In the King's Service (37 page)

Andrew McLain, senior among Gwynedd’s dukes, shook his grizzled head, infinitely patient. His son Jared was already scouring the hills south of Ratharkin, seeking intelligence regarding local opposition.

“Not at all, Sire,” Andrew said. “This is a regrettable legacy of your father’s generation, and Jolyon of Meara, and the Great War. Your parents’ marriage was intended to resolve the succession of the principality. It was your grandmother who simply would not accept the loss of Mearan sovereignty.”

Richard snorted. “Meara was hardly sovereign, even then, Andrew. It’s been a vassal state for more than two hundred years.”

“A vassal state, yes,” said Ursic of Claibourne. “But still with its own prince, its own court. A royal governor is hardly the same, no matter how well liked he may be—and Iolo Melandry, while loyal and competent, has hardly been well-liked in Meara, as you know.”

Duke Andrew grimaced and shook his head. “They wouldn’t have liked
any
royal governor. You know that, Ursic. These stiff-necked Mearans only understand force.”

Donal’s sharp glance forestalled any further digression into what was agreed by all present. He was well aware that most of the troubles with Meara during his lifetime could be laid at the feet of the maternal grandmother he had never known. Widowed in the Great War, and beloved of the Mearan people, the Princess Urracca had disowned Donal’s mother when, seeking an end to the slaughter, her daughter Roisian had fled to Gwynedd and wed Gwynedd’s king. Annalind, she declared, was Meara’s true heiress; and by that reckoning, many Mearans regarded Annalind’s son Judhael as Meara’s true prince. It was Judhael who had sparked the present insurrection, as he had the previous one.

“It won’t end, you know,” Ursic said. “Not until you’ve killed off the rest of the line.”

Several of the others nodded in vehement agreement, a few murmuring to one another, but Donal set his jaw defiantly, raking them all with his gray Haldane gaze.

“Ursic, these are my own people, my mother’s blood kin. I have no wish to slay them.”

“But slay them you must, Sire—if not now, then at some time in the future,” Ursic replied. “For Mearans will never let go of what they regard as theirs. They are a people of honor and passion, with a vehement hatred for what they regard as betrayal of loyalty. And in their eyes, that was the crime of your mother—that she should abandon her lands and people and give herself in marriage to an enemy of Meara.”

“We were
never
enemies of Meara!” Donal snapped, slapping the flat of his hand against the map table. “And my mother was trying to avert the very kind of bloodshed that seems inevitable on the morrow—for I
will
have what is mine!”

“That may exact a heavy price, Sire,” Duke Andrew said.

“Then so be it!” Donal retorted, lurching to his feet. “Leave us—all of you!” His ringed hand stabbed emphatically at the tent flap, where Ahern stood guard with Sir Jovett Chandos. “Except for Richard and Morian—and Ahern. You stay. And someone have that scout sent in, who saw the Mearan array at Ratharkin.”

In a shuffle of booted feet and creaking harness, the others filed out, leaving Richard, Morian, and Ahern to settle on camp stools as the king motioned them closer and sank into his own chair.

“Well, what is to be done?” he murmured, searching all three attentive faces.

Richard glanced furtively at the two Deryni, then at the carpet beneath his feet, faint apprehension in his expression. At thirty-three, he was just coming into his prime: lean and fit, his shock of sable hair only beginning to silver at the temples, and visible mainly in his close-trimmed beard and mustache.

“It appears you have already decided what is to be done,” Richard said quietly, looking up at his brother.

“And you don’t approve.”

Glancing again at the two Deryni, Richard gave a shrug.

“That isn’t for me to say. I’m not the king.”

“No. You aren’t.”

Footsteps and the clink and creak of harness approached outside the tent flap, just before one of the king’s bodyguards pulled back the heavy canvas to admit a nondescript-looking scout in dusty tan riding leathers.

“You sent for me, Sire?”

“I did. Sit here, please.” Donal hooked a stool closer with a booted toe and indicated it with his chin. “It’s Josquin Gramercy, isn’t it? Ahern, bring him that writing desk and light, if you will.”

