King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Javan!” he heard someone scream, from back among his own troops.

  To his amazement, it was Albertus, urgently wheeling his horse out from behind the Custodes line and signalling the royal troops forward.

  “Sire, come back, it’s a trap! They’re Ansel’s men! The same who held your brother hostage!”

  At that very moment in Rhemuth, further elements of a long-set plot were also unfolding. Rhys Michael had not been at all certain he should convene the Council that afternoon, for Archbishop Hubert had taken exception to his handling of a request received the day before from a factor of his brother Manfred, in Culdi. The prince was still smarting from the public dressing-down Hubert had given him in front of the entire Council, as if he were an errant schoolboy.

  Afterward Etienne had assured him that it was Hubert who had been in error, not the prince, but Rhys Michael was not eager to give the archbishop another crack at him so soon. On the other hand, the Council was supposed to meet regularly in Javan’s absence, to deal with the reports now arriving almost daily from the king’s royal commissioners.

  Resigned to his duty, Rhys Michael let it be known that the Council would meet as planned, then lost himself in his usual morning exercise and sword drill with Sir Tomais, and with Lord Hildred, who was refining his riding skills. He shared a midday meal in his quarters with his now visibly pregnant princess, Tomais joining them and Cathan serving them.

  Sorle and Oriel joined them just as they were finishing, for Sorle and young Cathan had been working on several new lute tunes in honor of the princess. He and his charge had been moved into quarters adjoining the royal suite before Javan left, for Oriel to be nearer the princess as her pregnancy progressed. Except for Tomais, the prince left them to pass the afternoon in gentler pursuits, Michaela stitching contentedly on a christening gown for their expected child, while Sorle played and he and Cathan and Oriel sang intricate three-part harmonies.

  The Council rose as Rhys Michael and his aide came into the sunny council chamber, the prince taking Javan’s usual place at the head of the table, but in a less ornate chair than the carved throne chair customarily used by the king. He wore the royal blue of the heir with the Haldane device picked out in scarlet and gold on the left breast, but differenced by a silver bordure around the edge rather than the label of a third son he had borne during Alroy’s lifetime.

  A silver coronet confined the jet-black hair that was a Haldane hallmark, his earring of twisted gold wire just glinting through the hair on the right. He twisted at his signet ring as he sat down—it still bore his old coat of arms—and glanced around the table to see who was likely to annoy him today. With Albertus and Rhun and Paulin gone with Javan, the meetings had been smaller this last week and less formal.

  Tomais had slid into his customary place at his master’s right, on a stool set just slightly behind him. Hubert sat immediately to Rhys Michael’s right, with Tammaron directly across from him, on the prince’s left. Constable Udaut was just beyond Tammaron, Lord Jerowen at the far end of that side. Archbishop Oriss’ seat, between Udaut and Tammaron, was empty.

  The prince glanced idly in Hubert’s direction as Tomais slipped an agenda onto the table in front of him, wondering where Oriss was. Odd, but a fair-haired Custodes knight seemed to be serving as Hubert’s secretary today, seated on a stool directly behind the archbishop with head bent over a sheaf of papers balanced across his knees.

  And beyond Hubert was Richard Murdoch, arrogant and surly looking, returned to Court the day before from his seat at Nyford. He and Rhys Michael had quarreled last night, for the young Earl of Carthane had brought his castellan with him to Rhemuth—a big, burly man called Sir Gideon, who had been castellan at Nyford for Richard’s father and continued to serve Richard in that capacity—and Gideon had brought far too many men with him to make the prince entirely happy. Lord Udaut had finally intervened, belittling Rhys Michael’s objections and ordering Richard’s men quartered in the barracks temporarily vacated by the lancers gone north with Javan. The prince hoped they did not intend to stay long.

  He noted Lord Hildred on Richard’s other side, and Etienne de Courcy beyond him, then glanced back at Oriss’ empty place.

  “I see that Archbishop Oriss is not present, my lords,” he said. “Does anyone know whether he plans to attend this afternoon’s session?”

