Katherine Kurtz - Bastard Prince

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Discover the whole family of The Heirs of Saint Camber:

THE HARROWING OF GWYNEDD

KING JAVAN'S YEAR

ROYAL BLOOD

"No!" Rhys Michael cried weakly, instinctively trying to jerk away, even as Polidorus released

the ligature that kept his blood from flowing. "Nooooo!” he groaned, as the hot blood began to

stream around his arm and collect in a basin set beneath his elbow.

But a Custodes knight had one hand set firmly against his shoulder and the other on his upper

arm. And Father Magan had that forearm in an unrelenting grip, to ensure that their unwilling

patient did not twist against the padded wrist restraint that held the arm outstretched.

The horror and the helplessness of it all swept through Rhys Michael in less than a blink of an

eye...

By Katherine Kurtz

Published by Ballantine Books:

THE LEGENDS OF CAMBER OF CULDI

CAMBER OF CULDI

SAINT CAMBER

CAMBER THE HERETIC

THE CHRONICLES OF THE DERYNI

DERYNI RISING

DERYNI CHECKMATE

HIGH DERYNI

THE HISTORIES OF KING KELSON

THE BISHOP'S HEIR

THE KING'S JUSTICE

THE QUEST FOR SAINT CAMBER

THE HEIRS OF SAINT CAMBER

THE HARROWING OF GWYNEDD

KING JAVAN'S YEAR

THE BASTARD PRINCE

THE DERYNI ARCHIVES

DERYNI MAGIC

LAMMAS NIGHT

The Bastard Prince

Volume III in The Heirs of Saint Camber

Katherine Kurtz

DEL REY

A Del Rey® Book

BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may

have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the

publisher may have received payment for it.

A Del Rey® Book

Published by Ballantine Books

United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously

in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-47131

ISBN 0-345-39177-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Hardcover Edition: June 1994

First Mass Market Edition: August 1995

10 987654321

For

my very dear friend,

DENIS O'CONOR DON,

Prince of Connacht.

If Ireland were still a monarchy,

he would be High King.

[Bastard Prince Map.jpg]

Contents

Prologue

He hath put forth his hands against such as be at peace with him; he hath broken his covenant.

—Psalms 55:20

I Therefore pride compasseth them about as a chain; violence covereth them as a garment.

—Psalms 73:6

II Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.

—/ Corinthians 15:34

III And if it be meet that I go also, they shall go with me.

—/ Corinthians 16:4

IV Miss not the discourse of the elders: for they also learned of their fathers, and of them

thou shall learn understanding, and to give answer as need requireth.

—Ecclesiasticus 8:9

V There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.

—/ John 4:18

VI Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up: It stood still, but I

could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes, there was silence, and I heard

a voice.

—Job 4:15-16

VII Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift.

—// Corinthians 9:15

VIII Who causeth the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own

pit.

—Proverbs 28:10

IX Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the

Lord shall be a light unto me.

—Micah 7:8

X Look to yourselves, that we lose not those things which we have wrought, but that we receive a

full reward.

—II John 1:8

XI Keep thee far from the man who hath power to kill ... lest he take away thy life presently.

—Ecclesiasticus 9:13

XII Whereas thy servant worketh truly, entreat him not evil, nor the hireling that bestoweth

himself wholly for thee.

—Ecclesiasticus 7:20

XIII Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead, but remember that we die all.

—Ecclesiasticus 8:7

XIV I have seen the foolish taking root.

—Job 5:3

XV And that we may be delivered from unreasonable men.

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—// Thessalonians 3:2

XVI With arrows and with bows shall men come thither.

—Isaiah 7:24

XVII Blessed be the Lord my strength, which . teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to

fight.

—Psalms 144:1

XVIII For gold is tried in the fire, and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity.

—Ecclesiasticus 2:5

XIX Who will bring me into the strong city?

—Psalms 60:9

XX Righteous lips are the delight of kings; and they love him that speaketh right.

—Proverbs 16:13

XXI And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie.

—// Thessalonians 2:11

XXII They gather themselves together against the soul of the righteous, and condemn the innocent

blood.

—Psalms 94:21

XXIII Keep thee far from the man that hath power to kill ... lest he take away thy life

presently.

—Ecclesiasticus 9:13

XXIV Traitors, heady, high-minded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God.

—// Timothy 3:4

XXV And as troops of robbers wait for a man, so the company of priests murder in the way by

consent.

—Hosea 6:9

XXVI For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.

—// Timothy 4:6

XXVII I have seen the wicked in great power.