Ahern complied without comment, moving the small campaign chest before the stool and setting out parchment, pen, and ink, then bringing a lit candlestick, which he set to the left. Morian had risen to make room, and moved behind the scout as he settled on the stool, one hand casually coming to rest on the man’s shoulder. The man started to look up, then seemed to deflate slightly, chin sinking to his chest and eyes closing. Ahern, unaccustomed to seeing a Deryni work so openly, raised one eyebrow.

“Josquin, the king wishes you to sketch out as much as you can remember of the rebel defenses,” Morian said in a low voice. “While you are doing that, you will see nothing else and you will hear nothing until I touch you on the shoulder again. Do you understand?”

“Aye, sir,” came the whispered reply.

“Good man.”

As Morian’s hand left his shoulder, the man immediately opened his eyes, took up a quill and carefully inked it, then began sketching out a rough map of the area around Ratharkin, his concentration evidenced by his tongue contortions as he traced each line and letter. After watching him a moment, Donal glanced at Richard and gave a nod.

At once, Duke Richard drew the ebon-hilted dagger from his belt and casually passed its blade close beside the scout’s eyes, then let its point sink to lightly touch the man’s cheek beneath one eye. Eliciting no reaction, he sighed and resheathed the weapon with a purposeful snick of metal sliding on metal. At no time had the entranced Josquin indicated in any way that he was aware of the test.

“I still find it amazing when he does that,” the king said aside to Ahern, as Morian smiled faintly and merely folded his arms, overseeing the scout’s work from behind.

Richard gave a snort that was at once skeptical and resigned, casting a furtive glance at Morian as he crouched down beside his brother. “I somehow doubt that yon Josquin would find it so amazing, if he knew. Appalled, perhaps. Donal, does it never give you even the smallest pang of conscience, that you’re obliging innocent souls to be party to practices forbidden by the church?”

Donal gave a droll shrug.

“Does the church need to know? Surely, extraordinary measures are justified, to protect the crown I swore to defend.”

“Still . . .”

They were watching the map take shape under Josquin’s pen when a guard called from beyond the tent flap and then admitted another man to the royal tent, firmly escorted by Sir Kenneth Morgan. This one was a nervous, bandy-legged little individual of middle years, swathed in the upland tweeds widely worn by the local inhabitants. As he caught sight of the king, he snatched off a shapeless tweed cap to reveal a balding pate and twin braids falling to either side of his neck.

“Sire, this is Nidian ap Pedr,” Kenneth said, keeping his hand on the man’s elbow. “He says he has ridden from Ratharkin, and he claims to have important information for you. He’s unarmed.”

“Indeed?”

With a glance at his three companions, Donal shifted his camp stool a little to one side of where Josquin was working and gestured for Kenneth to release the newcomer.

“Very well, Nidian ap Pedr, what is it you wish to tell me?” he said.

Biting at his lower lip, cap clamped close to his breast, Nidian dropped to his knees before the king, too frightened to meet his gaze.

“Have mercy, Sire!” he blurted. “I beg you, do not punish Ratharkin for the sins of only a few. I swear to you that we are loyal there! It is the Lord Judhael who makes war against you, and would deny you what is yours. He has men before the city gates, and more who have occupied the fortifications of the gatehouse and keep, against the wishes of Ratharkin’s loyal folk. I am come to offer you the assistance of those who keep their oaths.”

“Indeed. And how did Judhael manage to gain such a foothold?” Donal asked.

Nidian ventured a quick, desperate glance at the king, then ducked his head again, cheeks flaming.

“In truth, Sire, the Lord Judhael acted before his true intentions became known to us. He has brought men down out of the mountains to the west and raised the standard of rebellion, claiming to be our true prince—and we were content that he should make such claim in local things, so long as he did you proper service as your vassal. But he has seized your Majesty’s governor, and I—fear they may have hanged him.”

“They’ve
hanged
Iolo Melandry?” Richard said disbelievingly.

Donal, meanwhile, had seized the wretched Nidian by the neck of his tunic and jerked him closer, cold anger flaring in the gray eyes. As the man cringed under this sudden onslaught of Haldane anger, hands fluttering weakly upward in a futile warding-off gesture, Donal cast a sharp glance at Morian for confirmation that the man was telling the truth, though he knew from his own abilities that it was so. The Deryni lord inclined his head minutely, but also flicked a meaningful glance in the direction of the altogether too attentive Sir Kenneth Morgan, still waiting near the tent flap.