  “Archbishop Oriss begs to be excused, your Highness,” Hubert said lightly. “I believe he did not sleep well last night.”

  Satisfied, Rhys Michael nodded and shifted his feet under him to stand. The Haldane sword was with the king, so it could not be laid on the table in token of royal authority, but Lord Tammaron always set the State Crown of crosses and leaves there in its place, as symbol of the king’s authority vested in his regent. The prince rose briefly to touch the fingertips of his right hand to his lips, then to the Crown, as a sign of his fealty, then glanced expectantly at Lord Udaut as he settled in his seat again.

  “In the absence of the Earl Marshal, the Lord Constable will please convene the Council,” he said.

  Looking faintly bored, Udaut rose, slowly drawing his sword as he had at every meeting for the past week, as substitute for the marshal’s baton that Albertus would have wielded. But instead of bringing it to salute and reciting the prescribed formula, he sidestepped quickly to the left to seize a handful of Lord Jerowen’s tunic, jerking him to his feet.

  At the same time, so quickly that Rhys Michael hardly had time to blink, blades slithered from other scabbards, Richard Murdoch overturning his chair to strike Lord Hildred senseless with the pommel of his sword and then confronting Etienne de Courcy, who had come to his feet in a flash but now raised his hands in a warding-off gesture of surrender, not even attempting to resist as Richard disarmed him. Simultaneously, the Custodes knight sitting behind Hubert launched himself sideways in a flurry of flying papers to sheathe his sword in the belly of an astonished Sir Tomais, before the young knight’s sword could even clear its scabbard.

  Tomais’ choked cry broke the instant of shocked betrayal that briefly had frozen Rhys Michael to his seat. Survival instinct launched him into action then, throwing himself to the side away from Tomais and at the same time groping frantically for the dagger at his waist. Surely this could not be happening!

  But Earl Tammaron was already catching him with an arm around his shoulders from behind, with a speed and skill Rhys Michael had never even suspected, dragging him upright in his chair again with the flat of a dagger’s blade pressed hard beneath the royal right ear. Rhys Michael tried to duck out of Tammaron’s grasp, hands coming up in reflex to claw at the restraint, but the earl jerked his arm hard across his captive’s throat with a whispered “Don’t.” At the same time, Rhys Michael was aware of the Custodes knight reaching a gloved hand across to pluck the dagger from his belt.

  As soon as he had done so, Tammaron abruptly released the prince’s throat and stepped back, though a hand remained resting lightly on the prince’s sleeve, the dagger turning idly in his other hand in warning. Gasping for breath, Rhys Michael recoiled from him in horror, still hardly able to comprehend the betrayal—then whipped his head around at an anguished gurgling behind him to see the Custodes knight bending over Tomais, the prince’s own dagger bright with the blood gushing from Tomais’ throat.

  With a cry of denial, Rhys Michael tried to go to the dying man, but Tammaron’s hand stayed him. Meanwhile, Tomais’ murderer tossed the bloody blade on the floor in a gesture of finality, then bent to retrieve his sword from Tomais’ belly, looking coldly into the prince’s eyes as he wiped his blade clean on a corner of the dying man’s mantle. As Tomais’ feeble twitchings ceased, Rhys Michael buried his face in his hands with a sob and turned away, certain they meant to kill him as well.

  “I would advise,” Hubert said in the sudden silence that followed, “that anyone wishing to share the fate of Sir Tomais has only to offer further resistance. Your Highness, I regret the necessity of having to eliminate your
aide in so brutal a manner, for I believe he was also a friend, but I wish you to understand very clearly that what is now unfolding is deadly serious. Now, you will oblige me by drinking this.”

  As he spoke, he brought out a little silver flask from somewhere in his ample cassock, setting it on the table and pushing it closer to the prince. Rhys Michael stared at it and him with blank incomprehension for several seconds, suddenly fearing what it might contain—and no one could help him. The traitorous Richard Murdoch had bolted the door and then herded Etienne and the groggy Lord Hildred over to join Jerowen on one of the benches along the long wall of the Council chamber, where Earl Udaut now held all three of the prisoners at sword’s point.

