King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Can’t Oriel help?” Charlan said, trying not to look as if he suspected what Javan was really driving at.

  “I’m already counting on his support—though I don’t intend to tell him about it until closer to time. It was probably a tactical error to let him see his wife and daughter before this was settled. That may have put him under closer scrutiny, especially now that Sitric is back at Court. I’m sure that Rhun will have the two Deryni sniffers spying on one another. As for what I need, the other person doesn’t have to be another Deryni.”

  “How about your brother, then?” Charlan ventured.

  Javan shook his head. “He doesn’t know anything about any of this. Besides, if something should go wrong—well, I daren’t risk my heir.”

  He would not look at Charlan. He knew that Charlan knew what he was suggesting. And when Charlan finally said, very softly, “How about me, then?” Javan allowed himself to breathe a faint sigh of relief.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Let us examine him with despitefulness and torture, that we may know his meekness …

  —Wisdom of Solomon 2:19

  They spoke for another quarter hour as Javan tried to explain to Charlan what he thought would be involved.

  “I can’t tell you exactly, because I don’t know myself, but I’ve been assured you won’t come to any harm. If it’s any consolation, I don’t know what will be done to me, either.”

  “You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Sire,” Charlan said. “And you don’t really need to explain—especially since it’s clear you can’t, since you don’t know, either. It may be anybody’s guess which of us will be more terrified, on the given night, but I would never shrink from my duty to my prince, just because I was afraid. What kind of knight would do that?”

  “Not your kind, that’s obvious,” Javan said, smiling as he clapped a hand to Charlan’s shoulder. “Thank you, Charlan.”

  “It is truly my honor, my prince,” Charlan whispered, his eyes not leaving Javan’s. “Could I—ask you one favor, though?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I—don’t want you to think I have any doubts, either about you or myself, but could you—make me forget all of this we’ve spoken about tonight, until it’s time to actually do it?”

  Closing his eyes briefly, Javan smiled and nodded. “Of course. I only wish someone could do the same for me.”

  Before either of them could change his mind, Javan laid his hand on Charlan’s and went into his mind, making the required adjustments and inserting memory of another conversation he had been meaning to have with him anyway.

  “So I’m going to be appointing you as my principal aide,” he said as he brought the young knight back. “That’s been your function anyway; you should have the recognition. And much as I appreciate the fact that you’ve been squiring for me these past few weeks, we really should think about a proper squire to do the drudge work part of it, at least. Any suggestions?”

  Charlan picked up his cup and sipped from it thoughtfully, not missing a beat.

  “Well, you don’t want any of the sons of the lords who want your guts for garters,” he said candidly. “That eliminates the obvious choices, like Cashel Murdoch or either of Earl Tammaron’s boys. I think Lord Jerowen has a grandson about the right age. Or how about young Cathan Drummond?”

  “Hmmm, not a popular choice.”

  “Only because he isn’t the son of one of the great lords.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “They say he’s a bright lad,” Charlan went on. “He was a bit young when he started, but he’s been functioning as a junior squire for several years now, mainly for Rhys Michael. I think he must be coming twelve by now, so he’s about ready for a proper appointment. And his pretty sister’s a maid-in-waiting to Tammaron’s countess. By the way, did you know that your brother fancies her?”

  “Michaela?” Javan said, astonished. “Pretty? Rhys Michael?”

  When Charlan only cocked an eyebrow at him and shrugged, smiling, Javan said, “You’re not joking, are you? Of course you’re not. Good Lord, I saw him near her after the funeral, but that’s ridiculous. They’re both still children.”

  “Think again, Sire. She’s thirteen. Your brother will be fifteen come Michaelmas. He’s been legally of age for nearly a year. I know that you’re aware of the potential danger if either of you should produce an heir before your reign is stabilized, but that may not have occurred to your brother—and I’m sure none of the great lords have pointed it out to him. Politically, I’m afraid the prince is a little naive.”

  “I still can’t believe it.” Javan paused a beat. “What exactly do you mean when you say he ‘fancies’ her? He hasn’t done anything improper, has he?”

  Charlan grinned and shook his head. “If you mean, has he lured her into his bed, or wheedled his way into hers, I’d guess that he hasn’t. Someone would have noticed, and servants gossip. But he’s certainly old enough to be thinking about a wife—a fact of life that may have slipped your mind, whilst vowed to celibacy.”

  Javan could feel himself going scarlet and looked away in some embarrassment. “It hadn’t slipped my mind,” he said softly. “It isn’t that celibates don’t know about passions of the flesh, Charlan. It’s that they don’t indulge them. There’s a—discipline they allow in many abbeys to subdue those passions—fairly common, I understand. They call it minution. It means that they bleed you—and then they let you stay in the infirmary for two or three days to recover, with dietary restrictions and fasting set aside. It keeps the blood low, in more than just the literal sense. An abbot who permits it four to six times a year is considered a great benefactor.”

  “I suppose that’s one way to subdue the ‘passions of the flesh,’” Charlan said gravely, nodding. “And—ah—how often did the Abbot of Arx Fidei permit it?”

