Saint Camber (10 page)

Evaine took Rhys's hand and leaned closer against him as she gazed across at Cinhil.

“I told Her Highness that you would ride out with the army tonight, Sire. She wished that we might arm you, as we did before your first battle. All is in readiness. Please do not refuse.”

Cinhil glanced from Evaine to Megan, back to Evaine, and knew he was undone.

“I see I am outnumbered,” he said lightly. “I surrender.”

An hour later, bathed and dressed, he stood patiently in the center of his chamber while the women put the final touches on his attire.

It was similar to what he had worn that night he took the crown, though the need for real physical protection was much greater this time. Over silk and leather undergarments, he had drawn on the strange, gold-washed mail, which still retained that otherworldliness he had noticed the first time he wore it. Gold-chased vambraces were buckled to his forearms, with matching greaves over the leather breeches and boots which he had pulled on. Over it all, he donned the surcoat of scarlet silk, blazoned with the Gwynedd lion in gold. This time, it was Megan who buckled the sword around his waist, her fingers trembling as she fastened the white leather of the belt.

Sorle, his squire, was permitted to enter then, bearing Cinhil's shield and his great barrel helm with the coronet of Gwynedd. Cinhil inspected those items as if he knew what he was supposed to be looking for, then took the red gauntlets which Evaine offered and tucked them into his belt. His light, personal coronet he placed on his head before leading all of them downstairs to the Chapel Royal for Mass.

They were all there, as he had known they would be: Camber and Joram and Cullen and Jebediah and all the rest of them who had been in the war council earlier that day. Cinhil nodded to them as they fell in behind him to enter the chapel. Beside him, Megan walked with her head erect but her eyes following his every movement. Evaine had dropped back to be with her husband, and other ladies had also joined them for last moments with their loved ones. As the royal party took their places, kneeling in the now-crowded church, a choir began to sing the
Te Deum
. Cinhil bowed his head in prayer, all else put from his mind, as Archbishop Anscom began the Mass.

When it was over, and he had received his Lord in Holy Communion, Cinhil tarried for a little longer on the chapel while the others filed out—all except Megan, still kneeling at his side. One of the most difficult moments still lay ahead, he knew.

When they were alone, he stood to face his queen.

“My lord,” she whispered, tears already welling in her eyes.

Cinhil shook his head and touched her chin lightly with one finger.

“Nay, little Megan, do not weep. I shall return soon. You must be brave, and guard our sons, and pray for me.”

“I—will, my lord,” she said, trying hard to choke back a sob. “But, if you should not come back, I—”

She bowed her head, unable to speak, and Cinhil gathered her awkwardly in his arms and held her close against his armor.

“Megan,” he murmured, after a moment.

“My lord?”

“Megan, I'm sorry that I can't be exactly what you want me to be.”

She pulled back to gaze up at him in innocence and trust. “Nay, my lord, do not say it. I am—most fortunate among women. Only—only, my lord is so often apart, and—”

“I know, Megan. I'm sorry. But I—am what I am.”

“I know, my lord.”

Her eyes were downcast, her lower lip quivering on the edge of tears again, and Cinhil knew he could not cope with that. Searching his heart, he found a possible way to ease her unhappiness without compromising his own resolution—if she would cooperate.

“Megan, will you do something for me? Something very special?”

She looked up at him immediately, her eyes alight with hope and anticipation.

Quickly, for he dared not let her raise her hopes for nothing, he knelt before her, taking her hands in his. She started to kneel, too, but he shook his head and put her hands together between his.

“Nay, Megan, do not kneel. What I ask is only within your power to give. I want—I need your blessing, to keep me safe in battle.” With one hand, he reached up and removed his coronet, keeping her hands in his other. Then he bowed his head and released her hands, balancing his coronet on his upraised knee.

“Bless me with your love, my little queen,” he whispered, praying that she would seize on this small act to sustain her—and him—through the rest of their good-bye.

