The Harrowing of Gwynedd (71 page)

“That's the duke,” the man murmured, obviously aware what he was trying to ask. “Now you're really in for it.”

And Ferris, glancing back at the man in black, knew a moment of even greater apprehension than before—for if the Bishop of Corwyn was known to be a stern judge, then the Duke of Corwyn held that reputation doubly. And Alaric Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, was said to be Deryni, privy to dark powers undreamed by ordinary mortals!

“I see,” Morgan murmured, still in converse with the bishop. “And the gag?”

Tolliver shrugged. “The witnesses said he was belligerent, that he would be a disruption in the court,” he replied, gesturing toward the four well-dressed accusers sitting in the front row, who looked a little less sure of themselves since Morgan's arrival. “It's a common enough precaution, until it's time for the accused to speak.”

“Hmmm. It seems to me that yon ranger was more of a disruption than the prisoner,” Morgan replied drolly, with a slight nod in the direction of the now reseated and embarrassed Stalker.

“Aye. But the murdered girl was to be his bride, Your Grace,” Tolliver said. “And just before you arrived, the good sisters who prepared the body for burial revealed that her attacker's crime was rape as well as murder.”

“Ah.”

Morgan's face hardened at that, and Ferris could not help shrinking a little harder against the back rail of the dock as the duke's glance flicked disdainfully over him again—though he was as innocent of the one crime as the other.

Not that innocence had much to do with what was happening here today. Even if Ferris were given a chance to tell his side of the story, he knew no one would believe him. Not over the word of the four men who accused him. He was stunned, then, at Morgan's next question of the bishop.

“Have you heard his testimony yet?”

“No, Your Grace. We had just finished the testimony of the witnesses.”

“Very well.” Morgan gestured toward the guards still standing at Ferris's sides. “Take that bridle off and bring him here.”

“Out of the dock, Your Grace?” one of the bailiffs asked, shocked, as the guards moved to obey.

“Unless you intend to have the dock brought here as well,” Morgan replied with a wry quirk of his mouth. “Do you think I can't keep him under control, even without the arm restraints?”

Ferris could not help being amazed at the touch of wry humor, even though he also felt apprehension at the vaguely implied threat of Morgan's words. He decided he might even like the man, under other circumstances—and he could hardly blame Morgan for feeling hostility, given the crimes of which Ferris was accused. Was it possible that he might get a fair hearing after all? Both the bishop and Morgan were said to be fair and incorruptible, but would that hold true where a stranger was concerned?

He worked his jaw nervously several times when the gag had been removed, relieved of the discomfort of the bit and straps, and tried not to let his fear show as the two guards walked him out of the dock and toward the dais steps. He thumped to both knees at the bottom of the steps before the guards could make him kneel, giving Morgan and the bishop a deeply respectful bow of his head.

“Please, my lords, let me speak,” he pleaded as he straightened to search their eyes. “I do not know your language very well, but I—am innocent. I swear it!”

The bishop only sighed patiently at the expected denial, but Morgan became more thoughtful, his eyes narrowing a little as he stared back at Ferris.

“This is not your native tongue?” he asked.

Ferris shook his head. “No, my lord. I come from Eistenfalla. I make swords. I understand well enough to trade in weapons, but not too fast.”

As the bishop shifted in his chair, apparently about to intervene, Morgan waved him off.

“I see. Well, I don't think anyone here speaks your language, so we'll have to make do. Do you understand why you are here?”

Ferris nodded carefully, amazed and grateful that the duke seemed to be willing to listen to his side.

“They say that I killed a woman, my lord—”

“And raped her,” the bishop interjected.

“No, my lord!”

“That
is
what they say, is it not?” Morgan replied.

“They say it, yes. But I did not do it, my lord!”

“The holy sisters say otherwise, Alaric,” the bishop murmured exasperatedly, “and he was taken with the bloody dagger in his hand. That's her blood all over his clothes. Four witnesses of excellent reputation say they saw him do it.”

