“Then let me do something quick and temporary for now,” Oriel said, “and I’ll come to you later this morning and give you an hour of Healer’s sleep.” He reached across the bed to touch Javan’s wrist and assess his condition. “You do need the rest. I don’t think you want to face an Accession Council without it.”
A sinking feeling assailed him. Oriel was right. An Accession Council would have to meet as soon as possible. He could delay it for a few hours, but not beyond the afternoon. And there were arrangements to be made for Alroy’s lying in state—
“You say you can do something quick?” he said.
Nodding, Oriel came around the foot of the bed and set his hands on the new king’s head, thumbs pressing lightly on the eyelids when they closed and fingers cupping up around the temples.
“Relax and think of this as just an ordinary Healing, the way Tavis used to do for you,” the Healer said quietly as Rhys Michael looked up dazedly through his tears. “You’ll feel it as a wave of warmth. You may feel a little dizzy for a few seconds.”
Inhaling deeply and then exhaling, Javan let fall his shields, surrendering to the Healer’s ministrations. Restoration came as a flood, not just a wave, and made his knees start to buckle, so that Oriel had to catch him under the arm to steady him. But as he found his feet again, bracing himself on the bed, he could sense a new clear-headedness.
“It’s called a fatigue-banishing spell,” Oriel murmured, standing back a little to survey him. “Its duration is inversely proportional to the amount of restoration demanded, and it can’t be renewed indefinitely. Also, once it wears off, the bottom is going to drop out quite suddenly, and you’ll seem to feel even more tired than before I did it. But I’ll be back to you by then. This should get you through the next couple of hours.”
Javan nodded, feeling more and more restored as he settled into the spell. “Thank you. I’ll remember this.”
Not smiling, Oriel only glanced pointedly at Hubert, still snoring on his stool on the other side of the room. “Just make certain he doesn’t, or we’re all dead.”
Nodding, Javan looked over at the archbishop, then back at Oriel.
“I’ll take care of Hubert,” he murmured. “Would you blur all of this for Rhysem?”
“Of course.”
Squaring his shoulders, Javan crossed to the snoring archbishop. Very little tampering would be necessary, for him or for Rhys Michael.
“Archbishop, listen to what I say to you,” Javan said quietly, setting a hand on Hubert’s. “You will come with me now. The king is near his end. You have given him the Sacrament, and he received it peacefully. Now he needs only your prayers to speed him on his way.”
The blue eyes fluttered open as Hubert roused, and he gave a little sigh with the effort it cost him to stand. Javan led him to the royal bedside, keeping his controls in place as he released Hubert’s hand and knelt once again. The archbishop stood close behind him, hands folded piously before him, and Javan gently took his brother’s hand and kissed it.
“I will begin the prayers now, Archbishop, and you will join in and carry on,” Javan whispered, “remembering only that the king’s passing was gentle, and that he died in a state of grace.” He drew a deep breath and began.
“Come to his aid, O Saints of God; come forth to meet him, Angels of the Lord, receiving his soul, presenting it to the Most High …”
Blinking, Hubert picked up the versicle, his tone more reverent than Javan had expected, even under control. “May Christ, Who has called you, now receive you, and may the angels bring you to Abraham’s bosom.”
“Receiving his soul,” Javan murmured the response, knowing that it already was so, “presenting it unto the Most High.”
“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”
“And let perpetual light shine upon him,” Javan responded, now joined by Rhys Michael and Oriel.
“From the gates of hell—”
“Save his soul, O Lord,” Javan said strongly.
“May he rest in peace.”
“Amen.”
“Let us pray,” Hubert went on, bowing his head over his folded hands. “O Lord, we commend to Thee the soul of Thy servant Alroy, that when he departs from this world, he may live with Thee. By the grace of Thy merciful love wash away the sins that in human frailty he has committed in the conduct of his life. Through Christ our Lord—”
“Amen,” the others responded.
