King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  As for the rest, he knew he was stuck with some of them, at least. The two archbishops held their seats by right of their ecclesiastical offices, so they could not be dismissed. Hubert, though personally despicable, might be controllable in the long term. Oriss pretty much did as he was told, by whomever was in power.

  Javan also meant to retain Tammaron and even Manfred, at least for the present, for they had useful skills in governing and had shown themselves able to adapt to Javan’s change of their plans with at least a little grace. Besides that, Tammaron generally had been kind to Javan and his brothers, even when Rhun and Murdoch were at their worst; and Manfred had proven himself a reasonably able Earl Marshal—though Javan would want to find out whether any other reason lay behind his replacement by Albertus, other than the clergy contingent of the Council wanting that office in the hands of one of their own.

  A more promising retention was Lord Udaut, who had already demonstrated his loyalty. He was able and innocuous, rarely causing controversy, and had served as constable under Javan’s father as well as under Alroy. And of course Rhys Michael would stay—automatically entitled to a seat as the heir presumptive and being now of age to sit in his own right.

  That left five Council lords still to be reckoned with, who had not yet arrived in Rhemuth. Baron Hildred would present no difficulties—a bandy-legged little man far more interested in horses than in politics, a friend in the past and hopefully to continue as such in the future.

  Nor was Fane Fitz-Arthur likely to cause any trouble. He was Tammaron’s son and heir, but he also had made a brilliant political marriage with the heiress of Cassan and was only rarely seen at Court. Under the terms of Prince Ambert Quinnell’s original settlement before the marriage, Cassan was to become a duchy under Gwynedd upon the death of its last prince, with Fane and the Princess Anne to become duke and duchess. A codicil added three years ago, after the birth of Anne’s first son, had shifted the ducal succession directly to the boy they christened Tambert, for his two grandfathers. Technically, Fane and the boy’s mother would become co-regents until Tambert came of age, but in fact Fane would wield a duke’s power during his son’s minority. It was almost as good as being regent for a king.

  On a smaller scale, Lord Bonner Sinclair was similarly occupied with his own affairs, now that he was Earl of Tarleton—though he would support his father, now known as Lord Albertus, if things got really bad.

  That accounted for everyone except the two Custodes men and Rhun and Murdoch. Javan did not want to end up with any of them on his Council, though he supposed he could live with Paulin and Albertus for a time, if he must, judging it better to have them where he knew what they were doing rather than off plotting and scheming behind his back. They might do that anyway, once they realized he planned to begin reversing the legislation against Deryni, but at least he had a better chance of thwarting them if he kept them under observation. Rhun and Murdoch were an altogether different proposition, and very dangerous.

  Still, that left Javan room for half a dozen appointments of his own choice—though he must speak with the men in private and sound them out before making any final decisions. So once he had established his authority—and released Oriel to return to his duties, for he knew the old guard would chafe at the continued presence of a Deryni, with its potential unmasking of the social and diplomatic lies that made a meeting like this at least seem to run smoothly—he kept the remainder of that first Council meeting short.

  The only other matter of immediate urgency was to agree on details of the state funeral on Monday. Alroy’s death had not been sudden or unexpected, so much of the general planning was already in place—and Alroy himself had confided certain wishes to Rhys Michael, which Javan stated flatly would be carried out as the late king his brother had wished. Javan managed not to let himself get too caught up in the discussion, or to let Rhys Michael get too upset, so it was the work of less than an hour to resolve the remaining agenda. He flatly refused to discuss even the date of his coronation until the next meeting, which he set for the following Tuesday.

  “I must bury my brother first,” he told them when Oriss pressed him. “Can you not grant me that, at least?”

  It was a tense moment, in which he found himself very close to tears, but Oriss backed down and no one else chose to pursue the issue.

  “I thank you, then, for your attendance, gentlemen,” he said briskly, hoping he could now make his escape. “I trust you will excuse me if I do not dine with the court this evening, but the day has been long. Anyone desiring to speak with me tomorrow may request an appointment through Sir Jason.”

