King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  Along with the other knights, Lord Jerowen and both de Courcys bowed as Javan drew abreast of them.

  “Gentlemen,” Javan said quietly, acknowledging their bows with a nod.

  Before he could say anything further, Jason touched his elbow.

  “We’d best go inside, my liege,” he murmured. “You’ve made the Council cool their heels for nearly half an hour already.”

  Javan managed a wry grin. “If the process has brought them relief from the heat, then I’ve done them a favor, haven’t I?” he murmured, heartened when most of his audience at least smiled and a few even chuckled. “But you’re right. We should go in. Wish me luck, gentlemen.”

  The liveried knights drew back, for they would remain outside unless needed. At Charlan’s signal, Tomais and Bertrand threw open the doors to the Council chamber. The room beyond was cooler, breathing a puff of breeze against Javan’s face and neck as he started forward—or was it a shiver of apprehension? The low murmur of voices gave way immediately to the sound of chairs being pushed back, wood grating against stone, and the hollow scuff of shoes and boots knocking against chair legs, spurs and scabbards ringing against wood and stone.

  Javan refused to let himself be intimidated as he stepped across the threshold. The room was familiar, paneled in golden oak, its vaulted ceiling plastered between the support beams and painted with a starry sky picked out in gilt. A series of deep windows along the left looked out on a vista of sunny garden, with the long table set parallel. To reach the head of the table, he must traverse the full length of the room.

  Taking his time and hardly limping at all, Javan made his way deliberately between the table and the windows, so that his adversaries must view him against the glare. Benches had been set up against the long wall on the other side of the table, and most of his small party headed there, though Charlan and Jason followed directly behind him and Rhys Michael made for the chair at the foot of the table. Earl Tammaron and Archbishop Hubert had been sitting to either side of the high-backed chair with the Haldane arms painted on its back, and they bowed as Javan eased in front of it. The sheathed Sword of State lay on the table with its hilt pointed toward the chair: the sword that had been his father’s—and his brother’s—and was one of the symbols of Haldane sovereignty.

  Javan touched the fingertips of his right hand to his lips, then to the crossing on the sword, where the hilt met the quillons. As he sat, gesturing for the rest to take their seats, he directed his gaze appraisingly across the men gathered ’round the table.

  It was not as bad as he had feared. Neither Murdoch nor Rhun was here—the two men he had least been looking forward to dealing with. Archbishop Oriss and Lord Udaut were seated beyond Earl Tammaron, along the left side of the table. Rhys Michael was at the other end, with Manfred MacInnis at his right.

  But between Manfred and Udaut was a man Javan had last seen more than three years ago, at the institution of the Custodes Fidei. Prior to that, “Brother Albertus” had been Peter Sinclair, Earl of Tarleton; but on that day, having resigned his earldom to his eldest son, he had become Grand Master of the Equites Custodum Fidei—the Knights of the Guardians of the Faith—a poor substitute for Lord Jebediah of Alcara, who had been Grand Master of the Michaelines.

  And across from Albertus sat the man who was directly responsible for the Custodes Fidei, its knights, and indeed, most of the organized persecution of Deryni over the last five years: Paulin of Ramos, who had set aside a bishop’s mitre to become Vicar General of the new Order, and who had been born a Sinclair, the younger brother of Albertus. Both were Tammaron’s stepsons by his wife’s first marriage, though nearly of his generation. Javan had no idea how close they were to their stepfather, but the brothers themselves were said to be thick as thieves. He felt a little sick to see them sitting here, for he had not realized that they were on Alroy’s Council.

  He glanced aside at Charlan, who was settling himself on a stool at Javan’s right, as Jason scooted closer on the left and passed him a written agenda, which Javan laid on the table before him.

  “I thank you for your prompt attendance, gentlemen,” he said, looking down the table. “The Earl Marshal will please convene the Council.”

