Into a hall already taut with suspicions and uncertainty came Richard and his wife, his younger brother, and his widowed mother, all in deepest mourning, along with the various other members of Court who had supported Murdoch. Some there were among Javan’s supporters who feared that Richard might even refuse to put his hands between those of the king and swear him fealty; but Richard was too canny for that. Whatever plans he might be hatching for revenge could be engineered far more easily by the lawfully recognized Earl of Carthane. And whatever resentment he harbored for this particular King of Gwynedd, he had respect for the royal office and for the grave responsibilities he assumed with his father’s title as earl.
“I, Richard, Earl of Carthane, do become your liege man of life and limb,” he said softly but distinctly, with his joined hands clasped firmly between Javan’s. “Faith and trust will I bear unto you, in living and dying, against all manner of folk, so help me God.”
He was not lying—which only meant that, as yet, Richard Murdoch had not formed any conscious or certain intention to betray the oath he had just given to his young king.
Nonetheless, Javan detected a note of uneasiness underlying the words, which continued to reverberate as he repeated his own affirmation of the oath, learned by rote for the coronation two days previous and rehearsed so many times that day.
“This do I hear, Richard of Carthane. I, for my part, pledge the protection of Gwynedd to you and all your people, to protect and defend you against every creature with all my power. This is the word of Javan Jashan Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd and Kheldour, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, Overlord of Carthane. So help me God.”
He bent to kiss the Book when he had released Richard’s hands, and Richard followed suit, but Javan wondered, as the new earl was invested with the other symbols of his office—the coronet, the golden belt, the sword, the banner, the cauldron—how long either of them would be able to keep the oaths they had just sworn. Carthane lay to the south, in the angle formed by the Lendour River and the great estuary that extended up from the Southern Sea. Nyford, its principal city, had already been the scene of anti-Deryni riots and purges in the past decade. Would Richard be able to hold against that kind of pressure? Would he even try?
These were questions not readily answerable, and Richard and his party did not tarry for further exploration of such questions. As soon as the barest courtesies had been exchanged, Richard took his leave and departed the hall, his supporters following to see him off. Very shortly, while Javan moved informally among those remaining in the hall in the aftermath of the morning’s business, Guiscard came to tell him that Rhun had ridden out with Richard’s party. Sitric had gone with them, Rhun perhaps fearing that the king would steal him as he had stolen Oriel. Javan could not say he would miss any of them. Sitric gone left one less danger at Court.
He prepared to quit the hall, intending to retire for the hottest part of the day and relax for an hour before plunging back into business with a Council meeting that afternoon. Charlan was with him. Guiscard had gone to see where Oriel had gotten to, for Prince Miklos was heading in Javan’s direction. With Etienne prudently keeping his distance, Javan was on his own for this encounter with the Deryni prince.
“My good Lord Javan,” Miklos said, making the king a graceful gesture of deference. His young aide accompanied him, quiet and solemn in dark brown shot through with gold, but with dark eyes that missed little.
“In light of what has happened these last few days, I think it best I take my leave of you as well,” Miklos said. “I do regret having been the catalyst for so unfortunate a set of circumstances as has marred your coronation festivities, and hope that you will bear no enmity toward me or toward my sovereign liege. My brother Arion desires only peace between our two Houses.”
“That is my wish as well, my lord,” Javan replied.
“It is the wish of all men of goodwill,” Miklos agreed. “But I trust that your Highness will agree that inquiries needed to be made regarding the fate of Lord Kennet and Lady Sudrey.” He cocked his head wistfully. “Might it be possible to see the Earl Hrorik before I leave? A firsthand assurance from Lady Sudrey’s husband would do much to alleviate my brother’s concern for the well-being of our kinswoman.”
Javan eyed the Torenthi prince appraisingly. He wondered at the continued interest in Sudrey and her Kheldour connections, and decided then and there that the Deryni prince was not going to see Hrorik again. The earl’s debilitation from the day before would make him more than ordinarily vulnerable, if Miklos had some Deryni trickery in mind.
