It took the better part of a week for Javan to find his opportunity, after several days of laying careful groundwork. He could do little else, so long as he received no new demands from his brother’s abductors. On a Sunday late in November, when Javan knew that Hubert and not Oriss would be officiating at solemn Vespers and Benediction down in the cathedral, the king put on a suppliant’s face and betook himself to divine services there, closely cloaked and hooded both against the cold and casual recognition and accompanied by Charlan and Guiscard as was his usual wont.
The congregation was small, for winter was settling in with a vengeance. A moderate snowfall earlier in the week, followed by rain, had left the streets a quagmire of mud and puddles now turning to icy patches, for new snow had been flurrying as Javan and his companions made their way down from the castle mound. To his relief, Paulin was nowhere in evidence either before or after the service, and what few worshippers had been present did not linger once the participating clergy had withdrawn to the sacristy.
The great cathedral grew very quiet as the last of the altar candles were extinguished and the responsible acolyte retreated. Hubert was still in the sacristy. Javan could see its only door from where he remained kneeling far back in the choir, his hood pulled up. Eventually Hubert appeared, turning to give some final instruction to someone still inside.
Drawing a fortifying breath, Javan rose and headed toward him, Charlan and Guiscard trailing at a discreet distance. Hubert looked up at their approach, one hesitant hand on the sacristy door, not pulling it closed until Javan pushed back his hood to reveal his identity.
“Your Grace, may I speak with you?” he said.
“Oh, it’s you, Sire,” Hubert said coolly. “If this is in the nature of official business—”
Javan shook his head and bowed it as he sank to one knee.
“It’s personal,” he whispered, hoping Hubert would extend his ring to be kissed. “I—have need of a priest.”
“I believe a new royal confessor has been appointed, Sire,” Hubert said. “Has your Highness found him to be unsatisfactory?”
Abandoning the ring ploy as an excuse to touch Hubert, Javan got to his feet, keeping his head slightly bowed over folded hands.
“I’m sure he is admirably qualified for his position,” he said. “This matter—touches on older concerns with which you are already acquainted.” He swallowed nervously before offering the next persuasion. “You gave me good counsel then, and I didn’t heed it. I’ve done a great deal of soul-searching in these past few—could we go somewhere private? Your quarters, perhaps? I can’t really discuss this, standing out here.”
The archbishop inclined his head, the blue eyes unreadable in the cherub face, and gestured toward a side door.
“Very well, my prince. The accommodations are modest, but they serve my purpose well enough—a place to lay my head at night, which even the Son of man hath not.”
Catching the allusion, Javan promptly responded, “Saint Luke,” and chanced a faint grin at Hubert, knowing the archbishop would not have expected him to pick up on the reference. “Shall I give you chapter and verse as well?”
To his relief, Hubert responded with a pleased if slightly wary chuckle, leading him through the door and along a polished corridor. Charlan and Guiscard followed silently behind.
“Now, I wonder,” Hubert said. “Is that the bluff of a man who wants me to think he remembers the full citation, so that I won’t ask for it, or do you really know?”
“Saint Luke, chapter—nine, I think.” In the old days, when Javan had been under Hubert’s instruction prior to entering seminary, it had been an intellectual exercise they both had enjoyed. “The foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.
“Not that an archbishop really has to worry about a place to lay his head,” he added, as they approached a polished door with the episcopal arms of Valoret painted on it. “You know, this would be far more impressive if the arms were carved, like the door back at Valoret.”
Hubert smiled and pushed the door open without looking. “Why this apparent effort to make me recall old times, Sire? I had great hopes for you. I was greatly disappointed.”
As they went through, Charlan and Guiscard took up posts to either side, their backs to the wall, exchanging apprehensive glances. Inside, through a small vestibule, Hubert led the king into a small, cozy parlor with a fire blazing cheerily in a modest fireplace. An elderly priest had been mulling wine in an earthen pot set on the hearth and went at once to fetch another cup when he saw that the archbishop had company.
