The Quest for Saint Camber (63 page)

“Darling, I had thought to let you sleep,” he said, coming to put his arms around her from behind and nuzzle at her neck. “I'm afraid I let you have precious little rest last night. Can you forgive me?”

Her expression, had he been able to see it, might have been read as a trifle resigned or even indulgent, but no hint of anything but proper wifely affection was reflected in her voice.

“There is nothing to forgive, my lord. But I must not sleep the morning away. 'Tis Easter, and I've already missed the early Masses.”

“I'll go with you,” he murmured, turning her to nibble fond kisses across her lips and eyelids. “I've been already, but I'll go again, just to be beside you that much longer.”

“Such devotion will surely gain you much grace, my lord,” she replied, laughing a little as he caught her double meaning and held her even closer, kissing and caressing her as if he could not get enough of her.

“Oh, God, how I adore you, Rothana!” he whispered, when he had drawn back enough to look down into her eyes again. “I want to love you every hour of the day and night. I want to fill you with sons! I want us to be the greatest rulers Gwynedd has ever known, the beginning of an even more glorious line of Haldanes!”

She smiled a tiny, secret smile as he buried his face against her bosom again, gently stroking his sable hair for several seconds.

“Your wishes are coming true, then, my lord, for I think you have already filled me with sons—or with
a
son, at least.”

As he pulled back to look down at her in astonishment, she lowered her eyes demurely.

“A son?” Conall breathed. “You're with child? Rothana, are you sure? How can you know so soon?”

She shrugged. “There are no objective signs yet, but Deryni women often—know. I have never been with child before, of course, but I believe that I have conceived. If so, your heir will be born next winter—a little Haldane prince.”

“A—prince?” Conall whispered, awed. “Then, you know that it's a son as well?”

“Well, of course, my lord. One can—”

A commotion of some sort had been increasing in the castle yard for several minutes, and Conall held up a hand for silence as he strode to the window and pushed open one of the mullioned panes to look down. A large crowd of men, mostly on foot, many of them garbed in rough border tweeds and plaids, was surging through the gatehouse entrance and moving briskly toward the great hall steps. None of the men seemed belligerently armed, but Conall turned in alarm as booted feet pounded down the corridor outside and fists pounded against the solar door.

“Your Highness! Prince Conall!”

With sudden foreboding, Conall dashed to the door and wrenched it open.

“What is it?”

“The king, Your Highness! The king! He's come back!”

“My father's regained consciousness?” Conall gasped.

“No, King Kelson's come back!” the squire replied. “He's alive! And so is Lord Dhugal!”

Kelson stood holding the weeping Meraude in his arms as he watched Morgan, Duncan, and Dhugal bending over Nigel. Archbishops Bradene and Cardiel were in the room as well, but Ciard, Jass, and the escort of Saint Kyriell men stood guard outside to keep everyone else out. Bishop Arilan was nowhere to be found. Duke Ewan was gathering the court in the great hall, and spreading the word, but Kelson did not want to go down to them until he learned more about Nigel's condition.

“Oh, Kelson, he's dying,” Meraude sobbed, shaking her head as Kelson continued to stroke her hair. “We thought you were dead, and then he had a seizure—”

A commotion outside the door announced the arrival of Conall, the only person the guards had orders to admit. Conall's face was white as whey as he slipped through the opening Jass allowed and came to fall to his knees at Kelson's feet. His hands were cold as ice as he took Kelson's hand to kiss it.

“Kelson—my Liege!—we thought you were dead! And then father took ill, and—”

“And you couldn't even wait a decent interval to wed my intended bride,” Kelson said quietly, pulling his hand away and folding his arms across his chest as Meraude drew back a little. “Conall, even if you are proven innocent in every other point, I shall never forgive you for that.”

“I only meant to secure the succession,” Conall whispered, starting to get to his feet as his mother gasped at Kelson's implication. “Father was incapacitated, and I—”

“I have not given you permission to rise,” Kelson said coldly, his mere glance causing Conall to sink back down.

“Kelson, that isn't fair,” the prince protested. “I had no way of knowing you were still alive, and neither did Rothana. It's—incredible that you could have survived the waterfall. And then, when no bodies were found—”

“You still acted precipitously.”

