“This will do nicely,” he said, turning back to Cathan. “Let’s have the crown, then.”
From a handsome wooden casket studded with brass nail heads, Cathan carefully lifted out the gold and silver State Crown of Gwynedd, with its leaves and crosses intertwined. Cabochon rubies the size of a man’s thumbnail had been added to the crown since the coronation six years before, with lesser gems also gleaming among the crown’s interstices. Against the sable Haldane hair, as Rhys Michael ducked his head to receive it, the effect was truly majestic.
“Yes, indeed,” Fulk murmured approvingly, as he surveyed the king over the top of the mirror, and Cathan also grinned his agreement. “That should make the Torenthi herald sit up and take notice.”
“Let’s see, shall we?” the king replied, smiling.
Before that question could be answered, though, he must first submit to a final briefing, back in the little withdrawing room behind the dais of the great hall. Afterward, he was told to delay his entrance while the great lords took their own places and the hall had a chance to settle—which also gave him opportunity to survey his audience before he went out. He reviewed his instructions and prayed for courage as he cautiously twitched aside a fold of the heavy velvet that curtained the opening through the screens to the dais beyond.
The high-beamed hall was not as crowded as it might have been—which was just as well, since he expected this would be a rather less congenial court than most, based on the news from Eastmarch and that assumed to be borne by the Torenthi herald. Accordingly, he was a little surprised to see a fair number of ladies present—mostly the wives and daughters of the great lords or ladies from the queen’s household, twittering anxiously among themselves as they settled on benches in the window embrasures that overlooked the castle gardens. A few were even carrying baskets of embroidery.
He supposed this did concern them, if Gwynedd went to war. Michaela had wanted to attend, but Hubert had forbidden it. He and Paulin were standing along the right side of the dais, Paulin apparently briefing the seated Archbishop Oriss, who had been specially summoned from his sickbed for the occasion and who looked as if he might not make it through the court Behind them, Tammaron was instructing a captain of archers, surreptitiously indicating the long gallery that overlooked the right side of the hall. Farther to the left, just off the dais, Rhun and Manfred appeared to be lecturing an angry looking Lord Richard Murdoch. Albertus was not in evidence. Out in the hall itself, scores of knights and lesser courtiers were also drifting toward the dais where the king shortly would emerge.
And far at the back of the hall, carefully watched by guards in Haldane livery, the legation from Torenth was waiting: half a dozen men-at-arms in eastern-style armor, cloaked in the tawny orange of the Torenthi House of Furstan. One of them bore a flagstaff trailing a banner of white silk. Beneath that banner stood a short, dark man who must be the Torenthi herald. As expected, his tabard bore the springing black hart of Furstan on a silver roundel, differenced of a golden coronet around its proud neck.
“I think they’re about ready for us, Sire,” Fulk murmured close by his right ear.
With a grunt for answer, Rhys Michael let fall the curtain and held out his hand to Cathan for the sheathed Haldane sword, laying it in the cradle of his left arm with the hilt like a cross at his elbow. At his nod, Fulk grasped an edge of the heavy curtain and drew it aside, following when the king and then Cathan had gone through.
Those first to notice his entrance stirred and then grew silent as he crossed the dais, turning to follow his progress and bowing when he passed, but not giving his arrival the formality of a state entry, lest too much ceremony acknowledge the importance of the men waiting. Rhys Michael acknowledged their bows with an air of preoccupation, settling stiffly into the throne-chair set under the Haldane canopy, and then handing off the Haldane sword to Cathan again. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing it were Javan still alive to sit here in his place, but he made himself dismiss the thought as futile. Javan was dead, and he was alive; and if he hoped to stay alive, he must be very, very careful how he handled this.
And as Constable Udaut came forward to inquire about the visitors seeking audience at the back of the hall, another reason for caution suddenly became clear. Lord Albertus was entering through the screen entrance at the other side of the dais, accompanied by the two haggard-looking Eastmarch messengers and a handful of his staff, mostly black-robed Custodes knights. Among the latter, similarly garbed in black, was a small, dark man known only as Dimitri, said to be Deryni, though few at court were aware of that. Though ostensibly employed by Paulin and the Custodes Fidei, his exact allegiance was unknown, the last time Rhys Michael heard—and it had been Javan who had told him that, in one of their last conversations before Javan rode off to what was to be his death. In the back of his mind, Rhys Michael had always wondered whether the mysterious Dimitri was at least partially responsible for the treachery.
