“I’m afraid your suspicions are confirmed, Sire,” Guiscard said as he helped the king undress for bed a few nights later. “One of the royal laundresses had some fascinating insights into your brother’s domestic details. It seems that the new princess has twice missed her monthly courses now, and for the last several weeks has been increasingly unwell in the mornings. If you ask your brother about it, I’m sure he must be aware.”
“Damn!” Javan breathed softly. “I’d hoped he’d restrain himself.”
“In all fairness to the prince, it may already have been too late when you had your little talk with him,” Guiscard replied. “And once he knew she was pregnant, there was no real reason for further restraint, was there?”
“But isn’t there some danger?” Javan asked. “Though if there were, I suppose I should be glad. Maybe she’ll miscarry.” He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “No, I don’t wish her that. And it’s out of the question to ask Oriel to do something about it.”
“I’m afraid so,” Guiscard said. “But don’t you think you ought to confirm this with Rhys Michael?”
The next morning, when he and Rhys Michael returned from their ride—again without Michaela—Javan confronted his brother. They were rubbing down the horses, a task both princes liked to do for themselves if no other duties intruded. Baron Hildred, who had been their riding master when they were boys, had once said something about the outside of a horse being good for the inside of a man.
“So, when is she due?” Javan said, watching his brother sidelong as he curried at the mud on his horse’s flank with a plaited twist of straw.
They were standing between the horses, and Rhys Michael stopped in midstroke, turning sheepishly to glance at his brother.
“Who told you?” he asked in a low voice.
“That doesn’t matter. Is it true?”
Rhys Michael sighed and leaned one arm over his horse’s back, playing nervously with a wisp of mane. “I suppose it is. We didn’t plan it this way, though. I swear we didn’t. I—suppose she was already pregnant in early December, when we came back to Rhemuth. It—ah—could have started as early as mid-November.”
“I see. That means an August or September baby.” Javan sighed. “You haven’t given me much time, have you?”
“I still think you’re overestimating the danger,” Rhys Michael muttered, throwing down his twist of straw. “Besides, now that you’re wooing Juliana—”
“That’s all sham, and you know it,” Javan replied. “And if Rhun finds out, I’m really dead.”
“But it’s still turned speculation from me to you,” Rhys Michael pointed out. “Even if you’re right, I’m sure they’d much rather have an heir from you than from me.”
“How reassuring,” Javan said dryly.
The prince did agree to keep his wife’s pregnancy quiet for as long as possible. Javan’s own ongoing attentiveness to Juliana helped to improve the general atmosphere in the Council. Though Rhun’s attitude could never be described as friendly, he did became more indulgent of what Javan had to say, and even seemed to develop an interest in the results of the land inquests being gathered by Javan’s commissioners.
After about a month of reasonably civil interaction in a Council somewhat diminished by winter absences of some of its members, Javan at last decided to take up the project he had put aside at word of his brother’s kidnapping. Increasingly he had become aware that the Deryni question would have to be approached indirectly, perhaps on a case-at-a-time basis in the beginning. One of the more obvious places to begin was the plight of the families of Deryni collaborators like Oriel.
“Gentlemen, I’ve been doing some thinking about the Deryni situation, in light of their involvement in my brother’s abduction,” he said as they settled down for an afternoon session on a particularly gloomy March day. “I concede that I was mistaken when I asked the Council to consider relaxing the Ramos Statutes. Obviously, the Deryni problem is far more complex and insidious than I wanted to believe.”
His listeners exchanged glances with one another, uncertain whether to be suspicious or pleased. The scatter effect of the statements stirred vague resentment at Deryni being mentioned at all, yet hinted that the king’s attitude was not altogether in favor of the Deryni presence.
“The Deryni involvement has also reminded me that we still have several Deryni held hostage here, in addition to Master Oriel and your Master Sitric, Lord Rhun. And my Lord Archbishop,” he said to Hubert, “I apologize again for having complicated matters when I allowed Oriel to see his wife and daughter.”
