The King’s Justice (20 page)

Such impertinence was almost maddening enough to change Kelson's mind about force. Nearly speechless with anger, grey eyes narrowed in concentration, he set his balled fists on his belt and glanced for guidance at Morgan, who could give him none, then looked sourly back at Rothana.

“It is not vengeance I seek, my lady, but justice,” he replied, keeping his voice low and expressionless. “‘O Lord, with your judgment endow the King, and with your justice the King's son.' Do you think you are the only one who can quote scripture to support an argument?”

Her mouth opened and closed once in astonishment. She clearly had not expected that response. When she started to turn away, he bounded up the single altar step and seized her upper arm, whirling her around to face him again.

“You can turn your back on
me
, my lady, but you can't turn your back on sacred writ—not if you have any respect for what that habit means!” he said angrily. “‘Let our strength be the law of the just,'” he quoted again. “‘For that which is feeble is found to be nothing worth.' I want to bring him to justice under
law
, Rothana. I will
not
countenance this sort of behavior in my kingdom—and especially not in men formerly sworn to uphold my laws.”

“Then, take your hand off of me, my lord,” she said frostily, “if
you
have any respect for the habit that I wear.”

He sighed and released her, sensing he was bested, but as he half turned to glance at the slumbering Janniver, and Morgan still filling the doorway of the chapel, he knew he could not quite let it drop. Not yet.

“I ask you one more time, my lady—for
her
sake,” he murmured.

“No, my lord. She is under my protection. She has none other to defend her.”

“Then, if you won't let me read her directly,
you
do it,” Kelson pleaded, ready to grasp at any faint hope. “And then let me read the pertinent information from
your
mind. I
know
that I'm asking a great deal, but it's important to me to find out who did this—
all
of this!”

As he swept one hand to include all the violated abbey, reaching out to her with his mind as well, she seemed to recoil to an almost physical blow. Wincing, she turned away again, bowing her head and pressing clasped hands close against her lips in an attitude of prayer. But when she turned back toward Kelson, some of the stiffness had gone out of her shoulders.

“I—had lost the larger picture for a while, my lord,” she said softly, not meeting Kelson's eyes. “I had—forgotten how many others suffered at the hands of those who did this work.” She bowed her head again. “I will do as you request, but I—must ask that it be done in private. Duke Alaric, I mean you no disrespect, but—this will be very difficult for me. Not the procedure itself, but—”

“I understand,” Morgan murmured, making her a little bow before glancing at the king. “Shall I wait outside, my prince?”

“No, go back to the tent,” Kelson said steadily, not taking his eyes from Rothana. “I'll be along directly.”

When Morgan had gone, closing the door behind him, Rothana sighed and came down to Janniver, looking suddenly like a frightened child, fragile and vulnerable as she sank down on the stone floor beside the low bed. Kelson would have gone to her, but she sensed his intent and shook her head, further staying him with a gesture.

“Please, my lord, I must do this alone,” she whispered, her face strained in the wan light of the single votive light set on the bare altar. “You must not try to help, either myself or Her Highness. She would be angry and frightened as well as embarrassed, if she even guessed that
I
was about to know what she suffered. The touch of mind to mind can be more intimate than any violation of the body. When I have done, I will show you what concerns you.”

Kelson only nodded and settled gingerly on the altar step, hardly breathing as Rothana took Janniver's nearer hand and clasped it in both of hers. He let himself center and settle as he sensed her entering trance, already preparing for his own rapport as he watched her dark eyes take on the softly unfocused sheen of deeper trancing.

Then her eyes were closing and she was shuddering, shaking her head, ducking to press her forehead hard against the soft edge of the mattress, shoulders shaking in silent reaction to what she saw.

He wanted very much to go to her, but his promise kept him firmly in his place. When, at last, she lifted her head to look at him, her dusky face was pale and drawn, her eyes bright with tears. She seemed to get herself in hand as she carefully laid Janniver's hand back at her side and brushed a gentle touch across the sleeping girl's forehead, composed once more when she looked up again.

