Camber of Culdi (39 page)

This information was dutifully passed on to Cinhil, along with all of the other intelligence they were gathering; and it did soften his heart a little toward the man whose physical body had been responsible for his son's death.

But though Cinhil continued to show an astounding grasp of the military tactics and planning with which he was being bombarded, an aloofness continued to surround him, couching an ever-deeper resentment for the Deryni despite the circumstances of Humphrey's betrayal. Camber became increasingly aware of it, as his earlier fears were reinforced by Cinhil's actions; and he discussed this with the others more than once. But there was really nothing that anyone could do, other than to be aware of the potential problem—and to hope and pray that they would not have to deal with it in any major way.

Cinhil's princess probably suffered most directly in the weeks that followed. Though she was soon with child again, Cinhil having been impressed with the necessity of another heir as soon as possible, she was a wraith-like shadow of the spirited, sensitive girl who had come less than a year before to be the bride of Haldane. A little genuine attention from her lord husband could have eased her heartsickness considerably, but Cinhil was too busy, too preoccupied, to notice her need. He was gently courteous to her in public, as was fitting the mother of his future heirs, and it could not be said that he abused her or even ignored her, but there was a cool superficiality to their relationship, as though living the role of prince and future saviour of Gwynedd had sapped him of all ability to love or be loved. Though he now seemed to have accepted his role as prince, he had an increasing otherworldliness about him—not purely of religious fervor, though that continued to be an integral part of his personality, but more a clinical detachment, an emotional divorce from the feeling of what had happened, and what must happen in the future, if all of them were to survive.

Camber observed all of this in sadness—doubly so, because he loved Megan like a father, and saw how she was grieving and alone when she most needed the love and support of her husband. Camber understood what it was to lose a child. He had paid the price of a son, and knew that he would pay the price of other children, and his own life, if need be, if there were no other way to save their cause.

But to lose a child in battle with the enemy was one thing; to have one pine away for lack of loving was quite another. He and Evaine and Rhys made special efforts to try to comfort Megan, but it was poor substitute for what Megan really needed. He could only hope that Cinhil would realize, after a time, what he was doing to her.

The evening of the first of December found their preparations complete, the first steps set irreversibly into motion. Late in the afternoon, the fifty Michaeline knights who would be leading the assault through a Portal in the castle itself had attended a Mass of special intention for the prince's cause, reconsecrating their swords to the holy fight in which some of them were certain to perish. The other century and a half of Michaelines, under command of Lord Jebediah of Alcara and Jamie Drummond, was already at the Portal in Dhassa, awaiting Transfer to the archbishop's apartments in Valoret. They would secure the city itself, overpowering the city garrison and making certain that none but Haldane supporters passed the city gates.

The final blessings given, all that remained in the chapel were the principals: Cinhil; Camber and his kin; and the noncombatants, who would remain behind. The men wore mail and helms and bright swords girded at their sides, surcoats and coronets proclaiming the ranking among them. Only Cinhil was not clad as all the rest—and that, in itself, was a victory of a sort.

Cinhil had not wanted to go armed at all. He had wanted to wear only a long, belted robe of white, to show the purity of his intentions. He was not a warrior. He had not thought it appropriate that a priest-king should go forth armed with mere mortal steel to battle the archenemy. After all, it would not be steel which would defeat Imre of Festil.

But the women had maintained otherwise, and had taken steps to ensure that their prince should go forth as a king ought. Megan, Evaine, and Elinor had labored for weeks, not showing him what they wrought. When, on the afternoon before battle, he had gone to his chamber to meditate before appearing for Mass, he had found a king's attire awaiting him.

He never learned where they had gotten the gold-washed mail, though the stuff had a cold, unearthly glow about it which he somehow did not care to think about. This was to go over an undergarment of white silk, a doublet of softest leather cushioning the metal links from his skin. Greaves of gold-chased steel buckled over leather breeches and boots; matching vambraces guarded his forearms. Scarlet gauntlets, rich-embroidered with his Haldane crest on the cuff, were the gift of the slain Cathan's Elinor. Over all would go the knee-length surcoat of crimson silk, with the golden lion of Gwynedd blazoned bold on chest and back in gold-bullion thread. Cinhil was speechless.

