In the King's Service (47 page)

“Was that sufficient motive to kill him?” Dominy asked.

“It all would have played a part,” Michon agreed. “And opportunity also would have been a factor, especially with drink having been taken.”

“Then, what about Alyce de Corwyn?” Khoren asked. “She is far more prominent than Jessamy, especially since the death of her brother.”

“But she is marrying a human,” Vivienne pointed out. “By giving her to Kenneth Morgan, the king has chosen to dilute the blood of the only Deryni ducal line in the land. That would reassure some; it disturbs me. Especially with Corwyn being the principal barrier between Gwynedd and Torenth.”

“This is a cause for concern,” Michon agreed. “But short of killing off Kenneth Morgan and having one of our kind abduct Alyce and marry her by force, the way her father did with Stevana de Corwyn, there is no way to change what has now been set in motion. Pray, rather, that Alyce de Corwyn quickly bears male heirs—for Kenneth Morgan is a good and honorable man, and will instill the same qualities in his sons. And while you are praying, think how much worse it could be if Alyce bears no heirs at all.”

“Feh! A half-breed on the ducal throne in Corwyn!” Vivienne muttered.

“Patience, Vivienne!” Barrett said with a gentle laugh. “Alyce de Corwyn is not yet even wed!”

Chapter 28

—ECCLESIASTICUS 39:7

 
 
 
 
 
 
DONAL Haldane had not heard the last regarding his disposition of Krispin MacAthan’s murderers. The execution of Lord Deldour’s two guardsmen was largely accepted as just, under the circumstances, and soon forgotten; however, the killing of Septimus de Nore quickly became a
cause célèbre,
especially among Gwynedd’s clergy. Septimus
had
been a priest and the brother of a bishop, and denying him due benefit of clergy was an affront that Gwynedd’s hierarchy was not willing to overlook, even for a king.

“They’ve been waiting for several hours now, Sire,” Sir Tiarnán MacRae told the king, in the selfsame withdrawing room where the infamous interrogation had taken place two weeks earlier. Sir Kenneth Morgan and Seisyll Arilan had been closeted with the king all morning, discussing the latest letter of protest.

“I suppose I must see them,” the king said with a sigh.

“Aye, Sire, I fear you must,” Seisyll replied. “Bishop de Nore is threatening an excommunication, if you do not humble yourself before the Church and repent of your action. For him, it is a personal affront, for you killed his brother; but for the Church, it is a matter of having overstepped your authority, trying a matter that, by canon law, belonged before an ecclesiastical court.”

The king had been listening with growing impatience as Seisyll told him what he did not wish to hear—which was only Seisyll’s appointed function, after all—and rose explosively to begin pacing.

“Seisyll, the man murdered one of my pages!
A child!
And why? Apparently, to cover up the crimes of two more men. And why did
they
do what
they
did? Who knows? A passion of the moment? A drunken indulgence? Or was it a lashing out at someone they knew to be Deryni, and therefore to be hated?—and moreover, one too young to defend himself!”

“Whatever their motive, Sire, you uncovered their guilt by employing the assistance of another hated Deryni,” Seisyll said calmly. “I think
that
will have stuck in de Nore’s craw almost as much as the fact that you executed his brother.”

“No one complains when I use Morian’s services, in the field,” the king muttered.

“No, but Morian is far away in Meara, and that is war,” Seisyll replied. “Here in Rhemuth, two weeks ago, you also flouted the authority of the Church.
That
is what will get you excommunicated, if you tread not carefully.”

“Do you expect me to apologize? Well, I won’t. Nothing can excuse what that foul priest did.
Nothing!
And I think that even King Solomon would have been hard-pressed to render a more fitting judgment.”

“Nonetheless, the Church
will
uphold its right to deal with its own,” Seisyll replied. “Don’t say that I did not warn you, Sire.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve been warned,” the king grumbled as he moved to a chair of state facing the doorway. “Come and stand behind me—you and Kenneth, both. We might as well see what this latest delegation has to say.”

