High Deryni (37 page)

Rhydon made an unctuous bow, then turned to raise an arm to his waiting escort a few hundred yards behind. At once the black-clad figure Kelson had dismissed as a monk detached himself from their company and began riding slowly toward them, his hood falling back on his shoulders as he came. Derry's eyes met Morgan's briefly as he drew rein a few yards behind Lionel and Rhydon, but he said nothing. There could be no doubt who he was.

Kelson looked hard at Lionel and Rhydon, then deliberately kneed his horse between them to approach Derry. Derry's face was like whey as his gaze met the king's, and Kelson could see that his hands were grasping the high pommel of his saddle in a death grip, that he was well aware what was at stake and what the king's decision must be. All at once Kelson's heart went out to the young lord.

“Derry, is it truly you?” he asked softly.

“Alas, I fear it is, Sire. I—I was captured shortly after I learned of Bran's defection. There was no way I could warn you. I am truly sorry.”

“I know,” Kelson whispered. He reached across to touch Derry's wrist in sympathy, his eyes averted, then backed his horse from between Lionel and Rhydon to rejoin Morgan and Arilan. His face was pale against the crimson surcoat he wore, but his hands were steady on the reins now.

“Forgive me, Lord Derry, but I know you will understand what I must do,” he said formally. “I cannot allow women and children under my protection to be used as pawns in this game.” He turned his gaze squarely on Rhydon and Lionel.

“My lords, you may tell your master that a prisoner exchange is not acceptable. The Lady Richenda and her son are, indeed, in my care and will come to no harm, but I will not surrender them to you under any circumstances. They have naught to do with Lord Bran's treason, and I would neither ask nor permit them to give themselves into the control of my enemy—even to save the life of one of my most trusted and well-loved lords.”

Derry flashed a brave and slightly defiant smile at that, then bowed his head in resignation. Rhydon nodded slowly.

“I expected your reply, young lord. I quite understand. It is, of course, quite futile to hope that my Lord Wencit will not be angry and seek retribution. He is not accustomed to breaking promises he has made to those who serve him well. I fear there will be a high price to pay for your decision.”

“I did not expect otherwise.”

“Very well, then.”

Rhydon bowed again in his saddle, then gestured curtly for Derry to return to the waiting guards. Derry took a last look over his shoulder at Morgan and the king as he obeyed, but his head was high as he began his ride back toward the enemy lines, Rhydon and Lionel following half a dozen lengths behind. Morgan felt a pang of grief as the three moved away, for he knew that Derry was riding to his death. Unable to look anymore, he, too, turned his horse back toward his own lines, Kelson and Arilan falling in wordlessly beside him. Like Derry, they did not look back.

From midway back to the Gwynedd lines, Duncan McLain watched as the three riders started toward him and his hostage, knowing by their carriage that the meeting had not gone well. He knew that the third rider with the enemy party had been Derry—he had seen him through his glass—and he knew the decision which must have been taken by the king.

Beside Duncan, the haughty Lord Torval sat his horse unmoving, his satin surcoat still a-gleam in the morning sun. The young lord's face was serene and almost trancelike, his hands resting lightly on the pommel of his saddle; and just for an instant Duncan had the impression that the Torenthi lord was not really there in mind, so little concern did he seem to have for his own safety.

To Torval's right, Warin was fidgeting with the hilt of his sword, nervous as a cat in the aftermath of what had just been played out in the center of the field. The two guards sat their horses behind, grim eyes darting from their prisoner to the returning king and his companions. The tableau seemed strangely calm and peaceful, almost like a dream. Abruptly, Duncan knew that it could not last.

Nor did it. Before the retreating riders had ridden more than a dozen yards from their meeting place, a sudden flurry of activity boiled up behind the enemy lines. Dozens of sturdy poles were hoisted briskly upright and seated in holes dug to receive them, each pole bearing a stoutly nailed crossbar at the top. Over each arm of the crossbars trailed a rope ending in a noose. As the poles thudded into their sockets, Duncan stood in his stirrups and brought his spyglass to bear, unable to control a gasp as pairs of prisoners in the blue and silver livery of Cassan—scores of them!—were forced to stand up beneath the poles, hands lashed cruelly behind their backs.