“I didn't expect that she would know his name,” she said quietly, “so there's no disappointment at that. I
can
show you his face, however—and the design on his surcoat. Will that be enough?”

Gravely Kelson nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Very well. Give me your hand,” she said, holding out hers.

He came across the altar step and settled at her feet. Her hand was cool and passive in his, the skin soft in contrast to the calluses of his own. As their eyes met, he lowered his outer shields and allowed himself to be drawn into her directing without resistance, knowing that the control he permitted was only tenuous, that he could break it at any time, if necessary.

Drifting on the tide of her bidding, he sensed the outside world receding, his vision tunneling until all he could see was her eyes. Then even that was gone as he let his eyelids close and floated on the blankness—until suddenly he was in another point of perspective, and a form was taking shape before him.

The man would have been handsome, had his face not been contorted with rage and lust. He was young, too—perhaps only a little older than Janniver herself—but only general impressions filtered past her terror: brown hair bartered close in the common style of soldiers, matted with sweat from having been confined under the camail pushed back on the slender shoulders; a wet, leering mouth working obscenely as he raved about bishops and priests, and having to obey them.

The brown eyes burned with madness as the man stared at his victim. Kelson could feel himself trembling in an echo of Janniver's own terror, projected through Rothana, and a scream threatened to burst from his throat as a gauntleted hand bruised cringing flesh and the face came too close to be looked upon any longer.

Only as the free hand wrenched at a buckle, releasing the man's sword belt, and a sense of vertigo threatened to overwhelm him, did Kelson finally manage to rip his own attention through Janniver's memory and notice the arms emblazoned on the man's surcoat: the chequered field of silver and gold and the dancing bear and crimson
etoilles
of old sovereign Meara, all differenced with the label of the eldest son.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

She entered into the soul of the servant of the Lord, and withstood dreadful kings in wonders and signs
.

—Wisdom of Solomon 10:16

That part of Kelson that remained dispassionate and uniquely Kelson recognized Janniver's attacker at once. He had never met Ithel of Meara face to face, but with memory triggered by the chequered surcoat, the family resemblance to Llewell and Sidana became immediately apparent—and only Ithel would dare to wear that coat of arms. The part of Kelson that was king and dispenser of justice noted the face and device with steely-willed calm, and marked Ithel of Meara for appropriate disposition when eventually they met.

But the part of Kelson that, through Janniver's senses, briefly relived the memory of Ithel's attack did not know or care that the armored boy-man roughly thrusting her to the ground was a rebel prince—only recoiled in disbelieving terror and tried, unavailingly, to shrink from the fear and the pain.

Adding to the outrage was Kelson's awareness, in the unassailable security of his own consciousness, that the fragment of memory Rothana passed on to him was only a minute part of what Janniver herself had suffered. Even filtered through Rothana's perception, truncated to only a few seconds' duration, the helplessness and pain and shame reverberated with such intensity that he felt momentarily paralyzed, powerless to break the link, even had his life depended upon it.

By the time Rothana ended it, his heart was pounding with Janniver's reflected terror. He was drenched with perspiration, panting, his hand clutching Rothana's so tightly that a part of him was amazed she had not cried out.

Moaning, he made himself release her, clapping his hands to his temples as he half-collapsed across the altar step and lay there shaking, his heart still pounding, gulping in great, shuddering breaths to regain his equilibrium.

Gradually, his measures had their effect. Yet even as his head cleared and his heart rate slowed to a more normal level, he realized that Rothana had given him not only the information he had asked for, if more intensely than he had dreamed, but also a glimpse of her own reaction to the outrage—and with that, almost without volition on her own part, a fleeting but intimate brush with her own soul. And as he raised his head to look at her, he sensed that both of them had responded to that glimpse, and were shaken by it.