There was a long silence, and for a moment he feared that she would refuse. But then he felt a gentle touch on his hair, the weight of both her slender hands on his head. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the emotions of her blessing as she took a deep breath.

“May the Lord our God go with you, beloved, now and forever. May He shield you in the shadow of His wings and keep you safe. May Almighty God have mercy on us all, and forgive us for what we have done. And may the Blessed Mother cloak you in her mantle and bring you back to me. In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

Her hands left his head as she crossed herself, and he followed suit before looking up at her. Her tears were gone, a new serenity upon her face, as he stood and replaced his coronet. He took her hands in his again.

“Thank you, my lady. I shall carry that blessing into battle as a shield. But now—” He kissed one hand, then the other. “I must go.”

He started to bend and kiss her forehead, as he had in the hall earlier, but suddenly she was standing on tiptoes and pressing her lips to his. He was startled and tried to draw away, but she clung the more tightly to him, a tiny sob whimpering in her throat as her mouth opened against his.

He was only flesh, he told himself a few moments later, as he walked slowly from the church to meet his retinue. He could not have helped it—not without creating a scene and humiliating the young woman who had given so much for him already.

But another part of him yearned to turn back to her, where she knelt with downcast eyes at the altar rail. Another part yearned to take her in his arms again, and press her slender body next to his, and feel her gentle curves, even through the mail and leather he wore—to crush his hungry mouth to hers and drink so deeply—

He swallowed and glanced at the floor as he approached the doorway, grateful for the layers of mail and leather which shielded him now from view. Fortunately, it was darkening outside, an early dusk with the rainy weather, and he did not think they could see his flushed face very clearly. He busied himself with his gauntlets as he approached them, bending his head so that Sorle could remove his coronet and pull up his mail coif.

Then Cullen was laying the great, fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, and Cinhil was drawing the furry hood close around his neck and ears, striding down the chapel steps to where his war horse awaited him. Joram was already mounted on the other side, and Camber and Rhys sat their horses just ahead of his, Rhys nearest the steps, where Evaine stood with her hand on her husband's stirrup.

Cinhil nodded to Cullen as he gathered up his horse's reins, fingering the red leather thoughtfully as Cullen gave him a leg up and helped him get settled. He saw Sorle and Father Alfred mounting their palfreys, watched Cullen spring up on his own chestnut stallion.

Then the column was moving out, and a Michaeline knight bearing his Gwynedd standard was falling in ahead of him, and he was able to put her from his mind, his body already trading the anguish of his longing for the anguish of the saddle. It would be a long, long ride.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?

—Galatians 4:16

The royal army rode through the night, and through the dawn, and well into the forenoon, accompanied by a steady drizzle. Though the rain was not as heavy as it had been, still it soaked the horses and it soaked the men, and eventually soaked even the great lords in their oiled cloaks of leather and fur. Damp horses and men steamed in the watery sunshine as the sun rose higher in the summer sky.

They stopped just before noon to rest the men and to feed and water the horses, having traversed nearly the half of Gwynedd in their march toward the border. Though the pace had been stiff, however, not even the foot soldiers were unduly wearied; Imre had at least left a legacy of well-trained and conditioned men. It was their present king who was feeling the worst effects of the journey.

Cinhil's every muscle ached with the slightest movement, and tortured thighs and buttocks had long since lost their ability to torment him to any greater degree. Still ill accustomed to riding any great distance, though his general horsemanship had improved considerably, Cinhil had tried to catch what jolting sleep he could during the night, when the horses walked, knowing that those whose job it was would keep his horse with the others. But every session of trotting would jar his entire body anew. Compared to that, the few times of travel at the canter were sheerest bliss.

When they had stopped, Cinhil sat his horse unmoving for several seconds, wondering whether he still had the strength to swing down from the saddle without falling. He could not delay too long, for Jebediah and his lieutenants were dismounting all around him, and Cinhil knew that someone would be there shortly to take his horse.

He saw Guaire make his way among the other milling men and animals and approach, to lay his hand on Cinhil's reins. The young lord's earnest, human face was upturned in genuine sympathy.