  He had expected Manfred to stand, for the marshal’s ivory baton lay on the table before him, close by his right hand. But to Javan’s dismay, it was Albertus who rose and took up the baton, shifting it from his left hand to his right to salute the king. Only then did Javan realize that Albertus wore his sword on his right and was left-handed. The Custodes Grand Master reminded Javan of a great, black bird of prey as he addressed the room in a soldier’s voice.

  “My lords, I call to order this first Council of Gwynedd following the death of our late beloved King Alroy Bearand Brion Haldane. Let Justice, tempered by Mercy, prevail in all our judgments. So be it.”

  “So be it,” the others repeated as Albertus folded back into his seat.

  It had not been the prescribed formula. And Albertus’ careful wording to avoid mentioning Javan’s name betokened a challenge that must be met and disarmed immediately, or all was lost.

  “Lord Albertus,” he said, though he raised his voice hardly at all, “I was under the impression that Lord Manfred MacInnis was still Earl Marshal of this kingdom. Furthermore, since this is an Accession Council, I believe it is customary to invoke the name of the present king as well as the late one. If I am mistaken in the first instance, pray, at least correct the second.”

  Slowly and deliberately Paulin, not Albertus, stood, deliberately directing his gaze toward Tammaron, seated at Javan’s left. “My Lord Chancellor, until the matter of the succession is properly settled, Lord Albertus may not comply with Brother Javan’s request, both of them being under vows of obedience to me.”

  Javan felt his jaw clench involuntarily. So that was how they were going to play it—invoking Tammaron’s leadership for the moment and going back to the old question of Javan’s “vows.” Keeping his anger tightly in check, Javan leaned back in his chair and glanced at Tammaron, ready to Truth-Read what was being said.

  “Tammaron, you will not answer him,” he said. “Since Father Paulin was not present earlier today, he was not privy to the exchange in which the temporary nature of my vows was discussed. Such Holy Orders as I took are not an impediment to the crown—only to marriage. Such Orders can be dispensed, as was done for my late father. As for the vows I made with the Custodes Fidei, ask Archbishop Hubert whether I, at any time, indicated a desire or intention that any vows be permanent.”

  Bowing slightly from his place, Paulin smiled and gestured in the direction of a shadowed corner behind him, just inside the door.

  “My wise and generous patron, the Archbishop-Primate of Gwynedd, need not exercise himself to answer this allegation,” he said smoothly. “Anticipating such a change of heart, I have asked Father Marcus Concannon, our Chancellor General in charge of seminaries, to bring along the transcripts of all vows made by Brother Javan since his reception into the Ordo Custodum Fidei. Please refresh Brother Javan’s memory, Father Marcus. I assure you, my lords, the vows are binding, both to celibacy and to withdrawal from the world—and crowns.”

  The black-robed priest who emerged from the shadows behind Paulin looked harmless enough, tonsured head bent humbly and eyes downcast as he shuffled behind Hubert to hand several sheets of vellum to Javan. But as Javan skimmed the text, appalled to read words he had never spoken, subtle changes that most people would not even notice, Jason was snapping his fingers toward the men seated on the benches against the wall.

  “Jerowen, Etienne—”

  The pair he summoned were the two who were trained in the law. Jerowen, the senior of them, also had written documents in hand, and came to spread them on the table beside the ones Javan was reading.

  “I believe these are the vows you made, Sire,” he murmured under his breath, pointing out differences. “You had friends present, who made transcripts immediately after the fact. By my honor I s
wear to you, there was no possibility of error.”

  No possibility—

  “What’s that?” Hubert said, straining to hear, as Javan’s mind raced over the implications—for unless the witness had been Deryni, or questioned afterward by a Deryni … Was Jerowen Deryni?

  He kept his face expressionless as he tried to order his thoughts, keeping his eyes on the pages but questing out with his mind. No, Jerowen was not Deryni; or if he was, his shielding was very, very good.

  But the very thought gave Javan an idea how to resolve this. For his Truth-Reading ability also told him that Jerowen was telling the truth and the sanctimonious Paulin of Ramos was not. He dared not reveal this himself, but there was a Deryni he could call upon who could expose the lie—or even simply threaten to expose it, at Javan’s order—which, in this instance, was just as good.