“I'm not sorry for what I did,” she whispered, flinching a little as their eyes met. “I had to make you understand what
she
felt. You're a man. You can't know what it means to be a woman, and to be—
used
that way. And Janniver had been so sheltered, so protected.…”

As her voice trailed off, Kelson glanced away, forcing himself to draw another deep, ragged breath as he rubbed both hands hard over his face. He hardly dared trust himself to speak.

“You're right,” he finally managed to murmur, glancing furtively at the sleeping Janniver and suddenly very thankful that she was asleep. “I wouldn't have had any idea. If you—think it best to blur her memory, by all means do it.” He swallowed with difficulty. “I only wonder who will blur yours—or mine.”

Rothana squared her shoulders and let out a resigned sigh. “One who gives oneself to a life of healing must expect to bear such burdens, my lord,” she said softly. “Just as one who wears a crown must ever feel its weight. Is it not so?”

It was. But acknowledgment of that universal truth did not make his own burden any lighter, or resolve the other emotions still churning just at the surface of awareness. When he had taken halting leave of her, he spent the best part of an hour wandering the quieting camp alone, walking the picket lines and brushing the velvet noses of the greathorses thrust out to nicker welcome and nuzzle his clothing for a treat. All of that blurred in the face of the memory that kept playing itself back in his mind, until finally he returned to his tent to seek out Morgan.

“Sire?” Morgan said, he and young Brendan rising as Kelson drew aside the entry flap and came inside.

They had been cleaning Morgan's harness while they waited—Brendan all smart and correct in his page's livery, polishing a spur; Morgan stripped to arming tunic and worn leather sandals, bare-legged, a sleeveless mantle of forest green silk drawn on against the faint chill of the late night air. The high boots and metal-studded brigandine he had worn earlier glistened in the light of the several lanterns that lit the enclosure, as did the sword with the belt coiled loosely around its scabbard, lying on the camp bed that was Morgan's.

“Brendan, you can go to bed now,” Morgan said, sending the boy on his way after only a glance at the expression on Kelson's face. “We'll finish in the morning.”

Eastern silks rustled in the lanternlight as Morgan poured a cup of wine Kelson had not asked for but needed very much, and Kelson gulped half of it gratefully before sighing and sinking down on a camp stool Morgan pulled beside the little table. Only after another deep draught did he feel ready even to think about speaking of what had happened.

“I had to walk for a while,” the king said softly, setting his cup on the table and unbuckling his swordbelt, letting sword and belt slip to the straw mat beneath his feet. “I needed time to think.”

Morgan said nothing as he settled on a stool in a rustle of silk, only waiting patiently as Kelson stared into the flame of the lantern set on the table between them.

“It was Ithel,” Kelson murmured after a moment, not looking up. “There's no doubt about that. I'll make him pay for it, too.”

Morgan only leaned one elbow on the little table and propped his chin gingerly on that hand. The other hand toyed with the stem of a silver goblet—unfortunately empty—but he did not even consider refilling it. Something more had happened than the mere discovery of the attacker's identity, but Kelson was not quite ready to talk about it.

After a very long, still silence, Kelson glanced up uncomfortably and then half-turned away on his stool to stare at the tent wall, in profile.

“Alaric, have you ever raped a woman?” the king finally asked in a very low voice.

Morgan raised one eyebrow, but otherwise allowed no outward sign of his surprise.

“No, I haven't,” he said softly. “Nor, I think, have you.”

Kelson flashed a grim, fleeting smile, then shook his head, clasping his hands on his knees. “No,” he whispered. “I confess I've never even been tempted. It isn't through want of normal—appetites,” he added. “I—wanted Sidana.… I think.”

He swallowed hard, twisting Sidana's ring on his little finger, and Morgan nodded understandingly.

“I'm sure you did.”

“That was—different, though,” Kelson went on. “Rape is …”

“—Is, unfortunately, a harsh fact of war, my prince,” Morgan said gently. “No honorable man condones it, but it—happens.”

“I know.”

Kelson swallowed again, then let out a heavy sigh.