Hubert inclined his head. “Your Highness has a kindly heart. Unfortunately, kindness toward Deryni is misplaced.”
“I don’t know that I would agree with that,” Javan replied uncomfortably. “I render kindness to my horses and my hounds; they serve me better for it, even if we were not so instructed in Scripture, to deal gently with our servants.
“Yet I am cognizant of the potential danger that a continuing Deryni presence in Rhemuth may pose,” he went on. “Oh, I know we must keep the hostages necessary to ensure the continued obedience of Oriel and Sitric, so long as we choose to retain their services, but what of those whose service is past, like Ursin O’Carroll? While losing his powers may have been of benefit to his Deryni soul, it also made him quite superfluous for the purposes of his former employment. After three years, I should think it clear that his powers are not likely to return.”
“‘Not likely’ is not good enough!” said Hubert with a vehemence that startled Javan. “Oh, I have seen him tested repeatedly, and his wife as well, and I know the drug was potent—but what if his powers did come back?”
As the others muttered among themselves, Javan scanned around the room. These were the core of the Council, all of whom he must win if he hoped to make this work. His own people would follow his lead, but Hubert, Paulin, Albertus, Rhun, Manfred, Tammaron—all of these were of the old guard and were already suspicious.
“Gentlemen, it seems to me that perhaps it’s time to reevaluate this situation,” Javan said when he had called them back to order by rapping his knuckles on the table. Jerowen and Etienne were seated at the other end of the table, flanking Rhys Michael, and Javan had their notes on the table before him. “Am I to understand that Ursin and his wife continue to be tested, and that they both test human?”
“The wife is human, Sire,” Tammaron conceded, looking uncomfortable. “There’s never been any question of that.”
“Yet she’s been kept prisoner, even after Ursin lost his powers—”
“Because she married a Deryni, Sire!” Paulin declared. “And she bore him a brat who may be Deryni!”
“Who may be Deryni?” Javan said. “You mean you don’t know?”
“The child was an infant when his parents were taken into custody, Sire,” Hubert said impatiently. “With only one Deryni parent, it’s possible the child was spared the curse. Furthermore, I’m reliably informed that the effect of merasha on the very young, whether human or Deryni, can be erratic. I should think you would count it a mercy to spare a possibly fatal reaction in a child who could well be human. For now, the boy is better off with his mother, who is human, even if it means they must remain in custody.”
Javan scowled. If he persisted, he was likely to get the boy tested with merasha, regardless of the danger. But Oriel had also told him that regular doses of the drug, even in humans, could have a cumulative effect. He did not know how often constituted “regularly” in Hubert’s book, but Oriel’s indications were that anything more frequent than every eight to ten weeks might begin to do irreversible damage, depending on the concentration. He did not want to force a premature testing of Ursin’s young son, but that might become necessary, if he hoped to relieve the plight of the boy’s parents.
“I’d like to see Ursin,” he said. “I haven’t seen him since that day.”
The clergy fidgeted among themselves, though his own men had been expecting it.
“Ursin isn’t Deryni anymore,” Javan replied, ignoring the remark about Oriel, almost wishing he could tell Hubert just how contaminated he was. “You’ve just told me that he’s been tested repeatedly and that he shows none of the signs. Surely, if he were Deryni, he would have managed to escape by now.”
“Deryni or not, if he did escape, he knows what would happen to his wife and child,” Albertus pointed out.
“Yes, I suspect that would be your preference, in any case,” Javan replied.
“In fact, it is, Sire,” Albertus said, to Javan’s shock. “If you wish, the problem can be eliminated entirely, once and for all. Neither Ursin nor his family need suffer continued captivity, once they lie in their graves.”
“I won’t have him murdered!” Javan snapped. “He’s done nothing to warrant that.”
“He is Deryni,” Paulin retorted.
