King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  He left Guiscard to see that Rhys Michael made it out of bed in time for Court. He and Charlan heard Mass privately in Faelan’s little oratory, then betook themselves down to the stables like a pair of errant schoolboys to saddle two of the faster horses of the royal menage.

  Charlan wore a sword at his side and was turned out in riding leathers that would see him through the Court scheduled for later in the day, but Javan rode in shirt sleeves that morning, perhaps the last time he would be allowed to venture forth so informally, and unarmed as well. This early, and with Charlan at his side, he was safe enough; the troop of Haldane lancers who trailed them at a discreet distance were armed to the teeth. Pounding along the north road that paralleled the river, the wind on his face and the feel of good horseflesh beneath him, Javan was almost able to put out of mind the concerns he must face when he returned to the castle.

  But as he and Charlan walked their horses back up the cobbled approach to the gatehouse again, into a castle yard far more congested than when they had ridden out, it was clear he must be a king once more. His principal courtiers were waiting for him on the great hall steps, taking advantage of the slight breeze. Most of them swept before him into the hall as he and Charlan dismounted and came up the steps, heading in the direction of the withdrawing room behind the great hall dais. For smaller Courts like the one scheduled for today, Javan far preferred its intimacy to the vastness of the great hall, which was in the process of being set up for the morrow’s coronation banquet.

  Jason and Robear and a few more of his intimates fell in beside him as he and Charlan strode through the great hall. Guiscard and a squire were waiting for him just outside the withdrawing room, armed with the royal accoutrements that would make of a wind-burned royal escapee some semblance of a king: a fresh tunic, simply cut from white linen but embroidered around neck and hem and cuffs with little crimson lions; the Haldane sword, though Javan must carry it rather than wear it until he was crowned; and hooked over one of Guiscard’s wrists, the hammered coronet of golden lions intertwined, set with rubies.

  He stripped off his horsey-smelling shirt and towelled down, then pulled on the long Haldane tunic, holding the coronet while Guiscard fastened a belt of silver plaques around his waist and the squire haltingly applied a comb to his sweat-plastered hair. Jason thrust a goblet into his hand, and he gulped it down gratefully. The wine was well watered but very refreshing, chilled in snow brought down from the mountains by Cashien.

  The combination of fresh clothing and cool drink made him feel cooler, even though he knew it would not last for long. Squaring his shoulders, he cradled the sheathed sword in the crook of his left arm, the hilt extending like a cross above his left shoulder. Just as Guiscard was setting the coronet on his head, Rhys Michael and Tomais joined them, the prince decently garbed in a royal-blue tunic and silver circlet but looking as if he wished he were anywhere else, particularly in bed again.

  “Rhysem, are you going to be able to get through this?” Javan asked, genuinely concerned for his brother’s condition.

  Though paler by far than was his usual wont, Rhys Michael nodded. “It’ll be all right. Just don’t let anyone make any loud noises.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Turning to Tammaron, who had just emerged from the withdrawing chamber, Javan asked, “Are they ready inside?”

  “They are, Sire,” Tammaron said. He was wearing the Chancellor’s gilt collar of linked Haldane H’s over a long robe of forest green. “This way, if you please.”

  The outward informality of those assembled in the withdrawing room belied the importance of what was about to take place. Public affirmation of today’s actions would be made tomorrow, during the coronation, but the kernel of the matter was this: that the Princess Anne Quinnell, sole heiress of the ancient principality of Cassan, should present unto Javan the decrees of her late father’s will, formally setting in motion the procedures that ceded Cassan to Gwynedd and made of her son Cassan’s first duke.

  Conversation ceased as Javan entered the room. Moving casually toward the chair of state prepared for him, pleased that his limp was hardly noticeable, he could see the ducal party gathered in one of the back corners. He recognized Tammaron’s son Fane, husband of the Cassani princess. To either side of Fane were a veiled, richly coronetted lady in murrey and gold, who must be the princess herself, and an older woman in black, also wearing a coronet—perhaps the dead prince’s widow?—holding the hand of a bright-eyed, blue-clad boy of three or four.