“Was it precipitous to attempt to secure the succession as soon as possible?” Conall retorted. “I was Regent of Gwynedd, for God's sake! No one had or has any idea how long my father might linger on. Why do you suppose the council has kept badgering
you
to marry, if getting an heir wasn't important?”

“Did they badger you?” Kelson snapped.

“No, not yet. But you and Rothana hadn't made any binding commitment, after all.”

“Get up,” Kelson said distractedly, for his attention had shifted suddenly to the men clustered at the head of Nigel's bed as Morgan drew back and beckoned him closer.

“As we feared, it was more than a simple seizure,” Morgan said, as Kelson moved between the two archbishops at the foot of the bed, a wide-eyed and stunned Meraude hovering at his elbow. “There's a combination of actual physical trauma and some sort of psychic lock. We didn't see it before because we had no idea we should even look for it. It took a powerful Deryni to put it in place. Duncan and Dhugal are dealing with the actual physical damage, but we may need your help to resolve the other.”

“A psychic lock,” Meraude whispered, plucking at Kelson's sleeve. “Kelson, what is he saying?”

Kelson could not bear to look at Meraude, but he turned slowly to stare coldly at her eldest son.

“I fear you will have to ask your son about that, Aunt. Conall, do you know anything about it?”

“I? I don't even know what a psychic lock is. I mean, I sort of know now, but I didn't when he had his seizure,” Conall explained. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Because I am Truth-Reading you, Conall Haldane, despite your efforts to cloud the issue,” Kelson said, “and I don't like what I'm seeing. Did you do this to Nigel, your own father?”

Conall's shields slammed even tighter, before Kelson could get a clear reading, but the prince's mere belligerence could have been taken as an indication of guilt, even if it was not conclusive proof.

“How dare you ask me such a question?” Conall retorted.

“The King of Gwynedd dares to ask
any
question of his sworn vassal,” Kelson snapped. “Or have you so soon forgotten the oath you swore me at your knighting?”

Before Conall could form an answer, Morgan reached out to beckon Kelson closer.

“He's coming around, my prince,” Morgan said, watching as Duncan and Dhugal withdrew. “Breaking the lock wasn't as difficult as we feared, once we knew what to look for. The only problem may be a slight loss of memory.”

But it soon became clear that whatever else had been impaired by Nigel's long incapacitation, his memory was not affected. In the course of dealing with the lock, Duncan had imprinted Nigel with the bare essentials of Kelson's rescue and return, so the royal duke was able to turn full attention to dealing with the cause of his previous condition as he opened his eyes and made them focus on Kelson.

“My king, you're alive,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and scratchy with long disuse. “And my son, who wished me dead,” he went on coldly, shifting his gaze to the terrified Conall, “would be better off dead himself, for having betrayed his blood and his sovereign. He killed Tiercel, Duncan,” he went on. “I finally put the pieces together, after you had gone to fetch Alaric, and when I confronted him on it, he tried to kill me as well. I—suppose that being a Haldane myself is the only thing that saved me.”

Conall tried to bolt at that, but the two archbishops and then Morgan were on him before he could reach the door, throwing him to the floor. Meraude screamed, and Dhugal and Duncan tried to keep Nigel from struggling to a sitting position.

Frantic, Conall attempted to bring his powers into play, but Morgan slapped the flat of a stiletto across his throat and searched for the right pressure points to knock him out as Cardiel and Bradene pinned his thrashing arms and legs, fighting the compulsion of Conall's mind.

“Conall, if you don't stop that, I swear I'll cut your throat!” Morgan barked. “Right now, nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“No, bind him!” Kelson commanded, as Morgan finally managed the right pressure points and the prince went limp. “He doesn't deserve that easy a death. But we'll have this settled once and for all, by the law. Duncan, I'll ask you and the archbishops to stay with my uncle. Dhugal, I want you to search Conall's rooms. Duncan told me that certain people wondered what ever became of Tiercel's drug satchel. I suspect you'll find it among Conall's things. I'm willing to wager that he was responsible for the
merasha
that went into your flask, so I'll give you the dubious honor of finding where he hid the rest.”

“And where will you be?” Dhugal asked.

“In the Chapel Royal, convincing myself I should give this wretch a fair trial!” Kelson said, kicking the sole of one of Conall's boots. “And Morgan, get that Haldane tunic off him. He isn't fit to wear it. I'll have the Ring of Fire back as well, if you have to rip his finger off to get it.”