  “Sir Robear,” he said quietly, beckoning the knight closer to whisper in his ear.

  The knight listened to Javan’s instruction, then nodded, expressionless, and went out. Javan, feigning far more confidence than he felt, returned to his comparison of the two sets of documents.

  “These are very interesting, Father Paulin,” he said, after deciding he would confront the issue directly by engaging the Custodes Vicar General’s attention. “As Archbishop Hubert will surely confirm, I did a great deal of soul-searching and reflection before embarking upon the trial of a religious vocation. Even the decision of a trial was not lightly undertaken, far less the vows themselves. Is it conceivable that I would have taken such vows without being precisely aware of what I was swearing to, especially knowing that my brother was in poor health and might not live to beget an heir?”

  Paulin gazed at him with haughty disdain. “You are your father’s son, Brother Javan. The fire of vocation burned strong in him.”

  “Yet he left his beloved priesthood when royal duty called,” Javan pointed out.

  “Because there was none other to take up that duty!” Paulin retorted. “You have another brother.”

  “Ask him, then, whether I had any intention of stepping aside for him—or he, of superseding me.”

  Before Rhys Michael could reply, or Paulin could ask him to, the doors at the other end of the room parted to readmit Robear, one hand firmly on the elbow of a reluctant and frightened-looking Oriel.

  “Now, see here,” Hubert began as Robear marched the Healer along the window side of the room toward the chairs where archbishop and king sat. “Master Oriel is in the employ of myself and Earl Tammaron—”

  “His services are required for the common good,” Javan replied, sending his instructions to Oriel in a tightly focused burst. “In fact, I may second him to my own service. He has been performing the office of royal Healer for some years now. Or do you object, Archbishop? Earl Tammaron?”

  Not giving them the chance to interrupt him, he went on. “In any case, for now, it’s the truth I mean to get at—nothing more. Father Paulin has questioned my recollection of what vows I made. If a king cannot be trusted to remember what he has promised, and to whom, then he is not fit to be king. Master Oriel, stand here at my right, where Father Marcus and I both can see you, and tell me if he deviates from the truth.”

  He picked up the sheets of vellum Father Marcus had brought and hefted them in his hand, looking directly at the now uneasy-looking priest.

  “Are these accurate transcriptions of vows I made, Father?” he said. “Before you answer, bear in mind that Master Oriel will know if you are lying and will reveal that lie—for those are the terms of oaths he has sworn.”

  Father Marcus had gone a little pale as Javan spoke, and he glanced nervously at Oriel and then at Paulin before replying.

  “I—did not actually make those transcriptions, my lord,” he whispered.

  Clever man, Javan thought, as he glanced at Oriel and the Healer gave a faint nod. He knows the limitations of Truth-Reading and how to avoid the direct lie. Let’s see if we can get around that.

  “Who did make the transcriptions?” Javan asked.

  The priest looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I—imagine that someone who was present must have made them, my lord.”

  Javan’s eyes narrowed. The statement obviously was true, but told him nothing. “Then, who gave you the transcriptions, Father?”

  “I—believe they came from the Chancery Office, my lord.” Again, the priest had avoided the direct answer that might have perjured him.

  “The Chancery Office of your Order?” Javan said patiently.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And do you know from whom in the Chancery Office? Don’t give me a name at this point,” he added. “I just want to know if you know.”

  Defeated, eyes downcast, the priest murmured, “Yes, my lord.”

  Allowing himself a slight nod, Javan prepared to follow up the advantage.

  “Very good. Now, who sent you the transcriptions?” he asked, though by now he was almost certain of the answer.

  “I—would rather not answer that, my lord.”

  “No, I’m sure you’d rather not,” Javan murmured. “Shall I ask your superior to order you to answer, then, Father?” He swung his gaze at last to Paulin, simmering in his chair near the other end of the table. “Or would that perjure both of you?”

