“Is that all? Because if it is, his Highness really should get some sleep. All of us should get some sleep. It sounds as if we’re going to be very busy about this time tomorrow night.”
In fact, they were busy all the next day, the last but one before the coronation. The morning began with Mass in the Chapel Royal, celebrated by a Father Faelan who seemed much recovered from his condition of the day before. In sheerly physical terms, the improvement would have been marked; but he seemed also to have put aside the concerns that had him quaking and cowed the day before. The homily he preached was short but fitting for a king soon to be crowned, speaking of rendering unto God and Caesar. The two pages serving at the altar were a little stiff, as was normal when adjusting to the preferences of a new priest, but the Mass proceeded with acceptable decorum and only one minor fumble when the younger page nearly dropped the great silver lavabo bowl. For the first time in weeks, Javan was able to receive Communion from a priest whom he respected as a man as well as for his office, and he prayed that ways would continue to be found so that Faelan could exercise his office in good conscience. Paulin slipped into the back of the chapel just as Mass was beginning and grilled Faelan in the sacristy after, but he and Faelan both looked satisfied with the interview when Paulin left a few minutes later.
“Was there any problem with Father Paulin?” Javan asked the priest as Faelan joined him and Guiscard and Charlan to go down to the great hall for a light breakfast before exercise.
“Not at all, Sire,” Faelan replied. “He merely inquired after my health and asked if I was recovered from the fatigue of my journey. I assured him that a good night’s sleep had much restored me and that I looked forward to taking up the full range of my spiritual duties in the royal household. He gave me his blessing and left.”
And that was precisely all that had passed between them, as both Javan and Guiscard could attest. And since Paulin most assuredly was not Deryni, there was no chance that anything else had transpired of which neither they nor Faelan were aware. As the day went on, with morning exercise extended in favor of extra time in the tilting yard, as preparation for the tourney that would take place the day after the coronation, Javan was able to put most of his worries out of mind, at least for a few hours.
After a bath and light repast at midday and final fittings for his coronation robes, the afternoon was occupied with archery practice, which enabled him to focus much of his concern about his great lords at the center of the straw butt that was his target. When Sir Radan commented on his particular accuracy as the afternoon wore on, Javan did not tell him it came of envisioning the faces of Murdoch and Rhun in the center of the target. Late afternoon saw the arrival of the expected entourage from Cassan—Fane Fitz-Arthur with his wife and their three-year-old son, who now was Cassan’s duke—and arrangements were made to receive them at a special court the following day at noon.
Supper was early and simple, in his apartments, with Rhys Michael, his aides, Robear and Jason, Etienne de Courcy, and a handful of the other young knights not occupied elsewhere. It was a congenial gathering, but Javan did not let it last much past dark, pleading fatigue and the need for a clear head on the morrow, the last day before his coronation.
Gradually the supper guests filtered out, some of the men to take up nighttime duties, others to return to their families. Etienne was among the first to leave—he would join them in the Portal room later. But though the others soon followed, Rhys Michael lingered until only he and Charlan and Guiscard remained, the latter two supervising the squires who were clearing away the last of the debris from their meal.
The prince had put away copious amounts of wine with dinner, and Javan had hoped that gentle inebriation would encourage his brother’s early departure with the rest. Instead, as the last of the squires took their leave, Rhys Michael moved into the window embrasure, pushing one of the glazed lower panels wider to admit more air. The evening was still and balmy, just on the edge of being too hot, and both brothers were in their shirt sleeves.
“Are you scared about the day after tomorrow?” Rhys Michael asked, turning back to him, his face barely discernible in the light of a candle by Javan on the table.
Javan brought the candle nearer and set it just inside the embrasure, stepping up to stand beside his brother.
“Not scared, exactly,” Javan said. “A little apprehensive, maybe. It’s a complicated ceremony.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” Rhys Michael said. “You’ll be an anointed king. That’s—almost magical. You’ll be set apart. You’ll never be the same again.”