  Also assembled, in addition to Javan’s personal household and the expected lords of state—Manfred, Udaut, Rhun, Murdoch, and Hubert, who would witness on behalf of the Church—were various other members of Tammaron’s family: his other two sons, Fulk and Quiric; their mother, Nieve; and her sons by her first marriage, Albertus and Paulin. The latter looked preoccupied, and even more grim than usual—as well he might, Javan thought, having just lost his Inquisitor General.

  “My lords and ladies, the King’s Grace,” Tammaron said as Javan reached the state chair.

  They had hung a great tapestry of the Haldane arms behind the chair since he last had been in the room, with a rich canopy of state above it. In that instant, as he turned to face the men and women assembled, Javan was aware of the connection with all his Haldane ancestors. His subjects bowed as he made to sit. Settling, he laid the sword across his knees and waited for his aides to take their places behind and to either side of him, Rhys Michael to sit at his left, before turning expectantly to Tammaron.

  “My Lord Tammaron, I believe you have business to bring before our Court?” he said.

  “I do, Sire,” Tammaron said, bowing. “It is my very great honor to present my daughter-in-law: her Royal Highness the Princess Anne Quinnell of Cassan, daughter and sole heir of the late his Royal Highness the Prince Ambert Quinnell, Sovereign Prince of Cassan. My son Fane I believe you know.”

  Tammaron’s eldest son brought his wife forward—the slender figure gowned and veiled in murrey silk. As both of them knelt before the king, the princess folded back her veil over coils of jet-black hair, then handed forward the scroll her husband had carried.

  “May it please the King’s Grace, I bring greetings from far Cassan and this testimony of my father’s last will concerning the disposition of his lands,” she said. Her voice was low and melodious, her dark-lashed eyes a clear blue-grey in the pale perfection of her face, and Javan found himself thinking what a lucky man was Fane Fitz-Arthur.

  “As your Grace will have been informed,” she went on, “it was my father’s wish that, having no sons, Cassan should pass through me to my eldest son, who comes now before you to acknowledge you his sovereign overlord and asks to be granted tenure of Cassan as a Duke of Gwynedd in perpetuity for himself and his male issue. May I present him to your Highness?”

  “Please do,” Javan said, handing off the scroll to Charlan and beckoning the two to rise. Only reluctantly did he turn his gaze toward the boy and the black-clad woman who brought him forward—for Anne of Cassan was breathtaking.

  At the prompting of the black-clad woman, the little boy knelt at Javan’s feet, head ducked shyly over hands folded as if in prayer but peeking out from under a shock of dark hair with wide eyes that missed little, eliciting a faint smile from Javan. The woman in black remained standing.

  “Sire,” Anne said, “my mother, the Lady Duvessa Sinclair, Dowager Princess of Cassan.”

  The Lady Duvessa inclined her head at the introduction, and Javan returned the salute, wondering whether she was related to Paulin and Albertus, whose family name also was Sinclair.

  “My lady, you are most welcome,” he said. “May I offer my condolences on your loss and my wish that this merging of our lands may prove as prosperous for all our peoples as your late husband dreamed. I shall cherish your grandson as if he were my own son.”

  A faint smile curved Duvessa’s lips. “You are most gracious, Sire,” she murmured. “The boy is bright. He is all one might have wished in a g
randson. Would that his grandfather could have lived to see him grow to manhood.”

  “I share your sorrow, madame, having lost the opportunity for my own father to see me grow to manhood,” Javan replied. “When the time comes, and if it pleases you and his parents, it would be my pleasure to have him fostered here at Court, to learn the ways of rule. Cassan is far away, and I shall need to rely on my loyal Duke of Cassan to uphold my law—as I know his regents shall do, during his minority. I believe that the three of you are to be constituted his governors?” he said, gesturing toward Anne and Fane as well.

  “That was my father’s wish, Sire,” Anne said, moving closer to set her hand on her son’s shoulder. “It is ours as well, if it please your Grace.”