  Javan allowed himself a sheepish laugh. “Oh, he was a very great benefactor,” he said. “Every six to eight weeks—though I suspect its purpose was as much to keep general resistance down as to subdue the flesh. The Custodes don’t much approve of independent thinking. Fortunately, that particular discipline wasn’t mandatory—other than once, to experience its ‘benefits.’”

  “They did that to you?” Charlan asked, amazed.

  “Just the once. The Rule required it. I suppose it’s also one of the first serious tests of the vow of obedience. I’d just turned fourteen.” Javan leaned his head against the stone behind him, trying to distance himself from the memory.

  “They open a vein in your arm. I’m told they hold you down if you try to resist. They let you bleed into a special bowl with an indentation in the side to accommodate your arm. They take quite a lot—though some of the other seminarians told me later that the first time is always the worst. I wouldn’t know about that, but the one time was bad enough.”

  “Did they hold you down?” Charlan asked.

  “No.” Javan picked up his cup and looked at it distractedly. “Fighting it wouldn’t have made any difference. I suppose I valued my princely dignity too much to give them that satisfaction. I came near to fainting, though, near the end. If they’d wanted to, they could have been rid of one inconvenient prince right then and there, and there wouldn’t have been a thing I could do about it. I think they wanted me to know that. I spent a week in the infirmary, recovering. At least the food was good.”

  He tossed off the rest of his wine then, drawing a deep, shuddering breath as he set the cup aside and wiped his sleeve across his mouth, suddenly weary.

  “Anyway, that’s past now,” he said, getting to his feet. “Just another instance of how something meant to be benign can be misused.” He sighed. “I suppose we both ought to think about getting some sleep. Thank you for the recommendations on squires—and the caution about Rhysem and Michaela. I’ll give both matters serious thought.”

  To Javan’s surprise, considering the fears and the memories he had stirred up in his conversations both with Guiscard and with Charlan, he
slept as soon as his head hit the pillow and did not dream. The next morning, after early Mass in the Chapel Royal, he submitted to final fittings for his coronation robes while he wolfed down a light breakfast on his feet, then spent the remainder of the morning riding with the royal lancers who would provide his mounted escort on Coronation Day. The pleasant gallop along the shady riverbank provided welcome distraction from the increasing strictures on his freedom, but he found no opportunity to speak to his brother in private.

  Noon found him back in the great hall, standing in one of the wide window embrasures with Charlan, Jerowen, Robear, and several more of the younger knights, most of them in various stages of finishing off a midday repast, as the king was doing. Rhys Michael was sitting on one of the stone benches, crunching on an apple—in royal blue today, rather than black, for official mourning was over, the coronation hardly a week away.

  The knights’ talk was of formations and harness and a critique of the lancers they had just left, Jerowen questioning some minor point of protocol regarding order of march on coronation day. Robear expressed doubt about the fitness of one of the men who was reported badly hung over. A bit bored by it all, Javan found himself wandering over to gaze down at the rose garden, a tankard of ale in one hand and the last of a chunk of cheese-smeared bread in the other. He was restless, despite having just returned from his ride.

  At least he felt more like a king today. He supposed he might even be starting to look like one. Being still uncrowned, it was not yet appropriate for him to don Haldane crimson, but the full-sleeved white tunic belted over dark-grey breeches at least broke him away from funereal or clerical black. His leather hunting cap was black, but worked with gold embroidery around the crown to suggest a coronet—and covered up his still growing out tonsure. His belt was the same plain black one he had worn from the abbey, but the handsome pouch and hunting dagger hanging from it declared him a young man of some substance. Since they must ride back down to the cathedral in little more than an hour for a rehearsal, he still wore spurs.

  He sighed as the conversation behind him shifted to horses, and favorable comments about a new stallion Baron Hildred had just brought in from the Forcinn and planned to ride in the coronation procession. He tried not to think about the rest of the day—about keeping an even temper as he dealt with Hubert and Oriss, and probably Paulin and Albertus as well, down at the cathedral.

  After that, there was a required appearance at supper in the great hall that evening, informal but still requiring him to be on show. And Rhun and Murdoch and their cronies were almost certain to be present, still smouldering in their resentment at having been outmaneuvered by a stripling king, watching him like hungry vultures.

  Gazing down at the serenity of the castle gardens as they shimmered in the noonday heat, Javan found himself recalling the sweet seclusion of the cloister. For all the fear and danger of his days at Arx Fidei, the nightly retreats to the garden had provided a spiritual oasis. He popped the rest of his bread into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of ale, then set the tankard aside and moved farther into the embrasure, dusting crumbs off his hands before pushing one of the mullioned windows wider. The fruity-sweet scent of roses and honeysuckle came tumbling over the windowsill with the breath of breeze the opening admitted, and he inhaled of it with delight.

  “Have you been down to the gardens since your return, Sire?” Robear asked, noting his longing. “You do have time to go down for a few minutes if you wish.”

  “Do I?” Javan breathed. “I think I will, then. God, I’d forgotten how beautiful they are.”

  Smiling indulgently, Robear gave Charlan a faint nod. “Then go, by all means, Sire. I think we can spare you for—say—half an hour. Take Charlan with you.”

