The King’s Justice (31 page)

And beyond the second ring, heralded by the crimson and gold Haldane standard, came King Kelson himself, backed by half a dozen officers and aides, crowned helm gleaming in the sunlight and a fair sword resting across his armored shoulder. At his side rode a man in black, bearing a green gryphon on brigandine and shield and a ducal coronet on his helm: surely the infamous Alaric Morgan, the king's Deryni.

Ithel hardly dared breathe. For an interminable few seconds, the only sounds in the square were the jingle of bits and harness, the checked huffing of the greathorses, eager to be released to the charge, the dull stamp of iron-shod hooves on the trampled earth—that, and the pounding of Ithel's pulse in his ears, seeming to echo inside his helmet.

Hardly anything moved. The deadly certainty of the ring of Haldane lances shimmered in the heat like a moment snatched from hell. A breeze stirred the pennons on the lance-tips, the Haldane standard, wisps of the battle chargers' manes and tails, but it did not reach Ithel, stifling in his brigandine and helm.

Then a heavyset man with tartan pleated baldric-wise across his breastplate broke from the knot of men surrounding the king, kneeing his mount carefully forward to ease between the ranks and join the front line, sword in hand. The coronet on his helm proclaimed him a duke; and when he raised his visor to speak, a bushy red beard and mustaches bristled from the opening.

“Ah, yes,” Brice muttered through gritted teeth, close at Ithel's side. “Yet another nail in our coffins.”

“Who is he?” Ithel asked.

“Ewan of Claibourne.”

“Is that bad?”

“It isn't good,” Brice replied.

“Well, it can't be worse than Morgan,” Ithel muttered, gathering what shreds of courage still remained him, as Ewan let his mount move half a horse-length closer still, and halted.

“Men of Meara, throw down yer weapons!” Ewan commanded in a broad border accent, pointing to the ground with his sword and sweeping the listening soldiers with his gaze. “Ye stand in arms against yer lawful king, Kelson of Gwynedd, who has come t' reclaim what is his. Ye canna' escape his justice, but if ye surrender now, ye may hope for his mercy. Ye need nae throw away yer lives for these who hae led ye astray.”

Before Ithel could stop him, Brice of Trurill raised his sword in defiance.

“We have not been led astray!” Brice cried. “The destiny of the borders rightly lies with Meara! The Haldane usurper—”

At Brice's first word, Kelson's sword had raised in warning. Now the tip of the blade dipped in curt signal toward the nervous Mearan troops, his voice cutting off Brice's diatribe.

“Duke Ewan and the first rank, one horse-length forward—move!”

Instantly the first rank obeyed. The distance between them and the surrounded Mearans closed perceptibly, to the extreme consternation of the men crowded around Ithel and Brice, most of them on foot and ill-armed. Appalled, Ithel struck at Brice's arm for silence. The idiot was going to get them cut down like so many sheep at the slaughter!

“
I
speak for these men of Meara—not Brice of Trurill,” he said, beginning to work his mount toward the edge of his troop, closer to Kelson. “Surely you do not mean to butcher them where they stand!”

“That is your choice, and yours alone,” Kelson replied, for the first time turning his gaze directly on the Mearan prince. “I hold you and your officers entirely responsible for what has happened here—and in other places. You have much to answer for, Ithel of Meara.”

“If I have, it is not to
you!
” Ithel retorted, though his answer carried not nearly as much conviction as he would have wished. “You have usurped the legitimate succession in Meara. I answer only to my sovereign Lady, Caitrin of Meara, she who is lawful successor to Prince Jolyon, the last Mearan Prince to rule this land independently.”

“Aye, so your brother also maintained, until the day he died,” Kelson said. “That did not save him, however; nor will it save you.”

“You murdered him, because he was the lawful heir to Meara after me!” Ithel cried. “And you murdered my sister!”

The sword in Kelson's hand started to lift again, but then he stopped and let it rest across his shoulder once more.

“I
executed
your brother, because
he
murdered your sister—despite what you may prefer to believe,” the king said evenly. “And I shall do the same to you—not because of what you are, but because of what you have done.”

