Not looking up, the priest dropped heavily to both knees on the sharp gravel. Javan almost winced as he offered the priest his hand. What he could see of Faelan’s face looked pale and drawn. “You are most welcome to my household, Father.”
“I am your servant, your Highness,” Faelan whispered.
His hand was trembling as he took Javan’s briefly to brush it with dry lips. In that instant of contact, Javan sensed fear underlying an apprehension almost approaching dread. He covered his own surprise and would have helped Faelan to his feet, but the priest pulled away and lurched back to his feet on his own before Javan could do anything about it, eyes still downcast.
“I am certain that Father Faelan will prove a most satisfactory spiritual director,” Paulin was saying. “Naturally, he remains under the jurisdiction of the Abbot of Arx Fidei, and will be required to make retreat among his old community for three days each month, but this should prove no great inconvenience for your Highness.”
Faelan had thrust his hands back into his sleeves, but Javan could see that the man was still trembling. Something was very wrong. Javan wondered what could have happened to make the priest so afraid. He dared not address the question in front of Paulin, but he was going to find out before he left this garden.
“I thank you for bringing me my new chaplain, Vicar General,” he said. His tone was neutral, but brooked no interruption. “I believe that Father Faelan and I will walk in the garden for a few minutes and renew our acquaintance. I’m aware that I have a rehearsal very shortly. Sir Charlan will escort you back to the great hall, where we’ll join you momentarily. Guiscard, wait here, please.”
Without waiting to see whether Paulin was going to take exception, Javan took the young priest’s elbow and led him around the fountain and on along the main path that led farther into the heart of the garden. After a few seconds, retreating footsteps on the gravel behind told of Paulin and Charlan departing. Javan glanced at Faelan, but the priest was walking beside him with eyes still averted, gaze fixed on the gravel at his sandaled feet.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Javan said quietly after a few more steps, still wondering why the priest was so afraid. “It’s good to have another friend close by.”
“You are a dangerous friend to have, Sire,” Faelan whispered. His voice almost broke in a sob.
Startled, Javan darted another look at the priest, then drew him into the shade of a flowering tree—and also somewhat screened from observation from the windows of the great hall, where he was nearly certain Paulin would be watching.
“All right,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt and facing Faelan squarely. “Paulin’s gone. No one can overhear us. You’re in my household now, and I’ll protect you. What’s happened, to make you so afraid? You can’t be afraid of me? Forget I’m the king. We were pupil and mentor, not so very long ago. We were brothers.”
Jaws clenched to try to stop their trembling, Faelan raised tear-filled eyes to gaze past Javan at something only he could see, arms clenched hard across his chest, hugging himself against an inner chill. Javan was appalled at the change that had come over the man he remembered as serene and unshakable.
After a deep breath, Faelan said, “They made me swear on holy relics to report back to them, on everything I see and hear. That’s—why I have to go back to the abbey once a month.”
“I see,” Javan said.
But there was more to it than that. That Faelan should have been ordered to spy on him was almost a given. Surely the priest would have realized that. And telling Javan certainly removed any personal responsibility from Faelan. Why, then, was he so cowed?
“Faelan, the fact that you’ve been ordered to spy on me is no betrayal on your part,” he said softly. “I expected it. It isn’t your fault. But I didn’t expect that you’d be afraid of me. Did they threaten you?”
Choking back a sob, Faelan pushed back his hood and ran shaking hands through tonsured brown hair. Then he pressed his clasped hands to his lips, searching for words.
“You’ve—lived at the abbey, Sire,” he said haltingly. “You know about some of the less gentle disciplines. I think I—experienced them all, in the week or so since you asked for me.”
“Faelan, I’m sorry!” Javan murmured, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. How could you? Father Paulin wanted to know why you’d asked for me, what the basis of our friendship had been, everything we’d ever talked about. He didn’t believe me when I told him I hadn’t known you planned to leave when your brother died, that you intended to take up the crown, that you’d never discussed your vocation with me.” He lifted dark eyes to gaze at the trunk of the tree they were standing under.