It was certain that Javan’s Deryni allies had not counted Dimitri an ally; and whether he was working only for Paulin and his Custodes remained an unanswered question. Not for the first time, Rhys Michael lamented the fact that not one of Javan’s Deryni allies had managed to make contact with him since Javan’s death, though reason reminded him of their small numbers even then; and the few that he knew of personally had died by the same treachery that took Javan.
The one ray of hope that made him keep believing that there had ever been Deryni backing for the House of Haldane was the fact that, as Javan had predicted, Rhys Michael gradually had learned to discern whether a man was telling the truth. This usually was a Deryni talent, he knew, and ordinary humans could not detect or prevent its use against them—a decided advantage in his present circumstances, except that even if Dimitri had not been present, the Torenthi herald and at least some of his escort undoubtedly were Deryni.
This rather canceled out any advantage his meager talent might have given him; for Deryni, though they could not prevent being Truth-Read, sometimes could detect it. It would not do for the Torenthi herald to know what Rhys Michael could do, even if he could keep it from Dimitri.
He dared not Truth-Read during court today, then—and he must guard his own words, for both the herald and Dimitri undoubtedly would seek to Truth-Read him. As Albertus and his party came to stand just behind Rhun and Manfred and Richard, the king shifted his attention back to Udaut, who had started purposefully toward the back of the hall.
Udaut did not announce the visitors waiting there; merely gave them leave with a gesture to approach, turning then to proceed back up the hall in the assumption that they would follow. They did, but the men-at-arms made their own statement of their presence, drawing to attention with much stamping and clashing of arms in martial drill, then pacing behind Udaut with heavy tread, the banner bearer and a bemused herald following almost indolently behind.
When the six guardsmen reached the dais before the throne, they came to a halt with another stamping of steel-shod feet and clashing of mailed fists on ornate breastplates, then parted to make an aisle through which their leader might proceed. The man with the banner footed his staff with a clash of metal against the wooden floor, dipping the white silk in salute as the herald gave a restrained, formal bow.
“Rhys Haldane of Gwynedd,” the herald said, the clear voice lightly accented as he drew himself erect from his bow. The man’s dark hair was cut short around his long face, the severity emphasizing high cheekbones and slightly canted dark eyes above a thin moustache and a small, close-clipped beard. “Hear the words of my master, the Prince Miklos of Torenth, who acts in behalf of his kinsman, the royal Marek of Festil, rightful king of this realm.”
“Sir, you stand before the rightful king of this realm!” Richard Murdoch said, hotheaded and belligerent as he took a step forward, one gloved hand wrapped taut over the pommel of his sword. “You will observe appropriate courtesy.”
The herald inclined his head indulgently toward the younger man.
“My master has not sent me to debate titles, my lord. His message is for the Haldane.”
“Then, speak,” Rhys Michael said, before Richard could reply. “The Haldane is listening.”
“My lord.” The herald inclined his head again. “My gracious prince bids me instruct this court on the antiquity of the noble House of Festil, which sprang from the royal line of Torenth and ruled in Gwynedd for nearly a century. Prince Marek of Festil is the current representer of that noble house. Through his marriage last year to the Princess Charis, Duchess of Tolan and sister to my lord Prince Miklos and King Arion of Torenth, Prince Marek has confirmed, ratified, and strengthened his royal heritage. Already, the royal and ducal line is renewed and secured in the person of his firstborn son, the future Duke of Tolan, who also will rule one day in Gwynedd as King Imre the Second.”
A low mutter escaped Rhun’s lips, but Hubert slightly raised a pudgy hand in forbearance. Rhys Michael felt a cold chill of dread churning in his gut, spiced by anger, but the herald was not yet finished.
“To that end,” the man went on, “and in celebration of the birth of the young prince, my lord Prince Miklos would invite the Haldane court to attend his nephew’s christening at Culliecairn, which castle and town my lord Miklos means to present to the royal child as a christening gift.”
A murmur of outrage began to ruffle through the hall, but the herald’s voice rose above it as he continued.
“If the Haldane would dispute the giving of Culliecairn to this heir of Prince Marek, let him present himself before the city gates within ten days, no later than Saint John’s Eve, prepared to show legal proofs why Culliecairn should not become the birthright of Prince Imre of Festil.”
“By God, he goes too far!” Manfred muttered dangerously.
“He has some cheek!” Tammaron declared.
“This is an outrage not to be borne!” Rhun roared.
Though in total agreement for once, Rhys Michael kept his anger in check, staying further uproar of his great lords with an upraised hand which, somewhat to his surprise, was heeded.
