King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  “No, but it was mainly his lack of mobility that ever held him back, when he was still in training,” Manfred replied. “Remember that Murdoch and I used to help supervise the princes’ training. On horseback—and he’s a bold, natural rider—his bladework was more than competent, considering his age—and that was three years ago. He also was better with a bow at thirteen than most of us are ever likely to be, whether mounted or on foot.”

  Albertus snorted. “I’ll concede his horsemanship. And obviously he’s going to be better at all the martial forms as a man than he was as a boy, once he gets back into training. I still don’t see him personally leading any armed movement against us in the very near future. Nor does a bow offer much protection from an enemy who strikes at close quarters, or from behind.”

  “Here, now!” Tammaron said. “I’ll hear none of that. He’s the king.”

  “He is also shaping up to be a very difficult king,” Hubert said testily. “But let’s not be hasty, gentlemen. Lord Albertus, I’ll thank you to restrain such comments in future. Javan is the king and he may wake up to the realities of his situation. Things may not be as bad as we fear. Meanwhile, I suggest that all of us might do well to get some sleep. Keeping up with this particular sixteen-year-old may prove far more taxing than it was to keep up with his brother.”

  But when Oriss and then Tammaron had taken their leave, Hubert gestured for the two Custodes to remain. Paulin cast the archbishop a look of puzzled query as Manfred closed and bolted the door.

  “There is one other thing of which I wished you and Lord Albertus to be aware,” Hubert said quietly, gesturing them back into the room. “Call it a contingency plan.”

  “What sort of a contingency plan?” Paulin asked, exchanging a glance with his brother Albertus.

  “Well, it has occurred to me that if we can’t control the new king, perhaps the next king will prove more biddable.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Archbishop,” Albertus said, “but I hardly think that allowing Rhys Michael to send for Javan was an impressive demonstration of anyone’s ability to control him.”

  “I grant you that,” Hubert said lightly, folding sweaty hands across his ample girth. “So we’ll control his son—his future son,” he amended, at their looks of astonishment and disbelief.

  “I confide to you the secrets of the confessional, dear brothers,” he went on. “Of late, our redoubtable Prince Rhys Michael Haldane has begun to suffer the first agonized stirrings of adolescent passion. The object of his intense infatuation is none other than my brother’s delectable young ward, the Lady Michaela Drummond.”

  Albertus pursed his lips in an almost soundless whistle and glanced at Manfred, obviously aware of the implications of such a match, but Paulin only shook his head.

  “Javan would never approve,” he said flatly.

  “With luck, Javan will never know until it’s too late,” Hubert replied. “I’ve been encouraging the match for more than six months now. Court mourning will put a temporary damper on the actual courtship, but I hope it will also discourage the prince from approaching his brother on the subject of marriage, at least for a while. I’ve—ah—suggested to Rhys Michael that the idea might not be too well received, that Javan’s cloistered life may not have given him an appreciation or understanding of things of the flesh. He might even resent that while he was constrained behind cloister walls, his younger brother has been free to pursue the normal passionate awakenings of young manhood.”

  Paulin was shaking his head and smiling. “You’ve coupled all the insecurities of adolescent longing with all the old assumptions that laymen often make about monastic celibacy, when they don’t really understand what it’s all about.”

  “Well, Rhys Michael is a layman,” Hubert said brightly. “If it keeps him from saying anything to Javan until the subject can’t be avoided any longer—” He shrugged and smiled. “And under the circumstances, I suspect that neither you nor I would have any qualms about solemnizing royal marriage vows after the desired blessed event is on its way.”

  “He won’t be fifteen until September,” Albertus pointed out, “and the prospective bride is even younger, I believe. We may have a bit of a wait.”

  “Aye, but not too long,” Hubert replied with a chuckle. “They’re both healthy youngsters, and I don’t think our prince will be found wanting in enthusiasm. He burns for her. He’s told me so. He can hardly keep his hands off her—and as a priest, I confess that I have been less than conscientious in insisting that he subdue these temptations of the flesh. May I dare to hope that you will give me absolution, Father Paulin?”