“He was Deryni,” Javan replied. “He can’t help what he was born. But when ordered by his lawful superior to submit himself to a devotional practice already demonstrated likely to remove the Deryni stigma”—he looked pointedly at Hubert—“he complied. You yourself had him tested on that day, my Lord Archbishop. And since that day, he has continued to react only as a human would. What further proof do you need?”
“The ‘proof’ is based on the actions of a self-proclaimed prophet and miracle-worker whose motives we do not know, Sire,” Hubert said. “You were there. You experienced whatever it is that he does.”
“Yes, but I am not Deryni,” Javan replied. “Ursin was, and after encountering the Master Revan, he was Deryni no more. Father Lior tested him. If you trust him and his drugs, then you must trust that they proved Ursin is no longer Deryni.”
“I would be most loath to release him, your Highness,” Hubert murmured. “Despite the drugs, we can never be sure, where Deryni are concerned.”
Javan nodded slowly. He had the beginning of a plan, but its shaping must be done slowly and with great care.
“I wish to interview Ursin O’Carroll,” he said, standing. “I also wish to see him tested for myself.”
As the others also stood, Paulin and Hubert exchanged guarded glances.
“Your Highness,” Hubert said, “I do not recommend this. What do you hope to prove, or to gain?”
“A reassessment of this particular facet of the Deryni situation,” Javan said. “Now, will one of you accompany me to Ursin’s quarters or shall I make my own way?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Now therefore perform the doing of it.
—II Corinthians 8:11
The senior clergy were quick to volunteer their company, once they saw he meant to go regardless. Paulin and Hubert flanked him as he left the Council chamber; Father Lior and Lord Albertus fell in with the king’s ever-present aides. Down the main stair they trooped, through the great hall and across the garden, then on through a covered passageway and into an inner courtyard overlooked by lesser buildings than the main castle block.
Across this courtyard and up a tower stair Hubert led them, wheezing by the time they reached a landing guarded by two Custodes knights, who snapped to attention at the sight of episcopal purple and their own Custodes colors on Paulin, Albertus, and Lior. As the party accompanying Hubert spread onto the landing, a few still standing in the stairwell, he beckoned to a liveried warder with a large ring of keys.
“We will see the prisoner Ursin O’Carroll,” Hubert said to the man, gesturing toward a stout-looking door just into the corridor that led from the landing, also guarded by a Custodes knight.
At Paulin’s confirming nod, the warder bowed dutifully and headed toward the indicated door, selecting a large key from his ring. The lock turned almost soundlessly, the door swinging inward on well-oiled hinges. Paulin and Lior preceded Hubert and Javan in, Lior bearing a torch one of the guards had handed him. The others watched from the corridor outside.
Three years had changed Ursin O’Carroll. He still could not yet be thirty, but ample grey threaded the temples of the mouse-brown hair, grown long and tied back in a queue, and Ursin’s beard had grown longer since Javan had last seen him. He was clean and tidy enough, clad in a bulky robe of brownish-black wool, with strips of the same stuff wrapped around his feet, but the once-proud shoulders slumped with the hopelessness of his situation. Bitter but resigned before, yet willing to collaborate to survive, now even the spirit seemed to have gone out of the man.
But of course, Javan reasoned, nothing had happened in the last three years to indicate that the rest of Ursin’s life was likely to be anything other than an endless succession of days and nights in captivity, kept largely in solitary confinement, periodically drugged to senselessness for no good reason, and condemned to a living death by a law that allowed no leeway and no mercy.
Ursin had been sitting in the room’s single chair when the door opened, enveloped in a thick mantle that was more like a piece of rug than actual fabric and huddling over a charcoal brazier not nearly large enough to heat the entire room. The chamber was similar in size and appointments to the one Father Faelan had occupied, but without the little oratory opening off it.
The faint light coming through the barred window at this hour was bleak and grey, matching Ursin’s expression as he came to his feet and then sank quickly to his knees, head bowed, upon seeing the array of high-ranking clergy. From his reaction, Javan guessed that Ursin might not have seen him, wrapped in a grey mantle over his Haldane crimson today. It occurred to Javan to wonder whether Ursin even knew that Alroy was dead and a new king crowned.