—Psalms 37:35

XXVIII A wicked messenger falleth into mischief; but a faithful ambassador is health.

—Proverbs 13:17

XXIX For she is privy to the mysteries of the knowledge of God, and a lover of his works.

—Wisdom of Solomon 8:4

XXX And through covetousness shall they with feigned words make merchandise of you.

—II Peter 2:3

XXXI His sons come to honour, and he knoweth it not.

—Job 14:21

XXXII Then the chief captain came near, and took him, and commanded him to be bound with two

chains.

—Acts 21:33

XXXIII I speak of the things which I have made touching the king,

—Psalms 45:1

XXXIV Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore.

—Ecclesiasticus 44:14

XXXV But if ye bite and devour one another, _, take heed that ye be not consumed one of

another.

—Galatians 5:15

XXXVI And those which remain shall hear, and fear, and shall henceforth commit no more any such

evil among you.

—Deuteronomy 19:20

Appendix I: Index of Characters

Appendix II: Index of Places

Appendix III: Partial Lineage of the Haldane Kings

Appendix IV: The Festillic Kings of Gwynedd and Their Descendants

Appendix V: Partial Lineage of the MacRories

prologue

He hath put forth his hands against such as be at peace with him; he hath broken his covenant.

—Psalms 55:20

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The nagging drizzle of the night before had yielded to clearing skies at dawn, but a persistent

overcast remained even at noontime on this chill day in early June of the Year of Our Lord 928,

now seventh in the reign of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King of Gwynedd. Climbing to the

castle's highest rooftop walk, two women had braved a cutting wind to seek out a sheltered angle

between cap-house and rampart wall, a natural sun trap that was warm enough to shrug off fur-lined

cloaks and begin to thaw chilled bones while they resumed their watch of the day before.

It was a better place than most to await the return of their men, now several days overdue. To

the south they could see for miles across the vast plain of Iomaire—and a lesser distance

eastward, to where the mists of the Rhelljan foothills obscured the approach to the vital Coldoire

Pass. It was toward this pass that their men had ridden, more than a week ago, and it was toward

Coldoire that the elder of the pair now turned her gaze yet again, shading her dark eyes against

the glare of sunlight on persisting tatters of fog.

She had kept this kind of vigil all too many times before. Sudrey of Eastmarch had been

chatelaine of this castle for fully twenty years. She was hardly more than a child herself when

she first came to Lochalyn as a bride and, within the year, bore the daughter who would become the

taller, redheaded young woman fretting at her side. Apart from the death of a beloved brother, a

decade ago, the intervening years had been mostly kind, though she and Hrorik had never been

blessed with any more children. Stacia was their only child and sole heir, herself now a mother,

suckling an infant son but hours old when his father and grandfather had spurred urgently toward

the Coldoire Pass to investigate reports of Torenthi troop incursions.

"D'ye think it's only yesterday's storm that's delayed them?" Stacia suddenly blurted,

startling one of the wolfhounds basking at her feet as she rose to peer out over the rampart

again, clasping her son closer. "Dear God, what if sommat's happened to Corban? They should hae

been back days ago. Oh, sommat's happened—I know it has!"

"Hush, child. We don't know anything yet."

But as Sudrey of Eastmarch gazed out at the Coldoire mists, her lips compressing in a tight,

expectant line, she very much feared that she did know more than she cared to admit. Not of

Stacia's beloved Corban, but of her own dear Hrorik.

The dread confirmation would come soon; she could feel it. She carried but little of the blood

of the magical race that once had ruled this land, and she had denied what she had for more than

half her life, but it was enough to give her sudden, blinding flashes of unsought knowledge when

she least expected or wanted it. Nor had she ever received but rudimentary training in the use of

the powers that might have been hers to command, for she and her brother had been orphaned young

and brought up by their uncle, a Deryni lordling whose abuse of his power and privilege eventually

had led his tenants to turn on him and kill him.

That had been just on the eve of the overthrow of King Imre of Festil and the Haldane

Restoration. After that had come the turmoil and wars that left her and her brother hostages of

Hrorik's father, the fierce but kindhearted Duke Sighere of Claibourne, for she and Kennet were

both of them distant kin to the royal House of Torenth. In those days, she had deemed it the

better part of prudence to pretend that she had no powers at all; and after a time, she had almost

forgotten that she ever did. She had never expected to fall in love with one of her jailer's sons

...

Her wistful recollections had distracted her from her watch across the castle ramparts, so that

it was Stacia who first saw the riders, first only a handful and then dozens of them, picking

their way slowly and painfully along the muddy, winding track that led down from the mist of the

Rhelljans to approach the castle gates.