  His droll glance in the direction of the Custodes Vicar General produced an answering smile.

  “Ego te absolvo,” Paulin replied.

  Albertus snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “I just hope you can pull this off before Javan finds out. You may have convinced Rhys Michael that it’s ‘better to marry than to burn,’ but Javan will be well aware of the implications, once either of them produces an heir.”

  “So we must keep Javan preoccupied with other matters, until the question becomes academic,” Hubert replied. “It’s doubtful that anything will happen to prevent him being crowned. It’s equally doubtful that he will allow himself to be guided by the wise counsel of his lords of state.

  “I hope I’m wrong. I was fond of the boy; I suppose I still am. But if I’m right, then our contingency plan must be to see that one of the princes—preferably Rhys Michael—produces an heir as quickly as possible. Once the succession is secured—well, accidents do happen to impetuous young men, and crowns sometimes pass unexpectedly to infant heirs, who of course must be guided in their immaturity by experienced regents.”

  He allowed himself a prim smile, his rosebud lips quirking up at the corners in a sly smirk, and as he cast his mild blue gaze over his listeners, the smile slowly was taken up by all three.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A prudent man concealeth knowledge.

  Proverbs 12:23

  The heat woke Javan at midmorning on Saturday, several hours later than he had expected. He was sweating, his tunic clammy against his skin, and his hair was matted to his scalp. His breeches were compressing a very full bladder. Rhys Michael was gone from the bed, but the door to the presence chamber was standing ajar, and Javan could hear voices outside, trying to be quiet.

  He rolled onto his back and looked around the room. The underside of the canopy above the bed was of pale-yellow Forcinn silk shot with gold, and the heavy hangings tied back to either side were a patterned crimson damask, lined with the same gold-shot yellow. An almost life-size Haldane lion was carved in high relief at the head of the bed, the pegs that supported the Haldane sword set so that it appeared the lion was holding it. He reached up and took the sword by its scabbard, bringing it down into the bed with him to cradle the cross-hilt against one cheek. The metal was only faintly cool against his skin.

  I really am king, he thought, one thumb caressing the metal-work at the throat of the scabbard. And what happens now? Father, what did you do to your sons, that night you died? What did you do to me? I need help. I need to know what to do. Joram’s the only one left who was there. I need to see—

  He froze, suddenly remembering the conversation he had had with Etienne de Courcy the night before—Etienne de Courcy, who was Deryni.

  His son is supposed to bring me a message! he thought. That means the son is Deryni, too. Could he be my contact with Joram? Is that how I’m supposed to sort everything out?

  Galvanized into activity by that thought, he sat up and twisted around to put the sword back on its pegs, then inch-wormed himself over to the edge of the bed and off, favoring his lame foot as he got his feet under him. After stripping off his sweaty tunic and tossing it across the foot of the bed, he padded over to the garderobe to relieve himself, then headed for the outer room. Rhys Michael was nowhere to be seen, but Bertrand and Charlan looked up from the remnants of a hearty breakfast at one end
of the table, and Robear and Jason were huddled over several stacks of papers with Jerowen Reynolds and Etienne de Courcy at the other end, Etienne making notations on another page. All of them came to their feet as Javan appeared in the doorway.

  “Good morning, Sire,” Robear said. “I hope you slept well.”

  “Thank you, I did,” Javan replied, suddenly a little awkward to be the center of their obvious respect. “The heat woke me up. Where’s Rhys Michael?”

  “He’s gone back to his own apartments to bathe and change,” Charlan said. “I’ve had a bath brought for you,” he added, gesturing toward a tub set in the window embrasure. “It should be about comfortable by now. I didn’t think you’d want it too hot.”

  “I see. Thank you. Ah, has anyone asked to see me?” he said, chancing a glance at Etienne.

