King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Indeed?” Javan said, holding up a hand to silence uneasy murmurings among his lords of state. “Perhaps your Highness would be so good as to identify these hostages.”

  “Lady Sudrey and Lord Kennet, the niece and nephew of Lord Termod of Rhorau, Sire,” the prince replied with a bow. “As children, they were placed in the wardship of Duke Sighere’s son Ewan.”

  Whether or not it was intentional—and Javan suspected Miklos knew exactly what he was doing—the prince’s request produced instant consternation, for everyone present knew that the man responsible for Ewan’s death was in their midst, and that Murdoch of Carthane would not welcome the summoning of the dead man’s brothers, who alone could shed light on the fate of the hostages in question. The Kheldour lords had arrived in Rhemuth spoiling for a fight, looking for an excuse to take up their quarrel with Murdoch again. Javan had hoped to keep them from even being in the same room. But perhaps it was time for the inevitable confrontation.

  “You have brought us a most intriguing question, my lord,” Javan said noncommittally, watching Murdoch in his side-vision. “As you have rightly pointed out, this matter occurred outside our memories. Furthermore, both Duke Sighere and his son Duke Ewan are dead.”

  “News had reached us of their passing,” Miklos murmured. “May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace.”

  He crossed himself piously as he said it right to left in the eastern fashion, and Javan and the rest followed suit in the western manner. Hubert looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Happily for us all, however,” Javan went on, “both of Duke Ewan’s brothers were in attendance today—though not present in this room. I am confident that they will be able to provide enlightenment regarding your query.” He raised his glance slightly to catch Tammaron’s eye. “My Lord Chancellor, please be so good as to request the presence of the Earls of Eastmarch and Marley.”

  As Tammaron bowed and then made his way from the room, Prince Miklos inclined his head in thanks and drew his men to one side to make way for the expected earls. Casually, while they waited, Javan reached back and took the Haldane sword from Charlan, to rest it sheathed across his knees—for this exchange of diplomatic courtesies had changed into something that had all the earmarks of a political incident in the making.

  A few minutes later the doors at the other side of the room opened and Tammaron came in, preceding the earls and their rather puzzled looking nephew. Young Graham looked sober enough, but both Hrorik and Sighere had the high color and faintly unsteady gait that spoke of imbibing well progressed. The two flanked Graham, the three of them making Javan dutiful-enough bows. Hrorik’s eyes strayed to the side as he straightened, lighting on Murdoch, who was doing his best to be invisible. Before the northern lord could put his foot in the situation, Javan cleared his throat to recall their attention.

  “I thank you for attending me, my good lords,” he said easily. “Allow me to make you acquainted with his Serene Highness the Prince Miklos of Torenth, brother of King Arion. His Highness has made inquiries concerning certain hostages entrusted to the late Duke Ewan some fifteen years ago. Their names again, my Lord Miklos?”

  “Lord Kennet and Lady Sudrey of Rhorau, Sire.”

  Hrorik went white, and Sighere glanced uneasily at his older brother. Graham looked astonished.

  “I gather that the names are familiar to you, my lords,” Javan said quietly, wondering at their reactions and setting himself to Truth-Read. “Perhaps you can tell his Highness of their fate.”

  Hrorik swayed on his feet, looking resolutely at the floor, and Sighere, after another glance at his brother, looked squarely at Murdoch.

  “Best ask the Earl of Carthane what became of Lord Kennet, Sire, for his men murdered him, the same way they murdered our brother Ewan!”

  “That’s a lie!” Murdoch declared, half drawing his sword, though he was kept from it by Manfred and Rhun. “Ewan of Claibourne was a foul traitor, and attacked me when I sought to make him answer for it! Besides that, it was the Deryni who killed him, in the end—that devious, defiant—”

  “And I say you lie, Murdoch of Carthane!” Hrorik bellowed, yanking a dirk from his belt but restrained by Sighere and a horrified Graham. “You slew Kennet of Rhorau the same way you slew the others of my brother’s men. If it was not your hand on the dagger, it was your order—”

  “Liar!”

  As Hrorik bucked and struggled, hatred blazing in the blue eyes, Murdoch wrenched free of Manfred and Rhun and drew his sword at last, launching himself toward the grappling Kheldour lords with a mindless cry of rage.