Not speaking, Hubert lowered his bulk into the largest of the three chairs set before the fire and pushed his fur-lined cloak back off his shoulders, gesturing for Javan to take the chair beside him. Javan laid his own cloak over the back of the other chair, then moved the remaining one a little closer to his host. Until the old priest had come and gone, he dared do nothing more overt.
“Thank you,” he murmured, settling into the chair. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a trial to you. May I—make what I have to say to you in the nature of a confession?”
“Is it a confession, my son?” Hubert asked quietly.
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose it is—or may become one,” Javan replied, falling silent as the priest came back in with an extra cup and knelt by the hearth once more, to ladle mulled wine into both.
“Thank you, Father Sixtus, you may go to bed now,” Hubert said when the priest had delivered the steaming cups. “I shan’t need you more tonight.”
Bowing, the priest withdrew through another door and closed it. Hubert sipped at his wine and said nothing, gazing distractedly into the fire until the sound came of another door closing, farther away.
“Very well, Sire. Father Sixtus will not disturb us further,” the archbishop said at last. “You may assume that the purple stole is about my shoulders and that what passes between us shall be held under the seal of the confessional. What did you wish to discuss?”
Sighing, Javan set his cup aside and shifted forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands dangle between them as he intertwined his fingers. He needed to get at Hubert for a proper probe concerning his part in Rhys Michael’s abduction—which was far more difficult than the simple control and blurring of memory he had imposed on the archbishop the morning of Alroy’s death. For one thing, Hubert was paying close attention tonight—if no longer quite suspicious, then certainly curious about why Javan had sought him out.
Further, the control required for a proper probe required physical contact—and that could turn dangerous, if Hubert somehow guessed what was happening and tried to offer physical resistance. Javan did not know whether a cry for help would carry beyond his own men waiting outside the door, but he did know that in sheer physical bulk, he was no match for Hubert.
“These last few weeks have made me think quite a lot about what it means to be king,” he said softly, a vague enough opening that was certain to get Hubert’s attention. “I thought I was ready to handle it, but when they sent me Rhysem’s toe—”
He shivered and buried his face in one hand—the hand farthest from Hubert—but also leaving cracks between his fingers so he could see.
“I’m afraid, Father,” he whispered. “They’re going to kill my brother. They’ve demanded that I do something I can’t do, but if I don’t—”
“My prince,” Hubert murmured, leaning forward. “You mustn’t lose heart. We’ll find him in time. You’ll see.”
Shaking his bowed head, Javan let his shoulders shudder in a feigned sob, at the same time willing the archbishop to reach out to him.
“I know you have to say that,” he whispered. “I know it’s meant to be comforting, but—”
In that instant, as Hubert’s hand reached across to pat Javan’s shoulder in sympathy, Javan shifted to cover Hubert’s hand with his, surging controls across the bond of flesh.
Hubert blinked as Javan
raised his head to look into his eyes, held by the grey gaze as well as the hand grasping his. Alarm flickered briefly across the cherubic face, disappearing utterly as Javan raised his free hand to touch Hubert’s forehead between the closing eyes.
“Thank you, Archbishop, we’ll make this quick,” the king said, slipping to his knees at Hubert’s feet, just in case Father Sixtus came back after all. He took both of Hubert’s hands in his, resting them on the archbishop’s purple-covered knees, then settled onto his haunches to bow his head over the joined hands.
Thus poised, he sent his mind into Hubert’s to query regarding his brother—and gasped at the scope of the plot so revealed, hatched primarily by Paulin and Albertus but fully endorsed by Hubert.
Of having Rhys Michael abducted by disguised Custodes knights who let it be assumed that they were Ansel’s. Of engineering the prince’s “rescue” by more players in the plot—Manfred’s men, who had taken the freed but injured prince to Culdi to recover.