“Father Paulin said I was rebellious and disobedient. To bring me ’round, he started with the fasting and the long vigils prostrate in the disciplinarium, the days and nights without sleep. There were daily trysts with the ‘little discipline’—enough to raise weals, but not to draw blood. That came three days ago.”
“Dear God, they didn’t bleed you?” Javan whispered, aghast.
Faelan hung his head, his voice faltering. “I wasn’t telling them what they wanted to hear. They’d about lost patience with me. They—took me into the infirmary in the middle of the night, into that little room that’s set aside for minution.”
“But you’d submitted to minution as a novice,” Javan objected. “They can’t require it a second time. That’s against the Rule.”
“Then I suppose they suspended the Rule,” Faelan said a little sharply. “Four strapping monks I’d never seen before were standing by to hold me if I struggled, while another one opened my vein. It was the assistant inquisitor asking the questions by then—Father Lior—and he kept asking me, while the blood ran down my arm and gradually filled the bowl.”
A little sob caught in his throat as he went on. “They made me watch. I honestly thought they were going to let me die—and for nothing. It’s one thing to die for something, but I hadn’t anything to hide …” He paused to swallow, one hand easing up inside the opposite sleeve to gently finger what Javan guessed must be the physical legacy of that ordeal.
“Anyway, I passed out after they’d taken away the first bowl and I saw they meant to go on. When I came around, Father Paulin himself was sitting at my bedside, and the Grand Inquisitor of the whole Order was with him—Brother Serafin, he’s called. He even dosed me with merasha. He told me what it was. Maybe he thought I was some new, insidious kind of Deryni, to be able to resist their questioning for so long. At least I got some sleep, after that.” He swallowed painfully.
“They—questioned me again the next afternoon, after the drug had worn off. The morning after that—yesterday, I suppose it was—Paulin told me to get cleaned up; that I was coming to Rhemuth to be your new chaplain.”
Javan was shaking his head, utterly appalled at the story Faelan had told him—and what the priest had suffered for his sake. At the same time, something in the back of Javan’s mind suggested an omission—though he had detected nothing but truth in what Faelan had said.
What could it be? What would Faelan have neglected to mention, whether or not it was of his own choosing? Suddenly Javan was struck by the similarity between the instructions to Faelan and the old practice of setting the squires spying on the princes. At least the regents had been quite open about what they did.
Good God, could that be it? Was it conceivable that the Custodes now had a Deryni in their employ, as the regents had done, but in secret? Was that what Faelan had omitted to mention? It might explain the use of merasha.
“I’m very sorry about what you had to go through, Father,” he said. “If you’d died, it would have been for nothing. And it would have been my fault. I deliberately avoided discussing my plans with you, because I didn’t want to put you at risk—though that doesn’t seem to have been much help. I’m appalled that Paulin would resort to such measures, and against a member of his own Order. Who else did
you say questioned you? Paulin and Father Lior and—?”
“Brother Serafin,” Faelan supplied.
“Ah, yes,” Javan murmured. “Brother Serafin. Anyone else?”
“No, Sire.”
“Just the three, then,” Javan replied, though he knew that the last answer had been false—and that raised the question of why.
Chilled to the bone despite the heat, he made himself put the thought aside, still feeling for Faelan, who was caught up in Paulin’s intrigues, whatever they were, whether or not he wanted to be.
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured. “I wish I could undo what’s been done, but I can’t. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to, though. Would you like me to send you back? I could tell Paulin you weren’t suitable after all.”
With a tiny, stifled sob, Faelan shook his head. “If you did, they’d probably punish me for having displeased you—and then they’d put some other priest through what I’ve suffered. And I—don’t even know that I can be much use to you. As a Mass priest, yes. But a confessor …”
Another chill raced down Javan’s spine, worse than any so far. From far, far away, he could hear footsteps crunching along the path, from the direction of the fountain—probably Guiscard.