“It is my impression that Lord Hrorik’s physicians have prescribed complete rest for several days, my lord,” Javan said, careful to keep every word literally true. “I do not believe that visitors are recommended.”
“Indeed,” Miklos replied. “I had been led to believe that his injuries were not of a serious nature. If your Healer needs assistance—”
“I am assured that Master Oriel has Lord Hrorik’s condition well in hand, my lord,” Javan replied with a smile, brushing off what appeared to be a second attempt on Miklos’ part to get at Hrorik. “Exhaustion and a substantial loss of blood from his wounds make it advisable that the earl spend several days resting quietly, building up his strength again, but at no time were his injuries life-threatening. No assistance is required.”
Miklos made a gesture of disavowal with both hands. “Forgive me, Sire. I meant no belittling of your Healer’s skills. I merely hoped that, if you had no objection, I might ask the Earl Hrorik to convey my respects to his lady wife and request that she send reassurance to her kinsmen of Torenth, that we might be persuaded of her safety and happiness.”
Javan sighed. If he had thought that the tension occasioned by Hrorik’s confrontation with Murdoch had ended on the combat field the day before, or even at Court earlier today, he obviously was mistaken. Again he wondered why the sudden interest in Lady Sudrey, who had not been heard from in fifteen years.
“I can appreciate your concern, my lord. I shall certainly so inform Lord Hrorik and ask that he convey your Highness’ respects to his lady. Whether it is appropriate for her to respond is for her and her husband to decide. I do feel reasonably confident, however, that Hrorik would permit his lady to receive letters from her kinsmen.”
“The situation is delicate, is it not, my lord?” Miklos said with a sympathetic sigh.
Javan allowed himself a cautious nod. “As you yourself observed, my lord, this situation is none of our making—not mine and not King Arion’s. Hence, the untangling of it must be by those most actively involved in it. If the Lady Sudrey wishes to communicate with her Torenthi kin, I have no objection; nor will I force her to do so, if she does not wish it. I trust that this is acceptable to you, sir?”
Miklos gave him a little bow that mostly shielded an almost feral smile. “I thank you, my lord. It is acceptable,” he murmured. “I shall so inform my brother and see that the appropriate letters are sent. To that end, and well knowing the sorts of business that require attention after a coronation, I beg to take respectful leave of your Highness. My men have made the appropriate arrangements, and a ship awaits us at Desse.”
“At Desse?” Javan said, almost without thinking.
Smiling, Miklos gave him another little bow. “We came by ship, your Highness,” he said softly. “At this time of year, it is by far the most comfortable way to travel. We are to call at Fianna and several other of the Forcinn States on our way home.”
What he did not say, nor did Javan, was that going by ship via Desse would take him all along most of the long coast of Carthane, where a young earl with good reason to hold a grudge against his new king was even now taking his father home for burial. If the Torenthi prince’s ship called at Nyford before continuing around the long horn of Carthmoor, what thing more natural than to visit with the local nobility—and perhaps fuel resentment that might eventually be to the advantage of Torenthi interests?
But th
ere was nothing Javan could do to stop him. Even were Miklos of Torenth not Deryni, he was a king’s brother, protected by the protocols of guestship, royal envoy of a sovereign prince with whom Javan was not at war. So as gracefully as possible, he gave Miklos leave to go, bearing messages of felicitation to the king his brother, and brooded on what the future might make of this day as he headed back into the castle after bidding the prince farewell in the castle yard.
As an afterthought, he dispatched Robear and Gavin to ride on to Nyford by a different route, carrying official warrants to observe and report back on the status of Haldane ships in that port, so that at least he would know if Miklos stopped there.
