Deryni Checkmate (16 page)

“Sir?”

“Bring up some cups and a new flask of that Fianna wine, will you, lad? Ask one of the hands to help you lift it down.”

“My squire can give him a hand,” Morgan said, moving to the rail beside the captain. “Richard, would you go with this lad, please? Captain Kirby has graciously consented to treat us from his private stock of Fianna wine.”

Richard looked up inquiringly from his post with the castle lieutenants and Lord Hamilton, then grinned and bowed acknowledgement. As Dickon turned on his heel and clambered down another ladder and into the hold, Richard glanced after him rather incredulously. He seemed somewhat taken aback at the boy’s agility, for Richard himself did not profess to be a sailor, but he followed obediently, if a bit more gingerly.

Kirby watched the two disappear belowdecks and smiled. “My son,” he stated proudly.

There was nothing Morgan could add to that.

Toward the bow, one of the crew had watched the preceding exchange with more than casual interest. His name was Andrew, auxiliary helmsman aboard the
Rhafallia
. His features hardened as he turned back to glower over the rail, squinting intently into the mist far ahead that shrouded the Hortic coast.

He would never reach those foam-drenched shores, he knew. Nor would he ever see his native Fianna again—that same Fianna whence came the wine that had just been the topic of discussion on the afterdeck. But he was resigned to that. It was small enough price to pay for the deed he was about to do. He had been ready for a long time.

He stood without moving for several minutes, then reached casually into his bleached homespun shirt and removed a small, crumpled scrap of cloth. Glancing around to be sure he was not being observed, he unfolded the cloth and cupped it in his hand, mouthing the syllables as he reread the words for the fifth or sixth time.

Below was an “R” and the sketchy emblem of a falcon.

Andrew glanced over his shoulder at the afterdeck, then turned back to face the sea. The message had arrived last night as the sun was sinking behind the misty mountains. As he and his colleagues had planned so long ago, the time at last had come when Morgan would sail again aboard his flagship
Rhafallia
—and there meet his destiny. It would not be a pleasant death—not
that
for the Lord Alaric. But death it would be, and soon.

Andrew pressed his right hand against his chest and felt the reassuring pressure of the vial on the cord around his neck. He would not shrink from his duty. Though his own death was certain, he had sworn the oath of the Sons of Heaven, and he would keep it. Besides, Warin himself had promised that the end would not be painful. And Andrew would be richly rewarded in the Hereafter for killing the hated Deryni duke.

What matter if, in killing Morgan, he must take his own life? There could be no escape from the ship, even if he succeeded. And if he failed—well, he had heard what the Deryni could do to a man: how they could twist his mind, force him to open his soul to the powers of evil, even betray the cause.

No, far better to drink the faithful poison and then strike down the Deryni. What price life, if a man’s soul be damned?

With a decisive gesture, Andrew crumpled the scrap of cloth in his hand and let it flutter down into the water below. He watched until it was lost from sight in the froth of the ship’s wake, then reached inside his shirt again and withdrew the tiny poison vial.

The elixir was very potent, Warin had told him. A few drops on the blade of his dagger, a small scratch on unprotected hands or face, and all the magic and mail in the world would not save the traitor Morgan.

Andrew worried the stopper out of the vial, glancing around surreptitiously to be sure no one was watching, then let a few drops trickle down the blade stuck through his leather belt.

There. Let the Deryni defeat that,
he thought to himself.
For, as I live and breathe, his blood will spill today. And with it spills his life.

He recorked the vial and hid it in his hand, then turned and strolled casually toward the aft fighting platform to relieve at the helm. As he climbed the ladder and slipped past the captain and his companions to take the tiller, he tried to avoid looking at Morgan, as though a mere glance from the sorcerer might fathom his intent and foil the coming deed. His passage was hardly noticed, for at that moment Richard and the cabin boy returned with worn wooden cups and a flask of wine. The flask, Andrew noted bitterly, still bore the Fianna seal of quality.

“That’s a good lad.” Kirby smiled, taking the flask and pouring all around after he broke the seal. “M’lord, you invariably have good taste in wine.”