  “I’ll come, too,” Rhys Michael said, setting aside his apple core.

  “No, stay and tell me about that new cob you were riding this morning,” Robear said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him before. I think your brother wants a little time apart, before plunging back into the day’s activities.”

  “Oh, all right,” Rhys Michael murmured.

  “Another time, Rhysem,” Javan said, smiling gratefully as he clapped his brother on the shoulder in passing. He still wanted a private word with his brother about Michaela, but it could wait until later. “I’m not even going to let Charlan stay with me, other than to lurk nearby and make certain nobody else wants me to solve some problem.”

  The others chuckled at that, for Javan himself was smiling, and he and Charlan had nearly made their escape into the stair at the end of the hall when Guiscard emerged from it, accompanied by a slight, grey-haired man in grey fustian.

  “Sire, this is your Master of Works, William of Desse,” Guiscard said as the little man swept off his cap and sketched a deep, nervous bow. “You asked that he be presented at the earliest opportunity.”

  “My Lord King,” the man murmured.

  “Ah, yes. Thank you for interrupting your work, Master William. I understand that I have you to thank for the ongoing restoration work here in the castle.”

  “I pray that the work may meet with your approval, Sire,” the man said, ducking his head.

  “Oh, I’m sure it will. Sir Guiscard tells me that one of the projects involves fitting out a library, somewhere underneath the royal apartments. I wondered if you might show it to me. I fancy I’ve acquired a scholar’s appreciation of books during my years in seminary.”

  The little man’s face lit up. “I would be honored, Sire. Perhaps your Grace would care to see it now?”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t do it justice right now,” Javan said, glancing at Charlan, who shook his head. “How about later this afternoon, after the rehearsal? Have I got time then, Charlan?”

  “Perhaps an hour, Sire,” the young knight replied. “Your presence is expected at supper this evening, and you’ll wish to dress for it.”

  “Yes, of course. Still, I want to see that library. Would that be convenient for you, Master William? Late this afternoon, about the time of Vespers?”

  “It will be my honor, Sire,” the little man murmured as he bowed again, clearly thrilled.

  Javan’s spirits were much restored as he and Charlan continued on down the stair, Guiscard following shortly behind. He hoped that so prompt a presentation of the Master of Works meant that Guiscard had secured approval of the Portal site the night before, which meant—

  Actually, Javan found he preferred not to think about what that meant, because the whole notion of being part of setting up the Portal was more than a little intimidating. He lingered at the entrance to the gardens until Guiscard caught up with them, searching the older man’s face.

  “The site’s approved?” he asked.

  “Aye. Two nights from now. What about—”

  He jerked his head slightly in the direction of Charlan, who had wandered a few yards away and was bending down to inspect a particularly fine rose. Inclining his head slightly, Javan murmured, “He asked not to remember, but he’s in.”

  Guiscard nodded. “Brave lad.” He looked out at the garden. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Actually, I’d come down here to get away from everybody for a few minutes, before we have to go off to the cathedral and face down ecclesiastical dragons. Do you mind waiting with Charlan?”

  “Not at all, Sire.”

  As Guiscard bowed his acquiescence, sitting then in one of the arched openings of the cloister colonnade, Javan moved on into the garden, inhaling the perfume of the roses and heading toward the fountain that marked the crossing of two gravelled paths. It was a more formal fountain than the one at Arx Fidei, with water spilling down from a stone jar held over the shoulder of a kneeling statue of a woman, slightly larger than life size. She was kneeling on a plinth in the center of the fountain, her averted face shaded by the folds of her veil. Javan liked to imagine that she was beautiful.

  In fact, she had no face at all. He and Rhys Michael had climbed up to look, one su
nny summer afternoon a lifetime ago, only to find the face sheared off—whether from exposure to the elements or a more deliberate destruction, no one knew. Javan had questioned the gardeners about her, but all they could say was that the statue was very old; no one remembered how ancient.

  Smiling at the memory, Javan waggled the fingers of one hand in the cool water—there were no fish—then set aside his cap and wet both hands to wipe across his face and into the open neck of his tunic. The crunching of footsteps on gravel behind him warned that this brief respite was about to be interrupted, but he spared another sluicing of cool water over his hair and down the back of his neck before turning to see two figures in Custodes black approaching.

  Squinting against the sun—and resenting the intrusion, especially by Custodes—Javan scooped up his cap and put it back on. The wide crimson sash and the crimson-lined mantle flaring behind the first of the intruders identified him as Paulin—which explained why Charlan and Guiscard were following meekly behind and doing nothing to stop them—but the other wore the monastic dress of an ordinary Custodes priest, hands tucked into the flowing black sleeves. The man’s head was bowed in the shadows of the hood pulled up from a stiffened black scapular like the one Javan had left beside another fountain at Arx Fidei. They were almost up to him before Javan realized the priest was Father Faelan.

  “I have brought the king his new confessor, as requested,” Paulin said without preamble, though he favored Javan with a slight bow, hands clasped behind him. “Make your duty to his Highness, Father Faelan.”