He put on the undergarment, the padded doublet and breeches, the boots. He stood a long time looking into the mirror, studying the regal warrior's face which stared back at him with level gaze. Then he called for the women to attend him; he could do nothing else. Gravely, he received them and thanked each one. After, he asked them to help him arm. It was fitting, he said, that a man who had never borne steel should be armed for his maiden battle by the women who had made it possible for him to go at all.

They armed him then, though many a finger fumbled with straps and clasps as eyes blurred with joyful tears. When they had finished, Evaine buckled a plain, cross-hilted sword over his surcoat—the white belt for purity, she told him as she brushed his cheek with her lips. Then she was stepping back to make a low curtsey, and it was Megan's turn.

The princess had saved her gift for last, watching shyly in the background as her lord assumed more and more the appearance of a king. Scarcely breathing, with her nervousness, she produced a coronet from behind her skirts—not the simple, silver circlet with which he had been crowned Prince of Gwynedd on their wedding night, but a band of gold and silver intertwined, surmounted by four bold crosses.

Her hands began to tremble as she looked into his eyes. Cinhil, deeply moved, laid his fingertips on hers, so that the coronet was held between them. She swallowed and started to draw away, but he shook his head gently and closed his hands around hers.

“Please forgive me, my lady. I have ill-used you when I should instead have thanked you—for my son, for your support when I needed it.” He glanced down at her body, then met her eyes again with a strained smile. “And for our sons who are to be. There will be two of them this time, you know. Twin boys.”

Her eyes widened, for though Rhys had told her that she was with child, and that there would be a boy, there was as yet no sign of it upon her. And how could he know that there would be two?

“You—
know
, my lord?”

“I know,” he smiled. “I
know.”

She lowered her eyes and blushed prettily at that, and Cinhil thought that he had never seen her look so lovely. He could sense Evaine and Elinor watching in the background, and the thought crossed his mind that he was probably making them uncomfortable with this moment of apparent tenderness, but he didn't care. It had suddenly occurred to him that he might well die tonight, despite his powers; and if he did, he should never again see this lovely, unspoiled child who was his wife. Strange, but he found that the term came easily now, no longer carrying the mental qualms it once had borne. Abruptly, he regretted the weeks of neglect, spent in brooding on vengeance, and in a flash of inspiration realized what he could do to make at least a partial mending.

He raised the coronet slightly and took it from her hands.

“I shall wear this token of my lady's favor on one condition,” he said, looking down into those incredibly turquoise eyes. “That my lady shall wear it first.” He lowered it briefly to crown her wheaten hair. “Let this be a symbol of the sovereignty we share, and the regency I leave with her on behalf of my sons that are to be. If I should not survive this night, my lady, you are Queen of Gwynedd, as the mother of my sons.”

Her eyes misted with tears as he removed the coronet and placed it firmly on his own head. Then he kissed her lightly on the lips and led her and the other women into the chapel for Mass.

It was well after midnight when the Great Lords of Gwynedd finally lit King Imre to bed in his tower chambers. It was nearly half an hour after that before Archbishop Anscom could slip away from the others and make his way to the castle's chapel.

The evening had been tense and interminable for Anscom, harboring, as he did, the knowledge of how the night must end. He had found it far more difficult than usual to be civil to the numerous toadying hangers-on at Court; he had been curt and snappish more than once during the course of the feast and revelling. The lord chamberlain had even asked whether he would rather not be excused, since he obviously was feeling so out of sorts. Anscom had assured him that it was but a momentary touch of indigestion, and that it would pass. The chamberlain had thoughtfully brought him a cup of goat's milk, for the archbishop's touchy stomach was well known at Court.