"They're comin'!" Stacia breathed, pressing hard against the rampart edge as she squinted

against the glare. "Look ye, there's Da's banner!"

Sudrey's breath caught in her throat as she, too, began to make out the battle standard borne

by one of the lead riders—a silver saltire and two golden suns against an azure field.

"Mother—I dinnae see Corban's banner," Stacia cried. "Mother, where is't? Corban—"

She was turning to careen down the turnpike stair before Sudrey could stop her, moaning and

clutching her son fearfully to her shoulder, the wolfhounds lumbering after. Behind her, Sudrey

cast her own anxious gaze over the approaching riders again, now seeing what her daughter had

failed to notice: the dark, irregular shape bound across the saddle of one of the horses nearer

the banner, wrapped round in a greeny tweed cloak that she herself had mended before her husband

rode out, what seemed like an eternity ago.

Later, she would not remember her own numbed descent of the narrow, winding stair; only that,

all at once, she was down in the castle yard with men and horses churning all around her, the din

and the stench of blood and death almost beyond imagining. Across the yard, her son-in-law all but

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tumbled from his spent mount to stagger toward her, one bandaged and bloodstained arm braced

around the shoulders of his weeping but relieved young wife.

He was grimy and exhausted, young Corban, his helmet gone, his sweat-matted black hair mostly

pulled free of its border clout, his leather brigandine showing the signs of heavy battle

survived. As he reached Sudrey, he collapsed to armored knees at her feet, his broad, leather-clad

shoulders heaving with a dry sob as he crushed her to him with his free hand, burying his bearded

face against her skirts.

"Forgive me, I couldnae save him!" he gasped. "They've ta'en Culliecairn—God knows why! We lost

dozens, an' most of those returnin' carry wounds. They lured us wi' a flag o' truce, then o'erran

us. We must get word tae Sighere an' Graham an' beg reinforcements—an' from the king!"

"Is it invasion?" Sudrey heard herself calmly asking.

"I cannae say." Corban raised his head and drew back a little, dark eyes as bleak and empty as

her heart. "They wore the livery o' Prince Miklos of Torenth. It could be one prong of an all-out

invasion. We must see if Sighere's outposts hae seen activity in the Arranal region or along the

coast."

Her mind flicked back at once to a private meeting several months before at Lochalyn: herself,

Hrorik, and the strikingly handsome Prince Miklos—who was technically a distant cousin—and

another, slightly younger man, as dark as Miklos was fair, then presumed merely to be the prince's

aide. Hrorik had reluctantly encouraged the meeting, not out of any love for Torenth but in hopes

of putting to rest nearly seven years' worth of letters sent periodically from the Court at

Beldour, the Torenthi capital, badgering his wife about her hostage status.

She had answered that question quite firmly: that she was no longer hostage or Torenthi, but

gave her loyalty to her husband's liege lord in Rhemuth. The Torenthi prince had been quietly

furious. Hence, this present conflict probably was not really about border disputes; it was

Miklos' response to her refusal to espouse the cause of his companion, finally revealed as Prince

Marek of Festil, Pretender to the Crown of Gwynedd. And now Sudrey's refusal had cost her her

beloved Hrorik and the lives of many other loyal Eastmarch men.

"I do not think there will be activity farther north," she whispered, raising her gaze above

Corban's head to where Eastmarch squires and men-at-arms were loosing the lashings that held a

sad, tweed-wrapped shape across the saddle of a spent bay mare. "This is not the true

invasion—though eventually, that will come. Hrorik and I had feared that such might happen, but

not so soon. Prince Miklos tried to win me to his cause some months ago, appealing to my Torenthi

blood. I refused, and this is the result. It has to do with the Festillic Pretender."

"A feint, then, for testin' the waters?" Corban asked, leaning heavily on Stacia to get to his

feet.

"Aye—and perhaps a deliberate provocation, to lure the young king out of Rhemuth. They will

know, or at least suspect, that he is not a free agent. I pray that, in meeting this new threat,

he is also able to come into his own."

"God grant it!" Corban said fervently. "But meanwhile, I must see that Eastmarch doesnae become

the Pretender's own." He bent to press his lips to his son's forehead, then thrust his bewildered

wife from him as he called to several of the Eastmarch captains.

"Attend me, men of Eastmarch. We must ride for Marley, to seek Sighere's aid. Elgin, I need

those fresh horses now. Nicholas, have ye seen to those provisions? Murray, I give ye command o'

the garrison here at Lochalyn. I'm takin' half a dozen men, in addition to Elgin. Will that leave

ye enou' tae hold the castle?"