  Etienne gave a minute shake of his head as Jason said, “No, Sire. We’ve been refining some of the documents you glanced at yesterday. We have a draft list of proposed appointments to the Council, whenever you’re ready to look at it.

  “But bathe and get dressed first and have something to eat,” Jason went on. “I’d say that your only obligation today, other than in this room, is to pay a visit to your brother down in the basilica. And I’d recommend waiting until tonight for that, when it’s cooler.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” Javan murmured, going over to cut himself a chunk of cheese.

  Later, when he had bathed and dressed and filled a suddenly gnawing emptiness in his stomach, he settled down dutifully to read what they had written, asking questions, making suggestions, and fretting inwardly as the hours crawled by. Callers came and went, mostly from among the knights who had escorted him back from Arx Fidei, but not the one Javan was waiting for. It was not until midafternoon that Bertrand’s summons to the door revealed the hook-nosed visage of Guiscard de Courcy.

  Javan watched him as he came into the room and went to his father, bending to murmur something in the older man’s ear. Javan affected to still be reading what was in his hands. After a moment, Etienne glanced at him and rose, Guiscard also straightening.

  “Sire, might I have a word with you in private?” Etienne said.

  “Of course.”

  Laying aside his papers, Javan rose and led the way into the sleeping chamber, Etienne and his son following. Etienne closed the door behind them, gesturing for all of them to move into the doorway leading onto the balcony.

  “Sire, this is Sir Guiscard de Courcy, my son,” Etienne said softly. “I don’t believe you’ve formally met.”

  “My liege,” Guiscard murmured.

  He looked to be in his early thirties, perhaps a little younger, dark of hair and eye like his father but with the hook nose slightly softened in the son. Javan could not take his eyes off him.

  “You have a message for me?” he whispered.

  Guiscard made him a little bow, regarding him as well with a hawklike intensity. “Aye, Sire. Tonight, while the castle sleeps, I am to take you to the basilica, to the little study off the sacristy, where you used to go for tutoring from Father Boniface. I’m afraid Father Boniface has died while you were away, but I’ve already ensured that the new man will give us no trouble. Once we have reached there in safety, I’m to take you to a friend.”

  “Father Joram?”

  “Aye.”

  Javan had not realized he was holding his breath as Guiscard spoke, and he let it out with a soft sigh, moving out onto the balcony to rest both hands against the stone railing. He had to wonder how much Guiscard and his father knew about him—though if Joram had entrusted the de Courcys to infiltrate the court and Guiscard to bring him, then they must be trustworthy. At very least, they knew he could Truth-Read—and that he had shields and could detect pressure against them.

  “How do you plan to arrange things for tonight?” he asked, looking out over the heat shimmer that lay across the city.

  Guiscard came to stand closer beside him, leaving his father to block the doorway, in case anyone should come into the sleeping chamber.

  “It’s appropriate for you to go to the basilica tonight to pay your respects to your brother,” Guiscard said quietly. “I shall accompany you. I’ve arranged for my father to be part of the vigil guard at that hour. He’ll be available to help create a diversion, if that’s necessary. Do you agree?”

  A thunderstorm broke the heatwave later that afternoon, darkening the sky several hours earlier than usual and splitting the heavens with thunder, lightning, and heavy rain. After so long a dry spell, it was respite of a sort, but the humidity soared in response to the downpour. The rain let up for a few hours after sunset, but started up again shortly before Javan made ready to go down to the basilica.

  No breeze stirred the gently falling rain, and the air was very heavy and close, but at least the temperature seemed to have dropped a little. It was still too warm for the disguising cloaks Guiscard would have preferred they wear for the night’s foray, but the black of their mourning attire would help to keep them unobtrusive.

  Javan also had suggested that adding a second attendant would arouse less notice than if he went only with Guiscard, whom he barely knew, so Charlan accompanied them. The young knight’s memory could be blurred later, if necessary. Javan had told Guiscard of the controls set in Charlan, but not of their origin. Let the Deryni assume that Joram or one of the others had set those controls; he did not know how much he was supposed to reveal, even to a Deryni apparently sent by Joram.