He had made a great effort at least to seem to be enjoying himself, after that. But it had been an odd Court, full of strains and undercurrents not usually present at one of Imre's gatherings—and especially not at the opening of the Yule Court, one of the most festive occasions of the year. Anscom wondered whether Imre suspected that something was brewing, or whether his frenetic gaiety was only symptomatic of the general malaise which had been growing at Court for the last year. He also noted that Imre had decreed a green court this year—not the disastrous white of the previous Christmas Court. Perhaps that, and the memories of that last Yule, accounted for Imre's nervousness. Anscom could not say he blamed the king.

Princess Ariella was not in attendance, either—though no one had really expected her to be. She was seldom seen in public of late, and rumor had it that she had been quite ill for several months. More vicious castle gossip insisted that Ariella's “illness” was nothing which would not be alleviated by the loss of a nine-month's accumulation of weight, but such theories were never discussed where they might reach the king's ears.

Anscom himself had no opinion on the matter, though if Ariella were with child, it might be the result of an incestuous relationship with her brother. If true, the child could become a serious threat to the throne, should it live; but that was a problem to be dealt with when the time came. It was entirely possible that Ariella was quite innocent—though Anscom doubted it.

And so the Yule Court fared as Yule Courts will, when one is forced to be present at an affair where one has no wish to be. The meal was passable, if somewhat tasteless to Anscom's nerve-dulled palate; and the entertainment was of an enforced gaiety which only occasionally bordered on the genuinely amusing.

Still, when the Great Lords finally took up torches and conveyed the more than slightly tipsy king to his chambers—to the tune of drunken songs and lewd jokes—it was all Anscom could do to curb his impatience and pronounce the final blessing. When he finally reached the refuge of the chapel and slipped inside, he leaned his forehead against the cool bronze doors for several heart-pounding minutes until he could collect his wits.

Then he made his way to the sacristy door and fitted his key to the lock, stepping into total darkness as he closed the door behind him. A candle flared to light in the center of the room, and there stood Camber, Joram, Evaine, Rhys, and a few others, waiting for him, flanking the crowned Prince Cinhil.

“Stand not on ceremony, Archbishop,” Cinhil admonished, when Anscom started to kneel. “How stands the situation without? Is the tyrant abed?”

Raising an eyebrow at the new title which Cinhil had apparently bestowed upon his rival, Anscom straightened his cassock and nodded. “I accompanied the Great Lords to his chambers but half an hour past, Your Highness. With the quantity of wine which he consumed, he will be stuporous by now. The guard is in little better shape. It is as we had hoped.”

“Excellent,” Cinhil nodded. “The outside strike force has already begun infiltrating the key defense points throughout the city. We but await your word to bring our smaller force of knights here.”

Anscom sighed and nodded his head. “Then, begin, Your Highness. There is much work for us here tonight.”

Two hours later, the castle was essentially Cinhil's, though sporadic fighting still continued in the corridors and in the castle yard. Guaire and a handful of Michaelines had slipped around and barricaded the doors to the guardroom and barracks where the main castle garrison slept, so that the rest of their force had only to contend with the guards actually on duty. Joram and Cullen led half a dozen knights and the royal party in a sweep up the main corridor to the foot of Imre's own tower, where they fought a quick but bloody battle to gain the spiral stair. Though four of their Michaeline brethren fell to enemy swords, it was a matter of only minutes before the rebels were making their way up the stairs to Imre's own door.

There was no guard outside, and no sound came from within. Joram wondered whether Imre had merely slept through the sounds of battle, or whether he waited, even now, to unleash a full arcane defense as soon as they should breach the door.

Lowering his sword, Joram wiped a blood-stained gauntlet across his brow and silenced a sigh as he reached the top of the stairs. Behind him, Cullen and Rhys and the two remaining Michaelines waited with their weapons still drawn, Camber sheathing his and standing escort beside a dark-visaged Cinhil, shielding Evaine.

Joram caught Camber's slightly nodded signal and turned back to the door, then raised the hilt of his sword to pound heavily on the polished oak, one, two, three, four times. The sound echoed down the spiral staircase which they had just ascended at such cost.