  “It pleases us very well, indeed,” Javan replied, glancing aside at his waiting clergy, and at Hubert in particular. “My Lord Archbishop, are you prepared to witness an exchange of oaths?”

  “I am, Sire,” Hubert said, moving forward in cope and mitre, a deacon following him with a richly bound Gospel book.

  “Very well,” Javan said. “Which of you shall speak for—Tambert, is it?”

  “It is, my lord, and I shall speak for him,” Duvessa said, coming to stand behind her grandson, as his parents knelt to either side and each placed a hand on his shoulders.

  Young Tambert, who had been watching all these proceedings wide-eyed from around his folded hands, essayed a bright smile as Javan leaned forward, over the Haldane sword, to clasp the joined little hands between his two.

  “Hello, Tambert,” he said softly, engaging the boy’s eyes and smiling. “My name is Javan. Shall we be friends?”

  At Tambert’s earnest nod, Javan flicked a glance up at the boy’s grandmother to proceed.

  “We, the regents for Duke Tambert Fitz-Arthur Quinnell, heir to all of Cassan, do pledge the following on his behalf,” she said. “That the said Tambert of Cassan does become your liege man of life and limb and enters your fealty, doing homage for all the lands of Cassan formerly held of the last sovereign Prince of Cassan, his grandfather. Faith and truth will he bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk. This is our pledge as well, so help me God.”

  Javan had been Truth-Reading as she spoke—she meant what she had said—and he briefly turned his talent on Anne and then on Fane, whose murmured repeats of “So help me God” bore no hint of deception. Drawing breath, Javan returned his gaze to young Tambert, who was gazing up at him with rapt fascination.

  “This do I hear, Tambert of Cassan and the regents for his Grace,” he said. “And I, for my part, pledge the protection of Gwynedd to you and all your people, to defend you from every creature with all my power, giving loyalty for loyalty and justice for honor. This is the word of Javan Jashan Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, and Overlord of Cassan. So help me God.”

  So saying, Javan released Tambert’s hands and turned toward Hubert to lay his hand on the Gospel and kiss its jewelled cover, after which Hubert offered it to Duvessa, Anne, and Fane to do the same. The archbishop was turning to give it back into the hands of the deacon who had brought it when Tambert tugged urgently at the edge of Javan’s tunic, which was all he could reach.

  “Me, too!” he whispered, in a sotto voce that reached every corner of the room, producing an amused chuckle from several present.

  “You, too?” Javan said, leaning down gravely to Tambert’s eye level. “What do you want to do? Kiss the book?”

  Tambert nodded sagely.

  “Ah, I see,” Javan said, staying Hubert with an upraised hand when he would have continued to hand the book away.

  “But, Sire—”

  “No, stay. Let’s see how much he understands,” Javan murmured, leaning back toward the boy. “Tambert, do you know what that is?”

  “God’s word,” Tambert said, quite emphatically.

  “That’s right, it is,” Javan said approvingly. “Do you know what it means, when you kiss the Book of God’s word?” he asked.

  Tambert looked uncertain.

  “It means,” Javan said, “that a promise has been made in front of God. Did you make a promise today, Tambert? I did. I promised to be your friend and to take care of you and all the other people who live back at home in Cassan. Will you promise to be my friend, in front of God?”

  Tambert’s face had lit up as Javan explained, and he clapped his hands enthusiastically and nodded.

  “Friends!” he crowed.

  Only partially restraining a droll grin, as others around him tried less successfully to keep their chuckles smothered, Javan held out his hand for the Gospel Hubert was still holding. Hubert relinquished it without a word, watching in amazement and grudging respect as Javan took it between his hands, one at each end, and brought it down to where Tambert could see it.

  “Here is God’s word, Tambert,” he said, hefting the book. “You know and I know that God hears everything we say. When I kiss the Book that has God’s word in it, that means that I know He has heard what I promised. I promise, before God, to be your friend, Tambert.”

  He could feel Tambert’s eyes on him as he bent solemnly to kiss the Book again. Being friends was a gross simplification of the oaths he had exchanged with Tambert’s guardians, but it was the crux of what Tambert might be able to understand. Apparently he did, for as Javan straightened, Tambert’s little hands were creeping up to touch the jewelled cover, the eyes of sunlit blue turning to his in a child’s pure trust.

