King Javan’s Year (60 page)

After what seemed like an eternity of mad scrambles punctuated by short stretches of hard galloping, his captors drew rein long enough for someone to dismount and lash his feet under the horse's belly, after which they bound his wrists in front of him with leather straps and exchanged the smothering cloak for a proper blindfold and gag. At no time was he permitted a glimpse of his abductors. Within minutes they were riding out again, and he still had not a clue who his captors might be or what they wanted of him.

His situation got more frightening as the afternoon passed into evening and then into night. More than once, during those first interminable hours, his captors pulled up to wait in silence while troops of other horsemen passed nearby. The first of those times, the minder riding behind him slid a leather-clad arm around his throat from behind and caught the pressure points in the angle of his elbow, murmuring “Not one move or sound, Haldane, or you're out.”

His jaws ached from the gag so that he could hardly breathe, much less cry out. Any attempt at defiance was pointless under the circumstances. In token of his submission, he tried to make himself relax against his captor's chest. Even so, the pressure did not relent. As the hoofbeats drew nearer, the blackness swam behind his blindfold so that he reeled and nearly did pass out. Dull nausea stayed with him for some time when they eventually set out again.

He thought it must have been well after midnight by the time they finally stopped to rest and water the horses, still without giving him any indication of what they wanted other than to see him unrescued. When asked if he would give his oath to keep silent if they removed his gag, he shakily agreed, for further discomfort served no purpose. Mere shouting was not going to get him free.

They removed the gag, but he was not surprised that the blindfold remained in place. His throat was dry and parched, as much from fear as from real thirst; and when they had sat him down on a smooth rock, he timidly asked if he might have something to drink.

To his relieved surprise, a flask was set to his lips. It was only water, but it tasted like nectar after the day he'd had. A few minutes later they put food in his hands as well—heavy journey bread and pungent cheese. Eating was awkward with his hands bound, and it did not help that his fear made swallowing difficult, but his stomach welcomed even this humble fare. They even gave him wine at the end, which he gulped down gratefully.

Soon afterward, to the sounds of horses being led to water, his keeper took him by the elbow and led him a few paces off from the rest.

“If you need to take a piss, now's your chance,” the man said bluntly. “We're going to be in the saddle for a lot of hours, once we mount up again.”

The man's grip on his arm released, but that was all. With a sinking feeling, Rhys Michael realized that he now was expected to perform. He could not remember when he had felt so vulnerable or humiliated, but his bladder was not going to get any less full unless he did something about it. When he had finished, his minder wordlessly took his elbow again and led him back to their horse.

He seemed to stumble a lot along the way. When he was hoisted up into the saddle again, unaccustomed vertigo made him cling to the pommel to make the world stop spinning behind his blindfold. By the time they were moving out again, the vertigo had become waves of drowsiness threatening to engulf him every time they stopped or even slowed to a walk. Gradually it dawned on him that they had drugged him, probably in the wine, but the dawning also brought a dull awareness that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He did not remember them stopping to sleep that night. He knew he had dozed in the saddle, but he had no idea how long. The next time they stopped to eat, he attempted to decline the wine, but his keeper made it clear that this was not an option. He decided he would rather drink it than have it forced down his throat.

He was never even aware of being put back on a horse that time. At some point they took his signet ring and earring. Kept in darkness behind his blindfold, all time slid together anyway, and the drugs kept him perpetually disoriented and drowsy, even when he was conscious.

Several times he thought he overheard the name Ansel mentioned, and eventually it occurred to him to wonder whether they meant the outlawed Ansel MacRorie. It frightened him that his captors might be Deryni like Ansel, but there was nothing he could do about it. Mostly they simply packed him onto his horse and continued on, with him drifting in and out of disturbing dreams in the leather-clad arms of his keeper.

He was not certain how long this pattern continued before the rescue. He thought it might have been several days. They had just stopped to feed and water horses and men when a cry of alarm precipitated sudden activity. He could hear the sounds of heavy hoofbeats approaching fast, low-muttered oaths from his captors, swords being drawn, the jingle of harness and weapons—and then fighting broke out all around him.