Javan, trusting that Alroy was indeed now in the hands of God, slowly got to his feet and, as Hubert looked at him sharply, took the ring once again from his dead brother’s hand and slid it onto his own finger beside his silver signet. Before he could do more, Rhys Michael reached across and took the hand, murmuring “My liege” as he bent pointedly to kiss it in fealty. Ducking his head and throwing caution to the winds, Oriel did the same.
Hubert simply looked on in amazement for several seconds—Javan with no idea what he was going to do, for he was no longer controlled—then ducked his head to Javan in what might be interpreted as a bow.
“You have made your decision then,” the archbishop said, his blue eyes hard and cold. “You will have an earthly crown rather than a heavenly one.”
“I hope that eventually I shall have both,” Javan replied quietly. “But in conscience, I could not refuse my duty to my House.”
As Oriel quietly drew the sheet over Alroy’s face, trying to be invisible, Hubert heaved a heavy sigh and gestured toward the door.
“Very well, then,” he said, resignation in his voice. “Come with me, and I shall—announce your accession to the lords assembled outside—Sire. And may God have mercy on us all.”
CHAPTER FIVE
For thou hast maintained my right and cause.
—Psalms 9:4
The close oppressiveness of the summer morning was all around Javan as he and Rhys Michael followed Hubert toward the door. Beyond that door lay the first of the great lords who, henceforth, would demand all Javan’s attention. His palms were sweating, his pulse pounding in his ears. He made himself take a deep breath as Hubert swung the door wide.
Conversation ceased. The room beyond now held more than a score of black-clad figures, half again the number who had been there before. Robert Oriss, the Archbishop of Rhemuth, had joined the secular lords, along with Constable Udaut and several other officers of the royal household. They stood back as Hubert moved into the room, but their eyes were for the two Haldane princes, one of them now surely their king.
Javan had his hands clasped behind him as he and a very shaken-looking Rhys Michael followed Hubert in, so no one could see that Javan now wore the Ring of Fire—or that his hands were clasped to keep them from trembling—but Charlan noticed the Eye of Rom right away. He would have gone to his knees then and there, but Javan caught his eye and gave him a minute shake of his head, deeming it better to let Hubert make the announcement.
“My lords,” Hubert said quietly, folding his hands across his ample waist, “I ask you, of your charity, to pray for the soul of our late sovereign lord, King Alroy.” He crossed himself heavily as he said, “Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine.”
“Et lux perpetua luceat ei,” the others murmured brokenly, dropping to their knees in twos and threes to follow the lead of Javan and Rhys Michael.
“Offerentes eam in conspectu Altissimi. Kyrie eleison.”
“Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.”
Hubert led them in a Pater Noster then, followed by another exchange invoking eternal rest and perpetual light upon the soul of the departed king.
“Requiescat in pace,” he concluded. May he rest in peace.
To which all of them answered, “Amen.”
As they all got to their feet again, all attention returned to the two princes—and then shifted to a dark, hook-nosed man in burgundy, wearing a baron’s coronet and a chain of minor office, who moved suddenly forward several steps, thumbs hooked in his sword belt, looking predatory.
“Does my Lord Archb
ishop have a statement regarding the succession?” he said bluntly.
Hubert looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat nervously several times. “Regarding the passing of our late sovereign lord, the High and Mighty Prince Alroy Bearand Brion Haldane, lately our king. It—was his will, and that of his father before him, that if he died without issue, his brother should succeed him.”
“That his brother Javan should succeed him,” the baron corrected, turning to Tammaron. “Is that not so, my Lord Chancellor? Or do the laws of primogeniture no longer prevail within this realm?”
“Now, see here!” Iver MacInnis objected. “Rhys Michael was to be the next king!”
“I do not recall asking your opinion, my lord!” the baron said, rounding briefly on Iver, hand moving to the hilt of his sword. “I have asked the Lord Chancellor, whose place it is to know the laws of this land. I pray you answer, my Lord Tammaron. Do the laws of primogeniture still apply in Gwynedd or do they not?”