  “What is it?” he managed to whisper.

  “Your brother Alroy was well acquainted with it,” Hubert said with a smile that contained no mirth at all. “Over the years we have found it exceedingly useful for keeping headstrong princes tranquil and biddable.”

  “No,” Rhys Michael whispered.

  “I do not wish to hear that word from you again, your Highness,” Hubert said coldly, taking up the little flask and removing its stopper, not taking his eyes from Rhys Michael’s as he set the flask back on the table and pushed it toward the prince again. “If you prefer, Lord Tammaron can hold you while my good Custodes knight applies more direct persuasions, but I do not think you will find his methods to your liking. Drink it.”

  The blond knight was now standing casually by Rhys Michael’s right side, his sword now sheathed, gloved hands resting lightly on his sword belt, but the prince had no doubt that the man could and would force him to drink, if he did not obey of his own free will. Deciding not to dignify Hubert’s threat by giving him a direct answer, Rhys Michael raised his chin defiantly and favored the archbishop with a withering glance, then took up the little flask in a trembling hand and tossed down its contents in a single swallow. When he had set the flask back on the table, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth in a gesture of utter disdain, then folded his arms belligerently across his chest.

  “Thank you,” Hubert said, smiling the cold smile again. “Now we shall sit here together for a few moments and await word that our other objectives have been attained.”

  The minutes ticked by. Rhys Michael could feel his tension unwinding despite his fear, the dull lethargy of the drugged wine slowly insinuating itself into body and mind. Richard and Udaut both pulled chairs from around the table to sit facing their prisoners. Hubert, in one of the most hypocritical displays Rhys Michael had ever seen, lumbered his bulk to his feet and came to kneel ponderously beside the dead Tomais and give him the Last Rites.

  After a few minutes, the sound of desultory fighting in the corridors outside intruded on the taut silence of the Council chamber. Hubert rose, his quick breathing telling of his tension as he came to stand with his hands on the back of Rhys Michael’s chair. The Custodes knight went to the doors at the end of the room and listened with his ear against the wood, the sword that had killed Tomais again in his hand. Tammaron was sitting at the prince’s left again, though his dagger now lay on the table in front of him.

  Rhys Michael considered trying to snatch it, but he didn’t know what good it would do except maybe get him killed—or another of his men killed, for now he did not think they meant to kill him. Besides, the grip of Hubert’s potion was now so strong that he did not think he could summon the will even to stand without assistance. He found himself leaning his head against the back of his chair and closing his eyes, even though the posture put him closer to Hubert’s profane hands.

  He thought it must have been close to an hour before a knock at the door jarred him from the troubled half sleep into which he kept drifting. Hubert had returned to his chair at Rhys Michael’s right and now got to his feet. The sound also roused the Custodes knight, who had been sitting on a stool pulled close to the doors, sword in hand, his ear set against the wood to listen. Now, as Rhys Michael tried to make his eyes focus, the man smiled grimly and shot back the bolt on the door, though he stepped aside with sword still at the ready as he let the door swing inward.

  But the big man who appeared in the opening with a bloody sword in his fist was all too familiar from the day before—Richard’s castellan, Sir Gideon, a wide grin splitting his bearded face as he pushed past the Custodes knight to salute first Richard and then Hubert with a flourish.

  “All secure except for his Highness’ apartments, your Grace, my lord,” he reported. “We believe that the Healer and Sir Sorle are there with the princess.”

  “Mika?” the prince whispered, eyes wide. As he labored to get his feet under him and stand, Tammaron was already at his side with a hand on his arm, both supporting and restraining.

  “Now, your Highness,” Hubert purred. “Harming the mother of a future King of Gwynedd is the last thing any of us would wish. However, I fear for the contamination she may suffer by the continued presence of a Deryni in your household. Perhaps you would care to accompany us as we go to relieve her of this danger.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  And the revolters are profound to make slaughter, though I have been a rebuker of them all.

