The Bastard Prince (39 page)

As he released Graham's hands, the younger man crossed himself in affirmation of the oath and then got to his feet. Earl Sighere was already moving in to take his place, thumping to his knees to offer up his joined hands.

“Ye hae my pledge as well, Sire,” he murmured, as Rhys Michael's hands enfolded his. “I am yer man—and do ye merely say
Amen
to affirm it, for there be many more who desire tae swear ye the same.”

As he, too, ducked his head to kiss the royal hand and then press his forehead to their joined ones in homage, Rhys Michael whispered, “Amen.” Several dozen more came forward after that, to his growing amazement and gratitude and to the consternation of Rhun and Manfred, who quickly figured out what the men were doing when they bent to touch their foreheads to the hands.

The two drew apart a little to murmur between themselves, and Rhys Michael knew he would have questions to answer when it was all over, but he hardly cared, in the soul-soaring exuberance of learning what support he actually had. He Truth-Read them as they came, knowing there was none to detect it and betray him, and plumbed the depth of loyalty that lay behind each murmured “I am yer man”—loyalty that was his to command, could he ever find a way to tap it to free his crown.

His hand was aching worse than ever by the time they finished, for he could not help but jostle it in performing the ritual gesture—but he would not have omitted it for all the world and disappoint such fervent devotion.

But other reckoning came almost immediately, as the court broke up and folk dispersed for the feast to be set up—and Rhun and Manfred shuffled him apart, into the relative privacy of a deep window embrasure.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie.

—II Thessalonians 2:11

“What the devil was that all about?” Rhun demanded, drawing the king deeper into the window embrasure as Manfred took up a stance to block further entrance or departure. “They were kissing your hand—every single man jack of them.”

“I suppose it's local custom,” Rhys Michael murmured, cradling his aching arm. “They're a passionate people, these borderers. You've seen them in action.”

“Yes, and I know what it means, when they seal an oath that way,” Rhun said. “It makes the oath a personal one—to the man, not just to the crown.”

“Does it?”

“It bloody well does, and you know it!” Rhun snapped, though he kept his voice low. “Don't play the innocent with me. Did you know Claibourne was going to do that?”

“Of course not,” Rhys Michael lied. “If I had, I would have told you. But once they'd started doing it, what was I supposed to do? Jerk my hands away and insult them? Spurn the loyalty of a quarter of the kingdom? It may have escaped your notice, Rhun, but without the Kheldour lords—and in particular, without that lady we buried a few hours ago—we might not be having this discussion. And I might not be the only one dead.”

Rhun breathed out in a perplexed sigh, obviously keeping his temper in check only with the greatest of effort.

“Well, it doesn't matter now; it's done,” he muttered. “Just don't get any ideas in your head.”

“Ideas? What ideas?” Rhys Michael retorted, as all the despair of the past six years came welling up, pulsing with the ache in his arm. “What the hell do you think I might do? What
could
I do?”

“I don't know!” Rhun retorted, then glanced around and lowered his voice as he continued in a more conciliatory tone. “Just don't push me, Sire. As you may have gathered, I'm still uneasy over this whole Eastmarch affair—the deaths en route, the resolution with Miklos, and now this little demonstration by Claibourne and Marley. And with Albertus and Paulin gone, the entire balance in Rhemuth will be shifting as well. If you were to become too inconvenient—well, I don't think I need to spell it out, do I?”

Rhys Michael blinked and swallowed with difficulty, tight-jawed, then shook his head.

“I thought not,” Rhun murmured, glancing out into the hall again. “Now, I think no one would take it amiss if you were to retire early this evening. I'm a little concerned about your hand. You don't look at all well.”

Rhys Michael looked away, hugging the injured arm to his chest. “I'll be all right,” he muttered. “Why should you care? I should think it would be the ultimate ‘convenience' if I died from it.”

“Not really,” Rhun said. “Actually, I should prefer to choose the time and place for
my
convenience.” He gave the king a quick grimace that might have passed for a smile, though without a trace of mirth, then set his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“But I think we need not speak further of such things tonight, Sire. Shall I have Stevanus escort you to your quarters?”