By the end of that week, Robear was able to report back that the Torenthi contingent apparently had made ship in Desse and sailed on without the feared diversion to Nyford. Local gossip also had it that Lord Murdoch of Carthane had been properly buried and his family had gone into seclusion. Rhun was believed still to be with them, and Sitric as well.
Meanwhile, most of the rest of Javan’s coronation visitors wound up their business and also departed from Court. The day after Robear’s return, even Hrorik was strong enough to head home with Duke Graham and Earl Sighere, taking their border retinue with them and eliciting sighs of relief from more than just Javan.
One thing Javan did at once, the very evening he sent Robear on his mission, was to take immediate measures for Oriel’s continued safety. Knowing how ruthless Hubert could be, he did not fully trust that the archbishop would meekly allow the poaching of “his” Deryni without a fight.
To reduce the temptation to drastic action, Javan moved the Healer into quarters adjacent to the loyal Sir Sorle, who was not afraid of Oriel, and gave that knight the full-time responsibility for Oriel’s physical safety. He also bade Oriel keep himself well out of the public eye, to further avoid putting himself in a situation where one of the king’s enemies might decide to simply eliminate the potential problem of the king now being the sole possessor of a Deryni in his employ—at least until Rhun brought Sitric back.
That week also saw the relocation of Etienne de Courcy into the newly restored room next to the library, ostensibly to be nearer the growing collection of books and manuscripts being assembled there, but also to become guardian of Javan’s new Portal. The king had no opportunity to use it himself during those first days after his coronation, but he had Etienne go through and make a full report to Joram and the others concerning what had happened at it and immediately after. Henceforth, Etienne became the regular go-between to keep Javan’s Deryni allies apprised of developments.
The departures of many of the great lords from Court left the king with a core of working advisors, some dependable and some not, and the breathing space to begin exploring some of the legislation he hoped to present when the Court reconvened at Christmas. With Manfred set to leave at the end of the month for his customary autumn visit to his lands in Culdi, only Tammaron and Hubert would remain of those formerly serving as regents—at least until Rhun returned. The temporary respite lulled him into a false sense of growing security, so that he was largely unprepared when an old danger suddenly re-emerged.
The day had been long and warm, but the heat was beginning to break. Dusk had brought sufficient relief that some dared to hope that summer was nearly done, though a full month yet remained until the autumn equinox. It was already quite late when Javan at last sought his bed, but sleep eluded him despite the respite in temperature.
After half an hour of staring at the canopy of his bed, he decided that a moonlight walk in the gardens might be just the distraction to lull his busy thoughts and turn his mind toward sleep. Pulling on a light night robe, he moved across a slash of moonlight to open the door to the next room, eschewing footgear, for he planned to dabble his feet in the garden’s fountain.
Guiscard had already retired to the new quarters he and Charlan shared, across the corridor from the royal apartments, but Charlan was stretched out on a pallet near the door, since he was duty aide for the night. Javan was reluctant to rouse him, even though that was what Charlan was there for, but he knew it was not wise to go out unaccompanied, especially unarmed and vulnerable without his special boot. He cleared his throat to give Charlan slight warning before bending down to touch his shoulder, but Charlan was already shifting onto his elbows to look up.
“What is it, Sire?” he murmured.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Javan reassured him. “I can’t sleep, is all. Sorry to wake you, but I thought a walk in the garden might help me unwind. I knew you’d be far more annoyed if I didn’t wake you.”
Charlan grinned and swung his feet under him to get up.
“It’s no annoyance,” he said amiably, catching up the sword ready beside him. “It’s my job to be available when you need me.” He had been sleeping fully dressed, and paused only to belt on the sword before following Javan toward the door.
Going slowly to allow for Javan’s foot, they made their way down a back stair and headed along the garden colonnade. The stone was cool underfoot, and as Javan came to the arched entryway to the garden, he trod cautiously on the soft grass that skirted the gravel paths, careful for stones. Charlan hung back to give him privacy yet stayed close enough to still be within call.