  “Hold!” Javan shouted.

  Even as Murdoch moved, Javan was out of his chair with enough force to overturn it, whipping the Haldane sword clear of its scabbard with a mighty snap of his wrist and thrusting the blade upward to block Murdoch’s.

  “Hold, I say!” he repeated, as the blades clashed. “Murdoch, drop it!”

  Charlan and Udaut were already in motion as well, tackling Murdoch as he drew back for another swing—this time aimed at the king—and wrestling him to the ground, wrenching the sword from his hand. Rhys Michael had thrown himself to one side, out of harm’s way.

  More of the knights were swarming around Hrorik and Sighere and Graham, both to shield them and to prevent their further participation, more still with hard hands on Rhun and Manfred to stay them from joining in.

  Murdoch flailed and twisted in his captors’ hands, screaming wordless rage and even kicking at Javan’s knee, only subsiding as the cold steel of the king’s blade pressed hard against his throat and the men holding him shrank back to give Javan room—though they did not loosen their grip on Murdoch.

  “Give it up, Murdoch!” Javan ordered. “Or better yet, don’t. Guards, come and take charge of this fool before I have to kill him! And you!” He pointed the sword at the still-struggling Hrorik. “Leave it to me, or you’re no better than him!”

  Standing there straddling the supine Murdoch, sweeping the room with his gaze as he likewise swept it with his sword, he must have looked far more impressive than he felt. They were all staring at him, mouths open, apprehension and surprise and even admiration writ across their faces. Two of Javan’s knights had hustled Prince Miklos and his aide into the safety of his own men at the first sign of trouble and now stood wary guard before the lot of them.

  Javan saluted the prince with his sword, then stepped back from Murdoch, who had become quite docile in the hands of the guards who came to take over from Charlan and Udaut. From beside him, Archbishop Hubert hesitantly held out the scabbard he had retrieved from the floor. Javan took it, but he did not sheathe the Haldane sword.

  “All right, I still want to know the answers to some questions,” he said, gesturing with it toward Murdoch. “You, on your feet. One more outburst like that, and you’re in a dungeon to cool off. You watch it, too, Hrorik.”

  He reached down to right the State Chair that he had kicked out of the way when he launched himself, nodding thanks to Rhys Michael for his assistance, then sat.

  “Now,” he said, laying the naked blade and its scabbard across his knees. “We were talking about Kennet of Rhorau. Murdoch, Sighere says you killed him—you or your men. Do you deny it?”

  “Of course I deny it!” Murdoch said, all but spitting as he glared at Sighere.

  “Thank you, that’s enough. Sighere, Murdoch denies it. Would you care to provide details that, perhaps, will jog his memory? Perhaps tell us how Kennet came to be at Court that day?”

  Sighere turned a look of pure venom on Murdoch and shook off the hands still laid lightly on his sleeves.

  “I’ll no jump on him!” he said contemptuously. “The Laird Kennet was fourteen when he an’ his sister came intae Ewan’s wardenship. She was thirteen. The terms o’ the wardenship said that they were to be kept in honorable confinement, so Ewan made Kennet his squire.”

  He drew a deep breath, then went on, not looking at any of them. “He was a br
aw squire, once he settled down, an’ he became a bauld sword—sae guid that when he was twenty, Ewan knighted him, even though he shouldnae hae done, because Kennet was a hostage. But by then, it didnae matter, because Ewan had come tae love Kennet like his own son.”

  Miklos had come closer as Sighere spoke, and nodded quietly as the earl went on.

  “In time, Ewan became duke. Kennet was one o’ his captains by then, an’ naebody even remembered he’d started out as a hostage. He came wi’ Ewan tae that birthday Court, three years ago. An’ when that man stole Ewan’s office an’ his men attacked ours”—he pointed at Murdoch—“Kennet was one o’ the first Claibourne men tae fall, defendin’ his liege! He was a guid man an’ a braw knight, an’ that man is responsible for his death!”

  Murdoch had folded his arms across his chest, his face dark with outrage. “I know nothing of this. My men were defending me from a traitor. Some of Claibourne’s men died. That’s all I know.”

  “An’ I know,” Hrorik said, finally speaking out to Murdoch, “that ye were responsible for our brother’s death, and for Rennet’s and for the deaths of every other man wha’ fell that day! I call ye to account for yer crimes, Murdoch! I call ye tae mortal combat, tae prove yer innocence upon yer body!”

