and retrieved his helmet from the floor where he had dropped it. “We shall do the best we can, my prince. In the meantime, what are your plans while we're gone? I know how this inactivity must be fretting you.”

Kelson studied a ruby on his forefinger and shook his head. “It is.” He looked up and managed a slight smile. “But for the time being, I shall just have to put up with my impatience and stand where I am, won't I? As soon as you have reached agreement with the Six in Dhassa, will you send word?”

“Certainly. And we are still agreed on our rendezvous point?”

“Yes—and I should like to send Derry north for part of the way with you, too, if you don't mind. I need word of the three armies.”

“Agreed.” Morgan nodded, fingering the chin strap of his helmet. “If you like, we can arrange for you to keep in touch with him through his medallion, the way we did before. Is that agreeable?”

“Of course. Perhaps Father Duncan could brief him, then, and make preparations for you to leave. You'll need fresh horses, supplies….”

“I'll be happy to see to it, Sire,” Duncan said, draining the last of his wine and picking up his helmet as he got to his feet. “I shall look in on Bishop Istelyn and reassure him, as well.”

Kelson stared after the departing priest for a long moment, then returned his gaze to Morgan, studying the trim form relaxed in the chair there, the hooded gray eyes that watched him in much the same way. As he glanced down at his own hands, he was surprised to find that his fingers were trembling, and he twined them together in annoyance.

“Ah—how long do you think it will take to reach the bishops and…resolve things?” he asked. “I'll—need to know when to meet you with the army.”

Morgan smiled and lightly touched the pouch at his belt. “I carry your Lion Seal, my prince. I am your Champion, sworn to protect you.”