“Are you saying that they might require you to violate the seal of the confessional?” he asked. He had thought he was almost beyond shock by now.
Faelan glanced down at his clasped hands in shame and would have colored if he hadn’t been so debilitated from his recent ordeal.
“It—was never mentioned specifically,” he whispered, “but the implication was there. I didn’t dare ask. I—suppose it depends on whether they think you might confess something they could use against you.” He swallowed and looked down.
“Sire, I’ve never, ever betrayed the seal, and I never would.” He swallowed again. “A good priest is supposed to die rather than reveal information received under the seal. Is that—what you want me to do?”
“Let’s not worry about that for now,” Javan murmured, setting his hand on the priest’s shoulder and easing them both back out onto the path, to head toward the approaching Guiscard. “For the present, let’s assume that I’ll give you permission to reveal what I’ve confessed, if that’s required of you.
“Meanwhile, I’m due down at the cathedral for a rehearsal, so I’m going to have one of my aides take you to your quarters. They’re very near mine; he’ll show you where. While I’m gone, I want you to lie down and get some rest. I’ll send my Healer to you later on, to see if any really serious damage was done.”
“A Healer?” Faelan said, stiffening. “A Deryni?”
“He’s been my Healer for about four years, off and on,” Javan assured him, wondering at the reaction. “If it’s any reassurance, he’s also Archbishop Hubert’s pet Deryni—so I think you can assume he’s safe.”
“But I—”
“Relax, Father. He won’t hurt you. But if you prefer, I’ll wait to send him until I can come with him,” Javan said. They came up to Guiscard, who turned and fell into step with them as they continued back around the fountain.
“Guiscard, I’d like you to take Father Faelan up and show him his quarters. See that he has whatever he’d like to eat—and a bath, if he wants one. After that, he’s to rest for the afternoon. Be sure that he does. I’ll meet you in my quarters after the rehearsal, and we’ll make that inspection with the Master of Works.”
“Very good, Sire.”
They continued on into the shade of the cloister colonnade and headed for the stair, but just before entering the stairwell, Javan paused to bend and fidget with a buckle on his boot.
“Give me a hand with this, would you, Guiscard?” he said.
When Guiscard crouched to see what the problem was, Javan straightened to catch his balance on the knight’s shoulder, fingers brushing against the bare flesh of Guiscard’s neck and using that physical contact to send a brief but cogent message.
Keep a sharp eye on this one until we know more about him, he sent. I have an awful suspicion that Paulin may have had a Deryni at him whom no one knows about. Hands off, though, because I don’t know yet what might have been done to him that might be detected.
As Guiscard straightened, dusting off his hands, his eyes met Javan’s over Faelan’s bowed head and he gave a nod. At least somewhat reassured, Javan headed on up the stairs to rejoin Charlan and the others, not at all looking forward to the next few hours.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For the hand of the artificer the work shall be commended.
—Ecclesiasticus 9:17
In fact, the rehearsal went far more smoothly than Javan had feared, though Paulin seemed distinctly annoyed that the king had not brought his new chaplain with him.
“Well, he seemed exhausted,” Javan remarked, when asked where Faelan was. “I expect it was the heat—or maybe the unaccustomed ride. I know I was exhausted after making the same journey last month. I told him to lie down for the rest of the afternoon. If he isn’t looking better soon, I may have Master Oriel see him.”
Paulin gave him a long, appraising look and then a slight inclination of his head. “I’m told he had been feeling poorly, this last week or so. In fact, I believe he was bled to relieve the ill humours. No doubt he’ll recover quickly, though.”
“Hmmm, no doubt,” Javan murmured. “Excuse me, Father,” he added as Tammaron beckoned for him to move to another position farther up the cathedral aisle.
When the rehearsal finally ended and Javan could return to the castle, he and Charlan found Guiscard waiting to escort them to the chosen Portal site as planned.
“How is Father Faelan?” Javan asked as the three of them headed down a back stair to the next level.