The moon was near full, so that by its light Javan was easily able to find his way toward the center of the garden, as he headed toward the fountain with the lady. The perfume of jasmine and roses was on the air, reminding Javan of the last time he had come here. When he came to the fountain, he sat on the wide edge and swung his right foot up and over, into the water, then lay back flat on his back and folded his arms across his chest while he gazed upward past the sparkling stream flowing from over the lady’s shoulder, wistfully trying to fathom the face that was not a face.
Gradually his thoughts drifted to more carefree days, when he and his brothers had played in these gardens and the burdens of ruling had lain on other’s shoulders. He had thought to contemplate such remembered pleasures that other time, when Paulin’s intrusion had jolted him so rudely to more serious considerations. At least tonight, he had found the peacefulness and seclusion denied him that day.
He sighed and stretched out his right hand to trail in the cool water, willing his thoughts to float and tumble with the stream pouring from the lady’s ewer, not minding that his sleeve trailed in the water as well. Gradually he could feel himself starting to unwind, the tension draining out of his shoulders and neck. After a few minutes he closed his eyes, for the peaceful bubbling of the falling water was beginning to make him drowsy—which was what he had hoped would happen.
Yawning, he stretched his arms expansively to either side, arching against the stone beneath his back, and thought seriously about going back upstairs. Or perhaps he would wade in the fountain, as he had done as a boy. But as he rose up to a sitting position, still straddling the side of the fountain, and glanced idly behind him to see where Charlan had gotten to, he became suddenly aware that the whisper of falling water was briefly overlaid with a soft burst of girlish laughter, punctuated by a quick series of shushing noises and then more smothered giggling.
The sound froze him in his place, head turning to catch the sound suddenly gone to silence. Romantic assignations were common enough in the castle gardens, especially in summertime, when lovers sought relief from the heat, but something in what Javan had just heard made his blood momentarily run cold. Casting out with his senses, quickly focusing deeper into the garden, he soon located the source of his dismay—and launched himself from his fountain perch to charge along the path heading in that direction, heedless of the gravel underfoot. Charlan was right behind him and quickly gaining, sword halfway out of its scabbard.
He got to them in time—or at least he prayed it was in time. In the bright moonlight, he caught just a glimpse of ivory flesh and pert little breasts as Michaela Drummond struggled to a sitting position and half turned away from his shocked gaze, her rosy lips a taut O of surprise as
she hurriedly tugged her bodice back into place, tawny hair tumbled loose and wild over her shoulders.
And emerging from amid a tangle of her skirts was Rhys Michael, his tunic ruched up bare legs nearly to his waist, looking as shocked and frightened as Javan had ever seen him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city.
—Proverbs 18:19
Neither Rhys Michael nor Michaela made a sound, but from behind Javan, Charlan’s choked gasp said enough for all of them.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Javan demanded, setting his hands on his hips.
Rhys Michael drew a deep breath, then scrambled boldly to his knees and began tugging his tunic into place with a nonchalance that bordered on arrogance. At the same time he managed to shield Michaela, who was peering fearfully around him at Javan from behind the curtain of her hair. Somehow, even with bare legs still gleaming from beneath his tunic as he got one foot under him, Rhys Michael managed to convey a reasonable sense of dignity.
“I should have thought it was very clear what I was doing,” he murmured, insolence turning his voice to silk as his eyes met Javan’s. “But then, I don’t suppose monks are taught such things in the monastery, are they? A proper man—”
Before Javan could stop himself, he had taken one step forward and backhanded his brother across the mouth with such force that Rhys Michael tumbled over sideways. Michaela let out a little squeak and shrank back as Javan turned on her, grey Haldane eyes blazing, but Charlan was beside him by then, catching at his sleeve in alarm.
“Sire, no!”
Forcing himself to breathe deeply, Javan shook off Charlan’s hand and drew himself erect, shifting his gaze to his brother as Rhys Michael cautiously raised his head.
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