  Taking a step forward, he yanked rough border gauntlets out of his belt and flung them at Murdoch’s feet.

  “If ye be innocent o’ his blood, then may I perish as terribly as did m’ brother. But if ye be guilty o’ contrivin’ his death, then may ye writhe out yer life the way ye wished for him! As God is my witness, Javan Haldane, King o’ Gwynedd, I accuse this man o’ the murder o’ Ewan Duke o’ Claibourne, an’ stand ready to prove my accusation upon my body!”

  The room had grown ever more still as Hrorik unfurled his challenge. All eyes shifted from him to Murdoch and then to the king as Hrorik set his thumbs in his belt and gave a final “Humph!”

  “Sire, this is an outrage!” Murdoch muttered. “Am I required to answer this madman’s claim? You were there. I murdered no one.”

  “Yes, I was there,” Javan said quietly, fingering the hilt of the Haldane sword. “That is why I will not permit myself the satisfaction of judging this case. Hrorik has made an accusation and called you before God’s Court to answer. If you refuse, I shall have you banished from my Court as a craven.”

  “And if I accept, and I prevail, shall I have your apology, Sire?” Murdoch said through clenched teeth. “You need not answer that. I see that you are determined to permit this travesty of justice.”

  “There shall be no travesty, my lord,” Javan said, sweeping them with his eyes and watching as they backed down, almost to the man. “All shall be done according to the law. Your accuser has declared his grievance in open Court. He has the right to see your innocence tested—and to put his own life in the balance.”

  “This is no justice,” Richard, Murdoch’s son, said. “You’ve always hated him. Now the crown is on your head, you think you can have your revenge!”

  Javan took the scabbard of the Haldane sword and jammed it onto the blade, not looking at Richard.

  “The sword is sheathed, gentlemen,” he said. “The king’s justice has naught to do with this affair except to see that proper protocol is carried out. Murdoch of Carthane, Hrorik of Eastmarch has issued you a challenge. Do you accept?”

  “I do,” Murdoch said, his voice full of hate as he threw off his guards’ hands long enough to bend and scoop up the gauntlets Hrorik had thrown. “I say that Hrorik of Eastmarch lies and I shall prove it upon my body, upon the field of honor, at whatever time and place the King’s Grace shall decide.”

  Glancing at Hrorik, he flung the gauntlets backhanded across the space between them, to strike Hrorik’s chest. The earl caught them before they could fall and made Murdoch sardonic salute with them, a nasty smile curving his lips.

  “On the field, to the death, Murdoch,” he murmured. “I hae waited for this day these three years.”

  When both men had been escorted from the room, Master Oriel moved a little closer to the king as Prince Miklos again drew near, his aide at his side, and cast an appraising eye over both of them.

  “Your Healer, I surmise,” he murmured, folding his hands behind his back and favoring Oriel with a slight nod. “Very prudent. I wish to offer apologies to your Highness for precipitating this unfortunate turn of events. While I had anticipated that my inquiry might possibly provoke hostility or even embarrassment, I had not expected a brawl. Alas, it appears that both gentlemen honestly believe that they are in the right—as I am certain Master Healer will confirm. Your Highness is aware, of course, that the Healer could extract the truth without the bloodshed you plan to allow on the morrow?”

  “The methods you suggest are not encouraged at my Court, my lord,” Javan said coolly. “I will thank you not to interfere in such matters.”

  Miklos smiled and inclined his head, apparently not offended. “If I may return, then, to matters in which my interference is appropriate, my lord. It appears that Lord Kennet, though he died, yet came to a noble end. Dare I presume to inquire further concerning what became of the Lady Sudrey?”

  The question brought Javan up short, for in the confusion it had quite slipped his mind that Sudrey’s fate was yet unknown. With a nod to Miklos, Javan raised a hand to catch young Graham’s eye and beckoned him to join them, his uncle Sighere following.

  “Prince Miklos has just reminded me of a question still unanswered, gentlemen,” he said. “Whatever became of the Lady Sudrey?”

  Graham glanced at Sighere, looking apprehensive, but Sighere only gave him a grim smile, eyeing Miklos with something akin to defiance.