Stacia looked thunderstruck, though Sudrey knew that Corban was only doing what he must, under

the circumstances. He was a good commander, the son she had never borne. Behind him, some of the

fittest-looking men were already mounting up again, others shouting answers to his questions.

"But, ye cannae just leave!" Stacia wailed. "What about my da? What about our bairn? What about

me?”

"Mo rùn, my heart, your da is dead. I share yer grief, but I cannae change fate." He turned

aside to nod gruff thanks as a man brought up a fresh horse, setting foot to stirrup and springing

up into the saddle. The animal was fractious, and nearly unseated him as another man offered him

the flapping Eastmarch banner.

"But—that's my father's banner!" Stacia gasped, clutching her son closer and barely avoiding

the horse's hooves as her husband fought his mount and deftly footed the banner's staff at his

stirrup.

"Stacia, my daurlin', have ye no been listenin'?" Corban said. "This is your banner, now that

yer father is dead. 'Tis you who are Countess of Eastmarch. An' that makes me Earl of Eastmarch,

so 'tis also my banner. An' one day, if we all live through this, it will be his banner." He

jerked his bearded chin toward their now squalling son, then cast a beseeching look at his wife's

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mother.

"My lady, I beg ye to make her understand. I cannae delay more. See to the wounded. Bury

Hrorik. Hold this castle, howe'er best ye can. I'll bring ye help as soon as I may. Murray's

sendin' messengers on to Rhemuth to inform the king. God keep ye."

He was spurring back out the castle gates at the head of his tiny escort before either woman

could gainsay him, the bright blue and gold and silver of the Eastmarch banner fluttering boldly

above his head. Watching him go, Sudrey of Eastmarch, née of Rhorau, found herself already

shifting into that calm, passionless efficiency that must be her bulwark for the next little

while, setting aside the grief that would render her useless if she let it take over.

"Jervis, please start bringing the wounded into the great hall," she said to her household

steward, turning her back on the men now carrying the long, tweed-wrapped bundle toward the

castle's chapel. "That will serve the best as infirmary, until we can get everyone taken care of.

Have the kitchen start boiling water and tell the women to gather bandages. And summon Father

Collumcille and Father Derfel and that midwife from down in the village. She may be some help. And

Murray—"

"Aye, my lady?"

"Did my husband's battle surgeon come back from Culliecairn?"

"He did, my lady." Murray was instructing the two messengers about to leave for Rhemuth, and

looked like he, too, could use the surgeon's services—or at least a woman's hands—to clean and

bind his wounds. "He's already working on some men o'er in the stable entrance."

"Well, have him move everything and everybody into the great hall as soon as he can. I want

some order to this."

"Right away, my lady."

As she turned to deal with her daughter, she saw that Stacia, too, had rallied to necessity and

training and was tearfully entrusting her baby to Murray's eldest daughter, with instructions to

take the bairn upstairs to her bower and stay out of the way.

"I have to be strong now, for my da," Stacia told her mother tremulously, lifting her chin and

wiping away her tears on the edge of a sleeve. "He raised me tae be his heir. He'd be shamed if he

thought I couldnae take care o' his men—of my men."

In the din of milling horses and clanking armor and shouting and moaning men, the two made a

tiny island of calm as, arms around one another's waists, they began to head purposefully toward

the great hall. Behind them, the messengers chosen to carry word to Rhemuth swung up on fresh

mounts and galloped out the castle gates.

chapter one

Therefore pride compasseth them about as a chain; violence covereth them as a garment.

—Psalms 73:6

The Eastmarch messengers exhausted a succession of mounts in the days that followed, galloping

into Gwynedd's capital less than a week after the taking of Culliecairn. Almost incoherent with

exhaustion, the pair made their initial report to a hastily gathered handful of Gwynedd's royal

ministers, then were whisked away for further interrogation in private by Lord Albertus, the Earl

Marshal, and certain members of his staff. The king was told of their news, but was not invited to

join the impromptu meeting now in progress in Gwynedd's council chamber.

"Aside from the military implications, this is going to raise certain practical complications,"

Rhun of Sheele said, sour and suspicious as he sat back in his chair. "For one thing, the king is

going to want to go."

Lord Tammaron Fitz-Arthur nodded patiently. As Chancellor of Gwynedd, it was his duty to

preside over meetings of the king's council when the king was not present—and in fact, he presided

even when the king was present-—but formalities hardly seemed necessary with only four of them

seated around the long table.