  “Friends,” he said simply. And as he leaned forward to plant a loud kiss on the Book, a murmur of amused approval rippled through the room.

  Laughter was in Javan’s eyes as well, but he kept his face solemn as he whispered, “Thank you, Tambert,” and handed the Book back to Hubert. He had not planned any further ceremony, with Tambert being so young, but now he beckoned the boy’s mother nearer.

  “My lady, your son has demonstrated amply that he understands what this is all about,” he said in a low voice, the sword resting on his knees between them. “Under the circumstances, I think it would be slighting him to withhold the rest of the formality that confirms him in his title—unless you think he might be frightened by a drawn sword.”

  She looked surprised as he lifted the sheathed sword slightly between them, but then she smiled tentatively.

  “Do you mean to dub him, Sire?” she asked.

  “Unless you would prefer it otherwise.”

  Clearly pleased, she bent to whisper to her son, who listened avidly and then nodded. As she settled back to her knees beside him, shifting a glance to husband and mother likewise to kneel, Javan slowly rose, carefully unsheathing the sword as he did so and handing off the scabbard to Guiscard. He brought the blade to his lips in salute, both hands on the hilt, then looked down at Tambert, smiling reassurance.

  “Tambert of Cassan, I confirm you in your rank and title as Duke of Cassan,” he said, bringing the flat of the blade down lightly on the boy’s right shoulder and then the left. “We’ll do this again when you’ve come of age and can claim your title in your own right,” he went on, touching the blade lightly to the top of the boy’s head. “And then, in about fifteen years, I hope to do this once more, when it’s time for you to receive the accolade of knighthood.”

  The boy’s gaze was one of awe and pure hero worship as Javan passed the sword to Guiscard to sheathe, and he broke into a sunny smile as Javan then bent to take Tambert’s two hands in his.

  “Rise, most excellent Duke of Cassan.”

  Tambert scrambled to his feet and, to Javan’s surprise, threw his little arms exuberantly around the royal knees, laughing delightedly. His parents looked mortified, though the grandmother was barely containing her smile, and Tambert’s mother came forward immediately to rescue Javan.

  “I do beg your pardon, Sire,” she murmured. “He isn’t usually this demonstrative.”

  “No, it’s all right,” Javan replied, himself now chuckling as he bent to lift Ta
mbert onto his hip. “It isn’t often that a king gets such an enthusiastic show of affection from one of his dukes. Why, thank you, Tambert,” he said as the boy threw his little arms around Javan’s neck and planted a wet kiss on the royal cheek. “Tambert and I are going to be great friends, aren’t we, Tambert? And he’s going to grow up to be a very fine duke.”

  Softening a little, the boy’s mother smiled. “Methinks he shall serve a very fine king as well, Sire,” she murmured. “I thank you for your kindness. You are—not what I expected.”

  “Oh, and what did you expect?” Javan said easily, looking into the blue-grey eyes.

  “An awkward boy, unskilled in the ways of statecraft,” she said bluntly. “I see that I was mistaken.”

  To Javan’s surprise, she then sank in a deep, formal curtsey, far more profound than duty required. Struck again by her beauty, Javan let the boy back down to the floor and took the mother’s hand to raise her up, keeping it in his for just a trifle longer than protocol demanded.

  “I thank you, my lady,” he murmured, bringing it to his lips in salute. “I look forward to watching young Tambert grow into gentle manhood, as must surely happen, with so gracious a lady for a mother.”

  The whole exchange could not have taken above a few seconds. As he released her hand, things began moving again, Fane coming forward to retrieve his son, daughter and mother making their bows as they prepared to return to their places. A proud and beaming Earl Tammaron came forward to usher them out, turning back to Javan as the immediate area before the throne cleared.

  “I thank you for your kindness to my grandson, Sire,” he said. “This being the only business to come before you this morning, may I dismiss the Court?”

  “Certainly,” Javan said, taking back his sword from Guiscard.