King Javan’s Year (46 page)

“They were Deryni!” Richard said contemptuously.

“Aye, they were—three of them: a woman and her two young sons, gentle and harmless. Oriel was able to do nothing to ease the plight of Declan Carmody and his family that day, nor was I; but I will not raise a finger to force any man to give ease to Murdoch of Carthane. Master Oriel, you are free to help him or not, as you choose, and will suffer no punishment, whatever your decision.”

Trembling, not meeting any of their eyes, Oriel slowly extended his hand above Murdoch's wound, though he did not touch it. After a long moment, he returned his hand to his lap to clasp with the other and looked up impassively at Hubert.

“I think you must know that the Healing of this wound is beyond my skill or any other's, my lord—saving, perhaps, a miracle,” he said quietly. “Unfortunately, Deryni such as myself are not often granted such grace.”

“But you cannot simply let him suffer!” Hubert began.

“I can and will block the pain, if Lord Murdoch requests it of me, my lord,” Oriel replied. “So much my Healer's Oath requires, in the name of humanity.”

The wounded man snorted, contempt mingled with his pain. “As if humanity were a Deryni trait!” he gasped. “You'll not hear me beg to the likes of you! I'll see you rot in hell first!”

Oriel turned his pale gaze directly on Murdoch. “My Lord Murdoch may, indeed, see me in hell, for that surely is
his
destination,” he said quietly. “For myself, I commend me to the mercy of the Most High God, to Whom all shall surely answer on the day of judgment.”

“Careful, Healer!” Hubert warned. “You skirt dangerously near blasphemy.”

“I mean no disrespect, my lord,” Oriel murmured. “I seek but to do my work in peace, wishing harm to no man.”

“And what of my father?” Richard demanded. “
There
is your work, Healer.”

Slowly Oriel shook his head. “I can give no false hope, my lord. Lord Murdoch must understand that his wound is fatal. If it runs its course, death will not come easily or quickly. The bowel has been breached, and the wound will rot from within. I can block the pain, but I can do nothing about the rot, especially in this heat. The end could be days in coming—perhaps even weeks.”

Murdoch had gone even paler as Oriel spoke, and now turned his face away, choking back a sob.

“Perhaps,” Oriel went on more coldly, “Lord Murdoch may take comfort from the knowledge that he will have ample time to repent of his sins—a luxury he did not allow Duke Ewan or his other victims. I suggest you shrive him quickly, my Lord Archbishop, before the pain becomes too great—for I see he will not bear a
Deryni
to touch him. And then, best pray for someone else to do him the office that Declan did for Duke Ewan.”

Hubert closed his eyes briefly, for while the Church did not officially condone the
coup de grace
, no one could deny its existence—and its preference to the prolonged agony that Murdoch now faced.

“Then you must perform that office, Master Oriel,” Hubert said suddenly. “In the name of mercy, I beg you. You have the means. You can make the passing easy.”

Boldly Oriel met Hubert's gaze. “I
can
, but upon my soul, I
will
not,” he said. “As Healer, it is my office to
give
life, not to take it. Let some other perform that office.”

“But—”

As Hubert turned his entreaty to Javan, the king merely shook his head and signalled to Oriel to join him. “Do not appeal to
me
, Archbishop. This is not my argument; but if you
make
it my argument, I, too, have recollection of deeds for which Murdoch is responsible, and must count the balance not yet paid, even were he six months in the dying.”

So saying, he gathered his party to him and turned to follow Hrorik and Sighere off the field, leaving Murdoch groaning on the ground and his sons and friends pondering what to do.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

And another dieth in the bitterness of his soul …

—Job 21:25

An hour later Murdoch of Carthane lay taut and pain-wracked on what he knew would be his deathbed, teeth locked in a grimace against the burning in his gut, hurting with every breath he drew. Beside him, his wife of more than twenty years kept dabbing at his brow with cloths wrung out in cool water, but he found her ministrations increasingly more annoying than soothing. She meant well, and he loved her for her devotion even to this bitter end, but it would take more than water to quell the fire that was eating at his life.