"Of course he'll want to go," Tammaron said. "It's only natural that he should wish to do

so—and were the decision up to him, there would be no question. There's a risk involved, of

course. Not only might he be killed, but he might be tempted to assert his independence. However,

I believe that both possibilities pale beside the very real prospect that this is the challenge

we've been hoping to postpone."

At Tammaron's right, quietly imposing in his robes of episcopal purple, Archbishop Hubert

MacInnis nodded his agreement, one pudgy hand caressing the jeweled cross on his ample breast.

Those who did not know him well saw what he wanted them to see: an affable if oversized cherub,

ostensibly godly and devout, rosy face framed by fine blond hair cut short and tonsured in the

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clerical manner, tiny rosebud lips pursed in a languid pout.

But the apparent innocence of the wide blue eyes was deceptive, and the cunning mind behind

them had contrived the death of more than one person who stood in his way. In the last decade, the

Primate of All Gwynedd had become the single most powerful man in the kingdom.

"This is damnably inconvenient, if it is the challenge," Hubert muttered sullenly. "Damn, why

couldn't they have waited even another year? A second son would make all the difference."

"You're assuming that the queen carries another son and not a daughter," said the archbishop's

elder brother, Lord Manfred MacInnis, seated across from Hubert. He was a beefy, red-faced man in

his mid-fifties, muscled where Hubert was merely fat, his sunburned hands scarred and callused

from years of wielding a sword. "I wouldn't worry so much about potential heirs as I would about

the man who wears the crown right now. If this is the challenge we've been dreading, 'tis we and

the present king who will have to meet it. And if he can't do that, not even another prince will

be enough to ensure the continuance of the Haldane line in power—and us as the power behind the

throne."

It was no more than a simple statement of fact. The men seated around the table, the core of

the Royal Council of Gwynedd, had been virtual rulers of Gwynedd for six years now, since plotting

the slaying of the sixteen-year-old King Javan Haldane in an "ambush" far to the north—blamed on

Deryni dissidents—and simultaneously masterminding the coup that put his brother, Rhys Michael, on

Gwynedd's throne, though king only in name.

The cost had come high, for the hollow crown this youngest Haldane prince had never sought. Not

alone had he lost a beloved brother and king, but the shock of the sudden and brutal slayings

surrounding the coup at Rhemuth had caused his young wife to miscarry of their first child—a

supreme irony, for eventual control of an underage Haldane heir had been a large part of the

ultimate purpose behind the coup.

The new king had not truly comprehended the scope of his captors' ambitions in the beginning.

It was horror enough that he must fall under their control. Drugged nearly to senselessness during

the coup itself, he had been kept drug-blurred for some months thereafter, all through the public

spectacle of his brother's burial and then the sham of his own coronation.

Only when he had been safely crowned did they make their intentions clear—and underlined their

demands with threats of the most abhorrent nature concerning the fate of his queen if he did not

comply. He had been spared to be a puppet king and to breed Haldane princes who, in due course,

would fall totally under the sway of the great lords—and under the sway of regents, if their

father made himself sufficiently troublesome that he must be eliminated before a tame heir came of

age.

Fortunately for all concerned, especially the king, the prospect of another regicide became

less and less likely as the first few months passed. Though dispirited at first, the new king

gradually seemed to become reconciled to the inevitability of his situation, allowing himself to

be shaped as the docile and biddable figurehead they required.

Compliance slowly bought small indulgences. Once the king ceased to be argumentative or to

display stubborn flashes of independent thinking, permission was granted for him to attend routine

meetings of the council. A satisfactory history of behavior at council meetings earned him the

privilege of presiding over formal courts, though always closely attended and working from a

carefully rehearsed script. Very occasionally, the queen and later their young son were allowed to

appear at his side on state occasions. After the first year or so, when it appeared that he had

accepted the restrictions placed upon him and decided to make the most of royal privilege, they

had even allowed him to resume his training in arms, against just such a threat as now seemed to

be materializing. The queen's new pregnancy seemed to confirm Rhys Michael's capitulation, though

there were some seated around this table who still had reservations.

"Let's get down to specifics," Tammaron said. "This hardly comes as any great surprise, after

all. We've been aware of increased Torenthi troop movements up along the Eastmarch border since

last fall."

Several of the others nodded their agreement, and Rhun muttered something about having warned

them long before that.

