King Javan’s Year (59 page)

“And if you
had
made him go, and they'd decided to bleed him to death, he'd be just as dead, and you'd be blaming yourself just as much,” Guiscard replied. “It wasn't just your decision at work here. It was Faelan's and Paulin's and whoever actually killed him.”

“But he died for
nothing
! Even if he'd gone, they couldn't have gotten anything out of him. He didn't ask to be involved in any of this. All he wanted was to be a good priest.”

“And wasn't he?” Guiscard said softly. “Isn't there something in Holy Writ that says something about the good shepherd laying down his life for his sheep?”

“But they hanged him, Guiscard, like a common criminal! Like Judas. They even left him thirty pieces of silver!”

“That's what they did,” Guiscard agreed, “but it isn't why Faelan died.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think Faelan died because he chose not to risk letting himself be intimidated into betraying
you. That's
why he wouldn't put himself into the
Custodes'
hands again. He wasn't afraid for his life—don't you understand? He'd surrendered that to God long before you and he ever met. Don't you suppose his killers came to realize that? And once they knew he couldn't be bought, even by fear, that he wouldn't risk betraying
you
, they decided they'd at least take out their spite for betraying
them.
”

“He's still dead,” Javan murmured. “And he's still lying here in unconsecrated ground, with only a pauper's shroud around him. I know
he
isn't here, Guiscard, but it isn't right that anyone should be able to do this to an innocent man. Who'll be next? Are they going to start whittling away at everyone I care about who tries to remain loyal to me?”

He asked Joram the same questions later that night, when he had relayed all the events of the past few days. Guiscard had come with him this time and sat sympathetically at his side as Joram and Niallan and Jesse digested what the king had told them.

“I certainly share your grief over Father Faelan,” Joram said after a moment. “And I think you're right to fear that this may be only the beginning. If they'll kill a priest and make it look like suicide, they certainly wouldn't hesitate to go after others close to you. I'd worry for Oriel's safety first. If they've got their own Deryni again, especially a willing one, they won't want rivals at court potentially to undo his work.”

Javan gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “Short of locking him up like his family, what do you suggest I do? I moved him physically closer to my quarters, where Hubert or the others can't get at him as readily, and I've got one of my sharpest knights assigned essentially as a full-time bodyguard. Unless I personally send one of my own men for him, Oriel doesn't stir out of his quarters except with Sir Gavin to escort him.”

Joram nodded. “You've probably done all you can, then. Of course, if Rhun brings Sitric back, the picture changes yet again. With
Custodes
backing, I suspect even the rather pedestrian Sitric could become formidable.”

“So, what do I do?” Javan demanded. “Send Oriel from Court? He won't go, so long as his family is held hostage—and Paulin's men aren't about to let them leave.”

“No, they aren't,” Joram agreed. “But there may be another way to approach that problem. Guiscard, how many hostages are still at Rhemuth?”

The young knight raised an eyebrow. “Maybe half a dozen, counting Oriel's wife and daughter.”

“Who are the others?” Niallan asked.

“Well, there'd be Sitric's family—a mother and sister, I think—and Ursin O'Carroll and his wife and son, of course. I guess that's actually seven.”

“Only seven?” Niallan sighed and shook his head. “I remember when there were several dozen. May their souls all rest in peace.” He crossed himself with a heavy hand, and the others followed suit. “But it could be worse, I suppose. I assume the survivors
are
all Deryni? Not counting Ursin, of course.”

Guiscard made a grimace, considering. “Actually, no. I think Ursin's wife may be human—which also makes the son problematical. He would have been very young when the hostages were first taken, perhaps even an infant in arms, so they wouldn't have tested him with
merasha
. I do hear that they test Ursin regularly, just to be certain his powers haven't come back.”

“Lord, how they do fear us!” Niallan sighed again. “But that's nothing new. But something has occurred to me that just might work. Sire, you know how Ursin lost his powers. You know about Master Revan, out by Valoret.”

Javan cocked his head quizzically at the bishop. “Of course I do. I was
there
.”

