For an instant Kenneth did not move; nor did the man above, who paused with hand to ear and bow-arm still extended, face obscured by his hood.

But then the bow-arm slowly lowered, the other hand pushing back the hood from bright blue eyes and chestnut hair sleeked back in a braided warrior’s knot. Looking grimly satisfied, Kenneth’s savior inclined his head in a graceful bow, then jutted his chin beyond Kenneth, where Jamyl’s desperate knife-fight had shifted onto the floor. The hand that the man raised in salute and leave-taking, just before he stepped back from the gallery’s parapet, was marked at the wrist with a tattooed cross.

Chapter 28

«Then they brought out the king’s son, and put upon him the crown».[29]

Even as his unexpected rescuer’s identity registered, Kenneth was squirming upright, sword somehow still miraculously in his hand, searching wildly for the king and Duke Richard. He spotted them farther back in the nave, where they had followed Kenneth’s example by throwing themselves to the floor at the threat of magic, and were picking themselves up. Bishop Faxon and several monks helping them to their feet, all solicitous. Relief washed over him in a wave, but it was not complete. The direct and immediate threat to the king might be neutralized, but Jamyl…

Fearing the worst, he staggered in the direction he had last seen the squire, but Jamyl’s fight was over, his body all but hidden beneath that of his much larger opponent. There was blood on the floor around the pair: a great deal of it.

Heartsick, Kenneth started to reach for the body on top, to drag it clear, then jerked back as the man moved. To his relief, the vague movement proved to come not from the larger man, but from Jamyl himself, trying to squirm out from under.

«Jesu, he’s heavy!» Jamyl’s head emerged from under the dead-weight of the other man, profound relief in his eyes as he saw Kenneth cautiously stretching out his sword to prod the body on top.

«He’s also quite dead, m’lord. Can you help me get him off?»

At once Kenneth laid aside his sword and scrambled closer to grab a handful of the dead man’s clothing and heave him clear of Jamyl, who was breathing raggedly and covered with blood.

«Christ, he is heavy!»

«He felt like a horse on my chest», Jamyl gasped, struggling to sit up. «He’s wearing a breast and back, and steel vambraces — which didn’t leave me much in the way of targets».

Together they heaved the dead man onto his back, where the cause of his death became immediately evident. The hilt of a Haldane squire’s dagger was protruding from under the man’s chin, its blade driven up through the jaw and into the brain. The man appeared to be the one Kenneth had chased down the nave and lost.

«Well, at least you got him», Kenneth muttered. «He got away from me».

Behind him, the sound of running footsteps told of further company about to arrive, and monks were beginning to creep from their hiding places and venture closer, now that the danger appeared to be past. Meanwhile, Kenneth was making his own assessment of Jamyl’s condition, prodding tentatively at a great bloody rent in the younger man’s sleeve.

«Is any of that blood his, or is it mostly yours?» As he said it, he glanced up at the gallery behind them, but he could see no sign of Sé Trelawney. If others had seen him, it was likely they had taken him for one of the lancer archers.

Jamyl winced as he made his own inspection of his wounded arm, grimacing as his hand came away red.

«Mmm, mostly mine, I’m afraid, though some of it probably comes from that fellow».

He nodded toward the nearest of the other men sprawled in the vicinity, who wore a cowled monk’s robe like the others. The man appeared to be breathing, but his face was covered with blood from a deep cut that sliced from the bridge of his nose downward past the right-hand corner of his mouth.

«Another nasty friend, eh?» Kenneth retorted, tight-jawed, as he reached for his sword.

But Jamyl grabbed urgently at Kenneth’s hand with his bloodied one and shook his head, the blue-violet eyes engaging Kenneth’s as they had up in the gallery — though this time, no compulsion accompanied the intensity of his gaze.

«He is not one of them, my lord», Jamyl said very deliberately. «He is…an associate».

«An associate?» Kenneth repeated. «What kind of…»

«Not now, my lord!» Jamyl whispered, casting an anxious glance beyond Kenneth, for Richard and the king were nearly upon them, both with swords in their fists, and Bishop Faxon Howard not far behind.

Do not betray me! came Jamyl’s further plea, as he collapsed back, moaning, though his double-squeeze of Kenneth’s hand told Kenneth that the moan was more for effect than an indication of real discomfort.

«Jamyl!» Brion cried, sheathing his sword as he pressed between the gathering monks to approach. Richard was heading on to check the other body, its features charred beyond recognition and an arrow through its throat. «Is he all right? And who the devil is that?» he added, pointing at the dead man with a Haldane squire’s dagger protruding from underneath his chin.

«I don’t know, Sire», Jamyl said baldly before Kenneth could answer. «He was attacking one of the monks as I came down from the galleries», he added, jutting his chin in the direction of his wounded «associate». «When I tried to intervene, he attacked me».

«See to both of them», Bishop Faxon ordered, beckoning toward some of the other clergy personnel hovering nearby. «And see whether any of the others are alive».

«It looks like one of our archers got this one», Richard said, prodding the other dead man with a toe. «Sweet Jesu, how did he get so burned? Look at his hand and face!»

«He was Deryni, my lord!» said one of the monks, who came scurrying from behind a nearby column. «Look!» He pointed toward the damaged wall, with its singed and pocked mortar. «Praise God, that your man was able to stop him!»

Later inquiry among the remaining Haldane lancers never revealed just who had shot the arrow that stopped the man, and none of the archbishop’s guards ever admitted to it. Nor did Kenneth enlighten them. But he knew beyond any doubt that he, and quite possibly the king, owed their lives to the timely intervention of Sir Sé Trelawney.

Later that evening, with Jamyl patched up and mobile, if looking a bit peaked, Kenneth Morgan was obliged to give a fuller reckoning to the king and his uncle regarding what had happened that day in the cathedral. Sitting after supper with Brion and Duke Richard — but not the new archbishop or any of his associates — Kenneth chose his words carefully, very aware of the need to protect the secret identity of his erstwhile ally, who was excused from serving table on account of his injury, but installed nonetheless in a chair by the fire, his injured arm supported in a sling to ease his wound. He had long before decided that he would not mention Sé. He did not know what connection there might be between the Anviller knight and the squire sitting across the table from them, but he knew he must protect both of them, if at all possible.

«There is really very little to tell, beyond what you already know», Kenneth said, topping up Duke Richard’s cup and then his own when Brion passed a hand over his own cup and shook his head. Jamyl was still nursing his initial cup, along with his wounded arm, and likewise declined.

«I met up with Jamyl after you sent me to stand-down the archers, up in the clerestory galleries, and we found Milo Guthrie dead». That much was true. «I sent Jamyl across to the other side while I took Milo’s bow and continued forward — and saw the two men drawing down on the two of you. So I shot the first one and rushed the second; I’d only the one arrow, but I’d known I’d only have time for one shot, if there was more treachery».