Javan sank down on one of the cushions to consider. Father Faelan had mentioned something of the sort in his homily this morning. Javan supposed the sacring of a king was magical, in the same sense that a priest’s anointing set him apart for a special kind of service. Most assuredly, he would not be the same when it was over; but he already would never be the same as he was before Joram and the others had unleashed the Haldane powers in him.
“I’ll still be your brother,” he said, suspecting that this was what was really troubling Rhys Michael. “Nothing can ever change that. Did you think it would?”
Rhys Michael looked away, swaying a little on his feet. “I dunno. It changed something in Alroy once he became king. I hardly ever got to see him. He was always busy doing king things.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly by choice,” Javan replied. “And with none of us being of legal age when it all started, the situation was hardly typical. Things are going to be different now, though. I hope you’ll be able to help me with a lot of the ‘king things,’ as you put it. After all, until I marry and start producing heirs, you’re the heir presumptive. You need the training, just in case.”
Rhys Michael wobbled down onto the seat opposite Javan. “That’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about—marrying, not the training. I’m not too keen on books, y’know. Maybe this isn’t the best time, though. I think maybe I’ve had too much to drink …”
It was not the best time. The subject certainly needed airing, but not with Rhys Michael in his cups and looking to go maudlin any minute, and not tonight. The work ahead brooked no prolonged discussion on any topic. Sending a quick command to Guiscard, Javan leaned back in his seat and made himself chuckle.
“I hope this is theoretical rather than practical,” he said lightly, to the sound of liquid being poured elsewhere in the room. “Princes obviously are expected to marry eventually, but you aren’t even fifteen yet.”
“I will be, in another couple of months,” Rhys Michael said indignantly.
“Oh, I’m well aware of that. I’m also aware of the almost irresistible urges that probably are starting to stir by now. You’ve plenty of time, though.” He cocked his head, choosing his next words for their shock value. “Or is there some urgency I don’t know about? Rhysem, you haven’t gone and gotten some poor serving wench pregnant, have you?”
“Me? Oh, no! I never—I mean, I—”
As Rhys Michael stammered and stumbled over his own tongue, spared the open blaze of his blushes by the dim light in the embrasure, an impassive Guiscard approached with a pair of small silver goblets, bowing blandly and withdrawing as Javan took them with a nod of thanks.
“Well, that’s a relief. Here, try some of this Rhennish brandywine and tell me what you think of it.”
As he handed one of the goblets across to Rhys Michael and their hands touched, he tried to reach across the bond of their flesh to trigger sleep—and was brought up short by shields!
The rebound did not hurt, but it made Javan gasp. To cover his astonishment, he managed to fumble the goblet in his other hand and drop it. It struck the stone flags in a silvery clangor, splashing his boot with brandywine, and he leaped to his feet with a yelp.
“Yipe, that was clumsy of me! Guiscard, get a cloth to wipe this up, will you?”
“Coming, Sire.”
As Javan pretended to root at his feet for the errant goblet, his mind
was reeling. How could Rhys Michael have shields? When could it have happened, and how? His immediate suspicion was that the shields dated from the moment of Alroy’s death, when Rhys Michael had moved that much closer in the succession. Maybe exposure to the energies surrounding Alroy’s passing had stirred up part of the Haldane potential set in him the night their father died. Javan didn’t think it was meant to work that way, but who knew? No one had expected his powers to start developing spontaneously while Alroy was still alive—but they had.
Not knowing the extent of his brother’s awakening, Javan decided not to risk sending directly to Guiscard again, lest Rhys Michael detect it. But when the young knight came near, taking the goblet from Javan and crouching to look for the spill, Javan decided he had to risk a contact rapport.
“Better get it off the boot first, before it stains,” he said, grabbing Guiscard’s hand to guide it to the boot—and to establish the necessary physical contact.
Guiscard, he has shields. I don’t know how or when he got them. I couldn’t put him out.
Did he feel the attempt?
I don’t think so. What now, though! We’ve got people waiting.