Tammaron, obviously wishing anyone else would have dealt with the question, stepped forward and cleared his throat. “It is—true that, by primogeniture, Prince Javan unquestionably is the heir. However, I was given to understand that there was some question of—stepping aside, in light of a religious vocation?”
As he looked hopefully, almost pleadingly, at Javan, the new king made a point of folding his arms on his chest so that the Ring of Fire was clearly visible beside his Haldane signet.
“Let us lay that fantasy aside from the outset, my Lord Chancellor,” he said. “As his Grace the Archbishop will surely attest, my trial of a religious vocation has entailed only simple vows, which are temporary. Even were they permanent, such vows can be dispensed, as was done for my father. I am ready to take up my crown.”
“And I, to support him!” Rhys Michael cried, seizing Javan’s hand and dropping to one knee to kiss it. “The king is dead. Long live King Javan!”
“Long live King Javan!” Charlan responded, echoed by the other young knights, who drew their swords in salute and brandished them as Javan’s name became a chant, daring anyone to gainsay them. The baron who had come to Javan’s support was among the first to kneel with them, a grim look of satisfaction on his face, followed by the household officers and gradually the great lords who were present, until every knee in the room had bent except Hubert’s, who bowed to kiss the royal hand as the chanting died away.
In the silence that followed, Javan inclined his head to the archbishop, raised up his brother, then gestured a little self-consciously for the rest to rise. The Ring of Fire glinted on his left hand, and its sparkle reminded him of what he was trying to take on, even if not all his audience were entirely convinced. As they got to their feet, a few of them exchanging dubious glances, he hooked his thumbs in the front of his belt to keep the ring in their sight—and to keep his hands from shaking.
“I thank you, my lords,” he said. “In the interests of the heat, and the long night most of us have spent, I shall be brief for now.” He drew a deep breath, heartened when no one seemed disposed to interrupt—though he knew it was not over yet.
“First of all, regarding the final disposition of the late king, my brother.” He had forced himself to think about this moment on the ride from Arx Fidei and had made inquiries of Charlan and some of the other knights when they stopped to change horses.
“I have decided that my brother shall lie at Saint Hilary’s until his funeral. The Chapel Royal is too small,” he added, to quell the objections several started to raise. “Saint Hilary’s possesses sufficient size and dignity for a royal lying-in-state, and was often my brother’s favored place of worship. In addition, Saint Hilary’s being within the outer wards of the castle, it is accessible both to the Court and to those good folk of Rhemuth city who may wish to come and pay their respects. I shall ask Sir Gavin, who was his squire, to organize a guard of honor to escort his body thence at noon, at which time and place I should like a Solemn Requiem sung for him.”
At his somewhat tentative glance at the archbishops, Hubert gave him a forbearing nod, but Javan suspected he had not heard the last from Hubert MacInnis.
“Following Mass, a vigil guard will be mounted through the rest of today and tonight and throughout tomorrow. I should like the funeral to take place at noon on the following day.”
“So soon?” someone murmured in the back of the room.
“For shame!” someone else muttered.
“His father lay in state for a full week,” a surly voice said from the left side of the room.
Javan bit back the sharp retort that almost escaped his lips and took a deep breath instead.
“His father died in February, when heat was not a factor,” he said pointedly to the left side of the room. “Or has everyone forgotten the heat? I have not.”
“But his Highness apparently has forgotten that the day after tomorrow is a Sunday,” Archbishop Oriss said blandly. “Of course, if he truly wishes a funeral to be held on the Lord’s Day, against custom …”
Javan felt a dull shiver of dismay knot in his gut. He had made his first mistake. Not a serious one, but he knew it would be used to fuel further recalcitrance if he did not defuse it right now.
“I thank your Grace for the correction,” he said quietly, inclining his head in an attitude of apology. “Not having slept last night, I had lost track of the day. Monday, then. Specific arrangements for the funeral itself can be worked out in the next day or two. I shall value your input in that regard, my Lord Archbishop.”
Oriss was too well bred to gloat openly, but others in the room were not. Javan tried to ignore them as he turned his mind to the other topic he must address.