Kelson left to the sound of Meraude weeping in Nigel's arms, but he could not bear to stay in the same room with Conall any longer, even with his cousin unconscious. He took Jass MacArdry with him and stationed that goodly knight outside the door of the chapel to see that he was not disturbed. There, after he had schooled his righteous anger to colder resignation—for there was little doubt of the outcome of the trial to come—he allowed himself to weep for what could never be righted, no matter what penalty Conall suffered for his crimes.

He was kneeling slumped over the altar rail, his face buried in one hand, when he heard the door open behind him. He turned his head, expecting it to be Dhugal, come to tell him it was time, but it was Rothana, muffled in a cloak of royal blue and with the hood pulled closer around her face. He rose awkwardly as she came toward him and the door closed, but he could read nothing behind her shields. She made him a profound curtsey, her head bowing nearly to the floor before she rose to meet his eyes. She had been crying, and she was no longer the fresh-faced, carefree innocent she had been before he left.

“I would throw myself and my husband on your mercy, my lord,” she whispered, “but I know you can never forgive what we've done.”

“And what have
you
done, that I could not forgive, Rothana?” Kelson asked, gently folding her hood back from her face. “Surely you had no part of Conall's treason.”

But her hair was bound beneath the coif of a married woman, and Conall's gold and rubies weighted heavily on her left hand. Both of them knew that, even if losing faith was not an act of treason, things could never be as they had been.

“You are kind, Sire,” Rothana whispered, “but I know my own guilt. I am no longer worthy of you.”

“Rothana—”

“No, hear me, Sire. I gave up hope. And now I am Conall's wife, bound to him for life, no matter what his condition.”

“His life,” Kelson said sharply, “is almost certainly to be forfeit. Such is the fate of murderers and traitors. And when he is dead, I still would take his widow to wife, if she agreed.”

“She could not agree, Sire,” Rothana whispered, lowering her eyes. “The Church could not agree. We are consanguineous now, by virtue of my marrying your first cousin.”

“A dispensation could be obtained.”

“No dispensation could alter the fact that I am with child by him.”

“With child!”

“I carry Conall's son, my love,” Rothana said miserably, looking up at him with tears welling in her eyes once more. “That changes things.”

“No! It only means that
our
children would have an elder half brother, also of Haldane blood,” Kelson replied, without hesitation. “Rothana, I love you. Don't do this to us!”

“I wish I could do otherwise, in honor, Sire,” she said. “But Prince Conall Haldane, my lawful, wedded lord, is the father of the child I bear, and his acts of murder and treason make me no longer fit to be your queen.”

“No! His crimes do not touch you!”

“In law, perhaps not, Sire, but in fact, one has only to look at how my cousin Richenda has suffered for being the widow of a traitor to guess how much worse it would be for a queen—and for that queen's king. I could not do that to Gwynedd, my lord—and I could not let
you
do that to this land that you wed before you ever thought of wedding a queen. So do not take our former relationship into your reckoning, because I can never be yours now, no matter what you do.”

Half an hour later, Kelson went down to the great hall, only Dhugal accompanying him through the cheering throngs. He deliberately had not changed into Haldane attire himself, letting the rough, slightly barbaric splendor of his mountain leathers and tweeds speak for the very uncivilized anger that still smoldered in his heart. He wore the Ring of Fire again, however, along with the Eye of Rom and his Saint Camber medal. In the crook of his arm, he carried the unsheathed Haldane sword like a royal scepter.

His steps faltered only once, just before he reached the dais, as he saw Rothana, in Meraude's company now, slipping in through a side door to huddle forlornly with her mother-in-law on a bench near the pallet where Nigel had been brought. The royal duke, attended by Duncan and Father Lael, was propped up on mounds of pillows, his eyes fever-bright as he struggled to rise at Kelson's approach, only to have Duncan command him to lie down again. Dhugal had Tiercel's water-stained drug satchel over his shoulder, with a look on his face that bespoke thoughts of murder, and Morgan waited just outside the rear doors with Conall, surrounded by the Saint Kyriell men and half a dozen fully armed knights. A further contingent of Haldane archers had been stationed in the upper galleries, arrows already nocked to bowstrings and ready to draw, certain proof against even a Deryni prisoner gaining very much advantage before he could be cut down.