“Asleep” was Guiscard’s reply. “He had a light meal, he all but fell asleep in the bath, then roused himself just long enough to dress and stagger to his bed, where he passed out. He hasn’t moved since, though I’ve checked to make sure he hasn’t died. I didn’t try to probe further, because of what you told me, but I’d say he’s had a rough time of it.”
“Later tonight I’ll tell you how rough,” Javan murmured. “Did you leave a guard outside his door?”
“Of course. Do you think he’s a spy for Paulin?”
“Oh, I’m certain that’s Paulin’s intention. Whether it will hold remains to be seen.”
They came out on a landing and turned left at Guiscard’s gesture. Javan knew that both he and Charlan were dying to know more, but this was not the time. For now he must turn his attention to the potential Portal site. So far he liked the proximity and approach.
The corridor walls were newly whitewashed, with pine-knot torches set in cressets to light the way where daylight from other landings and open doors did not reach. New-laid black and white tiles as wide as the length of a man’s forearm paved the floor underfoot, set diagonally in a chequerboard design.
Outside some of the open doors, stocks of timber and nails and carpenters’ tools vied with buckets and brushes for space, everything layered with a fine sheen of chalky dust. The clean aroma of newly planed wood mingled with the sharper lime scent of the whitewash and the tang of pine resin from the torches. As they ventured farther along the corridor, the sounds of hammering and sawing and the rhythmic ring of steel on stone grew gradually louder, coming from an open doorway ahead and on the left, where a fine haze of dust shimmered on a slanting beam of late-afternoon sun.
“Your library will be in here, Sire,” Guiscard said, indicating the open doorway and standing to one side as they came abreast of it.
As Javan stepped into the opening, shading his eyes against the glare of sunlight, the sounds of men at work fell off almost immediately. Scaffolding overhead creaked alarmingly, and Javan instinctively ducked his head as he glanced up and continued into the room until he was clear of it. Charlan and Guiscard followed close behind him, and Master William materialized out of the haze to the left, mallet and chi
sel in dust-streaked hands.
“Sire, you honor us,” Master William said with a bow. “Pray, pardon the disarray.”
“Nay, ’tis I who should pray pardon for interrupting your work,” Javan replied, already looking around appraisingly. “And it is you who honor me by your fine craftsmanship. I had no idea such progress had been made. But please, have your men continue.”
“As you wish, Sire.”
As the men resumed work, Master William lingering nearby in case the king should have a question, Javan moved farther into the whitewashed brilliance of the room and allowed his gaze to range around it, squinting less as his eyes adjusted to the glare. It was a fine, large room, well suited for a library, with two tall, wide window embrasures in the wall opposite the door that spilled an abundance of afternoon sunlight over the flagstones of the floor. Walking over to one of the windows, Javan stepped up into its alcove to see the view, but there were only the stable yards below. A beefy, sunburned man was fitting thin slabs of greeny-grey stone to the windowsills, and gave a companionable nod as Javan bent to inspect his work.
“That’s unusual color on that stone,” Javan said, peering more closely at the sill and touching a fingertip to an edge. “What is it? It looks like slate, but I’ve never seen green before.”
“Och, ye won’t see the green around here, milord, ’cept in the very finest buildings,” the man said easily, smiling as he ran a mortar-roughened hand lovingly along one of the joins. “Lord Tammaron ordered it. Comes from a quarry down by Nyford—not nearly as common as the blue and grey ye get locally, but it do make up pretty, don’t it?”
“Aye, it’s lovely.”
Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Javan moved back out of the embrasure to survey the rest of the room. Carpenters were building shelves and pigeonholes across the wall now to his left, and a stonecutter was chiseling at something on one of the supports of a massive fireplace dominating the other end wall. Crouched on the scaffolding above the doorway, a painter was laying down color in the outlines of a bold interlace design dominated by blues and greens, joining it in with work already twining upward along either side. Seeing Javan’s interest, Master William came nearer.
King Javan’s Year Page 22