The Bastard Prince (33 page)

“As for venturing farther into Gwynedd at this time, I assure you that it was never Prince Miklos' intention, this time around, to commit Torenthi troops to any major incursion into Gwynedd. I will respect that intention and will not even suggest that you should go against it.”

He waited for their sullen rumble of agreement to die down, sensing that the critical decision was past.

“Practicalities yet remain,” he said, when he again had their attention. “With the concurrence of his Highness' senior officers, I intend that we shall begin withdrawal from Culliecairn at dawn, banners flying and drums beating. I shall have the appropriate notifications drawn up and sent to the Gwynedd camp within the hour. Meanwhile, I shall personally keep vigil beside my cousin's body through the night. Those who wish to do the same are invited to join me.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

For gold is tried in the fire, and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity.

—Ecclesiasticus 2:5

The Kheldour commanders met the king's party as they rejoined the Gwynedd line, anxious and agitated to learn of Sudrey's death. Corban was detailed to take her body back to Lochalyn and her daughter; Sighere and Graham remained. It was clear they did not blame Rhys Michael for what had happened—Sudrey had known at least some of the danger—but the king felt a grief akin to their own as he continued numbly on toward the Gwynedd camp.

“Exactly what happened out there?” Rhun demanded, riding at his knee. He kept glancing back over his shoulder at the distant Torenth line, now in obvious agitation, anxious lest the fall of Miklos provoke a Torenthi attack. Manfred was on the king's other side, Cathan and Fulk now following with Sighere and Graham. A score of
Custodes
knights had replaced the archers and rode close all around them.

“Miklos broke the trace, just as you said he would, but for different reasons than we feared,” Rhys Michael said. “I don't think it's appropriate that I go into details right now. Let's see if his men are going to respect the truce or attack us.”

The reasoning seemed to satisfy Rhun for the moment—and gave Rhys Michael a chance to think about what he was going to tell the earl marshal when the inevitable reckoning came. He cradled his injured hand to his breast as they rode, for the initial shock of the injury was wearing off, and the hand had begun to throb.

They drew up on a rise just outside the Gwynedd camp to await a Torenthi response. None came. After nearly an hour of watching and waiting and weighing the military factors, Rhun and his commanders decided that, with darkness coming on, an immediate attack was not likely. Leaving Joshua Delacroix in command at the perimeter, Rhun men escorted the king back to the command tent, accompanied by Manfred, Sighere, Graham, and the king's aides. Master Stevanus had been pacing back and forth before the tent, having been informed of the king's injury, and now came to take his royal patient in charge.

“Let's go inside and have a look at that,” he said, as the king swung a leg over his horse and gently eased to the ground, trying not to jar his hand.

The king followed meekly into the command tent and sat where he was directed, on the edge of a camp bed. Father Lior was already there and waiting. As Stevanus came to crouch beside the king and began prodding at the gash in the red leather gauntlet, bidding Fulk to bring a rack of candles nearer, Rhun and Lior came to hover like two predatory vultures. Cathan knelt unobtrusively to unbuckle the king's spurs—and also stay close in case of need. Manfred remained near the entrance with Sighere and Graham, now anticipating a message instead of an attack from the Torenthi.

“Now, what the devil happened out there?” Rhun demanded. “You said Miklos broke the truce.”

“He seemed ready to pull out—though we hadn't yet gotten to his terms,” Rhys Michael said, wincing at Stevanus' ministrations. “Then he attacked Lady Sudrey with magic. In retrospect, I'm sure that's why he was so keen to have her come along. He felt she'd betrayed her family and her race by marrying Eastmarch. When some of the magic started spilling over to me, she interposed herself to protect me. She gave her life in my defense.”

“I shouldn't have thought she was strong enough to stand against a Deryni like Miklos,” Lior said. “You almost looked as if you were involved in it, too.”

Rhys Michael gasped and tried to pull away as Stevanus attempted to straighten out his shattered fingers.

“I—don't remember that part very clearly,” he managed to whisper. “I—think she somehow—pulled energy from me, to give her more power against him. He was still too much for her, though. If his horse hadn't exploded, he might well have—aiie!”