Leave it to me, Guiscard returned. “That’s got it, I think,” he went on verbally, shifting his attention to mopping up the floor. “Can I get you something else, Sire? I’m afraid that was the last of the brandywine.”
“A pity,” Javan murmured, glancing at Rhys Michael, who was downing his with obvious relish. “At least Rhysem got to taste it.”
“Mmmmm, it really is good, Javan!” his brother said archly, lifting his goblet in jaunty salute. “It’s a sin to waste it. You’d better mention that, the next time you go to confession!”
“I guess I’m more nervous than I thought,” Javan allowed with a sheepish grin. “Guiscard, how about one of those sweet Fianna varietals? Rhysem would probably like the one we were drinking last night, if you and Charlan didn’t finish it off.”
“I think there’s some left in the other room, Sire. I’ll go and see.”
As he withdrew to get it, Javan shifted his attention back to Rhys Michael, who was tossing off the last of his brandywine.
“This was very good,” the prince said, setting his empty goblet aside with a smirk. “Sorry you didn’t get any. Serves you right for that cheeky remark. I don’t consort with serving wenches.”
Allowing himself a halfhearted chuckle, Javan sat back in his seat, hoping Guiscard would hurry.
“It might almost be better if you did,” he said, determined to keep his brother off balance while Guiscard dealt with this new complication. “Even if the worst happens, you can’t be made to marry one. Royal bastards might be an embarrassment, but they aren’t a threat to the crown—at least not until they’re grown.”
“It isn’t like that!” Rhys Michael began.
“No? I’m glad to hear it,” Javan went on. “Because if you play around with a girl of ‘suitable’ breeding and you get her pregnant, her father—by definition—is going to be highly enough placed to put a lot of pressure on you to marry her. And if you do, and she bears you a son, that could be all our enemies need as an excuse to eliminate both of us and help themselves to fourteen more years of regency. After that long in virtually absolute power, do you really think they’d be willing to step back from that power and let your son take up his crown in any meaningful way? He’d be a puppet, Rhysem, the same way Alroy was!”
“Alroy wasn’t a puppet, and they’d never do that,” Rhys Michael said sulkily as Guiscard came back into the room with a new pair of goblets. “You’ve broken the back of the old regency. You’ll have your own men in place in a matter of weeks. Besides,” he muttered under his breath, “her father is dead.”
“Whose father?” Javan said as Guiscard delivered one of the goblets to his brother.
“It isn’t important. Nothing’s going to happen,” Rhys Michael said, and took a fortifying gulp from his cup.
Javan, reaching for his own, knew immediately who his brother was talking about.
“It’s Michaela Drummond, isn’t it?” he said.
Don’t drink that, came Guiscard’s warning as his hand brushed Javan’s.
Rhys Michael took another deep pull from his cup and glanced out the window, not noticing that Javan set his cup aside untasted.
“What if it is?” he declared, sullen and closed. “I like her. After you left Court, she was one of the few friends I had. She’s suitable.”
“Yes, and she’s the ward of Manfred MacInnis, fostered to his lady’s household. I’ll bet that he and the Lady Estellan have made it very easy for the two of you to be together, haven’t they?”
Rhys Michael was starting to droop visibly, his head nodding over his cup, but he took another deep swallow before answering.
“You don’t unnerstand,” he whispered, his speech starting to slur. “It isn’t like that. Besides, we—haven’t done anything. And even if we had, and she—Well, I—can’t believe the regents would do what you’re suggesting. It’s—monstrous.”
“Yes, that’s a good word to describe it,” Javan agreed. “And they’ve never done anything monstrous before, have they? Their hands are spotlessly clean—unless you count the Duke of Claibourne, and Declan Carmody and his wife and sons, and little Giesele MacLean, smothered in her bed.”
Rhys Michael had drifted into sleep somewhere during this recitation, and Javan reached across to take the goblet from his relaxing fingers. At once Guiscard moved in from the shadows, shoving his fingers hard against one of the carotid pulse points in Rhys Michael’s throat.
“Is he all right?” Javan whispered.