“Do you need assistance, Sire?”

With a sigh, Cinhil shook his head and started to dismount, the sigh turning to groan as he tried to swing his right leg clear of the high cantle. He succeeded, but his face was white with the effort by the time he got on the ground, his legs trembling beneath him as he supported himself briefly against the stirrup.

“Are you all right, Sire?” Guaire asked.

“I'm fine,” Cinhil whispered.

The area in his immediate vicinity was clearing rapidly, as his companions led their horses away to be watered, and almost before he realized, Sorle was beside him and unfolding a portable stool. As soon as its legs were seated in the muddy grass, Cinhil sank down gratefully, stretching out first one leg and then the other, wincing as cramped muscles protested. Guaire took his horse away, and Cinhil closed his eyes and tried to make himself relax. When he looked up again, Rhys was crouching beside him with bread and cheese and a cup of wine. The Healer looked tired but relaxed as he put the cup in Cinhil's hand.

“Drink, Sire. A little food and wine will help revive you.”

Cinhil raised the cup and drank thirstily, not thinking until he had nearly drained it that it might contain something besides wine. The Healer had drugged him once before, without his knowledge or consent, and the memory still rankled.

But it was a little late to worry about that, he realized as he lowered the cup. If Rhys
had
put something in the wine, it was already in him, working its function—and this time, it could not be a sleeping potion or some such, for Cinhil must remain functional. Besides, despite Rhys's Deryniness, he was a Healer, obeying a code of ethics as stringent in its way as Cinhil's priestly vows; and by that code, he could do no harm.

Cinhil held out his cup for a refill and took a chunk of bread and cheese in the other, noting that the Healer looked across at him in faint amusement, eyes straw-amber in the hazy sunshine. The healing hand was steady as it poured into the cup and gave the flask into Sorle's keeping.

“I seem to recall another time when you ached like this, Sire,” Rhys said with a smile. “Will you let me try to ease your discomfort? This has been a prodigious journey for you.”

Cinhil could not prevent a smile from working its way around a mouthful of bread and cheese. Not for the first time he wondered whether a Deryni really could read his thoughts without his knowledge.

“I fear I will never be a prodigy where horses are concerned, Rhys. I also doubt that there is much you can do for me this time—unless, of course, this cup is like the one you gave me when last I rode like this.”

Rhys shook his head with an easy nonchalance. “I fear 'tis only wine this time, Sire.” His expression indicated that he remembered exactly what Cinhil was thinking. “However, with your cooperation, perhaps I can undo a little of what your ride has cost. If I may?”

In question, he laid one hand on the king's knee, and Cinhil shrugged and nodded. With a breath that was like a sigh, Rhys bowed his head in healing concentration.

Already fancying that he could feel the results of Rhys's efforts, Cinhil raised his cup and drank again, more freely now that he knew the wine to be untainted. He watched over the rim of the cup as Camber and Cullen and Joram approached, nodding and taking another bite of cheese as the three drew near enough to bow.

“All goes well?” he asked, looking from one to the other of them.

Camber nodded. “We make good progress. But we dare not stay here too long—only enough to rest the horses, and then we must be on our way. We should reach our campsite well before nightfall. Our scouts report that Ariella's forces should be in that vicinity at about the same time.”

Cinhil finished chewing his mouthful and swallowed, glancing around thoughtfully. “You seem confident of that. Suppose she changes her plans?”

“Strategies may change,” Cullen said, “but the site of battle is more or less committed by now, unless the entire timetable is drastically revised. By riding all night, we have cut off at least one of her options for other attacks. Of course, there are still enough unknown factors to keep things complicated,” he added with a wry smile.

Joram gave a grim chuckle at that, and Camber studied the tips of his steel-shod boots.

Cinhil was suddenly aware that all three of them were tense beneath their calm façades, and were trying not to communicate their tension to him. Even Rhys raised his head and looked up at them, rocking back on his heels, his ministrations apparently finished.