  He returned the Haldane sword to its sheath as he stood, aware of them scrambling uncertainly to their feet, and gave them a nod of acknowledgment before retiring with his supporters, the sheathed sword carried casually at his side. The sun was sinking low in the western sky as he made his way this time to Alroy’s former apartments, now made ready for his occupancy, where Charlan had arranged for a light supper to be laid in the little presence chamber adjoining the royal bedroom. The room soon became crowded and was still very warm, but no one seemed to mind.

  Nor did anyone seem to be particularly interested in eating. A fair amount of wine was consumed, but no one got even mildly inebriated. Without any apparent discussion beforehand, those present made of the gathering an impromptu working session, each man taking a few minutes to introduce himself to the new king, if not already known, and acquaint him with particular talents and resources and family connections that might be especially useful. Javan had Charlan take careful notes, for he knew that the last twenty-four hours were starting to catch up with him. Oriel came to tend his wounded hand at one point, but did nothing to alleviate his drowsiness this time.

  “I wouldn’t try to stay awake too late, Sire,” he said as he pushed aside the basin in which he had washed out the cuts before healing them. “A good night’s rest is what you need most. Have them come back in the morning, when you’ve slept.”

  The admonition was hardly necessary, for Javan was tiring fast. When Oriel had gone, he picked at some cheese and fruit and drank some well-watered wine, which helped a little, but his yawns were becoming wider and closer together, however hard he tried to stifle them. Still, he managed to learn a fair amount about some of the men who were staking so much on his cause.

  Lord Jerowen Reynolds and Baron Etienne de Courcy he found of particular interest, the better he got to know them, and decided then and there that he would have them on his Council. A little later, when Robear began shooing everyone out so the new king could get some sleep, de Courcy lingered for a private word.

  “I’ll ask only a moment of your time, my liege,” he said as the others filtered past him to go their separate ways. “I know you must be exhausted after the day you’ve had, but it’s rather important—and confidential.”

  Making little attempt to cover another yawn—everyone thought that what he had to say was important—Javan took up a candlestick from among several on the mantel and resignedly drew the baron back into the relative privacy of the bedroom, though he left the door open.

  “You can see the state I’m in, my lord, so I trust that this is important.”

  The baron smiled, dark eyes hawk-fierce above the aquiline nose. “You are my rightful king, my liege,” he murmured. “I and my family wish only to serve you as honestly and as fully as we may.”

  Javan nodded politely around another yawn and set the candlestick on a small table, wishing Etienne would get to the point. Though his sleepiness was the honest fatigue of an intense day, not the urgent winding down of a fatigue-banishing spell, the end effect was much the same: Bed was calling.

  “That is why I come to you with this information, my prince,” the baron went on, taking Javan’s left hand in his and cupping the other over the Ring of Fire, looking Javan in the eyes. “Sometime tomorrow, I hope—I cannot tell you just when—my son Guiscard will endeavor to bring you a message I believe you are eagerly a
waiting—though you may not yet have realized that such a message was possible and so quickly.”

  Suddenly Javan felt a surge against his shields—not an assault, but an enfolding—the brief feather-touch of another mind on his. As he gasped and started back, instantly wide awake, staring at Etienne in some surprise, the older man smiled faintly and clasped his hands more firmly around Javan’s.

  “You are in no danger, my prince.”

  “But—who sent you?” Javan demanded, daring a tentative probe and encountering close-shuttered Deryni shields. “Was it—”

  “No names just now, Sire,” Etienne murmured, shaking his head, “but Read the truth of what I say. I know that you can do this. I am your man to command. I will lay down my life for you if need be—and more, if I must. My son will do the same; you may call upon either of us to do whatever you need done. At this time I ask only that when Guiscard requests an audience, no matter when that might be, you leave instructions to admit him—and listen to what he has to say. It will be well worth your while.”

  Every word was true. Javan knew that as surely as he knew that he had the ability to discern such truth. And Etienne de Courcy was Deryni—though how a baron had managed to keep that fact a secret, Javan had no idea.