“He’s fine,” Guiscard said, sinking down beside the sleeping prince and reaching across for Javan’s untouched goblet. “Let’s get a little more of this in him, and then we’ll see if we can’t get far enough past those shields to tidy up any memory of this.”
As Javan watched wide-eyed, Guiscard tipped back the prince’s head and set the goblet to his lips, tilting the wine through the parted lips. To Javan’s surprise, his brother began swallowing—a succession of halting contractions of his throat, almost yielding to coughs, but enough to drain the cup by half before Guiscard relented.
“That should do it,” the Deryni knight said, handing the cup off to Javan. “Swallowing is a reflex, when someone is unconscious. Fortunately, shields don’t interfere with triggering that reflex—not that his shields are particularly strong. They aren’t even complete. I’ve gone ahead and dealt with what little memory might have aroused suspicion later on, but I gather that you hadn’t expected this turn of events.”
Javan shook his head. “It’s part of the Haldane legacy. It has to be. Maybe Alroy’s death triggered something.” He sighed. “We can’t worry about this now, though. Will he sleep all night?”
“Oh, yes. There’s no immediate problem—other than his apparent infatuation with the Drummond girl. Charlan, come and give us a hand getting the prince to bed,” he added in a slightly louder voice. “Fortunately, the coronation should keep him sufficiently occupied with official duties that he won’t have time or energy to dig himself in deeper with his lady-love. Once you’re safely crowned, though, it might be wise to find an excuse to get her away from Court.”
As Charlan approached, Guiscard was already easing around to the prince’s other side and pulling him to his feet, setting a shoulder under his arm as Charlan took the other.
“Poor Rhysem,” Javan murmured as the two half dragged and half walked him staggering into the other room. “I expect he’s going to have quite a head on him in the morning.”
“Maybe less than you might think,” Charlan said, “unless Guiscard’s potion makes things worse than usual. He’s acquired quite a capacity while you were away from Court, Sire.”
Shocked at the implication, Javan glanced at Guiscard. “Is that true?”
Guiscard grimaced as he and Charlan hefted the prince onto the great canopied bed. “Well, I won’t go so
far as to say that his Highness has an outright problem with drink, but he does manage to put away far more for his size than one might imagine. That isn’t the issue right now, however. Let’s get him undressed and bedded down. People are waiting for us.”
“Aye, of course.”
Javan watched a little stunned as they stripped his brother of his boots and outer garments and installed him in the state bed. By the time they finished, the king had forced himself back to something approaching equilibrium.
Minutes later Charlan was heading down for their rendezvous next to the incipient library, while Javan and Guiscard diverted to Father Faelan’s quarters. Their knock at the priest’s door produced a somewhat rumpled-looking Faelan. In the heat, and not consciously expecting visitors this late, he had put aside his hooded scapular and opened the throat of his habit, which he hurriedly began doing up again as the king’s presence registered. In the little oratory beyond, a breviary lay open on the armrest of the prie-dieu, illuminated by a fat yellow candle in a black wrought-iron candlestick.
“I’ve disturbed you at your prayers, Father. I’m sorry,” Javan said. Laying a hand on Faelan’s wrist, he triggered light controls as he and Guiscard moved Faelan back into the room and Guiscard drew the door closed behind them. “I require your services for an hour or so this evening. Will you come?”
Faelan blinked, surprise and apprehension damped heavily by Javan’s controls, then gave a dazed jerk of his chin.
“Aye, my lord,” he whispered.
“He’d better put the rest of his habit back on before we go, Sire,” Guiscard murmured, holding up a mass of black. “I know you dislike it, but questions would be asked, if he should be seen without it.”
He was right, of course. With a curt nod, Javan turned away to close Faelan’s book and extinguish the extra candle in the oratory while the priest drew the offending garment back over his head, Guiscard preparing to open the door. Faelan was still adjusting his garments as he headed out of the room, Javan and then Guiscard following—and all but collided with two men wearing black habits that matched his own.
King Javan’s Year Page 25