“Sorry,” Stevanus murmured. “Lord Rhun, I'm going to have to ask you to continue this conversation after I've dealt with his hand. There's already a great deal of swelling. I'm going to have to cut away the gauntlet before I can even begin to assess the damage. Cathan, pour his Highness a double dose of syrup of poppies, would you? This isn't going to be pleasant.”

Clearly unsatisfied, Rhun withdrew to the entrance of the command tent as Stevanus set to work, consulting in low tones with Manfred, Sighere, and Graham, though Lior remained to watch. Rhys Michael's first glimpse of the purpling flesh and the blood and dirt-caked laceration convinced him that he would rather have been almost anywhere than where he was, though he drank down only half the painkiller Cathan brought him.

“I'd rather not take too much of this until we know how Torenth is going to react,” he said to Stevanus, as he handed back the cup, sucking in breath through clenched teeth as the surgeon's probing shifted broken bones.

“Very well, but don't say I didn't warn you. Once we get this clean, it's going to want suturing before I try to set it. How well it will ever hold a sword again remains to be seen.”

“If I must, I'll learn to fight left-handed. Just get on with it.”

Fulk went to fetch towels and a basin of warm water, and Stevanus set about assembling splints and bandages and other necessaries. Cathan helped the king shed his brigandine and the close-fitting leather tunic underneath, for it became clear that the narrow sleeves would not allow removal once the hand was bandaged. Even without bandages, the movement necessary to ease the hand through the sleeve was excruciating. Rhys Michael was shivering in after-reaction as he eased back against a stack of pillows and gladly let Cathan help shift his booted feet up onto the bed. Baring his torso had also revealed several substantial bruises forming, though he had not been aware of being struck at the time.

Very shortly, Fulk brought the warm water, setting the basin on a low table at Rhys Michael's side so he could immerse his hand. The warmth was somewhat soothing initially—but only until Stevanus began cleaning away the blood and dirt from his wound.

He tried to distance himself from the discomfort. Laying his good arm across his closed eyes, he attempted to set the pain aside and let himself float. As he gradually began to feel the effects of the painkiller and relax a little, he let his thoughts rove back over the events of the past several hours—and suddenly recalled where he had seen the face that replaced that of Hombard, out on the field. He wondered whether Rhun and the others had noticed the change.

“Rhun, the man we thought was Hombard was Deryni,” he said, opening his eyes to search for the earl marshal, who turned at his words. “He may even have been Marek of Festil.”

“That's impossible,” Rhun said, coming over to him. “He was far too old. Besides, we tested him with
merasha.
”

“No, we tested the
first
man,” Rhys Michael pointed out. “The man who rode out with Miklos
looked
like the man we tested—and I had no reason, at the time, to doubt it—but his face changed while Miklos and Sudrey were throwing around all that magic, and he tried to join in. Things were happening very quickly, but I'd swear he was the same man who came to Javan's coronation as Miklos' aide. Is it possible that could have been Marek, in both instances?”

Rhun pulled a camp stool to the left side of the bed and sat, as the others also drew closer to listen.

“It can't have been Marek,” Rhun murmured. “Not even Miklos would have had the audacity to bring the Festillic Pretender to the coronation of his chief rival.”

“So one would think,” Rhys Michael said, glad for the distraction as Stevanus removed his hand from the basin and laid it dripping on a clean towel. “But, how better to evaluate the opposition? And how would
we
have known? I should think that by now it's clear that Miklos had the audacity to try just about anything he chose. Has anyone ever
seen
Marek of Festil?”

“I once saw a portrait of his father, King Imre, at one of the Order's abbeys,” Father Lior ventured. “One would expect at least a family resemblance, especially given the mother.”

“Describe the man in the portrait,” Rhun ordered, turning to look at the priest.

Lior frowned, casting back in memory. “Slender—not a very large man, I shouldn't think. Very fair skin, but dark hair to his shoulders. Fine features: a thin face, a straight, elegant nose, slightly protruding eyes—dark brown, they were. I would have to say that the expression was a bit insipid-looking, though.”

