Saint Camber (48 page)

Camber listened a great deal and said little. The entire morning was quite uneventful. At noon, the entire company adjourned for a light midday meal.

But the afternoon session held a different promise, which Camber noticed soon after he reentered the chapter house following their break. It was not immediately apparent as he crossed the tiled floor, for he was initially absorbed in a merry conversation with the wire-thin Bishop Eustace, who sat next to him and could make light of almost anything. Joram followed a few respectful steps behind, chatting casually with Eustace's secretary.

However, as Camber took his seat, still chuckling at one of Eustace's wry comments, he made an automatic scan of the room and realized that the chamber was nearly filled to capacity, where there had been only half that number in the morning. Men in the habits of most of the great orders of Gwynedd were crowded onto the tiered seats behind the thrones of his colleagues, white and brown and black and burgundy and blue among the purple of the bishops. Crevan Allyn and a handful of his Michaelines had slipped into places on the first level, directly behind Bishop Dermot O'Beirne. On the second tier, closer to the dais, sat Dom Emrys and a score of Gabrilite priests.

Camber had just glanced behind him to confirm that a similar array of clergy lined his side of the round hall when the archbishop's chamberlain rapped on the floor with his iron-shod staff for silence. All came to their feet as Archbishops Jaffray and Oriss entered and took their places on the dais.

As the room settled down again, Camber saw Jebediah slip in and join Crevan and the other Michaelines, strangely wearing the garb of only an ordinary Michaeline knight—no badge of his secular office. Jebediah flashed what Camber took to be a curious glance in Camber's direction; but before Camber could speculate on his meaning, the chamberlain was rapping for attention again, his voice strong in the silence which his staff commanded.

“Your Grace, Reverend Lords, brethren of a new religious order beg leave to present a petition.”

An icy chill slid down Camber's spine as the great doors swung back, and suddenly he
knew
, beyond any doubting, just who was about to enter.

He felt Joram stiffen and mentally bristle beside him as a gray-robed Queron Kinevan strode slowly into the chamber, flanked by several other gray robes whom Camber had never seen before—and Guaire of Arliss.

Now Camber knew where Queron had gotten the money for his building project at Dolban, and what that project must be. How could he have forgotten that Guaire was wealthy in his own right?

He watched with curious detachment as Queron paused in the precise center of the chamber to bow deeply, hands folded piously out of sight in deep sleeves, then approached the dais to kiss Jaffray's ring. The former Gabrilite nodded respectfully to Dom Emrys as he straightened from his obeisance to the archbishop and backed off a few paces. Behind him, Queron's companions sank to their knees and bowed their heads. Several, including Guaire, wore the beginnings of a Gabrilite-style braid like Queron's.

Joram caught his breath and sat forward in horrified fascination as Queron withdrew a scroll from his sleeve and began to unroll it. Without betraying all, there was nothing he or his father could do to stop Queron Kinevan.

“My Lord Archbishop, worthy Reverend Fathers, I will speak plain,” Queron said, glancing at his scroll and then letting the hand which held it fall to his side. “I and my brothers seek your blessing to form a new religious community, dedicated to the service of a yet-unrecognized saint. We have already established his first shrine at our monastery of Dolban, and would build a second here in the cathedral where his body once lay. Eventually, we would have his burial place enshrined as well, so that all may visit his relics and benefit from his sanctity. To that end, we here present formal petition for the canonization of the late Earl of Culdi, Camber MacRorie.”

There was an instant of total silence as the sense of Queron's words penetrated, and then the hall erupted in excited exclamation. Joram came to his feet almost involuntarily, his anguished “No!” drowned out in the din but stated all the more emphatically by his stricken expression.

Attention started to shift from Queron to Joram, for most present knew who Joram was, but Queron was determined to retain the advantage he had gained by speaking first. He had known Joram would be an opponent. Moving a step closer to the episcopal dais, he brandished his scroll to catch their gaze once more, his voice rising above Joram's protest and even overpowering the clergy's voices.

“Your Grace, I beseech you, may I speak?” he shouted. “I beg leave to present our case without interference. I assure you that it cannot be refuted!”