Rhys Michael made himself stand more erect, setting his good hand on his belt and trying to strike the right balance between assertion and compliance. Were it only for his own comfort, he would have sought his bed some time ago, but one last duty remained to be done before he dared seek that comfort, and he must not allow Rhun to interfere.

“Not quite yet, if you don't mind,” he said. “I really am feeling better than I probably look, and it would be insulting to our hosts not to make an appearance at least. Besides, I have to eat. If you prefer, though, I won't stay too late. I'll confess that bed sounds like an altogether tempting proposition.”

“Very well,” Rhun said, “if you're sure.”

Rhys Michael could feel the earl marshal's gaze following him as he pressed past him and Manfred and went back into the hall. To his relief, neither man pressed the issue, though he knew, as he rejoined Cathan and Fulk, that they and probably Stevanus would be told to watch him. So long as it was just those three, the situation probably was surmountable. He prayed that it was, because the very future of the Haldane Crown perhaps depended upon it.

They were summoned to table very shortly. Rhys Michael was glad to escape to the less demanding small talk of a feast beginning, subdued though it was because of the castle's recent bereavement. He had Stacia seated on his right, in the place of honor, with her husband beyond and Graham and Sighere at that end of the table, though he could not speak freely because Lior was on his immediate left, followed by Joshua Delacroix. Rhun and Manfred sat beyond with several of their aides, where they might be free to observe and comment to one another in relative privacy.

Cathan and Fulk took turns serving the king, also giving instructions to the local squires assigned to wait table. Rhun had drawn the two aside early on, one at a time—to order them to accompany the king, if he even went out to use the privy—but later in the meal, Cathan was able to confirm that he had gotten the necessary documents to Father Derfel, who was waiting in a tiny chamber just beyond one of the garderobes.

After the pace of the previous few days, the meal seemed to drag, with the courses interspersed with interludes of sad harping and singing, some of it in a dialect Rhys Michael did not understand. He only picked at his food, but he managed to drink enough wine to further blunt the throbbing of his arm—though he took care lest it also blunt the edge of his wits for survival. Both Graham and Stacia had already disappeared briefly during the course of the meal, and Sighere had been in and out of the hall several times, ostensibly stewarding the flow of wine.

“All the others have signed,” Cathan finally reported, as he bent close to refill the king's cup, “but it's worthless without your signature and seal. The way Rhun is watching you, though, it's going to be a near-run thing. You'll only get one chance.”

The chance came a short time later, when Manfred had just returned from a trip to the privies and settled in beside Rhun again, in time for the serving of a new course; Rhun had disappeared briefly a short time before, so probably would not be inclined to disappear again for a while. Stevanus was talking to one of the men who had been wounded with Hrorik the week before.

Quietly excusing himself from the company of Stacia and Corban—Lior was deep in conversation with Joshua and one of Manfred's aides—Rhys Michael rose a trifle shakily on Cathan's arm and staggered from the hall, Fulk following a few seconds later. Sighere passed them en route to the exit, none too steady on his feet and with a goblet in his hand, but Rhys Michael suspected he was far more sober than he looked. The priest's chamber lay a few steps farther up the stairwell from which the curtained garderobe opened, just off the landing outside the hall. With a quick glance around, Rhys Michael simply continued up the stair to slip inside while Cathan took up a more leisurely stance outside the garderobe entrance, just as Fulk came out of the hall.

“Any problem?” he heard Fulk ask.

“No, but he may be a few minutes,” Cathan replied. “Say, did you notice that pretty dark-haired lass who was sitting way at the end of the table on the left? She was watching you.”

“Yes? Which one was that?”

Trusting Cathan to keep Fulk occupied and divert any suspicion, Rhys Michael closed the door the rest of the way and turned to the table where Father Derfel waited behind a rack of candles, a quill already in hand and extended to him. The faint perfume of melted sealing wax tickled at his nostrils as he removed his signet ring and gave it to the priest, then took the quill awkwardly in his left hand and bent to sign. It was difficult, but he did the best he could, scrawling a reasonably legible
Rhys R.
on each of the five copies. Derfel began sealing them as soon as Rhys Michael had finished the first one.