At his nod, Sir Tiarnán opened the door and gestured into the corridor beyond, whence three clerics shortly appeared. Tiarnán himself stepped outside and closed the door.

Though all three men wore the plain black cassocks of working priests, two of the three sported the purple skullcaps of bishops, with pectoral crosses on their breasts and amethysts on their fingers. The senior of them was well known to the king and his advisors: Desmond MacCartney, auxiliary bishop to William Archbishop of Rhemuth—and William’s brother. The other bishop was more recently come to the purple, though Donal had heard that young Patrick Corrigan was slated for rapid rise in the hierarchy. The third man seemed to be but a priest, though Donal had never seen him before.

The king half-rose as the three men approached, but made shrift to sit again before Bishop Desmond could extend his ring to be kissed. The two bishops exchanged glances, looking far from pleased.

“Thank you for seeing us, Sire,” Bishop Desmond said, lifting his head purposefully. “I believe you are acquainted with Bishop Patrick Corrigan—and this is Father Rodder Gillespie, from the Diocese of Nyford.”

Corrigan and Gillespie gave the king sparse bows, which Donal acknowledged with a nod.

“I understand that you have some business with me, Fathers?” he said neutrally.

“Yes,” Bishop Desmond said simply. “By now, I trust that your Majesty will have read the missive that was delivered earlier today.”

“I have.”

“And—have you anything to say about it?” Bishop Desmond seemed somewhat taken aback by the brevity of the king’s reply.

“Yes,” said the king, not backing down before the bishop’s gaze. “I do not repent me of my actions concerning the murderous priest Septimus de Nore. His guilt was clear, and his sentence fully justified.”

“That is your final statement on the matter?” Desmond said, more a declaration than a question.

“It is.”

“Then, I am commanded to deliver this decree of excommunication to your Majesty,” Desmond went on, holding out his hand for the document that Father Rodder placed in it, “promulgated in due form by Bishop Oliver de Nore, and to be executed by him with due ceremony—unless, of course, your Majesty would care to reconsider,” he added, pausing in the process of offering the decree to the king.

The king’s smile was dangerous, the gray eyes cold.

“Bishop de Nore’s writ does not run in Rhemuth, my lord, and I do not recognize his authority to impose excommunication on me.”

“Do you not?” Desmond replied softly. Tapping the document gently against his chin, he glanced at the two men standing behind the king, then handed it back to Gillespie.

“Fine. Then perhaps you will recognize the authority of your own archbishop. Sire, I shall report your defiance to my Lord William. And if
his
excommunication fails to move you to repentance, perhaps the threat of interdict will make it clear what his Grace expects of a loyal son of the Church. Good day to you, Sire.”

With that, he and his companions gave the king curt bows, then turned and withdrew from the chamber, with nary a backward glance. When Tiarnán had closed the door behind them, Donal rose and drew his two companions back to the fire.

“Interesting,” he said. “Do you think they’ll carry through with their threat?”

“Very sadly, I do, Sire,” Seisyll murmured. “Nothing can reverse the death of Septimus de Nore, of course, but you
will
be forced to make peace with the Church, for the sake of all your kingdom. Your provocation was great, but the bishops are correct, in that it was not your place to discipline one of their own.”

“But,
would
they have disciplined him?” Kenneth asked.

“Quite so,” the king agreed. “And the answer is, no, they would not. My way was best.”

“Perhaps,” Seisyll said. “But there will be a price to pay for your way.”

“Should I have bound him over to whatever ‘justice’ the Church might have chosen to impose?” the king asked.

Seisyll smiled faintly. “I did not say that, Sire. But there
will
be a price to pay.”

 
 
THE price, in the short term, was indeed the excommunication that Bishop Desmond had threatened—and surprisingly, excommunication as well for Alyce, whose Deryni powers had assisted in ferreting out the guilt of Septimus and his two fellow-offenders.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Kenneth assured her. “You used your God-given gifts to uncover the truth—and truth always comes of God. Septimus deserved to die. It was he who turned his back on God—and reaped his just recompense. This will pass.”