And the plot had not really been about Deryni presumption or smearing the name of Ansel at all, though that had been a convenient side benefit. The real goal had been to accomplish Rhys Michael’s marriage with Michaela Drummond. Apparently, the former regents really were thinking in terms of controlling a future heir, if they could not control Javan or Rhys Michael. It was very long-term planning, but what else could they do, without risking outright civil war?
And Rhys Michael had been an innocent dupe throughout. Even now the prince had been safe at Culdi for several weeks, recuperating from his “ordeal,” blissfully unaware that neither his own letters nor any supposedly sent by his host had reached Rhemuth to inform the king of his brother’s safety. Perhaps occasionally he wondered why no word came by return, no royal explosion to forbid resuming the courtship cut short by his darling’s departure from Court two months before—though Rhys Michael carefully avoided mentioning Michaela in his own sparse letters.
But the snows were beginning to fall, and travel was slower, and there in Culdi, it was easy to put unpleasant possibilities from mind and resume his single-minded wooing of the object of his desire, cheerfully encouraged by a solicitous and cooperative host. “Besotted” was the word Albertus had used in his last letter to describe the prince—and he had not been referring to wine.
The information stunned Javan. Even in his joy at learning of his brother’s physical safety, his heart sank; for there was no way he could act on what he knew, even if he were in time to prevent the marriage—which could take place at any time, if it had not already. It was treachery of a most insidious sort, and he could not prevent it. When the conspirators finally decided it was time for Rhys Michael to be “rescued,” Manfred would return to Court in triumph, with the rescued prince now wed to the childhood sweetheart who had nursed him back to health after his ordeal—a romantic tale to wrench the hearts of any who heard it. After that, any further opposition on Javan’s part would only make of him an ogre.
Approaching footsteps warned of the feared return of Father Sixtus. Startled, Javan rose back onto his knees and shifted his hands to clasp between Hubert’s. At the same time, he went quickly back into Hubert’s mind to erase any awareness of what he had done and insert more diverting memories—of a brief chat by the fire and a halting, red-faced confession by the king of vaguely “impure thoughts” regarding several young ladies of the Court. It was the only thing he could think of on such short notice that might begin to balance out the implications of what he had learned about Rhys Michael.
In particular, Hubert would recall mention of one Juliana of Horthness, Rhun’s daughter, whose naming had shifted Hubert’s hopes firmly to the possibility that Javan, too, might eventually be induced to marry as the lords of Council directed. The scenario was repugnant to Javan, for never would he even consider joining his blood to Rhun’s detested line, but he hoped the sheer audacity of the notion would tend to confirm that Javan really had confessed it.
He had hoped for time to implant more complex controls for the future, which would not require physical touch for their triggering, but the footsteps were approaching too quickly for that—could Father Sixtus really walk that fast? Just as the door opened, he withdrew with a final command for Hubert to give him absolution, keeping his head bowed over tight-clasped hands until Hubert had pronounced the prescribed formula. To his horror, as he looked up, it was Paulin and not Father Sixtus who had come striding into the little room, clearly as surprised as he.
“I do beg your pardon, Sire, your Grace,” Paulin murmured. “I did not realize …”
“No harm,” Hubert assured him, giving Javan a hand up. “His Highness and I were just finishing. I give you leave to perform your penance in the Chapel Royal, Sire. ’Twill be a cold ride back up to the castle. Think upon your sin as you ride, offering up your discomfort to God. But the sin is a small one, and easily transformed into a virtue. Remember that.”
“I will endeavor to do so, your Grace,” Javan murmured, bowing formally to the archbishop and then inclining his head toward Paulin. “Vicar General.”
Then he was fleeing from the archbishop’s quarters, shaking in afterreaction once he had reached the safety of Guiscard and Charlan and was on his way out of the episcopal precincts.
“Paulin came in, just at the end,” he murmured as they went into the cathedral close to mount up. “I don’t think he suspected anything, but it was a near-run thing. I’ll tell you more when we get back to the castle. And then I think we’d better go and visit your father, Guiscard.”
Paulin, meanwhile, was by no means devoid of suspicion.