  “Your—son will come to me?” Javan murmured numbly, searching Etienne’s eyes.

  “Aye, my liege. Guiscard.” Etienne bent to kiss the hand he held. “Now may God grant you restful sleep, my prince. If you have need of me during the night, you have only to send for me. Sir Charlan knows where I am lodged.”

  With that he was drawing back to bow, turning to leave. A host of unanswered questions churned in Javan’s mind as he watched him go, and he flinched when Rhys Michael came up to him and touched his shoulder in concern.

  “Is anything wrong?” Rhys Michael asked, glancing worriedly after the departing back of Etienne de Courcy as he disappeared through the outer door.

  “No, nothing’s wrong,” Javan murmured. “I’m tired, is all.”

  “What did de Courcy want?”

  “Oh, just to assure me again of his loyalty,” Javan said vaguely, breaking into another gigantic yawn that he almost feared would dislocate his jaw. “Sweet Jesu,” he murmured when he could see properly again. “If I don’t get into that bed soon, someone is going to have to carry me there.”

  Rubbing at his eyes and fighting back a wave of impending sleep, he limped and stumbled over to the great, canopied bed and climbed up on it. Rhys Michael came with him, lending a hand when Javan bent to begin unbuckling his boots.

  “Who’s staying here tonight, do you know?” Javan asked as he let one boot fall to the floor with a thud.

  “Charlan and Bertrand, at least,” Rhys Michael replied. “And probably either Jason or Robear. Do you want me to stay as well?”

  Javan tried to unbuckle his belt and think about it at the same time, but could not seem to make either brain or fingers engage properly.

  “I’m not sure whether that’s a good or a bad idea,” he said around another yawn as Rhys Michael tugged off the other boot. “I annoyed some powerful men today. If someone decided to be rid of the annoyance, I’m not sure this is a good place to be. On the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t try, if you’re here. Do you want to stay?”

  Rhys Michael nodded, the whites of his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “I’m scared, Javan. There’s so much going on. I really don’t know whether this is going to work or not. But I don’t want to sleep by myself tonight.”

  “Come on up then, little brother,” Javan said with a smile, patting the bed beside him. “I don’t think I particularly want to sleep by myself either.”

  When Charlan came in a few minutes later to turn back the bed, he found them both fast asleep already, Javan sprawled full length on his back, looking more unconscious than merely asleep, and Rhys Michael scrunched up in a ball close by his side, with his face half buried in the crook of an arm.

  Shaking his head and smiling, Charlan beckoned for Bertrand to fetch in a pallet, himself bringing the Haldane sword to lay across the pegs at the head of the bed where it customarily lay while the king slept. The doors to the balcony were open to admit what breeze there was, and Bertrand unrolled his pallet across the opening; Jason was arranging another in the adjacent presence chamber, and Robear had already taken up a post outside the outer door.

  With this assurance that a proper guard had been mounted, Charlan closed the door between the two rooms and set a chair against it, moving then to the balcony doors, where Bertrand was preparing to lie down, naked sword on the floor beside his pallet. Bertrand said, “You don’t mind taking the first watch?”

  Charlan shook his head. “I used to keep vigil with him in the chapel, when I was his squire,” he said, glancing back at the bed where the two brothers slept. “Sometimes I dozed off; sometimes he dozed off; sometimes we both did. I won’t doze off tonight, though, I promise you.”

  Bertrand chuckled softly. “He hadn’t yet gotten to his pious phase when I was his squire. I guess you didn’t realize it was all an act, at the time.”

  “I’m not sure it was,” Charlan said thoughtfully. “Not entirely, at any rate. But I’ll certainly grant you that at least part of it was in aid of a rather shrewd plan for survival. Where better to spend these last few years than in the safety of a cloister? He’s also gotten himself quite an education—in more ways than just from books.”