He stiffened as his keeper crushed him against his chest with his left arm, instinctively ducking his head and starting to squirm as the man's other arm stretched back for the poniard he wore in the back of his belt, out of Rhys Michael's reach. All around him were the clash of weapons, the squeals of horses, the cries of men being wounded.

His own horse was plunging under him, his keeper fighting to control it, and he clung to the pommel to keep from being thrown to his death—though death was riding right behind him as well.

“Don't fight me, Haldane!” his keeper commanded.

He felt the man's knife arm whipping forward, flinched from the flat-bladed caress of steel against the side of his neck. With a strangled cry he lurched to the other side and doubled up, trying to claw at his blindfold so he could at least see death approaching. He heard voices shouting his name, even closer, but he did not know if they would reach him in time. At the same time, his keeper was trying to wrench him upright, fighting both him and the snorting, plunging horse. He tried to fend off the man's leather-clad wrist with his bound hands, cringing from the blade he knew the man held.

“To the prince!” someone shouted. “They'll try to kill him!”

He hardly needed anyone to tell him that. He was squirming for his life, trying desperately to guess where his keeper's hand was, with its deadly blade, until a sharp rap at the base of his skull ended all further resistance.

Afterward, when he finally came around, they told him he had been unconscious for the better part of two days, though the black-clad battle surgeon changing a bandage above his left knee assured him that part of his grogginess had been caused by sedation they gave him so they could move him more comfortably.

“You were very lucky,” the man said, finishing a neat knot on the bandage. “This just required a little suturing, but the man who had you in the saddle with him came
this
close to sending you to meet your Maker.”

He indicated a short span between thumb and forefinger, then touched the right side of his patient's neck, just short of the carotid artery. The spot was sore, and Rhys Michael winced. His head ached, and when he flexed his neck experimentally, a tenderness at the back made him gasp.

“Where am I?” he whispered.

For answer, the battle surgeon turned to beckon another man closer. Rhys Michael attempted to pull the man's image into focus, but even trying was almost too much effort.

“How are you feeling, my prince?” a vaguely familiar voice murmured.

“My head hurts,” Rhys Michael whispered. “Who—”

“It's Manfred MacInnis, son. You're in Culdi. You're going to be just fine.”

Enough of the words registered that Rhys Michael was able to make his eyes focus. After the past few days, a familiar face was more welcome than he could say.

“Lord Manfred,” he murmured. “But how—”

“Do you remember being abducted?” Manfred asked gently.

Rhys Michael nodded weakly, but the movement made his head swim again. “I think they may have been working for Ansel MacRorie,” he whispered. “They kept me drugged most of the time. A lot of it is real fuzzy.”

Manfred's face hardened. “I suspect it is. Well, don't you worry. We took a few of them alive. I'm sure none of them's MacRorie, but I have no doubt they'll be telling us all they know by the time my experts have had a chance at them for a day or two. I'm just thankful you weren't hurt any worse than you were. Patrols have been looking for you for more than a week.”

“Has it been that long?” Rhys Michael asked.

“I'm afraid so. And it took the best part of a day to get you back here. That was yesterday. Tomorrow is Martinmas.”

Closing his eyes briefly, Rhys Michael tried to make himself think. His body seemed numbed to pain, but his head still felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool.

“I can't seem to think straight. Are you keeping me drugged, too?”

“It's mainly something for the pain, your Highness,” the battle surgeon replied, “though it does have something of a sedative effect as well. You took a nasty crack to the back of your head. Now that you're back with us, we can begin easing off on the medication.”

The explanation seemed entirely plausible. Rhys Michael did remember getting hit, and his head was very tender where it rested on the pillows.

He yawned and returned his attention to Manfred. “Maybe I'll feel better after I've slept some more,” he said drowsily. “Does Javan know I'm safe?”