  —Hosea 5:2

  Javan broke into a lurching run, dragging the woman and child with him. Albertus and the Custodes knights were already wheeling to circle around to the right and down, where the slope was less steep, apparently intending to cut off the Michaelines at the ford just below the pool.

  But the newcomers could not be Michaelines, even though the blond man riding at their head clearly was intended to be taken for either Joram or Ansel MacRorie.

  “Saint Michael and MacRorie!” the men shouted, brandishing swords and spears and spurring their mounts forward, the white crosses of the outlawed order gleaming on their breasts.

  As the Michaelines who could not be Michaelines began splashing into the river, the horses plunging chest-deep across the ford, Javan pushed Birgit and the little Carrollan into the arms of the nearest of Revan’s disciples and dashed for his own horse. Right now, he wasn’t sure who the men were, but he knew they were no friends. And the unarmed folk gathered here to hear Revan preach, many of them women and children, were about to be crushed between the two converging forces—and Javan, too, if he did not get back to the protection of his own lines.

  “Who are those men?” he demanded of Queron, as he struggled to mount from the downslope and the Healer gave him a leg up. “Warn Joram! Try to get these people out of here. We’ve all been set up!”

  He was spurring his horse up the hill then, heading toward his banner, for Guiscard and Charlan and about a dozen of the Haldane lancers were plunging straight down the slope to rescue him. The Custodes were nearly to the ford. Robear and the rest of the lancers had fallen in behind them, apparently positioning to back them or contain them, depending on what happened when they met the men in blue.

  Except that the Custodes knights obviously had never intended to confront the men in blue. Just before they reached the ford, the Custodes knights wheeled and charged back into their erstwhile allies, their heavier horses carrying them well into the more lightly mounted lancers. Robear managed to survive the first engagement, but Javan saw Bertrand go down in a roiling confusion of sudden and treacherous combat.

  “It’s a trap!” Javan screamed as he reached the relative safety of Guiscard and his banner.

  Above them, looking down on him, he could see Paulin calmly sitting his horse beside Rhun, flanked by Rhun’s four knights. The scope of the betrayal suddenly became very clear. Eliminate both a troublesome king and the embarrassment and possible deception of Revan and his Baptizer cult, and blame it all on the Deryni and the Michaelines.

  Fighting to control a mount now fractious with eagerness for battle, Javan weighed the odds and possible intentions of the dual opposition. Surprise now past, the lancers seemed to be more than holding their own with the Custodes, but the false Michaelines were even now falling on Revan’s helpless followers d
own by the pool.

  “Come away, Sire!” one of his lancer captains shouted. “We mustn’t divide our strength.”

  He was right. Javan dared not go back down. With a grimace of regret, he drew his sword and wrenched the cream stallion around to pull it back on its haunches, circling the sword above his head and then thrusting it in the direction of the treacherous Custodes.

  “No quarter to traitors!” he cried. “To Robear—and watch your backs!”

  But as the cream stallion sprang forward, part of Javan mourned for the helpless folk he was leaving to their fate. Down at the pool where Revan had preached a reconciliation of humans with Deryni, the first of the false Michaelines were already churning through the shallows, leaning down with swords and spears poised.

  A venerable old man with a white beard was one of the first to fall, skewered by a Michaeline spear and then trampled under the hooves of nearly a dozen horses as the marauders began butchering their quarry. Javan had thought Revan and the others on their way to safety, but as he looked back over his shoulder he suddenly saw the preacher just at the edge of the pool with several of his disciples, flailing about him with his olivewood staff and even knocking an attacker from the saddle. Sylvan was in the water beyond him, trying to get a child to safety.

  Horrified, Javan pulled up slightly and let most of his lancers pound past him. Guiscard and Charlan were also hanging back, but urging him to come on. Revan’s followers were scattering, their screams shrill and terrified as the blue-clad horsemen cut them down. Javan could not see Queron or Ursin’s family, but he suddenly spotted Tavis running toward the water, where Sylvan was still trying to get children and old folk on their way to safety. Something about Tavis seemed odd.