“Really?” Morgan murmured, coming to his feet with casual grace. “That's very interesting, because I think he's telling the truth.”

And as his words sank in and a whisper of surprise and apprehension rippled through the hall, the bishop looking the most startled of all, Morgan glided down the dais steps to stand directly before the kneeling Ferris.

“No one has told me your name,” Morgan said, handing off his riding crop to his aide and briskly stripping off his black leather gloves. “What is it?”

Ferris could not take his eyes from Morgan's. “F—Ferris, my lord,” he managed to whisper.

“Ferris,” Morgan repeated. “And do you know who I am?”

“The—the Duke of Corwyn, my lord.”

“What else do you know about me?” Morgan persisted.

“That—that you are a man of honor, my lord.”

“And?”

“And that justice is done in your courts.”

“And?”

Ferris swallowed, not wanting to say it.

“Go ahead. What else?” Morgan demanded.

“That—that you are D—Deryni, my lord,” Ferris managed to choke out, unable even then to tear his eyes away from Morgan's.

“That is correct,” Morgan said, flicking his gaze for the merest of instants to the four witnesses watching with wide-eyed fascination. “Can you tell me what that means to you, that I am Deryni?” he asked quietly.

“That—that you consort with black magic,” Ferris found himself saying, to his horror.

Morgan grimaced and gave a heavy sigh. “Magic, yes. The color is rather open to interpretation. I have some special powers, Ferris, but I try to use them only in the cause of justice.”

At Ferris's look of uncertainty—for Morgan's vocabulary had begun to exceed his understanding again—the duke stopped and gave him a patient smile. “You don't understand but half of what I'm saying, do you?”

Ferris dared to shake his head slightly.

“Do you understand when I say that I can tell when a man is lying?”

“
I
am not lying, my lord!” Ferris whispered desperately. “I did not kill the woman! I did not rape her, either!”

“No, I see that you did not,” Morgan replied. And as Ferris gasped in astonishment, tears welling in his eyes that he had finally been believed, Morgan added, “But perhaps you can tell us who did.”

“But I—I do not know, my lord!” Ferris started to protest.

“Remember last night,” Morgan commanded, taking Ferris's head between his hands, thumbs resting on the temples, his eyes holding Ferris from any attempt to draw away.

Ferris feared he might drown in those eyes. He could see nothing else. And Morgan's touch bought a heady helplessness, a sweet-sickly sense of vertigo that started at the top of his head and swooped down to the pit of his stomach, making his knees go to jelly.

He felt the guards supporting him by the ends of his control bar as he sank back on his haunches, beyond any ability to resist what was happening to him; but as his eyes fluttered closed, he lost all awareness of Morgan, the guards, the hall, or any of the rest of his present situation. Suddenly it was night, and he was stumbling down an alley that he hoped led back to the inn where he was staying, wondering whether he should have drunk so much.

Cries, then—shrill and terrified, in pain. Running to see who called—and the sound of footsteps in the shadows. He caught only a glimpse of a still, slight form clad in light-colored clothing, and dark figures scattering at his approach, before someone struck him solidly from behind, and everything went black.

The next thing he knew, he was being beaten and kicked, his head aswim from drink and the blows, covered with blood, trying to cringe from the booted feet. And then the watch was there, and his captors were saying he had done it, and he had no words to tell them of his innocence.

“Release him,” he heard a voice say, as he abruptly became aware of his body again and the hands clamped to his temples were removed. “He didn't do it. I think, however, that I know who did.”

He opened his eyes in time to see Morgan turning to survey the four witnesses ranged on the bench behind and to his left. The men rose nervously as Morgan looked at them, no longer as self-confident as they had been only minutes before. Their nervousness increased as the bishop signaled half a dozen guards to move in behind them, though the guards made no attempt to touch them.

It was quickly done, to Ferris's continued surprise and awe. While his guards untied his hands and released him, helping him to his feet, Morgan moved before the four witnesses, one by one, and asked each the same three questions: “Did you kill the girl?” “Did you participate in the rape?” “Did you agree among yourselves to accuse the swordsmith?”