“Get the seal back to Sir Cathan as soon as you can,” he whispered, after finishing the last one with a shaky flourish and then sticking the quill back in the inkwell. “They're really watching me. If anyone notices that I'm suddenly not wearing it, there could be questions.”

“Gie me half a minute, an' ye can tak it now,” Derfel replied, already applying wax to the third of the copies as the king moved to the door.

Nodding agreement, the king quietly eased the door open far enough to set his eye to the crack. To his horror, Rhun had just stepped into the landing and was looking either at Cathan and Fulk or at the garderobe entrance, a frown furrowing his narrow brow.

Rhys Michael drew back in momentary panic, heart pounding, then carefully set his eye to the crack again. Rhun did not look particularly suspicious or upset; but he was there. Fulk was nodding amiably to the earl marshal. Carefully Rhys Michael sent out a tendril of thought to Cathan, hoping he could reach him without physical contact.

Cathan?

Startlement came through, though Cathan showed no outward sign of it. Dismayed, Rhys Michael realized that his kinsman did not seem to have the power to send back more than impressions.

Don't waste energy trying to send back. Just do what I tell you. I know you can handle Fulk. I also want you to maneuver Rhun around so his back is to me
.

From Cathan came a sense of query.

The only thing I can do; blank him for about five seconds, long enough for me to get into the garderobe. But you've got to get him up a few steps so I can reach him before he sees or hears me
.

Agreement came through the link, even as Cathan turned toward Rhun. He was just opening his mouth to speak when Sighere came careening into the landing from the great hall, wine sloshing from a goblet in one big hand as he caught his balance against the door jamb.

“Weel, if it isnae Rhun the Ruthless,” he said amiably, the words slurred and a little too loud, his gaze unfocused. “I rememmer you. What're ye doin' in Marley, Ruthless?”

As he lurched closer to Rhun and peered at him blearily, and Rhun drew back in distaste, Rhys Michael hoped desperately that Sighere was only trying to divert Rhun, not pick a serious fight. Of one thing he was certain; Rhun was not drunk. He was fairly certain Sighere was not really drunk either. There was bad blood between the two, though. If it came to blows, real blood might be shed—and at least one of the men was apt to die.

Not that he would mourn Rhun's loss. But if Sighere died, that would nullify half the document Rhys Michael had just gone to such pains to get signed—and sealed, he remembered, as the priest slipped in beside him to slide the signet ring back on his hand. And if it was Rhun who was killed, he would hate to have to bring Sighere up on charges of murder.

“You're drunk,” Rhun said in disgust. “Why don't you go sleep it off?”

Sighere drew back in a theatrical posture of mock affront—staggering a few steps away from Rhun and the garderobe entrance—and managed an exaggerated pout.

“Tha's no verra friendly. I hae sworn tae yer Haldane king. That makes us allies. Will ye no share a drink?” he asked.

As he held out his goblet, still weaving on his feet, Rhun was already summoning Fulk and Cathan—who would just about provide a convenient screen between Rhun and the garderobe, provided Sighere kept up the diversion. Already, Rhun had his back to the stairs.

“Fulk, get him out of here before I do something we'll both regret,” Rhun muttered. “God, these borderers are all alike—”

“Wha's wrong wi' m'drink?” Sighere was muttering, looking into his goblet quizzically and sloshing a little as Fulk and Cathan swept in to take him in charge, also sweeping Rhun along. “Ish good wine. Ah, yer spillin' it. Careful!”

In those few seconds of confusion, as Sighere juggled his wine and the others tried to jolly him along, Rhys Michael was able to dash down the few steps and gain the shelter of the garderobe entrance, pushing the curtain aside even as he pivoted in the doorway, as if he had just come out.

“What the devil is going on out here?” he demanded, twitching the curtain closed behind him.

“Oh,
there
you are,” Rhun said, straightening his tunic as Cathan and Fulk propelled Sighere back into the hall with a good-natured shove. “I wondered where you'd gotten to. Sorry, Sire, but your precious Earl of Marley is a sloppy drunk. The fool accosted me.”