“Let this blade stand in the place of the great sword carried by your father, by which blade I was knighted nearly twenty years ago,” he said softly. “Swear upon it, that you will be a good and faithful knight and a true king to your people.”
Placing his hands flat on the blade over Jason’s, Javan murmured, “I swear it, so help me God,” and bent to touch his lips to the steel between. Then, as Jason raised the blade before him, himself kissing the cross-hilt before preparing to deliver the accolade, Javan joined his hands again and bowed his head.
“Javan Jashan Urien Haldane,” Jason said, as the right hands of the other knights came to rest lightly on his hand that held the sword. “I dub thee a knight, in the name of the Father”—the blade dipped to touch Javan’s right shoulder, cold steel against warm flesh—“and of the Son”—the blade arched over Javan’s head to touch his other shoulder—“and of the Holy Spirit.”
The blade moved a third time, touching the flat to the crown of Javan’s bowed head, cold against the shaved circle of the tonsure that could not grow out fast enough to satisfy Javan—though he did not spurn the true Master he had served during his years in seminary, as God’s knight; only the humans who had tried to force his compliance to a vocation he did not feel, that they might deprive him of his birthright.
The sword lifted. Tears were glittering in Javan’s eyes as he raised them to Jason’s and to those of the other four who had laid hands on the sword with which he was knighted. And as Jason sheathed his blade, Javan had to clear his throat before he could whisper “Amen.”
“Rise now, Sir Javan Haldane,” Jason said, holding out a right hand to him. “And I think that Sir Charlan should be the one to put the belt on him, since he’s the youngest among us.”
Charlan smiled as Jason pulled the white leather off his shoulder and held it out, but shook his head.
“Nay, Sir Jason, you should do it,” he said. “Not only are you senior among us, but you made the belt. And you helped him buy the leather for that first belt that never got made.”
Robear gave a nod. “He’s right, Jason. You should do it.”
Sighing, but obviously pleased, Jason raised an eyebrow and glanced at the rest of them for confirmation, then slipped the ring end of the belt around Javan’s narrow waist without further demur, drawing the end through the ring to snug it up, then passing the end up behind the belt and down through the loop thus formed. When he had adjusted it to his liking, he went to his knees and took Javan’s right hand, pressing its back to his lips in homage before releasing it to offer up his own joined palms in the gesture of fealty.
“My king and liege,” he said. “I am your man of life and limb and earthly worship. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk. So help me God.”
The others were going to their knees even as Jason said it, likewise lifting up their hands, and Javan’s hands were trembling as he enclosed Jason’s between his. In the emotion of the moment, he could not remember the exact words he was supposed to respond, but he knew the sense of what they wanted to hear.
“I receive your faith and truth and I pledge my faith and truth in return,” he said. “Insofar as such grace is given me, I promise to be a true liege to all of you, to protect and defend you with all my heart and with all my strength and with all my might. So help me God.”
Jason bowed to touch his forehead to their joined hands then. Javan was moving on to clasp Robear’s hands when a brisk knock on the outer door shattered the solemnity of the moment.
Instantly Jason was on his feet and moving toward the door, signalling them to finish. Briskly, but careful not to hurry, Javan took the fealty of Robear, then of the three younger knights, lifting one finger to his lips and retreating to his stool as he heard voices in the outer room. Charlan came with him, bending to remove the telltale white belt. He had it shielded behind his body, coiling it up again, when Jason and Bertrand entered, with the Healer Oriel between them.
“I’m told that you asked to see Master Oriel,” Jason said carefully. “That your foot was giving you some trouble, after your ride. Bertrand has brought him, as you requested.”
Carefully Javan drew breath. After the emotional experience of his knighting, he felt drained—or perhaps it was Oriel’s fatigue-banishing spell giving out. The knights had given him their unqualified trust, as one of them. Now, perhaps, it was time to trust them just a little.
“Yes, I did ask to see Master Oriel,” he said quietly, restraining a yawn. “He was my Healer after Tavis O’Neill left court, and he risked a great deal to keep me apprised of my brother’s condition after I was sent to the seminary. Without his personal courage and support last night, I doubt that Rhys Michael would have had the courage to summon me against the wishes of the great lords.”
As Rhys Michael shook his head in agreement, wide-eyed, the knights glanced uncomfortably among themselves, several of them casting covert glances at Javan’s foot.
“You must forgive us, Sire,” Robear said. “We accept whatever limitations your foot may cause you, but we do not know what they are. I don’t believe anyone realized that you needed a Healer’s attention.”
“I’m afraid I misled you,” Javan said, “and for that I apologize. It wasn’t really my foot I called him for. A long ride after long absence from a horse will always have its cost, but what I really need is some sleep, before I face the Council. One doesn’t get much sleep in a monastery, and you know what last night was like. An hour of Healer’s sleep is better than half a night’s ordinary sleep. I trust him to do only what I ask of him. Will you trust him as well?”
Sorle, dark and quick and handsome, cast a suspicious glance over the Deryni.
“Is he not the creature of the great lords, Sire?” he said. “Of Earl Tammaron and Archbishop Hubert?”
“Oriel, answer him,” Javan said.