“But it does not ‘just pass,’” she murmured, clinging to his embrace. “In the eyes of the Church, I am now set apart from God, even more than my blood already had set me apart. No priest may offer me the sacraments.” She looked up at him. “We may not even be married, until this ban is lifted.”

Anger stirred in his sea-gray eyes. “The Church is not God, Alyce. And not all who serve the Church also serve Him. What of your family chaplain, Father Paschal? Could he not be summoned, and would he not perform the rite?”

“Aye, he would,” she admitted, brightening, for she had not yet considered that possibility. “Out of courtesy, he would normally defer to the direction of any lawful bishop, but he is not obliged to do so. They will like it not at all, though, if he should act in defiance of their authority.”

“And
I
shall like it not, if our marriage is too long delayed, gentle Alyce.” The touch of his lips on hers, at first a token gesture to reassure, began to tease at promises of deeper passions, stirred increasingly in the weeks since their betrothal. And when he briefly let himself drink deeper of her kiss, pressing her body close to his, she knew that she could not long bear to keep him from her bed.

“I could send for Father Paschal,” she whispered, as she caught her breath. “He stayed in Cynfyn after Ahern’s burial, to assist in expanding the king’s regency there, but I know he would come, if I asked.”

“Then do it,” he urged, and turned her hand to press it to his lips, feeling her delicious shudder as his tongue teased briefly against her palm.

 
 
MEAN WHILE , the king refused to be moved on the matter of his quarrel with the Church—and at the beginning of Lent, his excommunication was widened to include interdict for the entire archdiocese of Rhemuth. For more than a month he held firm in his resolve, but finally he sent word to the archbishop, requesting his presence at the castle.

“Sire, you cannot allow this to continue indefinitely,” Archbishop William told him, on the day after what would have been Palm Sunday, had the city not been still under interdict. “You have forced me to close the doors of every church in Rhemuth, and to cut off your people from the solace of the sacraments—and this during Lent, when we should be remembering the passion of our Lord, and recalling His sacrifice for us. Can you not unbend to make this far lesser sacrifice?”

“I cannot regret what I did,” Donal said stubbornly. “Septimus de Nore was a disgrace to his calling, a murderer. He deserved to die for what he did.”

“Perhaps he did,” Archbishop William conceded. “That is not the real issue. Canon law reserves the judgment of delinquent priests to the justice of the Church. The king cannot be seen to flout that law.”

“I was unconvinced that justice would be done.”

“So you took the law into your own hands,” William retorted. “And how is that different from any lynch mob that might flout secular law?”

“His brother would have set aside the law!” Donal said emphatically.

“Perhaps. But we shall never know now, shall we?”

Donal looked away, biting back an angry retort.

“Donal, we must end this impasse,” the archbishop murmured. “What would it hurt, to make some small concession?1 You achieved your aim. Septimus paid with his life. Conceding your error will not undo the justice you saw fit to impose. But you
must not
require your people to suffer further, because of your stubbornness.”

After a long moment, the king turned his face slightly toward the archbishop.

“What would you require of me, to make a reconciliation with the Church?”

“Do you repent of your deeds?”

“Of the execution of Septimus de Nore—no. But I regret that I was obliged to bypass the authority of the Church, in my pursuit of justice.”

A long silence fell between them as the archbishop considered. Then:

“I am willing to accept that statement as an act of contrition,” he said. “However, I would require a more public act of penance.”

“How public, and what sort of penance?” the king countered, warning in his eyes.

The archbishop again considered, not flinching from the king’s gaze.

“For penance—thirty lashes, as you ordered given to Father de Nore,” he finally said, holding up a hand to stay the king’s protest. “I would allow the use of a simple leather scourge of four unknotted thongs, rather than the weighted strands customarily used in the flogging of a criminal. But you shall accept this purging in the presence of the full cathedral chapter, assembled within the privacy of the chapter house at the cathedral.”

“And you will lift the interdict, and the excommunication?”

“I will,” the archbishop replied. “I shall personally receive you back into the bosom of Mother Church and grant you absolution, at which time you will receive Holy Communion, as a sign of your reconciliation. Do you agree?”