Even as this occurred, a banner was unfurled toward the center of the line: the banner of the Duke of Cassan, Duncan's father. At the same time, a tall, graying man wearing Cassan's sleeping lion and roses on his surcoat was prodded up a short platform beneath one of the crossbars, hands bound behind him, and a rope halter was made fast around his neck, his feet also bound. Duncan let out a groan, for it was Duke Jared himself!

Frozen with horror, Duncan watched as more ropes were secured around the necks of the rest of the men with Jared, two men beneath each pole, and a great cheer erupted from the enemy lines as all the ropes were pulled taut, the prisoners briskly hoisted off their feet to dangle and die. At the same time Duncan saw Morgan, Kelson, and Arilan pausing in the field a few hundred yards away to turn and gape, Kelson's horse plunging and rearing as he tried to control it.

A roar of disbelieving rage went up from the massed army of Gwynedd, and the front ranks began to waver. And then three things happened simultaneously. Warin, with a strangled cry of outrage, drew his sword and plunged it into the side of the smirking Lord Torval, striking but an instant ahead of Duncan, whose face had gone savage with the horror of his father's brutal death.

Kelson, white-lipped as he tried to control his plunging mount, bolted with Arilan and Morgan for his own lines, frantically signaling Warin and Duncan to retreat.

But Morgan, after only an instant's hesitation, wrenched his mount on its haunches and began spurring straight for the retreating Rhydon and Lionel, his drawn sword like lightning in his hand.

“Derry!” he screamed as he rode, his face gray with helpless rage. Behind him, the front ranks of the royal army were heaving forward, ready to break and attack, but again and again Morgan screamed Derry's name.

Derry somehow heard him. At Morgan's shout, Derry glanced over his shoulder and pulled up to gape openmouthed, instantly assessing the situation: Rhydon and Lionel spurring toward him as they saw him wavering, the bodies jerking at the ends of ropes behind him, and Morgan thundering toward all of that disaster at a dead gallop, sword in fist and shouting defiance.

At once Derry spun his horse on its haunches and bolted toward Morgan and the Gwynedd lines, instinctively cutting a diagonal slightly away from Rhydon and Lionel. The enemy lords were close—they could not have been more than ten yards behind when Derry turned—and they were closing fast. He saw that Morgan was fast gaining on the heavier Torenthi warhorses, that he was now almost neck and neck with Lionel's big bay charger; but behind Derry, Rhydon's mounted archers were nocking arrows to their bowstrings.

Lionel tried to turn across Derry's path to block his escape, but Morgan was already abreast of him, yanking his horse's head to the left and throwing its weight against Lionel's. Lionel's horse missed a stride and stumbled, then went down as Morgan's spurred boot lashed out in a vicious kick.

Lionel was pitched head over heels as his mount hit the turf, and Morgan thundered on past to gain on Rhydon as Lionel picked himself up and snatched at the reins of his staggering horse. A hail of arrows began to rain down on them from the Torenthi escort. The arrows glanced off harmlessly against the steel helmets and mail hauberks of Morgan and Rhydon, but the horses were unprotected; a chance bolt transfixed Rhydon's mount through the throat and sent it screaming to its knees.

Rhydon landed on his feet as the horse collapsed under him, already running toward the now remounted Lionel and waving his arms frantically for the archers to cease fire. But another arrow caught Derry in the back even as Morgan was drawing abreast of him and the archers were lowering their bows. With an oath, Morgan yanked the faltering Derry across his saddle and wheeled to race back toward his own lines. At the same time, Rhydon scrambled up behind Lionel and the pair of them spurred back toward the east. Morgan, with a fearful glance back over his shoulder, could see Rhydon mouthing maledictions as he and Lionel rode for safety. Morgan steadied Derry's limp form across his saddle and crouched low as he rode for the Gwynedd army.