“I only follow your lead, Henry.” Morgan smiled before taking a long draught. “After all, if I had no captains like you to import it, I’d never know such heaven on earth existed. An excellent year—but then, they all are.” He sighed and stretched his legs in front of him, the sun gleaming on his mail and his golden hair. He took the gold coronet from his head and laid it casually on the deck beside his stool.

Andrew took advantage of the activity to work the stopper out of the vial again with his thumb, then lifted it to his lips under the pretext of covering a yawn. The yawn quickly assumed the appearance of a cough as the liquid burned down his throat, and Andrew was hard pressed to cover his extreme discomfort. Kirby looked at him strangely, then returned his attention to his conversation. Andrew swallowed again with difficulty, but managed at last to regain his composure.

Hell’s demons!
Andrew thought as he wiped his streaming eyes. Warin hadn’t warned him it would taste like that! He had almost given away the whole plan. He would have to act quickly now.

Straightening, he studied the configuration of men on the platform. Morgan was sitting on a stool only a few paces away, his back toward the helm. Kirby stood a little to his left, facing slightly sideways. The priest, Master Randolph, and the squire Richard were grouped to Morgan’s right, also seated, and all were much more interested in their wine and the slowly emerging land to the east than in the movements of the ship’s helmsman.

Andrew’s lip curled in a sardonic smile as his hand crept to the hilt of his long dagger, and he carefully chose his target—the unprotected back of Morgan’s head. Then, abandoning the tiller, he drew his knife and leaped toward his intended victim.

The outcome was not as anyone had planned. As Andrew leaped, young Richard FitzWilliam turned and caught the movement. In that fatal instant before Andrew could reach his target, Richard simultaneously shouted and launched himself between the two, throwing Morgan from his seat and sending leather stools flying. The ship lurched as it came around into the wind, throwing Andrew off balance and preventing him from stopping in time.

Even as Duncan and Kirby were leaping to disarm and subdue him, Andrew crashed into Richard and Morgan, his momentum carrying all three to the deck in a heap. Morgan ended up on the bottom of that heap, with Richard in his arms and a terrified Andrew on top of that.

He had failed!

Duncan and Kirby grabbed Andrew by the arms and wrenched him away as Hamilton and the four lieutenants swarmed up the access ladder to aid in the capture. Once Kirby saw that their attacker was in custody, he scrambled to the tiller and steered the ship back on course, shouting urgently for another seaman to come and take the helm. Randolph, who had pulled the boy Dickon to safety at the outset of the attack, watched half in a daze as Morgan struggled to a sitting position, fighting for wind and incredulously shifting Richard in his lap.

“Richard?” Morgan gasped, shaking the young man’s shoulder urgently. The youth was a dead weight in Morgan’s arms, and the duke’s eyes went wide as he saw the hilt of the dagger jutting from Richard’s side.

“Randolph, come here! He’s hurt!”

Randolph was instantly at his side, kneeling to inspect the wound, and Richard moaned and opened his eyes with great effort. His face had an ashen, cyanic tinge to it, and he gasped as the physician touched the dagger. Duncan made certain his prisoner was secure, then hurriedly joined Randolph at the wounded man’s side.

“I—I stopped him, m’lord,” Richard gasped weakly, looking up at Morgan with trusting eyes. “He was going to kill ye.”

“You did well,” Morgan murmured, smoothing the youth’s dark hair off his forehead and reading the agony etched there. “How bad is it, Ran?”

Randolph shook his head bitterly. “I think he’s poisoned, m’lord. Even if the wound were not so critical, I—” He bowed his head in defeat. “I’m sorry, m’lord.”

“Your Grace,” Richard whispered, “may I ask a boon?”

“Whatever is in my power, Richard,” Morgan said gently.

“Would you—would you tell my father I fell in your service, as your liege man? He—” Richard had to cough, and the movement sent another wave of pain wracking through his body. “He hoped I would be a knight someday,” he finished weakly.

Morgan nodded, biting his lip and trying to keep his vision from blurring.