“You have no authority to try me,” Ithel said bravely. “I can be tried only by a court of my own peers.”

But his blood ran cold as the king's crowned helm moved slowly back and forth in a gesture of negation.

“I almost pity you,” came the royal answer. “But I am King of Gwynedd and Prince of Meara, and I can afford no pity when justice must be done. My writ must run in all my lands. And I have with me all the authority I need to carry out my justice.”

As he swept his sword to include the men surrounding Ithel's forces, Ithel felt himself flush with shame and fear.

“I am not a despot, however,” Kelson went on. “I shall not hold your men culpable for carrying out the orders of their superiors. Men of Meara, if you will throw down your weapons, I give you my word that only the guilty shall be punished. But if you force me to order the attack, I swear that I shall execute ten for every one of my men who is slain. Now, which is it to be?”

Their answer came not in words but in the sound of weapons being cast to the ground, until only Ithel and Brice remained armed, watching dumbly as Kelson's men began riding into the square of surrendering men, cutting off groups of six or eight at a time and herding them into custody.

Finally, when only Ithel and Brice remained within the ring, Kelson and Morgan rode in, weapons sheathed. Brice started to raise his sword, but a glance from Morgan stopped him in mid-motion, frozen until Morgan rode close enough to relieve him of his weapon. Ithel, too, found himself unable to move; only sitting numb and motionless until Kelson had reached casually across to take his sword as well, helpless before the Haldane gaze.

“Bind them and bring them before my tent when camp is made,” Kelson ordered, not even bothering to look at Ithel anymore as he and Morgan turned to leave the ring of steel.

Meanwhile, two more rings of steel were readied to close on their unsuspecting targets. The first was in the crowded great hall at Rhemuth Castle, where Nigel Haldane presided from a thronelike chair on the dais, flanked by tables of busily writing clarks, and pretended to listen to the petitions of diverse merchants.

“When Lord Henry brings his wool to market at Abbeyford, however, he pays no tithe to the monks, the town, or any other local lord,” a bailiff was reading. “If Lord Henry believes he is above the law …”

Nigel knew, of course, of the ring of steel prepared for him—and had prepared his own counter-ring after Richenda warned him the night before. It was the Torenthi agents who would be caught when the trap was finally sprung—not Nigel.

Nigel had even sweetened the trap by allowing young King Liam to attend court, ostensibly to receive the greetings of the Torenthi trade contingents and gain experience in statecraft. Even now, the boy was fidgeting on a stool at Nigel's right, uncomfortable in the stiff, formal clothing that court protocol decreed for a king, beginning to be bored with the seemingly endless petitions. He had grown increasingly biddable since being taken from his mother's influence, however; and Morag herself was safely under guard in another part of the castle, lest she attempt to lend Deryni aid to the plot about to unfold.

And if there were other Deryni in the surprise contingent that Nigel was expecting, he was prepared for them as well. Richenda and Rothana sat unobtrusively in the musicians' gallery at the far end of the hall, and Bishop Arilan watched from behind an arras to the left. Nor was he totally without recourse himself, though he hoped he would not be called upon to test his meager skills.

As for the physical aspects of Nigel's preparations, an attentive Conall sat on a stool at his left, ready to command nearly a score of extra guards strategically stationed around the hall. Saer de Traherne lurked in the withdrawing room right behind the dais with another twenty men. Archers manned the side galleries as well, posing as servants, and Haldane agents comprised one entire trade delegation waiting just outside in the yard.

Having made due preparation, then, Nigel felt ready to deal with whatever might present itself. What he had
not
expected was the timorous appearance of Jehana and her confessor in the doorway of a side passage leading from the hall, off to the right. What was
she
doing here?

At her urgent signal that he should join her, he sent a page to inquire—young Payne, who had been attending Liam. A few seconds later, Payne came back.

“She says it's very important, sir,” the boy whispered in his father's ear. “You're to come immediately. She says it can't wait until after court.”

A glance in her direction confirmed the insistence in her face, and the priest looked anxious as well. The chamberlain reading the current petition was just winding up, so Nigel leaned closer to Conall.