“Ursin, the king wishes to speak with you,” Hubert said.
Slowly Ursin raised his head, the hazel eyes flicking apprehensively among the clergy as they parted slightly to let Javan ease forward. Lior had passed his torch to Albertus and was already fingering a long, narrow metal tube the length of his hand, ready to administer the requisite dose of merasha when instructed. Ursin glanced at the priest with ill-masked dread, but as he turned his gaze dully to the figure in crimson, the hazel eyes widened in surprise.
“Prince Javan?” he murmured.
“Silence, unless you’re spoken to!” Hubert warned, raising the back of his hand to Ursin.
Instantly the man cringed closer to the floor, instinctively protecting his head with his arms. The reaction suggested that physical abuse probably was a regular part of officialdom’s dealings with the unfortunate Deryni hostages.
“That’s enough!” Javan said sharply, moving between Ursin and the archbishop. “Ursin, look at me. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I won’t allow you to be mistreated. Straighten up, man, and look me in the eyes.”
Remaining on his knees, Ursin slowly obeyed, carefully folding his hands before him with the fingers intertwined in entreaty—or in illustration that he was helpless to give physical resistance—before he dared to look up. Javan made a quick probe for shields, but there were none, and no hint of anything to suggest that the man once had been Deryni.
“That’s better,” he said quietly. “How long has it been, Ursin, since we both went down into a pool near Valoret and received cleansing of the Master Revan?”
“More than three years, Sire,” Ursin whispered.
“And has the taint ever returned?” he asked.
Gravely Ursin shook his head, his expression mixed of resignation and sorrow. “No, Sire.”
Breathing a perplexed sigh, Javan glanced aside coolly at Lior. “I would see him tested, Father.”
Ursin’s head jerked up with a start, dull betrayal sparking in his eyes for just an instant, and several of the men with Javan murmured among themselves. An expression of smug self-righteousness was on Lior’s face as he almost sauntered over to where Ursin was kneeling, unlimbering his Der
yni pricker from its vial of merasha. The twin needles glistened with the drug, a shimmering droplet caught between them.
Stoic resignation writ across his bearded face, Ursin sank back on his heels and pushed back one loose sleeve, extending his bared arm to Lior and turning his gaze away. The needles were slender, and not very long, but Ursin bit back a gasp as Lior plunged them into the tender flesh of the inner forearm. He made no attempt to pull away, though, perhaps having learned from three years’ experience how to avoid any needless further discomfort.
When Lior had jerked the needles out, Ursin let fall his arm and mechanically pulled the sleeve back down, obviously schooling any show of his emotions before raising his eyes. Though Javan had known generally what must happen in response to his command, he had not expected the sheer inhumanity of it; and realized now, by Ursin’s resigned compliance, that this indignity must have been a regular part of the man’s life for all these three years past.
“What are you feeling?” Javan asked, watching Ursin closely as they waited for the drug to take effect. He thanked God that no one had thought to use it on him when he was at Arx Fidei, the way they had used it on Faelan. It also occurred to him how vulnerable he was right now, if Lior were suddenly to turn the Deryni pricker on him.
Ursin’s eyelids were already starting to droop over dilating pupils, the tension leaving his taut shoulders as his head started to loll forward, and then he caught himself. He was displaying the usual sedative effect of merasha on humans, but none of the symptoms one would expect of a Deryni.
“Ursin?” Javan said. “What are you feeling?”
“I feel—dizzy, Sire,” Ursin said haltingly, in response to Javan’s question. “Waves of sleep …” Then, whispered almost against his will: “Dear God, how many more times …”
As he buried his forehead in one hand, Javan briefly clasped a comforting hand to his shoulder. After a few more seconds, the king glanced at the others, then back at Ursin.
King Javan’s Year Page 51