“Let me say the words, then, m’lord,” Richard whispered, seizing one of Morgan’s hands and gripping it fiercely. “I, Richard FitzWilliam, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship.” His eyes opened wider and his voice steadied as he continued. “Faith and truth I will bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk—” He grimaced in pain, his eyes squeezing shut. “So help me, God . . .”

His voice trailed off with the end of the oath and his grip relaxed. The last breath died slowly. With a convulsive shudder Morgan held the dead youth to his chest for a moment, his eyes closed in sorrow. Beside him, he could hear Duncan murmuring the words of absolution.

He looked up at Kirby’s drawn face, at his lieutenants holding the prisoner, at the prisoner himself, and his eyes went steely gray. Not taking his gaze from the man who stood there glaring down so defiantly, he gently lowered Richard to the deck and got to his feet. An overturned stool lay between him and the prisoner, and he forced himself to right it and set it carefully in place before moving closer to the man. His hands clenched and unclenched several times as he stood looking at the man, and he had to restrain the urge to smash the sneering face with his fist.

“Why?” he said in a low voice, not trusting himself to say any more at this point.

“Because you’re Deryni, and all Deryni must die!” The man spat, his eyes flashing with a fanatic fire. “The Devil take you, you’ll not escape next time! And there
will
be a next time, I guarantee it!”

Morgan stared at the man for a long moment, not saying a word, until the man at last swallowed and dropped his gaze.

“Is that all you have to say?” Morgan said quietly, his eyes dark and dangerous.

The man looked up at him again, and a strange expression came across his face.

“You can’t hurt me, Morgan,” he said in a steady voice. “I tried to kill you, and I’m glad. I’d do it again if I had the chance.”

“What chance did Richard have?” Morgan said icily, watching as the man’s eyes flicked nervously to the body lying behind him.

“He consorted with a Deryni,” the man murmured. “He deserved what he got.”

“The Devil take you, he deserved no such thing!” Morgan cursed, grabbing the front of the man’s shirt and jerking his head to within inches of his own. “Who sent you to do this?”

The man grimaced with pain and shook his head, but managed a defiant smile. “It’s no good, Morgan. I’m not telling you anything. I
know
I’m a dead man.”

“You’re not dead yet!” Morgan muttered through clenched teeth, giving the man’s collar a slight twist. “Now who sent you? Who’s behind this?”

As Morgan turned his Deryni gaze on the man, intending to Truth-Read, Andrew’s blue eyes widened and a look of stark terror replaced the belligerence.

“Not
my
soul, you Deryni bastard!” the man croaked, wrenching his gaze from Morgan’s and closing his eyes tightly. “Leave me alone!”

A shudder wracked through his body as he fought Morgan’s power, and he moaned in agony as he struggled to escape. Then he suddenly relaxed and slumped in the arms of his captors, head lolling loosely. Morgan made one last effort to probe his mind as he slipped away, but it was no use. The man was dead. Releasing the shirt, Morgan turned away to Randolph in disgust.

“Well, did I kill him, or did he scare himself to death, or what?”

Randolph inspected the body the lieutenants lowered to the deck, then pried open the man’s left hand. He took the vial and sniffed it, then stood up and held it out to Morgan.

“Poison, m’lord. Probably the same that was on the knife. He must have realized there was no hope of escape, even if he’d succeeded in killing you.”

Morgan glanced down at one of the lieutenants who was searching the body. “Anything else?”

“Sorry, m’lord. Nothing.”

Morgan looked down at the body for a moment, then prodded it with his toe. “Get rid of that,” he said finally. “And take care of Richard. He’ll be buried in Coroth with full honors, as my liege man.”

“Yes, m’lord,” a lieutenant said, taking off his green cloak and spreading it over the fallen squire.

Morgan turned away and walked to the rail, as far as possible from the two bodies, frowned as a splash told him there were no longer two. Duncan joined him and leaned against the rail to his left, watching for a long moment before breaking the silence.

“ ‘All Deryni must die!’ ” Duncan quoted softly. “Shades of the Inquisition. Does it remind you of anything else?”

Morgan nodded. “The songs they’ve been singing in the streets. Ran’s reports from the banquet about the border raids. It adds up to one thing: This Warin affair is getting out of hand.”