“What did he want of you?” he demanded, sitting down in the chair next to Hubert’s.
“Absolution,” the archbishop replied blandly, but with an arch little smile. “It seems that the king’s brother is not the only one who burns for want of a lady’s favors.”
“Javan?” Paulin murmured, incredulous.
“Yes. So much for Custodes discipline of the flesh.” Hubert smiled. “It’s clear he hasn’t succumbed as yet, except to impure thoughts, but one may entertain fond hopes. Would you like to know who has inspired such an occasion of sin?”
“I can’t imagine,” Paulin replied, clearly intrigued—and dubious.
“Would the name Juliana of Horthness surprise you?” Hubert returned. “He mentioned several others as well, but Rhun’s dark-eyed daughter seems to be the one who troubles him most.”
“Yes, she would trouble him—a bewitching creature—though one must wonder whether the troubling has more political origins than carnal ones, in Javan’s case.” He looked at Hubert closely. “Are you sure he was sincere about this? He couldn’t have been making it up, to test how you’d react?”
“You’re suggesting that he’d fake a confession, sully the Sacrament?” Hubert said. “Not Javan. He may have forsaken his vows, but I can’t imagine that of him. No, I think he’s simply a healthy young man beginning to discover his own passions. That’s becoming in a king. I hold great hopes for him, Paulin.”
And that same night in Culdi, assured of privacy by his indulgent host, another healthy young man reclined in a pile of sleeping furs pulled onto the floor in front of a cozy fire, a fair, tousled head cradled against his shoulder. In the near dark, the king’s brother almost could not see the thin red scar of the healed wound just above his left knee. Master Stevanus had removed the sutures nearly a week ago, and most of the bruising had faded. He was pleased at how quickly he had healed.
As if reading his thoughts, his comely companion snuggled closer and reached a slender hand across to stroke lightly up the scar and then on to tease at his manhood. He chuckled at that, stretching languidly, and then rolled over to enfold her in his arms again. It mattered little to him that on the morrow, the Church would set such formal blessing upon their union as to make her his princess, for she had come to him some days ago as his bride. So far as Rhys Michael was concerned, he and Michaela Drummond were already husband and wife.
&
nbsp; CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
He shall serve among great men, and appear before princes; he will travel through strange countries.
—Ecclesiasticus 39:4
The next morning, while Rhys Michael and his princess-to-be made preparations for their formal nuptials, the bride’s guardian was scanning over a letter long prepared and now ready to be sent, purporting to be a follow-up to an earlier missive telling of the prince’s safe rescue from his abductors and his imminent return to Rhemuth. Since the first letter had never been sent, it most certainly had never arrived.
Further to my letter of three days ago, Earl Manfred had written, in consultation with Lord Albertus and several of his knights, who had paid an incognito visit to Culdi soon after Rhys Michael’s arrival.
I continue to thank God that the prince’s injuries were not of a serious nature. Though exhausted from his ordeal, he is resting comfortably and making daily progress, but my battle surgeon has determined that it would be best if he lies here at Culdi for perhaps another week before embarking for Rhemuth.
Regarding the prisoners taken when his Highness was rescued—interrogation is proceeding, with the valuable assistance of Master Sitric, who confirms that MacRorie was their commander. I still regret that he managed to elude capture. One of the prisoners was Deryni, and died of his wounds; another died when Sitric attempted to force a Reading. The ones remaining are human, but we are proceeding with caution, as one has already tried to commit suicide.
I shall bring the Prince Rhys Michael back to Rhemuth as soon as I may, and shall bid him write to you again as soon as he is able. He still finds this very tiring, because of recurring headaches caused by a blow to his head. These are abating.
Since Christmas Court approaches, it is my present intention to return with my entire household as soon as his Highness is fit to travel, for I know that you will wish to reassure yourself of his safety in person, as soon as may be practicable. I remain your Highness’ most loyal subject, Manfred MacInnis, Earl of Culdi.
King Javan’s Year Page 47