“The Devil take him!” Donal murmured, enough recalled to the need for caution that he released the hapless Nidian with an apologetic smoothing of the rumpled tunic. “This goes beyond what may be forgiven, even of kin. I should have hacked off the last of that rotten branch the last time I ventured into this stubborn land.” He rose and, unable to engage in the restless pacing that usually helped him defuse anger or frustration, glanced back at the bearer of this unwelcome news. “Who else rides with that traitorous dog?” he demanded.

“I—I do not know their names, Sire,” Nidian whispered. “But many high-born lords answered his summons to Ratharkin, beneath many a noble banner.”

“Hardly noble, if they fly against their rightful king,” Kenneth dared to mutter.

The words recalled the king to caution, for even the trusted Sir Kenneth should not be allowed to witness what Donal now had in mind.

“Well, I
will
know who they are,” he said softly. “Kenneth, please wait outside, and let no one disturb us for the next little while. I feel certain that Master Nidian can tell us more.”

The Mearan looked briefly alarmed as Sir Kenneth dutifully withdrew, but he was given no time to speculate on his likely fate. As the tent flap fell into place, Morian was already moving forward to drop a heavy hand to the back of Nidian’s neck, steadying with the other hand as his subject collapsed back on his hunkers, head lolling forward.

“Ah, yes,” Morian said after a few seconds, the look of trance glazing the blue-violet eyes. “Master Nidian is, indeed, deficient in the matter of names, but he has an excellent eye for faces and those traitor banners. Judhael himself, of course . . . the Earl of Somerdale and his brother . . . Sir Robard Kincaid and his eldest son . . . Basil of Castleroo . . . Blaise of Trurill . . . Sir Michael MacDonald . . . and curiously enough, both Judhael’s daughters. . . .”

“Both?” Donal said, surprised. “I had heard that the younger one is with child.”

“So she is,” Morian agreed, seeing what the other three could not. “Far gone with child. I wonder that they would risk her in such an enterprise. But I cannot imagine what other pregnant woman it might be, desperate enough to ride with the royal party.”

“It is said that she and her husband dote on one another,” Richard offered.

“So I have heard,” Donal replied. “That would account for young MacDonald’s presence. Seek out such other details as may be useful,” he said to Morian. “How is it that he means to assist us?”

After another long moment, Morian smiled and lifted his head, returning his focus to the king.

“It appears that our Master Nidian can deliver what he promises, Sire.”

“Show me,” Donal said softly.

With a nod, Morian glanced aside at Josquin, who was putting the finishing touches to his map, at Ahern, then gestured toward the remains of their meal, stacked nearby on a silver tray.

“If Sir Ahern would be so good as to clear the supper things off that tray, we’ll see what can be done,” he said. Keeping one hand on the kneeling and entranced Nidian, he reached across to touch the scout Josquin lightly on the shoulder. “Have you finished, Master Josquin?”

The scout looked up with a start and smiled faintly, setting aside his quill.

“I have, my lord. Will it serve?”

“I’m sure it will serve very well,” the king said, rising to delve into a pouch at his waist. “Here’s a silver penny for your trouble, Master Josquin—and my thanks for a job well done.” He pressed the coin into the scout’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, go and get a meal and some sleep. I shall need you on the morrow.”

As the scout withdrew, grinning sheepishly at this tangible sign of the royal favor, Donal glanced to where Ahern was clearing the supper tray, then moved the campaign chest closer and sat again on his camp stool, picking up the new map. Morian, meanwhile, had hauled the entranced Nidian to his feet and guided him to the stool just vacated by the scout, pulling another stool near and sitting knee-to-knee with him. At his gesture, Ahern set the silver tray across both their laps and moved back to stand behind Morian.

“You will be familiar with the basic principles of scrying,” Morian said to Ahern, at the same time directing Richard to stand before the tent flap. “This will be a demonstration of a military application, for gathering intelligence.”

He nodded to the king, who leaned back to snare a flagon of wine from a camp table behind him. As he unstoppered it to pour some onto the tray, the reflected torchlight made of the silver tray a blood-dark mirror.