But the army was in turmoil, the men milling angrily behind the front lines, naked swords and axes brandished against the noonday sun. In a determined effort to restrain his officers, Kelson was galloping up and down the center of the line, but even he could not be everywhere at once. The troops' outrage was rising in a roaring crescendo as they angrily shook their weapons at what the treacherous enemy had just done to their comrades.

“Lower your weapons!” Kelson was shouting. “Hold, I say! Don't you see? He
wants
us to attack. Sheathe your weapons! I command you to hold!”

His words could scarcely be heard against the din. As the lines parted to admit Morgan and the limp Derry, the line to the left began to surge forward of its own accord, its officers no longer able to maintain control. Kelson saw their intention and made one last, futile attempt to order them back, then jerked his horse's head around and began galloping out ahead of the men. He pulled up short and whirled his black charger in a perfect levade, then dropped the reins as the animal stood stock-still. Standing slightly in the stirrups, he threw back his head and thrust his arms heavenward, pronouncing forbidden words that only the wind heard.

Light flashed from his fingertips like crimson fire as he thrust his arms upward again, flaring to sear a crimson line of warning in the spring turf. The riders who had broken from the line pulled up in fear and confusion, their crazed horses plunging wildly before the wall of flame that had sprung up where the red fire seared.

To Kelson's amazement and relief, the Torenthi lines held behind him. Rhydon, Lionel, and their archer escort had reached the safety of their own lines even as Kelson's army started to break.

But Kelson was not concerned with that just now. As he lowered his arms and glared at the men with his proud Haldane eyes, his soldiers managed to bring their terrified mounts under control and sped back to their places in the ranks, trying once more to bring some order out of chaos.

Quiet descended on both the armies as Kelson spread his arms again and passed his hands palm-down above the fire he had made. The flames died, the seared lines faded away. As he lowered his arms, the crimson aura that had surrounded him like a royal mantle fell away and disappeared, leaving the King of Gwynedd human once more.

Taut and stiff with repressed anger, Kelson gathered up his reins and turned his head to slowly survey the enemy. Not a sound disturbed the silence save the snorting and blowing of horses and the jingle and creak of harness. Kelson searched them long with his gray Haldane eyes, memorizing every banner, every detail of the awful fruit of the gallows trees.

Then, after a moment, he turned his face back toward his own army and began riding slowly back to them: regal, meticulous. The deadly silence persisted until he had nearly reached the lines; then a lone sword began beating against a shield in approval—an emphatic commentary that was quickly picked up and echoed by more and more men, until the entire army was vibrating to the music of steel on leather-covered wood and steel.

Kelson held his head high as he drew rein before them. After a moment he raised one hand for silence. Morgan, the limp form of Derry still held across his saddle, could only stare in amazement, watching in wonder as the royal eyes slowly became fully human once more.

“Is he dead?” Kelson asked quietly.

Morgan shook his head and motioned for two men-at-arms to lift Derry down from the saddle. “No, he's alive, but the wound is serious. Call Warin, will you, Captain?”

“See to it,” Kelson said with a nod, returning his glance toward the distant Torenthi army. “Morgan, what think you of the little display that has just been staged for our benefit?”

Morgan quickly changed mental gears, a little surprised that Kelson could dismiss his own actions so quickly and get back to the heart of the matter.

“Wencit wished to goad us into battle before we were ready, my prince. And yet, I am not certain he is ready to fight, either. I confess that I do not understand why.”

“Nor do I—and that was also my impression,” Kelson agreed. He turned in his saddle to glance at Duncan. “Father Duncan, I very much regret what happened to your father—and all those other men of Cassan and Kierney. Are you all right?”

Duncan raised his head and stared dully at the king for a moment, then nodded slowly. He had sheathed his sword, but his hands were still red with the blood of the hostage he and Warin had slain. He glanced out at the enemy lines, at the dangling bodies, then down at his bloodstained hands.

“I—I killed that hostage in anger, Sire. It was not my place to do so. I should have stayed my sword.”