  They made no secret of their trip to the basilica, for as Guiscard had pointed out, no one would think it odd if the king went late at night to pay his respects to his brother, after the crowds had gone and it was cooler. The three of them entered through the main door and passed quietly down the side aisle to kneel just back from the catafalque on the left. By the unsteady light of the tall funeral brands set three on each side of the bier, Javan could just make out the form of Etienne de Courcy among the four knights standing silent vigil there, their backs to the bier, bare heads bowed over greatswords, hands resting motionless on the quillons. The men wore surcoats of the Haldane livery over their black mourning attire, drabbed by wide black sashes swathed across their chests like baldrics.

  Of Alroy himself, Javan preferred not to think too much. That was not his brother up there anyway. A sheer veil of black samite now draped the body from head to toe, spilling over the crimson pall and deepening the shadows cast by the candlelight. It made Alroy seem smaller. It also softened the very real visual signs of morbidity setting in, though even the lingering perfume of incense smoke could not wholly mask the faint whiff of decay.

  Javan did not stay long, though he made himself go up to the bier and touch his hand to the folded ones under the veil in a final farewell. Alroy would be coffined tomorrow for his final journey down to the cathedral, and Javan would not look upon his twin again.

  He was much subdued as they slipped back out the rear doors, but forced his thoughts from the past to the here and now as he and Guiscard and Charlan flattened themselves into the shadows outside and kept silent for several minutes, to be certain they had not been observed. He had resurrected Charlan’s old controls as they knelt side by side in the basilica, so that the young knight did not question what they did now.

  At Guiscard’s eventual signal, Javan drew Charlan with him along the shadows masking the basilica’s north side until they came to a slype passage leading around to the east end of the building. The little door there was unlocked, and they passed quietly inside, waiting as Guiscard glided on ahead past the sacristy to disappear through a familiar door. A few minutes later Guiscard poked his head out to beckon them inside.

  The little study was much as Javan remembered it, except that Father Boniface’s tilted scrivening table was gone and the man lying on the pallet that had taken its place was not Father Boniface. He wore the habit of the Custodes Fidei, and Guiscard, after closing and latching the door behind them, went and knelt down beside the man again, laying one
hand across the eyes.

  “His name is Father Ascelin,” Guiscard said. “He’s one of the more bastardly of this Custodes lot—attached to the office of the Inquisitor General. I’d love to put him to sleep for good, but that might raise suspicion where there isn’t any, so far.”

  Javan swallowed and came closer. It had never occurred to him that a Deryni might actually be able to do that. The thought was sobering. Fortunately, Guiscard mistook his contemplation for squeamishness and gave him a reassuring smile as he rose from his now deeply sleeping subject.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s only a temptation; I’d never do it—not to a helpless man while he slept.”

  Without warning, his hand shot out to grasp Charlan’s wrist, at the same time seizing control. It was not like when Javan had done it in the past. Charlan’s knees buckled and he started to collapse, eyes rolling up until only the whites showed, fully conscious one second and profoundly unconscious the next. Between them, Javan and Guiscard caught him and eased him to a sitting position on a stool set close beside the darkened hearth, where he could not be seen easily from the door. Javan was surprised and a little resentful of the Deryni’s rather high-handed treatment of Charlan, who hadn’t a mean bone in his body, and chose his words carefully as they straightened from their task.

  “Was that really necessary?” he murmured, looking Guiscard in the eyes.

  “Was what necessary?”

  “He was already set up. All it needed was a nudge.”

  Guiscard raised a dark eyebrow in surprise. “How often have you seen that done?” he asked.

  “Often enough,” Javan replied vaguely. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just that Charlan is a friend. There’s no need to treat him the way—the way you treated the priest, Father—I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his name.”

  “It’s Ascelin,” Guiscard supplied automatically, then shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe I’m letting a human tell me how to use my powers—even a king.”