Trembling, Oriel locked his eyes on Sorle’s, looking very young and vulnerable.
“Those are the masters I am forced to serve, my lord,” he whispered, “because my wife and daughter are held as hostage. I have seen the cost to other Deryni who did not do as they were told. When the great lords still were regents, I watched them order Declan Carmody’s family killed before his very eyes. Some in this room saw it as well, and how the regents then took Declan’s life by slow torture. They will do the same to me and mine if I defy them openly.”
“And yet Master Oriel has freely given me aid,” Javan said. “I trust his integrity, be he Deryni or not. In return, I will not put him in a position in which he must openly choose between me and those who hold his family hostage. Even coming here now could put him at risk, as the great lords will know that I am conferring with those who support me. Fortunately, they’re probably conferring, too, and I hope will not miss him. But I must not keep him overlong and I do need his services.”
A heavy yawn took him this time without him being able to prevent it, and he glanced at Oriel and got to his feet. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. Robear, can I ask you to handle whatever arrangements need to be made in the next hour or so?”
“The main thing is who should be asked to attend the Council,” Robear replied. “And security arrangements. The great lords may take exception to what you did this morning, once they’ve had a chance to think about it.”
Javan had been slowly heading back toward the sleeping chamber as he listened, making a point of walking as boldly as he could without his supportive boot, hardly limping at all, but the mere sight of the curtained bed in the corner of the room reminded him just how exhausted he was. “I throw myself on your good judgment, Robear. Summon the ones you think will work best for me and make arrangements to secure the castle against whatever kind of internal insurrection the former regents might think to try.” He shook his head as a huge yawn claimed his attention.
“I’m sorry. Charlan, wake me when it’s time to dress and go back down. And feel free to continue using these rooms. I assure you
, I shan’t hear a thing.”
As Charlan drew the others out of the room, shepherding them back toward the window embrasure, Javan swung his legs up on the bed and lay back on the pillows with a sigh, shifting a little aside so that Oriel could sit on the edge beside him.
“Thank you for coming and thank you for what you said in there,” he murmured. “You told them just what you ought to have.”
Oriel gave him a taut smile. “I had little choice, did I, after you’d committed me?”
Grimacing, Javan rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “We all have our charades to play, Oriel. At least if they know you’re on my side, for whatever reason, they’ll be inclined to protect you. I intend to do what I can, as I promised you several years ago, but I can’t be everywhere at once. Especially not for a while.”
Oriel allowed himself a resigned shrug. “No matter. For now, it’s enough that they mean well by you.” He glanced down at Javan’s foot. “Is your foot bothering you, or was that really part of the ruse to get me here, as you told them?”
Javan flexed the foot and winced. “As I said, a ride like last night, after so long a time away from horses, does have its price. But I can live with that. You promised me Healer’s sleep. I think I can spare about an hour.”
Oriel nodded and set his hands to either side of Javan’s head, thumbs pressed to the temples. “An hour will certainly help—though two would be better. May I take you really deep?”
Javan drew a deep breath and closed his eyes as he let it out. “Do what you think is best,” he whispered.
“Thank you.”
Javan could feel the Healer’s mind questing at his shields, and he let them fall away, confident that Oriel would not take advantage.
“Let yourself float now,” the Healer murmured, pushing sleep before him as his mind came into Javan’s. It was like a wave of dark water, cool and all embracing, and Javan let it carry him deep, deeper …
“That’s right,” Oriel whispered. “Rather than set a specific length of time, I’ll leave you to sleep on until Charlan rouses you. If he’s kind, you could pick up an extra quarter hour or so. And I’ll see what I can do with that foot before I leave …”
CHAPTER SEVEN
They compassed me about also with words of hatred; and fought against me without a cause.
—Psalms 109:3
By noon, as Javan made his way downstairs to accompany his brother’s body to Saint Hilary’s, he found his fatigue much diminished and his composure considerably restored—though the latter suffered new assaults as he made his way through the great hall among his new subjects, heading with his escort knights toward the door to the courtyard beyond. Sir Robear had counseled him and Rhys Michael not to go back to the sickroom where Alroy had died, but to await the procession on the great hall porch.
Robear was with them now, along with Jason and Charlan, Sorle, Bertrand, and Tomais. The six formed a phalanx around him and Rhys Michael as they moved quietly through the hall, shielding them from physical danger, but he could feel the eyes upon him, assessing, calculating. He held his head high and tried to carry himself like a king.
It was not easy in the heat and got harder when he and his party had gained the great hall porch. The sun beat down on his bare head and dazzled his eyes, making an oven of even the lightweight tunic he wore—though at least with everyone else in somber garments, he did not feel as conspicuous as he had before, or that his own attire proclaimed his former clergy status quite so stridently. He had been pleasantly surprised to discover that the tunic Jason had brought him, though black, was cut with a square neck rather than the standing collar that would have made it so like the clerical garb he had put aside. The loosely woven linen had felt almost cool against his skin when he put it on, though it was not cool just now, standing there in the sun, with the muffled bells of Saint Hilary’s and the cathedral down below tolling out the passing of a king.