As discussion subsided and seats were resumed, Queron swept his audience with his hard Deryni glance and lowered his scroll, once more in command. Joram stood mute and pale before the older man's gaze, one hand clenched white-knuckled on a finial of Camber's high-backed chair. Camber dared not react as Queron measured his son.

“I thank you, my lords,” Queron finally said, in a normal conversational tone, turning his attention back to Jaffray. “Your Grace, may I now proceed?”

Jaffray, who alone of the bishops had not joined in the excited reaction to Queron's pronouncement, sat back thoughtfully in his throne, one ringed hand absently stroking his chin as his eyes flicked from Queron to Joram, then to Camber.

“Please ask your secretary to be seated, Bishop Cullen. We know Dom Queron, and will hear his petition.”

Robert Oriss, seated to Jaffray's right, leaned closer to his colleague, to speak without taking his eyes from the stunned Joram.

“The young man is Lord Camber's son, Your Grace. Are you aware of that?”

“I have been so informed,” Jaffray replied, not unkindly. “Regardless of that fact, I must ask him to hold his peace until Dom Queron has elaborated. Please be seated, Father MacRorie. You will be given ample opportunity to speak later on.”

At Camber's touch on his elbow, Joram sank slowly back to his stool, to perch on the edge with taut attention. In vain Camber tried to breach the wall of his son's resistance, not daring to maintain the physical contact or the force necessary to insist upon the communication. Perhaps later. However he did it, he must be certain that Joram did not overreact. They dared not risk the slightest slip under Queron's perceptive gaze.

With a slight sigh, Camber half rose to bow slightly in Jaffray's direction.

“My pardon for him, Your Grace. My secretary is young and overwrought. I shall try to see that it does not happen again.”

“We shall thank you for it,” Jaffray replied. He returned his gaze to Queron. “You have our leave to speak now, Dom Queron. Please continue.”

Queron bowed, rerolling the scroll he had used with such effectiveness a few minutes before. He still had not disclosed its contents. Perhaps it was only a stage prop, at that. Whatever, it had served its purpose even if it was blank. Camber wondered which other of the vast Deryni arsenal of persuasion Queron would use next.

Feigning only dutiful interest, and a little concern for the young priest crouched miserably beside him, Camber settled back in one of Alister Cullen's favorite poses of stone-faced concentration, fingers steepled so that the hands could rise casually to mask his expression if necessary, no line of his body betraying his inner tension. He watched Queron pivot gracefully to scan his audience, the scroll tap-tapping lightly against a tapering hand as the rapier mind weighed their emotions. With his first words, reassuring, confidential, the assembly began visibly to relax.

“Your Grace, learned Fathers, Reverend Lords. For those who may not know me, I am Queron Kinevan, Healer and sometime priest of the Order of Saint Gabriel. Healer I am still, and priest also; but as you can see, my garb proclaims me no longer Gabrilite. There is a reason for that. Not a failing of my old Order, which I shall always cherish.” Here he bowed slightly to Dom Emrys. “Rather, a calling to another task which is for me and, I believe, for Gwynedd a more important one. I hope to help you understand the reasons for my change of heart, and to enlist your support.”

He drew a leisurely breath as his audience settled down to listen.

“As all are aware, the Earl of Culdi was slain in battle last year. More precisely, Camber MacRorie was slain: a gentle and pious man, as all do know; the restorer of our gracious king—long may he reign; the Defender of Humankind, as many do call him now, and with just cause—for he fell defending all of us from the Festillic destroyers.

“He was cut down in the fullness of his service to this land—cut down long before his work could come to full fruition. But as we believe now, who call ourselves his Servants, he was not content to leave us with his work thus unfulfilled, and with this land in danger. He died in body, but he is not gone! His hand is still felt upon this land and upon its people, to the greater good of all of us. To a certain few, he has even spoken directly, giving guidance and promise of hope, when all earthly comfort had failed; even giving the gift of healing in his miracles.”