"It's just the sort of beginning we might have expected," Tammaron went on. "A test incursion

into—"

The door to the council chamber slammed back without preamble to admit Paulin of Ramos, black-

clad and predatory-looking as he stalked into the room. The mere presence of the Vicar-General of

the Ordo Custodum Fidei produced no dismay, for he was as heavily involved in intrigue as the rest

of them, and one of the architects of their rise to power, but he had been expected to remain with

his brother Albertus, questioning the messengers.

"A Torenthi herald has just arrived under a flag of truce," Paulin announced, flouncing angrily

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into his usual place to Hubert's right. "The man demands an immediate audience of the king and

declines to reveal his business except in the king's presence."

"Do you think he comes from King Arion?" Manfred asked.

"No, I do not. I thought so at first, but the Torenthi arms on his tabard are differenced. The

black hart is gorged of a coronet. That's Arion's brother."

"Miklos!" Rhun muttered. .

"And the Eastmarch messengers claim that Miklos was behind the taking of Culliecairn," Tammaron

said, enlightenment dawning on the angular face.

"Precisely," Paulin agreed. "I'd say that the timely arrival of Miklos' herald tends to confirm

their story. The question now becomes, is Miklos acting alone, or for King Arion, or for Marek of

Festil, as he has in the past?"

Uneasiness murmured around the table at that, for the prospect of an eventual Festillic bid to

take back the throne of Gwynedd had loomed with increasing probability since 904, when Cinhil

Haldane, the present king's father, had ended a Festillic Interregnum of more than eighty years by

ousting and killing the unmarried King Imre. There it might have ended, except that Imre's sister,

the Princess Ariella, had been carrying his child when she fled. Later legalists had tried to

claim that the royal pregnancy derived from a dalliance with one of her brother's courtiers, by

then conveniently dead, for mere illegitimacy was not necessarily a bar to inheritance in Torenth,

but everyone knew that Imre was the father.

The child born of this incestuous union the following year had been christened Mark Imre of

Festil, though he now went by Marek, the Torenthi form of his name, and was accorded the title of

prince among his Torenthi kinsmen. The House of Festil was descended from a cadet branch of the

Torenthi royal line—Deryni, all—and Torenth had provided troops for Ariella's unsuccessful attempt

to take back the throne lost by her brother. Following her death in that endeavor, her son and

heir had been brought up among the Deryni princes of Torenth, biding his time until conditions

were right to make his own try for his parents' throne. Prince Marek now was twenty-three, a year

older than his Haldane rival in Rhemuth, recently married to a sister of the King of Torenth and

lately the father of a son by her.

"I would think it very likely that Marek is, indeed, behind this," Tammaron said thoughtfully.

"Having said that, however, I am not altogether certain we can assume that this is a serious bid

to take back the crown. Marek is yet unblooded. He has an heir, but just the one; and many's the

infant that dies young."

"Yet Culliecairn has been taken," Manfred pointed out.

"Yes, but I suspect Miklos has done it on Marek's behalf," Tammaron countered. "And I seriously

doubt that King Arion supports it. He certainly doesn't want a war with us right now, because he

hasn't got adult heirs yet either.

"No, I would guess this to be a drawing action, almost a field exercise, to see what we'll do.

Marek hasn't the support to make a full-scale invasion and won't until his heir is of age. I think

he wants to flex his muscles and size up his enemy— and perhaps test to see whether it's true,

that the King of Gwynedd is not his own man."

"Which means," Hubert said, "that the king must be seen to be his own man, and a competent one,

by riding with an expeditionary force to free Culliecairn. I'll grant that there is some small

risk, if he should take it in his head to actually try to lead," he added, at the looks of

objection forming on several faces. "On the other hand, he knows full well that if he should meet

his death in such a campaign—for whatever reason— young Owain would become the next king, with the

certainty of an actual and open regency until the boy reaches his majority."

"I can't say I'd mind a ten-year regency," Manfred said, grinning as he leaned back in his

chair.

"No, but the queen would," Tammaron said. "And she'd sit on the regency council by right. Would

her brother sit as well, Hubert? He's the boy's uncle; it's customary."

"The king, ah, has been persuaded not to name his brother-in-law to the regency council,"

Hubert said, pretending to study a well-manicured thumbnail. "Something about concern for the

young man's health, I believe—the strain of the office, and so forth."

"And it won't be a strain to keep him on at court?" Rhun said archly. "If I'd had my way, he

would have been killed six years ago."