  “The lady is well, m’lord,” he said, “but I dinnae think she will abide returning tae Torenth. She is lady an’ wife tae my brother Hrorik. They hae one daughter, Stacia, who becomes Countess of Eastmarch if her father falls tomorrow. An’ her guardianship falls tae me an’ tae her cousin, Duke Graham.”

  “Indeed?” Miklos was heard to murmur, as Javan lamented yet another convolution in the political balance he had inherited.

  “Very well, I believe further speculation is pointless until tomorrow is decided,” Javan said, calling Charlan to his side with a glance. “Earl Sighere, Duke Graham, we shall speak more on this matter before your return to Kheldour. Prince Miklos, I hope you will pardon me if I return now to my other guests in the great hall.”

  “Of course, your Highness,” Miklos purred. “I, too, look forward to tomorrow’s outcome with great interest.”

  He favored Javan with a courtier’s bow and watched as the king and the rest of his retinue filed out of the withdrawing room and back into the great hall. When they were gone, and his own men had assembled in the doorway, ready to go out, Miklos turned to his young aide, who had remained silent throughout the past hour’s exchanges.

  “Well, cousin, your education progresses,” he said softly. “You’ve seen your opposition now, and the turmoil surrounding him. I suspect you only need be patient. By the time you yourself are ready to make your move, Javan Haldane may not even be a factor.”

  Nodding, the younger man turned his gaze to the great tapestry of the Haldane arms hanging behind the canopied chair of state. There had been a time when his own family’s arms had hung in this hall and in others all over Gwynedd. Among his Torenthi kin he was reckoned no less a prince than Miklos, and of late had taken to using the Torenthi form of his name, which was Marek. But his baptismal name, given him by his mother when she also named him true heir to the throne of Gwynedd, was Mark—Mark of Festil.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I said in mine heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked.

  —Ecclesiasticus 3:17

  No fanfare greeted Javan’s arrival in the tilting yard the next morning, where the accoutrements of the tournament had been dismantled to make room for more deadly combat. In contrast to the previous day’s ceremony, today was stark and grim, pared down to barest essenti
als, for of the two contenders presently arming in the shade of pavilions erected to either end of the field, only one would survive.

  Javan reviewed the justification for the coming trial as he, Rhys Michael, Charlan, and Guiscard moved along the edge of the field, Javan nodding wordless greeting to those they passed. Earlier, the four of them had heard an early Mass in the Chapel Royal, because a man was to die today. Javan fervently hoped that it would be Murdoch of Carthane.

  He told himself that what he was allowing to take place this morning would answer the justice long denied in the case of Ewan of Claibourne’s slaying, but he knew that this trial by combat also answered his own desire for vengeance in the matter of Declan Carmody’s death. He would not allow himself to think about what he would do if Hrorik died instead, and Murdoch was acquitted before all the Court.

  Now, as Javan moved along the yard, he could see how the trial had polarized the Court; Murdoch’s supporters stood at one end of the yard, Hrorik’s at the other. Gathered around the pavilion at Murdoch’s end were the expected hard-liners of the old regime: Rhun and Manfred and Murdoch’s sons, Richard and Cashel. At Hrorik’s end were Sighere and Graham, of course, but also several of the younger nobles who, hitherto, had not particularly taken Javan’s side: Lord Udaut the Constable and Fane Fitz-Arthur, who had taken a princess to wife.

  To either side of the king’s box, which lay midway along one side of the area being laid out for the confrontation, stood those who could not afford to be seen blatantly choosing sides: Chancellor Tammaron, both of Gwynedd’s archbishops with Paulin of Ramos; and Jerowen and Etienne, Sir Robear and Sir Jason, and the other knights of Javan’s immediate companionship.

  Javan noted how they deferred to him as he passed, in many an eye respect where little had been before, perhaps a legacy of the way he had handled himself the previous night. He looked like a very different sort of king today, with the Haldane sword girt about the waist of a light-grey tunic with the Haldane badge emblazoned on the breast. His crown was a hammered circlet of gold studded with rubies the size of a man’s thumbnail, its gems ablaze in the unremitting glare of the morning sun, an almost primitive piece of work well suited for presiding over a trial by combat. As he and Rhys Michael took their seats under the shade of the royal box, he immediately turned his gaze down the field where battle chargers were being readied for their riders.