“My second instruction concerns the continuation of government,” he said. “To that end, I desire that an Accession Council be convened immediately after Mass. Earl Tammaron, as Chancellor, if you would be so good as to summon the officers of the late king’s Council, I shall inform those additional persons I wish to attend.”
Tammaron looked worried, but inclined his head in agreement.
“Thank you.” Javan drew a careful breath, still scanning them, and decided it was time to make a tactful retreat. “If you will excuse me, then, my lords, gentlemen. I need a bath and some rest. I have ridden hard and slept not at all this past night, to be at my brother’s bedside. I shall return before noon to escort my brother’s body to the chapel. Should I be needed before then, you may find me in the apartments of my brother Rhys Michael.”
He headed for the door without further ceremony, Charlan leading and Rhys Michael flanking him. His audience parted before him, most of them granting him at least token signs of respect, many simply watching with stony resentment.
The baron who had spoken up in his support gave him an inclination of his head and backed off a few paces as their eyes met. Javan could not recall seeing him at Court before. He looked to be in his late forties, clean-shaven, but with grey threaded through the jet-black hair; a powerful man, still in his prime.
Just beyond him, the constable, Lord Udaut, was moving on into the corridor just ahead of the king and his party, surprising Javan as he turned to sketch a perfunctory bow as Javan came through the door.
“Sire, I shan’t keep you long,” he murmured as Javan looked him up and down. He was known to be a cool-headed professional and a survivor. He had been Constable of Gwynedd since the time of Javan’s father, though other officers of the Crown had come and gone. As constable, he was also in charge of security wherever the royal household lodged—which meant that his loyalty could well make the difference of whether or not Javan survived, regardless of the dozen young knights of Javan’s earlier escort, drawn up as an honor guard in the corridor behind him.
“Lord Udaut,” Javan said cautiously. “What is it you wished to say?”
“Only that I had no part in what went on in there,” Udaut replied, gesturing past Javan with his chin. “You are my rightful sovereign and liege. As your constable, I intend to keep your p
erson and this castle secure against any who would say otherwise.”
Javan allowed himself a faint sigh of relief and offered Udaut his hand. “Thank you, my lord. Your loyalty is more welcome than you can know.”
“My liege,” Udaut murmured as he ducked to kiss the royal hand. Then he was setting his hand on the hilt of his sword with a nod and easing his way through the waiting courtiers and knights in the direction of the great hall.
Charlan had stepped aside with Sir Gavin during Javan’s exchange with his constable and was relaying the new king’s instructions regarding the guard of honor. As Javan moved on into the corridor, Rhys Michael sticking close by his side, he acknowledged the salute of his escort knights with a nod, also summoning Bertrand de Ville to his side with a glance. Two more of the knights accompanied him, slipping quietly but pointedly behind Javan and Rhys Michael to insulate them from the occupants of the anteroom.
“Well, Udaut is with us,” Javan murmured to Bertrand, resisting the impulse to look back over his shoulder. “But tell me, who was the baron who spoke in my behalf?”
“Etienne de Courcy, Sire,” Bertrand replied promptly. “His lands are in the south, near Mooryn.”
“De Courcy,” Javan repeated. The name stirred a memory somewhere, but he could not quite pin it down. “What’s his function?”
“Chancellor’s staff, I think, sir. Something to do with the law. I only know his son.” Bertrand paused. “Do you want me to bring him over?”
“No, not now. I really do need to get some rest.” Charlan was finishing with Gavin, starting to look as if he were ready to move out, and Rhys Michael had drifted farther into the corridor. “There’s something you can do for me, though,” he said, setting himself to Truth-Read the younger man’s response. “I’d like you to keep it as quiet as possible.”
Bertrand gave him an eager nod. “You know you can rely on me, Sire.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve asked Master Oriel to come to me as soon as he can break away from here, probably in an hour or so. I’d prefer that Hubert and the others don’t know, but I need to see him. My—foot needs some attention,” he lied. “I’m afraid I may have overdone a bit, riding here in such haste.”
King Javan’s Year Page 7