  “Hmmm, I suppose he has,” Bertrand replied. “I have to say, I wouldn’t have had the guts to do what he’s done—especially not starting at thirteen. He may turn out to be a rather impressive king.”

  “Aye, he may that,” Charlan murmured. “But you’d better get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

  Grunting amused acquiescence, Bertrand lay back and closed his eyes, and was snoring softly by the time Charlan had extinguished all but two of the candles in the room and tiptoed back to take up his post in the chair against the door.

  Elsewhere in Rhemuth Castle, in the quarters allocated to Earl Manfred MacInnis when he was in residence, reaction to the day’s events had not yet yielded to sleep.

  “Udaut has always been a king’s man, whoever the king,” Earl Tammaron was saying to the other five men crowded into Manfred’s solar. Udaut was not among them. “I wasn’t really surprised that he went over to Javan. I was surprised to see how quickly Javan managed to rally so many of the younger knights to his support. If the boy had really gotten the bit in his teeth, we all could have ended up in custody or worse.”

  “No one expected him to take such initiative so quickly,” Paulin replied. “I confess, it had not occurred to me that he would force the issue of his vows so soon, by bringing in Master Oriel.”

  “Yes, it does bode ill that his first thought was to summon Deryni assistance when challenged,” Hubert said thoughtfully. “He’s repeatedly denied ongoing contact with any of the Deryni who used to be his associates, but that may have been as false as his apparent willingness to embrace the religious life. The last two days have proven how wrong I was about that.”

  “Recriminations serve no purpose,” Paulin said.

  “No, but I fear that my misjudgment of the situation may have complicated the problem beyond what some of these gentlemen are aware,” Hubert went on. “For the last three years, we have allowed him to steep himself in the most rigorous intellectual and spiritual discipline we could devise, in hopes that academic challenge and the habits of monastic obedience might permanently wean him away from thoughts of secular involvement. Unfortunately, the same discipline that encourages strong spiritual formation can also encourage the kind of independent thinking that will make him dangerous as king. It was a gamble that seemed reasonable at the time—and might have worked, if Alroy had lived longer.”

  “Well, he didn’t,” Paulin said, ever practical. “And in letter of the law, no matter how much we might wish otherwise, Javan is the rightful heir. We can work with that for now, while other plans g
o forward. The formalities of his brother’s funeral will occupy much of his attention for the next few days. While he is thus focused, we must make it our business to learn as much as we can of his intentions, his methods, his strengths and weaknesses.”

  “Well, youth and lack of practical experience should hamper him,” Oriss observed. “Intellectually, he may well prove a formidable adversary—as we saw this afternoon—but if it comes to a physical confrontation, he’s still only sixteen.”

  “I’ve known some reasonably formidable sixteen-year-olds,” Manfred muttered. “That array he’d gathered outside the Council chamber today was no mean accomplishment for someone who’s been away from Court for three years.”

  “Yes, and they’re mostly under thirty and unseasoned,” Albertus said dismissively. “Fortunately for us, this kingdom hasn’t had a war recently enough to train up the young ones. He has a few men who know what they’re doing—Udaut himself and some of his senior captains, and Sir Jason and Sir Robear—but their numbers are small and their experience somewhat limited.”

  “As is Javan’s,” Hubert interjected. “Three years behind a cloister wall may inadvertently have given him the academic preparation for rule, but at least it’s kept him from the physical exercise and training that might have made a warrior of another sixteen-year-old. In a word, he is soft; and his clubfoot will continue to be a handicap.”

  Some of the others nodded and murmured among themselves, but Tammaron muttered, “Don’t count on it.”

  “What was that?” Archbishop Oriss asked.

  “I said, ‘Don’t count on the foot slowing him down much,’” Tammaron repeated, sweeping them with his eyes. “He wasn’t limping nearly as much as I expected, even after the hard ride from Arx Fidei. In the old days, that could have laid him up for days, even with a Healer’s attention. The cloister factor may not be that important.”

  “Limping less still won’t give him the martial training that would make him a real physical threat,” Albertus pointed out.