“Yes, indeed,” Niallan said with a faint smile. “Now, here's what I propose …”

It took more than a fortnight and several return visits to the Michaeline sanctuary before the plan took final shape, for parts of it must be approved by men not resident there. It was a bold scenario that Niallan proposed, but it might actually result in getting the hostages out of Rhemuth by the following spring. To begin paving the way, Javan even swallowed his pride and pretended to make his peace with Paulin over the Faelan affair, so that a new chaplain might be appointed and the royal household could settle into a regular routine again.

Unfortunately, Javan was given no opportunity to begin implementing his plan, for the very day he had intended to start laying the groundwork for it, very early in November, an exhausted courier arrived in Rhemuth demanding to be taken to the king.

Javan was in the great hall, observing a routine session of the local assize court, when a guard brought the man in. Guiscard and Charlan were sitting behind and to either side of him at the left of the dais, Lord Jerowen actually presiding over the court. Most of the several dozen others present were either functionaries of the court or suppliants. In anticipation of the Council meeting scheduled for later in the afternoon, Lords Albertus, Rhun, and Udaut were huddled around a charcoal brazier in one of the window embrasures, for the weather had turned in the past week. Aside from them, however, not one of the other lords of Council had chosen to attend. It was a very minor Court.

Lord Jerowen stopped speaking and Charlan and Guiscard got to their feet as the messenger staggered down the length of the great hall, heavily supported by a worried-looking guard. With a little moan, the man collapsed to his knees before the king and pulled a creased and travel-stained packet from inside his tunic, offering it with a trembling hand. The bright vermilion seal proclaimed the sender to be Lord Ainslie, with whom Rhys Michael was currently serving in Grecotha.

“Get this man something to drink,” Javan commanded, breaking the seal across with his fingers when it would not lift from one side. “Did you bring this from Grecotha?”

“Aye, Sire. Four days ago … Hunting party went wrong,” the man managed to gasp out, swaying on his knees. “Prince Rhys Michael abducted … Sir Jason dead, Lord Ainslie very bad … Brigands … I rode as quickly as I could.”

He pitched forward then, but Guiscard was already bending down to catch him under one arm and ease him to the floor, snapping his fingers in the direction of several squires, who were scurrying for wine and a cup. Javan had gotten to his feet at the news, all the color draining from his face.

“Get Oriel,” he said to Charlan, fumbling at the letter to unfold it and learn the rest of its grim news.

As Charlan dashed from the hall, and Lord Jerowen quickly hurried across from where he had been presiding, Albertus and Rhun drifted to the edge of their window alcove to see what was amiss, apparently not having heard the messenger. Javan skimmed the letter with growing alarm. The messenger's garbled words had only just made sense, but the words on the page leaped out at him in uncompromising confirmation of disaster. The hand was that of Sir Tomais, who had ridden out with Rhys Michael and Jason barely six weeks before.

Grecotha, the Feast of All Saints

Unto Javan, King of Gwynedd, from Sir Tomais d'Edergoll, with Lord Ainslie's commission in Grecotha
.

I regret to confirm what the messenger will have told your Highness in brief already. The Prince your brother has been taken captive by persons unknown. His present whereabouts or condition is likewise unknown as I write this. Several witnesses believe he may have been slightly wounded in the skirmish. Sir Jason died bravely, in defense of his prince, and Lord Ainslie was sorely wounded. Four other men died, and several more sustained wounds. Whether Ainslie will live or not is in the hands of God. He is lying now at Grecotha, in the palace of Bishop Edward MacInnis
.

The incident took place yesterday at about midafternoon. I have spent the remainder of that day and all of today combing that area with all the men at my disposal, assisted by a sizable troop of Bishop Edward's men, but thus far have been unable to find any clue regarding the prince's fate. It is Lord Ainslie's impression and that of most others present that the attackers definitely intended to capture the prince rather than kill him
.