And it would only get worse as the hours wore on. Already the agony had been unspeakable. Lord Albertus' battle surgeon and a court physician both had offered him syrup of poppies before beginning their grisly work—for even cutting away his armor and clothing had been excruciating—but Murdoch had declined, setting his teeth in a strip of leather to keep from screaming as they began treating his wounds.

They had done their best to be gentle. Even so, he had passed out from the pain long before they got to the belly wound—which was as well, since all they could do for that one was to gently bathe the protruding parts with warm water and press them back inside him, there to be secured with a pad of clean linen pressed close against the opening and many turns of wide white bandage wrapped tightly around his belly. It was no attempt at repair, but at least the bandaging gave him some support. In other times, they would have afforded his leg wound more thorough treatment than mere bandaging, perhaps even trying to suture the severed muscles, but being crippled for life was the least of Murdoch of Carthane's worries today.

He regained consciousness at about the time they finished what little they could do for him medically, as they washed the last of the blood and dirt from his mangled body and gently clothed him in a cool white robe that, all too soon, would become his shroud. He had known it, and they had known it, but they had gone through the motions nonetheless—as if anyone could do anything other than to prolong his agony. The pain in his gut was still agonizing, a burning that never abated but only shifted intensity, but at least his reason was not blurred by drugs. He had never been one to shirk his duty as he saw it, and there was much he still must say to those gathered around him.

He pressed his less injured left arm hard against the bandages binding his belly and signalled Rhun with his eyes.

“Help me to sit up,” he whispered, gasping as Rhun obeyed, bruising his benefactor with the strength of his grip as his fingers dug into the other's forearm.

Richard, his son and heir, helped arrange pillows behind his sire's back, assisted by his ashen-faced young wife. Cashel, Murdoch's younger son, also came near. Archbishop Hubert had given the wounded man the Sacrament before they began working on him and stood resignedly behind the
Custodes
battle surgeon. The Church and the
coup de grace
had reached an understanding long ago.

“Now listen to me, all of you,” Murdoch demanded, his breathing quick and labored from the pain. “Our headstrong boy-king has got the bit between his teeth. I warned you there would be trouble, but you spinelessly let him take the crown.”

“Could Rhys Michael have stopped Hrorik from making the challenge?” Richard demanded. “I very much doubt it.”

“A different king might have been induced to forbid the challenge,” Murdoch retorted. “Javan has always hated me, since those first days of the regency. And after the deaths of Duke Ewan and the Deryni Carmody, it was clear that his hatred had found a focus.”

“Would that such hatred might focus on the Deryni,” Hubert muttered. “And now, to have taken Oriel directly to his service—”

“That can be remedied, in time,” Rhun observed. “Perhaps it's time we eliminated all Deryni at Court—and I say that as one who has a Deryni still usefully in my employ, though I would slay him with my own hand if I thought it was in the kingdom's best interests. But Sitric knows his place.
He
would not have dared to refuse his services the way Oriel did.”

Murdoch snorted, wincing at the pain it cost him. “Do you really think I would have let him lay a finger on me?” he said contemptuously. “The very touch of a Deryni is defiling! No, you have the right of it. 'Tis time, indeed, that the taint was removed from Court.”

“Such action will require extensive changes to the law,” Hubert pointed out. “We went to considerable trouble to justify the use of collaborators in the first place. Rhun, you're free to do with your own Deryni as you see fit—have him strangled in his bed, if it suits you—but I no longer have that option where Oriel is concerned. Their families, of course, are another matter.”

Richard's young wife froze. “You surely don't mean to butcher their families,” she whispered in a rare show of spirit.

“That doesn't concern you, Lirin,” Richard snapped. “Archbishop, are you suggesting that we simply do away with all Deryni collaborators, even the Healers?”

“We have few Healers left anyway,” Hubert muttered. “And Oriel was the least controversial. We did without Healers in the past and we can do without them in the future.”

Murdoch grimaced as he tried to find a more comfortable position, gasping as the movement sent pain shooting through his body.