Rhys Michael closed his eyes, trying to ignore the bite of Stevanus' needle as the surgeon began setting sutures, for the image Lior had conjured coincided very closely with the face he had glimpsed on the field—and the face of Miklos' aide at the coronation, neither of which Lior had ever seen. Could he really have come face-to-face with Marek of Festil and not known it—and not once but twice?

“You've certainly described the man who came to the coronation with Miklos,” Rhun said to the priest, confirming at least that part of Rhys Michael's impression. “By God, I suppose he
could
have been Imre's son.”

“He has also described the man I saw today,” Rhys Michael said. He winced as Stevanus' needle bit again. “With both Marek and Miklos ranged against her, Lady Sudrey's defense is all the more remarkable. And we have Divine Providence to thank for—”

He broke off as Lord Joshua Delacroix came into the tent and handed a wax-sealed packet to Rhun.

“This just came in, my lord,” Joshua said. “A herald brought it I suspect they didn't think we'd believe a white flag.”

Manfred came to look over Rhun's shoulder as the earl marshal hurriedly broke the seals and unfolded the single sheet of parchment.

“‘Prince Marek of Festil, rightful King of Gwynedd, unto the Haldane usurper,'” Rhun read aloud. “‘Know that I hold you personally responsible for the death of my well-beloved cousin and brother-in-law, the Prince Miklos of Torenth. Be assured that further communication will be forthcoming from the king his brother.

“‘In order to provide a fitting escort for my cousin's body, I shall begin an immediate withdrawal of the troops formerly under his command, commencing at dawn. No interference in this withdrawal will be tolerated. While the present circumstances have obliged me to decline further confrontation at this time, be assured that I shall continue to press my claim to what is mine. I now know your measure and will take appropriate steps to utterly destroy you.' Signed Marek
Princeps
.”

“Insolent puppy,” Manfred growled, reaching for the missive. “Let me see that letter.”

Rhun shrugged and handed it over. “Yes, well. If he's pulling out of Culliecairn, slinking home with his tail between his legs, we've at least won this round. Later on, Arion may try to make life difficult, but we'll worry about that if it happens. At least we seem to have averted this particular battle. Joshua, we'd better set patrols to keep an eye on things through the night and to monitor the withdrawal. I'm sure my lords of Claibourne and Marley will oblige by providing scouts with local expertise.” Sighere and Graham nodded. “Manfred, what do you think about pickets?”

As they withdrew to the other side of the tent to discuss logistic considerations, Stevanus finished his suturing and set about the more delicate and painful task of easing shattered bones back into place. Even with the thick piece of leather Cathan gave him to bite down on, and Cathan himself to help hold the arm steady for the surgeon's work, it was all Rhys Michael could do to stay still and not cry out. He was exhausted and drenched with perspiration by the time Stevanus finished, with bandages immobilizing his wrist along a flat length of wood that extended down the forearm and into the palm, curving the shattered fingers around its end and closing the hand in an approximation of gripping a sword.

“I wish I could tell you that there won't be any impairment of movement,” Stevanus said, plucking the bit of leather from between the king's teeth. “The hand has a lot of bones, most of them fairly fragile, none of which are improved by having a horse step on them. Don't be surprised if some bone splinters work their way to the surface during the healing process. I've done my best for you, but I'm not a Deryni Healer.”

As the battle surgeon set about rigging a sling to support the arm, Rhys Michael closed his eyes briefly and considered his next move. He had not reckoned on becoming injured; it put him far more at the mercy of the great lords and those who served them. What he was contemplating carried some risks, but there probably was not going to be a better time. The great lords had left the tent during the process of setting the hand, unsettled by his silent endurance, and only Cathan and Fulk remained in attendance with Stevanus.

“Maybe we'd be better off if we still had Healers around,” the king murmured. “I'd certainly welcome one, right about now.”

Stevanus gave him a fleeting, uncomfortable smile as he tucked the end of a bandage in place. “If we could trust one not to do other things besides heal, so would I,” he replied. “But you saw today how the Deryni keep their word.”