“Make the appropriate noises about taking the petition under advisement,” he murmured. “I'll be right back.”

As Conall straightened importantly, delighted to be delegated this additional responsibility, Nigel rose with a murmur of apology and went out through the side passage. As soon as he had come through the door, Ambros closed it behind him.

“Are you sure this couldn't have waited?” he asked, eyeing both of them impatiently.

Emphatically Jehana shook her head, her white widow's coif floating on the air.

“Please don't make this harder for me than it already is,” she murmured, avoiding direct eye contact. “You're in terrible danger. Don't ask me how I found out. There are men in the hall determined to kill you—or will be. I don't know if they're inside yet. I think they want to kill you and rescue the little king.”

“Oh?” Nigel immediately gave her his undivided attention, wondering how she
had
found out. “Who are they? Do you know?”

She shook her head. “Not specifically. Torenthi agents, I suppose. They've infiltrated one of the trade delegations.”

“I see.” Amazed, he turned his attention to Ambros, standing rigid and nervous against the door. “Do you know anything about this, Father?”

“Only what Her Majesty has told me, Your Highness,” he murmured. “But I believe you would do well to heed her warning.”

Frowning, Nigel turned his Truth-Reading talent on the priest, wondering whether Jehana, too, had used Deryni talents to gain the information.

“I'll see to it, then,” he murmured. “I don't suppose either of you have any idea which of the trade delegations is involved.”

But both of them shook their heads at that; and Ambros, at least, was telling only the truth as he knew it. Jehana's shields were far too rigid for him to read through, but her shielding tended to confirm her source; and her reticence to reveal that source would certainly make sense if she
had
stumbled upon the plot as a result of her powers.

But, he must get back to the hall. He doubted the attack would come without his presence—the delegations he suspected were still several places down the order of presentation—but he did not want Conall to have to handle the situation alone, if he was wrong.

“We'll speak more of this later,” he promised Jehana, as he moved grimly back toward the door. “I'll do what needs to be done. And I thank you for the warning. I have an idea what it may have cost you.”

She blanched at that, and he knew that he was right. He set his expression as if nothing had happened as he went back into the hall, though he made eye contact with all three of his Deryni allies by the time he had taken his seat again. A Kheldish merchant was presenting his felicitations now, and Nigel let a part of himself listen and make appropriate facial expressions and nods of agreement as he leaned closer to Conall after a few seconds.

“Apparently your Aunt Jehana has gotten wind of the plot too,” he whispered, allowing himself to smile at the Kheldish merchant as a compliment was made. “I'll let you guess how. We'll pretend we didn't know and appear to be taking protective measures. Smile now. I've only made a jest.”

Conall grinned and picked up a cup of wine, raising it in salute before sipping at it casually, apparently completely at ease. As Nigel settled in to wait, he caught the most fleeting brush of a mental touch and knew it was Richenda's, from where she watched in a gallery. Soon the hunters would become the hunted, and Nigel would spring his trap.

The second trap about to be sprung was not at all to the benefit of Haldanes. Far from Rhemuth, and more than a day's ride north of where Kelson prepared to try the rebels he had captured at Talacara, Duncan and Dhugal were leading a crack Cassani strike force in fast pursuit of Lawrence Gorony's episcopal troops, gradually drawing ahead of the main Cassani host. Cassani warbands had been skirmishing with Gorony off and on for days, the episcopal troops gradually giving ground and making even more desperate withdrawals from disputed territory. And now the renegade priest seemed to be leading his men into a mountain-ringed plain from which there was little chance of escape.

Only, suddenly Gorony's supposedly cowed force was turning to stand and fight, hundreds of unexpected men beginning to pour from the shelter of myriad valleys and defiles opening onto the Dorna plain—Connaiti mercenaries, well-armed and freshly mounted, backed by more episcopal troops. And to the west, emerging through cover of the dust Duncan's own passage had made, a bristling wedge of heavy cavalry was driving toward a point well behind Duncan's advance unit, threatening to cut him off from his main army.