“I would advise that you tread very cautiously,” he whispered, motioning for his wife to remove one of his pillows. “Remember the example of Declan Carmody. Not all of them will go docilely to their fate.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Forgive me, I can bear no more. You who remain must decide what is to be done about the king, because you must bear the consequences. Would that I might remain with you to carry on the fight, but Hrorik has decreed otherwise.” He grimaced against new pain, then turned his gaze to the court physician.

“Please take the women out of here, Master James,” he said evenly. “This will not require their witness.”

“No,” Elaine whispered. “I want to stay.”

“Not this time, my heart,” he rasped, shaking his head. “Take Lirin and go. You, too, Archbishop, though I ask your final blessing. Only my sons and my friend Rhun and this good surgeon shall stay. Fear not. I shall be brief.”

Weeping quietly, Elaine laid her arms around the shoulders of the stunned Lirin and let the court physician lead them out of the room. Hubert, after bowing his head briefly in a final prayer for the man about to die, signed him with the Cross and then turned to follow. As the door closed behind them, the battle surgeon was already straightening Murdoch's left arm at his side, looping a length of leather thong around it above the elbow and tightening it down.

“A moment,” Murdoch rasped, setting his free hand atop the surgeon's to stay what he was doing.

The movement hurt him, and he groaned against the pain.

“Rest easy, my lord,” the surgeon said in a low voice, catching the hand and bidding Rhun take it. “You need not bear this any longer. Soon there will be no more pain, I promise you.”

“It isn't that,” Murdoch gasped, shaking his head. “I do not fear death. Nor do I question your skill, good brother, but I—would have my friend's hand release me.”

Rhun stiffened, and Murdoch's sons both glanced at one another helplessly.

“Murdoch—” Rhun began.

“No, hear me,” Murdoch said, his voice tight and hoarsened by pain. “A stranger's hand gives but cold comfort—I mean you no offense, Brother Surgeon. My sons I cannot ask. But no one will question if you act for me in this. Will you do it?”

Rhun's lean face was oddly lit by emotion rarely shown.

“We have faced many battles, old friend,” he whispered. “In heat of combat is one thing, even friend to friend—steel to throat, when speed must propel the hand of mercy, but—”

“My lord, we have a gentler way,” the surgeon said quietly. “If Lord Murdoch permits, I will guide you.”

Murdoch's eyes closed in relief. “It is agreeable to me, if my friend finds it so. Forgive me, Rhun, for laying this burden upon you.”

“I forgive you,” the other whispered.

After several taut heartbeats of silence, Rhun tore his gaze from the face of his friend and glanced at the surgeon, who had upturned the arm he had bound and was fingering at the bulge of the veins, first at the elbow and then at the top of the wrist.

“Rest you easy, my lord,” the surgeon murmured to Murdoch, stroking the arm as he passed a sharp scalpel across to Rhun, shielded behind his hand so Murdoch would not see it. “You have already lost a great deal of blood. This will be very quick. You need not fear.”

When it was over, Rhun lingered to compose himself while the battle surgeon and Murdoch's sons made the body seemly to look upon, for the sake of the women waiting outside. He left when the women were admitted, not daring to meet their eyes as he passed, retiring to an adjoining room where Hubert had withdrawn. Paulin and Albertus had joined the archbishop while he waited, and the three clerics crossed themselves dutifully as Rhun entered the room. His expression left no doubt as to Murdoch's passing.

“A grim business, Lord Rhun,” Paulin murmured as the earl pulled out a chair beside the table and folded into it, gratefully accepting a cup of wine Albertus offered him. “Unfortunately, such things are sometimes necessary.”

Rhun tossed off the wine and held out his cup for more.

“He requested my hand rather than the surgeon's,” he said quietly, rubbing at his eyes. “I have—often performed the office in the field, but never—like this. This was—a gentle mercy, but—too calculated.” He took another deep pull from the cup. “I would rather not speak of it further.”

Hubert turned away, retreating to a nearby window to stare out at the afternoon sun, and Paulin sat down opposite Rhun.