Hubert favored the younger man with a droll smile. "Fortunately for him, dear Rhun, you were

away supervising another killing at the time. But rest assured that Sir Cathan understands the

precarious nature of his position and will do nothing to jeopardize his access to his sister. Nor

will she do anything that might endanger his life—or even worse, from her perspective, force us to

forbid her access to her son. So long as both of them maintain the utmost discretion and

circumspection, I am content that Cathan Drummond should remain in the royal household, if only

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for the sake of appearances. Besides that, his presence reassures the queen, who will bear

stronger princes if her mind is at ease. ’Tis a small enough inconvenience, I think—and one that

is open to immediate reassessment, if either of them should abuse the privilege."

Rhun snorted and shook his head. "I'd still rather he were dead."

"That's as may be, but at very least, nothing must happen to him during the queen's pregnancy.

Do I make myself quite clear?"

"You do."

"Good. Because whatever else happens, she carries the second Haldane heir, our backup for

Prince Owain. Worry about that, if you insist upon worrying about something. Whether or not the

king survives this current crisis, Michaela could die in childbed—or worse, the child might die.

And if the king should die, whether on a campaign into Eastmarch or as a result of his own folly,

the shock could cause her to miscarry again; it happened before."

"Aye," Tammaron breathed. "So all Haldane hopes ultimately hang on one small four-year-old."

"Precisely. For that reason, and to prevent the boy being brought untimely to the crown, I

rather think that the king, his lady wife, and her brother will continue to do whatever we require

of them."

Hubert's words brought nods of agreement. That the king was a devoted father was hardly any

secret, but of the five men seated around the council table, the archbishop perhaps knew the king

best of any of them. Though Tammaron and Rhun had been among the original regents appointed to

rule Gwynedd during the minority of King Alroy, Rhys Michael's sickly eldest brother, it was

Hubert who, because of his office, had been in a unique position both to interact with the three

Haldane princes himself and to require detailed reporting from the priests who were the princes'

teachers and confessors.

Nor had his influence ended with the end of the regency. For it was also Hubert who, with

Paulin of Ramos, had been responsible for the plot that eventually put Rhys Michael on the throne.

Accordingly, Hubert's opinion held weight in proportion to his physical size, among these men who

shared with him the governing of Gwynedd.

"Well, then," Manfred said, "I suppose we'd better let the king receive Prince Miklos' herald."

"Indeed, yes," Hubert replied. "I'd already informed him of the news from Eastmarch. Before

court is convened, I shall be certain that he understands both the political and personal

implications of any independent action he might contemplate and that he knows precisely what is

expected of him."

chapter Two

Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.

—I Corinthians 15:34

Following Hubert's second briefing, the king could harbour no illusions regarding what was

expected of him. As he dressed for Court, however, he reflected that he probably understood the

implications of the coming audience far better than any of his great lords supposed.

Still a little stunned, nonetheless, he considered his situation as he crossed the fronts of a

clean white shirt his body squire had just put on him, stuffing the tails into the waist of close-

fitting black breeches and then holding out his arms for the sleeves to be fastened at the wrists.

At least the afternoon was mild, not at all like that other June, when his brother Alroy lay

dying and his brother Javan had come back to Court, forever changing the destiny of the fourteen-

year-old Prince Rhys Michael Alister Haldane. Seven years had passed since then, and Rhys Michael

had been king for six of them—king in name, at least.

For now he knew, though he had not wanted to believe it at the time, that Javan's own great

lords had conspired to be rid of him, the king they could not control, and to set Rhys Michael in

his place. It had cost the youngest of the Haldane princes his innocence and the lives of his

brother and the child who would have been his own firstborn son. It had also cost him his freedom

for the future and sentenced whatever further progeny he might engender to a life dictated by the

great lords. As King Rhys, he now came and went at their behest, all but worn down by the

intervening years of subjugation, both physical and mental, with even the thought of further

resistance almost battered into resignation and acceptance of what they required, if he wished to

survive.

This latest development might not set too well with their long-range plans, though. Already, a

faint pang of hope had flared in his breast, where he had thought all chance of deliverance nearly

stifled.

He had a fair idea what the waiting Torenthi herald would say, based on Hubert's briefing and

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the news brought earlier by the Eastmarch messengers. The seizure of Culliecairn, with its castle

and garrison and town, could not be tolerated. Culliecairn guarded the Torenth-side entrance to

the Coldoire Pass, the most direct route through the northern Rhelljan Mountains between Eastmarch

and the Torenthi Duchy of Tolan. Hubert had already mentioned the likelihood of an immediate

campaign to free Culliecairn, even conceding that it probably would be necessary for Rhys Michael

to go along. The king had been forbidden to make any official commitment without first clearing it

with his advisors—which rankled, as such constraints always did; but the developing scenario also

reminded Rhys Michael most pointedly that he was still an anointed king.