I do not recommend that your Highness should join me at this time, for I do not know the extent of the plot and cannot guarantee your Highness' safety. Also, if the prince has been abducted for ransom, as many here believe, the demand surely will come to you in Rhemuth. However, I would welcome additional troops to assist in our search, for each day increases the distance his abductors may have carried him. I regret that I cannot send your Highness more positive information. I remain your obedient but miserable servant, Tomais d'Edergoll, Knight
.

Stunned, Javan handed off the letter to Albertus, who had come down from the window alcove with Rhun and Udaut, bidding the latter clear the hall. Guiscard was coaxing wine down the throat of the fallen courier, urging him to drink, but the man clearly was exhausted. Udaut had succeeded in clearing the hall by the time Charlan returned with Oriel, he and Jerowen now exclaiming anew over the letter Albertus and Rhun had already read.

“My brother's been abducted,” Javan said as Oriel and Charlan approached. “Find out whether this man was present and whether he knows anything besides what he's already told us.”

The others congregated around the king stirred uneasily at the command, but Oriel did not bat an eye as he sank to his knees beside the now-snoring man and lightly laid both hands on the man's forehead. He closed his eyes and was silent for several seconds, then looked up at the king, his expression grave and troubled.

“Neither he nor Sir Tomais was present on the actual hunt, Sire, but he heard Tomais question Lord Ainslie afterward. The attackers were well armed and well disciplined. There can be no doubt that their objective was to capture the prince. Bowmen struck from ambush first, but they carefully shot wide of him. That was when Sir Jason fell—a single arrow in the back. Lord Ainslie took an arrow in the thigh and another in the arm, but actually fell to a sword thrust. The surgeons were working on him even as Tomais questioned him and had given him drugs to ease the pain, so his account grew increasingly less lucid.”

“What of my brother?” Javan said impatiently.

“Lord Ainslie saw the prince giving good account of himself, sword in hand, but he himself fell at about that time, so he did not actually see them take him captive. Another man reportedly saw the prince overwhelmed and thought he had not been injured to that point, but he, too, was sorely wounded and could do nothing to stop the abduction.”

The same morning that the news of Rhys Michael's abduction reached his brother's Court, Rhys Michael himself was making a princely though largely ineffectual effort to remain alert—though after several days of captivity, he had learned little more about his captors than he knew when they first took him. From the outset, there had never been any chance of escape, or any doubt that he was their target.

Shooting from ambush, the attackers had taken out fully a third of his escort with archers, including the loyal Sir Jason. Then lightly armored horsemen had swept in, more than a score of them, half a dozen heading right for him while the rest fought off those who would have died—and many did—to defend him. He drew his sword and tried to fight back, and thought he had given at least a few of his attackers wounds to remember him by, but they overwhelmed him by sheer numbers, one of them grabbing his horse's reins, another cracking him in the temple with a sword pommel, while yet another one threw a great voluminous cloak over his head to blind him and entangle his sword.

Even sightless and half stunned, flailing dazedly under the weight and bulk of the cloak, he tried to throw himself off his horse, figuring that his own men had a better chance of rescuing him from the ground than if the attackers got him away. Unfortunately, before he could kick free of his stirrups, someone grabbed him in a bear hug over the cloak while someone else nearly broke his fingers wrenching away his sword.

He kept trying to fight, but others wound a rope several times around his shoulders and waist to pinion his elbows at his sides, also binding his wrists. Still kicking and squirming, he was then thrown back into a saddle ahead of someone much larger, who reached powerful leather-clad arms around him and kicked the horse into a gallop.

All he could do, trussed like a pig for market, was to duck his head and hang on to the horse's mane for dear life as it leaped forward, raked by his captor's spurs. He kept trying to scream, to call his men, for they had not managed to gag him before engulfing him in the cloak, but a sharp cuff to the side of his head connected hard enough to make him see stars inside the smothering darkness and make his nose bleed.

For the next little while, half fainting with pain and fear, he made himself concentrate on clinging numbly to the horse's neck and
not
falling off, because they were going far too fast down a rugged slope that made the horse lurch and stumble, and he feared he might break his neck if he went off blind and without being fully able to break his fall.