The Deryni lord did not touch them; only fixed each with that cool, irresistible silver gaze and commanded the truth. And though only one answered yes to the first question, all four, without exception, answered yes to the second and third. They appeared to be a little dazed as Morgan returned calmly to the dais and the guards moved in to bind their wrists behind them.

“I trust you don't think I've stepped out of line, Bishop,” Ferris heard Morgan murmur to Tolliver as he sat once more in the chair at the bishop's right. “Is there any doubt in your mind that justice has been done?”

Tolliver slowly shook his head. “Thank God you arrived when you did, Alaric,” he replied softly. “Otherwise, we should have hanged an innocent man.”

“Aye, he is,” Morgan replied, glancing out at Ferris again, who was rubbing his wrists absently and staring at the Deryni lord in awe. “You are free to go, sword-smith. The men who accused you falsely shall hang for that, and for their other crimes.” He ignored the murmurs of consternation as his words sank in on the four guilty men. “I only wish there were some way to repay you for what you have suffered.”

Ferris's jaw dropped in amazement, and he wondered whether he had understood correctly. The duke had already given him his life, when he had thought never to see another day. It was he, not Morgan, who should be offering some token of recompense; and glancing at the blade lying close along Morgan's thigh—too short, by a hand-span, to take full advantage of the man's reach, and probably ill-balanced, to boot—Ferris thought he knew what would please.

“You have already paid any debt to me by giving of your justice, my lord,” Ferris said, dropping to one knee and giving salute with right fist to heart in the manner of his people. “But may I—ask one favor of Your Lordship?”

“What is it?” Morgan asked.

“I-I would rather speak with you in private, if I may, my lord.”

At Morgan's gesture, Ferris rose and mounted the dais steps, bowing slightly to the bishop and then asking with a glance whether he and Morgan might withdraw a little further. With a nod, Morgan got up and led him off the dais to one side, hand resting easily on the hilt of the sword that had given Ferris's swordsmith's eye offense from the floor of the hall.

“I thank you, my lord,” Ferris murmured, controlling a smile as he noticed Morgan's young aide taking up a position of vigilance at a discreet distance outside the window embrasure they entered. “I—have not the words in your tongue to express my gratitude. I do not understand how you did—what you did. I think, from the look on your bishop's face, that he almost wishes you had not done it, for he fears your power, even though he respects you as a man—but I wanted to tell you that—that I will no longer be afraid when people speak of the Deryni.”

“No?” Morgan replied with a wry little smile. “Then you will be but a rare one among the many who are.”

“You have a skill that you use for the cause of truth,” Ferris said stubbornly. “My people value the pursuit of truth. The All-Fa—”

“You need say no more,” Morgan said quietly, a more wistful smile playing about his lips. “I suspected, from the start, that you worshipped the All-Father. Your people and mine have both suffered because of their differences, I think. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Not—all, my lord,” Ferris breathed. “Would you—would you draw your sword for me?”

“My sword?”

“Yes, my lord. I am a master swordsmith, as I have said. I noticed that your blade seems short for the reach of your arm. Can you show me your stance?”

Raising one blond eyebrow, Morgan stepped back a pace and eased the weapon from its sheath, at the same time telling his aide, by sign, that there was no danger. When, at Ferris's direction, he had swung the sword through several basic exercises, he saluted with a flourish and tossed the hilt into Ferris's waiting fist.

“So, swordsmith, is it a goodly blade or no?”

“The swordsman is goodly, my lord,” Ferris muttered, as he hefted the blade in his own hand, “but he could be better still, with the right weapon.”

Ignoring the duke's look of surprise, Ferris moved farther into the window and laid the blade across his forearm while he turned it to and fro in the light, sighting along the steel for ripples or other imperfections—of which there were none. When he had flexed it between his hands, he motioned Morgan to step back, and ran through his own set of exercises designed to test the balance of a blade. When he was done, he flipped it into the air and caught it just beneath the quillons, then extended it back to Morgan, hilt first.