At least they had never forbidden him to look like a king. Indeed, they demanded it, whenever

they trotted him out for some state occasion that required his official presence. The great lords

approved of keeping up appearances. The body squire kneeling at his feet had given his boots a

final buff with a soft cloth and now was buckling golden spurs to his heels.

"Beg pardon, Sire," his senior aide murmured, easing past the squire with a plain white belt in

his hands.

Faintly bemused, the king lifted both arms away from his sides to allow it. Dark-haired and

dark-eyed, Sir Fulk Fitz-Arthur was several years his junior, obliging and loyal enough in most

things, but loyal first to his father, Lord Tammaron, if pushed to a choice. Rhys Michael tried to

avoid forcing that choice whenever possible, for he honestly liked Fulk and sensed that the liking

was mutual; but not for an instant did he believe that mere fondness might make Fulk overlook

forbidden deviations from what the great lords permitted.

Far more certain was the loyalty of his other aide, who was shaking out a scarlet over-robe

over in the better light of an open window. A year younger than Fulk, and brother to Rhys

Michael's beloved Michaela, Sir Cathan Drummond had been a towheaded squire of twelve on that

awful day of the coup, witness to much of the slaughter, nearly a victim himself, and as helpless

as Rhys Michael to prevent any of it.

Fortunately, the great lords had stopped short of killing the queen's brother the way they had

so many others of those loyal to the Haldanes. After several months' confinement following the

coup, upon giving his solemn oath never to speak of what he had witnessed that day, Cathan had

been permitted to return to the royal household, the token member actually to be chosen by the new

king and queen and the only person, other than themselves, on whom they could always and utterly

rely.

It had not taken Cathan long to discover what he must do in order to stay alive, even if he was

the queen's brother. Grudgingly permitted to resume his training in arms, as well as the gentler

accomplishments expected of noble young men headed toward knighthood, he had quickly learned not

to do too well at anything that might suggest a threat to those who were the true masters at

Rhemuth Castle. His eventual knighting, the previous Twelfth Night, had been one of the few acts

as king that Rhys Michael had performed gladly, of his own volition. Permission to appoint Cathan

as a second aide had been an unexpected dividend of the evening, though the king suspected

expediency rather than charity to have been Hubert's motive. Now a belted knight as well as

brother to the queen, Cathan was least apt to cause trouble if he continued directly in the royal

household, where he could be watched. It kept Cathan himself under scrutiny, but at least it

allowed Rhys Michael an adult confidant and ally besides his wife.

As if sensing the king's fond gaze upon him, Cathan came smiling now to lay the scarlet over-

robe around his sovereign's shoulders. The fronts were stiff with gold embroidery, as were the

wide cuffs of the sleeves, and the broad clasp Cathan snapped closed across the chest resembled

the morse of a bishop's cope. He had pinned to the robe's left shoulder a large, fist-sized brooch

with the golden lion of Gwynedd embossed upon it, the background inlaid in crimson

enamel—Michaela's gift to the king on the birth of little Prince Owain. For the three of them, it

had come to symbolize their hopes of a House of Haldane no longer fettered by the great lords.

Blessing Cathan for having thought of it, especially today, Rhys Michael let his fingertips

brush the brooch in passing as he adjusted the hang of a flowing sleeve, knowing Cathan would

catch the significance. Fulk had turned away briefly to fetch a burnished metal mirror, so missed

the gesture entirely.

"A good choice, Sire," Fulk declared, as he angled the mirror to reflect the royal image.

"Yes, I thought so."

Critically the king studied the overall effect, nervously ruffling one hand through the short-

cropped black cap of his hair as he turned to view himself from several angles. He would have

preferred to wear his hair longer, perhaps pulled back in a queue or braid, but for some reason

the great lords insisted that he keep it short—almost clerical in its severity, though without the

shaved tonsure. He had often wondered why— further assertion of their control over every aspect of

his life, he suspected. But it sometimes had occurred to him to wonder whether they thought that,

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file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/HC03%20Bastard%20Prince.txtDiscoverthewholefamilyofTheHeirsofSaintCamber:THEHARROWINGOFGWYNEDDKINGJAVAN'SYEARROYALBLOOD"No!"RhysMichaelcriedweakly,instinctivelytryingtojerkaway,e\venasPolidorusreleasedtheligaturethatkepthisbloodfromflowing."Nooooo!”hegroaned...

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