“He does—or will, as soon as the messenger reaches him, probably tonight or early tomorrow. Just don't you worry, your Highness. Master Stevanus will have you on your feet before you know it. For now, sleep is probably the best thing you could do to speed your recovery.”

Meanwhile, in Rhemuth, the king and several of his lords of Council were arguing over how to respond to a letter received early that morning. It had been delivered by a peasant messenger who obviously knew nothing of the contents of what he carried, even had he been able to read it. Daily reports from Sir Tomais in the preceding week, while assuring the king that Lord Ainslie now was expected to recover, had been able to offer no revelations concerning the fate of Rhys Michael. Until receipt of this first communication from the prince's abductors, he might have disappeared into thin air. In part, the letter read:

To ensure that you meet our demands, we have taken your Highness' brother to hostage, and will keep him in close confinement until these demands are met. As proof that we do, indeed, hold the prince, I enclose a certain item belonging to him and remind your Highness that I could have enclosed the ear as well
.

The item in question was the earring of twisted gold wire that Rhys Michael always wore, unmistakably his. The price demanded for the prince's safe release was an immediate repeal of the Ramos Statutes, with restoration of all rights and privileges of Deryni. The demand was signed and sealed by Ansel MacRorie, Earl of Culdi in exile.

The Council reacted with predictable outrage, clergy and laymen alike. Javan's outrage was tempered with fear for his brother, underlined by the threat accompanying the earring in his hand. To give serious countenance to a Deryni ransom demand was out of the question—but so was refusal, when the heir's life was at stake.

“Couldn't we at least make some token concessions while we continue trying to find him?” Javan asked, staring at his brother's earring. “Maybe relax the ruling on land ownership. That's innocuous enough.”

“No accommodation to terrorists or Deryni!” Hubert declared, as even the laymen on the Council nodded their emphatic agreement. “We will not be intimidated by traitors!”

“But it's my brother's life that's in the balance.”

“The prince should feel honored and humbly grateful if called to a martyr's crown,” Paulin replied coldly. “Suppression of the Deryni is ordained by God Himself, for the salvation of His people and the greater glory of His Church on earth. We will make no concessions to the enemies of God!”

In the face of such arguments, Javan could offer no further rebuttals. Later that evening he mulled the dilemma in the privacy his own quarters, with only Charlan and Guiscard for company. They were waiting for the return of Guiscard's father, who had gone to inquire of Joram regarding the demand. Javan knew that his Deryni allies were chafing increasingly under the tightening strictures against those of their race, but he could not imagine that they would really threaten the life of their king's brother.

“There's no reason for Ansel to do this,” Guiscard said as the minutes stretched into an hour and Etienne did not return. “It will only increase ill will toward Deryni, especially if they harm the prince. Doesn't he realize that any changes made to the law under duress would only be reversed yet again, once the prince was safe?”

“The desperate act of a desperate man, perhaps,” Charlan offered. “Maybe the opportunity came up to abduct the prince, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, but then he didn't know what to do after that.”

Javan shook his head. “That wasn't the impression I got from the letter Tomais sent. The attack was well planned. They knew exactly who—”

A knock at the door brought Guiscard bounding to his feet to admit his father. Etienne was shaking his head as he came into the room and pulled up a chair at the table where the others sat.

“You aren't going to believe this,” he muttered, including them all in his glance. “Joram doesn't know anything about this, and
neither does Ansel
.”

“What?!”

“Oh, Ansel certainly knew that the prince had been abducted—Joram got word to him as soon as
he
was told—but that's all Ansel knew. He was nowhere near Grecotha when the abduction took place—though he's been combing that area since, trying to find some trace. He's still out there, but the others were meeting about it when I arrived: Joram and Jesse and Bishop Niallan and his Healer, Dom Rickart. When I showed Joram the letter, he went a little pale, then passed it around the table for the others' inspection. They all agreed that it wasn't Ansel's signature or seal.”