He tried to put the heat from his mind as a stir in the hall behind him presaged the approach of the cortege. Some of the courtiers in the hall swept down the steps ahead of it, murmuring among themselves and seeking shelter from the sun in the meager shade of walls, but silence breathed from the hall as the great processional cross from Rhemuth Cathedral emerged from the inner dimness.
It was borne by a crucifer in the full black habit and hooded scapular of the Custodes Fidei, the hood drawn up to obscure his face. Boy acolytes from the cathedral flanked him with processional torches, sweltering in cassocks and surplices, and a thurifer walked behind them, trailing a cloud of pungent incense smoke and contributing to everyone’s discomfort.
Following them came Manfred MacInnis with the sheathed State Sword held before him, and Earl Tammaron with a crimson cushion bearing the State Crown of Gwynedd—the real one, not the scaled-down version they had made to crown a twelve-year-old king.
And behind the crown came Alroy himself, his bier borne on the shoulders of six of his knights, his pale, wasted body laid out with hands folded on the breast of a plain white robe like an alb—perhaps the very one he had worn for the anointing at his sacring. Covering him from the waist down, they had laid a pall of Haldane crimson worked with the royal arms, supple with silken embroidery and appliqué, spilling off the sides and end of the bier and over the shoulders of the knights at that end. Sir Gavin walked beside the bier, head bowed and sword grasped by the blade like a cross.
The two archbishops followed side by side carrying their croziers, both perspiring in heavy black copes and mitres. They paused as the knights carried Alroy down the steps to the castle yard, allowing Javan and Rhys Michael to join the procession directly behind the bier, as chief mourners. The Court began falling in behind the archbishops as the cortege started across the castle yard, silent but for the continued tolling of the bells.
The basilica was crowded and close, as Javan had known it would be, offering respite from the sun but not from the heat. He had known the service would be an ordeal; but the combination of too many candles, too much incense, and too many bodies confined in a space with too little ventilation far exceeded his expectations, especially when he must deal with his grief and the prospects in store for him at the Accession Council. Sweat plastered his tunic to his body and occasionally ran into his eyes, matting his hair to his skull, and the very air was thick and hard to breathe.
Mercifully, the next two hours passed mostly in a blur, as the tone-deaf Archbishop Oriss labored through the sung Requiem with a hastily assembled choir brought up from his cathedral, and Javan knelt dutifully with his remaining brother and their escort of knights at the very front of the basilica. Unremitting sunlight poured through the clerestory windows, raising the temperature in the crowded church and starkly illuminating the black-draped catafalque and its royal burden, paling the flames of the six massive candlesticks around it to insignificance. At the head of the catafalque, the State Crown rested on its crimson cushion in a particularly glaring ray of sunlight, the incense smoke twining among the crosses and leaves. Up on Alroy’s body, though Javan could not see it from where he knelt, Earl Tammaron had laid the Great Sword of Gwynedd atop the Haldane pall, the hilt slipped under the dead king’s folded hands.
Somehow Javan made it through the Mass. After, with his six escort knights in tow, he sought temporary refuge in Rhys Michael’s rooms again, stripping off his tunic to let Charlan sponge him off with cool water and even dunking his head in a basin to cool it. Robear made him eat some bread and cheese and gnaw on a joint of roast capon—and he knew he needed sustenance before going down to face the Council—but he could not summon up much appetite. He did manage to fortify himself with a cup of ale, while he reviewed the list of knights Jason had summoned to the meeting ahead and Jason briefed him on essentials that must be covered. A brief summary of topics needing future investigation or legislation bore closer examination for the future.
When he had dressed again, suffering Charlan’s brief ministrations with a comb, he
let Rhys Michael set a coronet on his head that he had never worn before—a golden circlet hammered with a repoussé of running lions, their legs and tails intertwined. It had been Alroy’s. He looked into the polished metal mirror that Charlan held before him, at the royal diadem set above stark raven hair and eyes that seemed to have gone almost colorless, then drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
“Does that look like a king to you?” he murmured to his brother.
Rhys Michael managed a taut smile and gave him a nod.
“Let’s try it on the Council and see what they think.”
A full two dozen knights in his Haldane livery were waiting for him and his party outside the doors to the Council chamber, all of them armed and battle-ready. Though he recognized one of Udaut’s senior captains among them and apparently in charge, a full third of the men were among those who had accompanied him back from Arx Fidei. Standing to one side of them were a silver-haired stranger and the hook-nosed baron who had come to his defense outside Alroy’s sickroom, both of them in black, both of them wearing swords and daggers. Among a handful of other knights behind them, who were not wearing livery, Javan noticed another man who looked to be a son or younger brother of the bold baron.
“The older man is Lord Jerowen Reynolds, Sire,” Charlan murmured close beside his ear. “The baron is Etienne de Courcy, as you know. And that’s his son toward the back—Sir Guiscard.”
Javan nodded. “I may owe de Courcy my crown,” he said under his breath, studying the man anew. “He’s the lawyer?”
“Aye, my lord. So is Lord Jerowen. He and the de Courcys have been working on draft documents to support that summary you looked at while you ate.”
King Javan’s Year Page 9