He had them now, and knew it. He let his volume drop to a barely audible level and watched all present hush and catch their breath to hear him better. Camber, forefingers absently stroking his nose to hide his growing apprehension, knew the awful stomach-churn of fear as he wondered at Queron's reference to healing.

Could Queron know of Cinhil's experience?

“I spoke to one such man last spring,” Queron continued. “He is in this room today.” Camber allowed himself to relax slightly; Cinhil was not present. “He told me of a miracle: how Blessed Camber came to him as though in a dream—but
it was not a dream!
Those of you who know me or my reputation will believe me, I hope, when I say that I have questioned this man closely, to the fullest extent of my abilities—and I am convinced that the Blessed Camber did appear to him as he describes. This I shall demonstrate. Nor is he the only unimpeachable witness to similar events.”

There: another possible reference to Cinhil—for who else involved in what had happened was truly unimpeachable? And Cinhil's testimony was by far the more dangerous of the two.

“But I believe that the evidence will speak for itself, Reverend Fathers. I believe that Camber MacRorie has been given God's grace to continue his work upon this land, even in death. I believe that this august assembly will have no choice, in the end, but to declare Camber MacRorie among the blessed, and a saint.

“If I offend any with my plainness, I apologize.”

As he bowed his head, to all outward appearances spent for the moment—though Camber knew that he was just beginning—there was an instant of profound silence and then an incoherent murmur as the assembled bishops and clergy conferred among themselves. Jaffray let them go for several minutes before holding up a hand for silence, which was immediately given.

“We thank you, Dom Queron. Father MacRorie, do you wish to make a statement before Dom Queron begins presenting his evidence?”

Joram stood slowly, tearing his gaze upward to meet Jaffray's. He had permitted his father's mental touch during the last minutes of Queron's impassioned plea, and given reassurance that he would not betray their cause. Still, he felt bound in conscience to tell as much of the truth as possible without endangering the man for whose sake he had already compromised so much for love.

“Your Grace, I loved my father,” he said steadily. “I loved him, and still do, more than I can say.” He glanced at the floor, his mind once more closed to Camber's, then looked up at Jaffray again. “But he was a man, like other men: gentle and pious, as Dom Queron has said; a loving father, a wise counselor—gifted beyond the ken even of most others of our race. He sacrificed much to accomplish what he believed in, and was content to pay the price because he loved this land and its king—perhaps too much.

“But he was no saint. I only hope I may persuade you that he would be horrified if he knew what went on beneath this roof!”

With a sigh, Jaffray looked at Queron again. Jaffray was a handsome man for his years, his dark Gabrilite braid hardly touched by gray, but in the past minutes he had aged a great deal as he realized the extent of Joram's opposition. As Queron looked up, hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back, Jaffray frowned and tapped his bishop's ring against his teeth several times. The archbishop was clearly considering what to do next.

“Dom Queron,” he said, after another sigh, “I am constrained to remind these reverend Fathers that you and I were ever friends and brothers when I was yet a Gabrilite, and that I want very much to believe what my friend and brother has just told this august assembly—though I should point out that I, like they, am hearing your testimony for the first time. However, I must also recognize that the distinguished son of the man you seek to make a saint does not share your enthusiasm. Are you prepared to prove your contention with witnesses, as is the custom in such proceedings?”

“I am prepared, Your Grace.”

“Very well. You have said that one such witness is present. I should like to hear his testimony. On that basis, we shall determine whether the case warrants further consideration. Is that agreeable to you?”

Queron bowed.

“Good. Father MacRorie, you may be seated. I charge you to hold your peace until Queron's witness has had his say.”

Nodding, unable to speak for sheer despair, Joram sank to his seat and leaned his head against the side of his father's chair. Once more the mental barriers fell, permitting Camber's cautious touch. As Camber slipped into his son's mind, soothing, thanking, reassuring, Queron turned to face his still-kneeling brethren. Guaire rose as though on cue, the promptness of his response leading Camber to suspect that he and Queron were already bonded in some kind of magical rapport. Now they would see whether Queron was as skilled as his reputation would have him to be. From a purely objective stance, it would be interesting to learn how much Guaire remembered.