  A low gasp murmured through the room, but Javan went on. “How say you, my Lord Vicar General? You were present on every occasion when I made vows. Was it you who sent the transcriptions to Father Marcus and ordered him to present them as authentic?”

  “You may not ask that question,” Paulin muttered.

  “Ah, but I may,” Javan said. “And what can have been your motive? You obviously have been at great pains to keep me from my throne. Do you think my brother more biddable, that you could sway him more easily than I, especially out of gratitude for giving him a crown?”

  “You may not require me to answer those questions,” Paulin said, his voice deadly low.

  “And you have not the authority to tell me what I may or may not ask a subject!” Javan stabbed a trembling forefinger at the vellum pages. “You have prepared, or caused to be prepared, false documentation, in an attempt to render me ineligible for the crown. I swear before almighty God and this assembled company that those are not the vows I made.”

  Coming to his feet, he seized the Haldane sword and drew it from its sheath, handing off the latter to Jason as he kissed the joining of blade and hilt, which contained a holy relic, then reversed it to hold the weapon before him by the blade, like a cross.

  “By this sword which was my father’s, and then my brother’s, by all the line of Haldane kings who have gone before me, by all that I hold sacred—I swear to you that my intention is and has always been to take up my royal and sacred birthright, if my brother Alroy died without issue.

  “What I have done regarding the Ordo Custodum Fidei, I have done to gain respite from those who would have seen me put aside while still of tender years—and so that I might acquire the learning that befits a king. Thus did I prepare myself both to rule, if called to take up the Crown, or to aid my brother, if he, in fact, survived. I freely confess that I did this under false pretenses, without any conviction that I had a genuine religious vocation—but that is a matter between me and my confessor, and not a subject for this Council. I am willing to comply with whatever administrative procedure my Lord Archbishop may deem necessary to dispense me from my clerical state, that I may eventually take up my dynastic duty to secure the succession”—he glanced pointedly at Hubert—“but I stand before you as your lawful king!”

  He spiked the point of the sword hard against the tabletop for emphasis and felt it bite into the wood—and into the fingers of his right hand as it slid a little in his grasp. “Those unwilling to acknowledge that fact have my leave to depart, both from this chamber and from this realm!”

  “Well said!” Rhys Michael blurted, springing to his feet as Jason raised a clenched fist and shouted, “God save King Javan!”

&
nbsp; The cry was taken up at once by Charlan, Jerowen, and Etienne de Courcy, and then by the knights listening from the benches along the wall—Robear, Bertrand, and Tomais—who shot to their feet in fervent support.

  Constable Udaut rose as well, pounding the flat of his hand against the table in acclamation—the only member of the Council Javan had known he could count on—followed reluctantly by Tammaron, Archbishop Oriss, and then even Manfred. Hubert lumbered to his feet as well, followed most reluctantly by the hitherto silent Lord Albertus, who could not have been too comfortable with so many armed and enthusiastic knights at his back. Paulin finally stood, too, but his face was a mask of cold resentment.

  Javan’s heart was pounding as the acclaim died away. As he unclenched his fingers from around the blade of the Haldane sword and made to lower it, he saw blood on his right hand, as he had known he would. His fingers stung as he tentatively straightened them, but fortunately the cuts did not look too bad. Already feeling light-headed from the emotion of the past minutes, he made himself lay the sword quietly back on the table, accepting the handkerchief Robear passed him quite nonchalantly. Even then, he used it to wipe off the blade before casually twisting it around his wounded hand, aware that he could ask Oriel to Heal it but knowing that the Deryni element he himself had introduced must be minimized, now that the immediate crisis seemed past.

  “Please be seated, gentlemen,” he said, himself easing back into his chair.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

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

  Proverbs 16:13

  The meeting that followed was an anticlimax, after its stormy beginning. While Paulin stewed, Albertus coldly reconvened the Council by the proper formula, acknowledging Javan as king, and all the members of the Council present tendered their resignations as was customary—which resignations Javan neither accepted nor declined for the moment, though he longed to dismiss Paulin and Albertus then and there, preferably into the hands of an executioner, not that he dared to do so.