“Peace, gentlemen. We must not confuse the messenger with the message. What is your name, sir herald?”
“Eugen von Rostov, my lord,” the man replied, with a curt inclination of his head.
“Eugen von Rostov.” Rhys Michael repeated the name, giving its pronunciation the same accent as its owner did. “Pray, forgive me if I appear to have missed something, but is it Prince Miklos or Prince Marek who affronts my sovereignty by laying claim to my property?”
Smiling faintly, the herald favored Rhys Michael with a graceful inclination of his dark head. “Why, ’tis not intended to affront Gwynedd’s sovereignty, my lord, but to ameliorate a slight, no doubt unintentional, incurred when Gwynedd neglected to invite a representative of Torenth to your Highness’ coronation. No doubt the precipitous timing of that event contributed to the oversight, following hardly a year after your predecessor’s coronation. Nonetheless, my lord’s advisors felt certain that your Highness would wish to make amends by attending a similarly auspicious royal event in Torenth.”
“The christening of my rival’s heir in Culliecairn, sir herald?” Rhys Michael replied. “Surely you jest. Not only that, your geography is faulty. Culliecairn is in Gwynedd.”
The herald spread his hands in a dismissive gesture. “No longer, my lord. Furthermore, its giving to my Lord Marek’s heir satisfies the social obligation of presenting suitable gifts at the christening of a royal heir. Having designated the castle and town of Culliecairn as a sufficiently princely endowment for his royal nephew, my lord Prince Miklos took possession last week, thus sparing you the effort of bringing a gift along.”
“I prefer to make my own decisions regarding the giving of gifts,” Rhys Michael said quietly, “and while I understand a father’s pride in the birth of a son, you will excuse me, I hope, if I do not share your enthusiasm regarding a further pretender to my throne.
“Furthermore”—he gestured toward the messengers—“I am informed by these good gentlemen that your master’s seizure of my property has cost the lives of many good men, including my loyal Earl of Eastmarch, to whom Culliecairn’s security had been entrusted.”
“No loss of life was intended,” the herald said smoothly, “but alas, some men did die.”
“Indeed, the death of the Earl of Eastmarch is the only thing that would have permitted your master’s entry into Culliecairn,” Rhys Michael retorted. He drew a deep breath before going on.
“I therefore must regard the action of your master as an act of unwarranted hostility on the part of a foreign prince. If Miklos does this as a private individual, then I shall appeal to his brother the King of Torenth, who is his overlord, for King Arion surely will not wish his vassal to threaten the borders of a neighbor with whom Arion himself is at peace. If it is done as a prince of Torenth, with King Arion’s knowledge, then Miklos risks war between our two kingdoms. And if he does it in behalf of Marek of Festil, then he supports a rebellious and illegitimate claimant against my throne—which, again, could be construed as a formal declaration of hostilities between our two kingdoms. Pray, what is his intention, sir herald?”
The herald inclined his head. “My master has not confided his deeper motivations regarding such matters, my lord. I am instructed merely to convey his intentions regarding Culliecairn.”
So saying, he reached casually to the small of his back, up under his tabard, and slowly withdrew a brown leather gauntlet, which he tossed almost offhandedly on the carpet at Rhys Michael’s feet.
“If you wish a more formal declaration,” the herald went on, “there is a gage in token of my master’s claim. You may take it up or not, as pleases you, but to take back Culliecairn, you will have to discuss the terms with my master.”
The gage lay a handspan from Rhys Michael’s left boot. The challenge was not unexpected, and he had in mind what he must say, once he picked it up, but he knew he must confirm the terms with the great lords before he acted. He must also make himself calm down.
“Let my ministers attend me,” he said, getting smoothly to his feet and glancing at Hubert, who nodded minutely. “The Lord Constable will see to our guests while we confer. Let refreshment be brought if they desire it. My lords, attend.”
Within minutes, he was facing the agitated handful of them in the little withdrawing room behind the dais, one forefinger punching the air for emphasis as he argued his point.
“This news changes the entire focus of what was told me before court,” he was saying. “It’s a direct challenge to the sovereignty of this kingdom. You must let me answer it. If I don’t, I lose all credibility; Gwynedd loses all credibility.”
“Sire, we aren’t prepared to go to war with Torenth,” Tammaron began.
“That’s fine, since this isn’t about a war with Torenth. Arion isn’t behind this. It’s Miklos, on behalf of Marek of Festil, and it isn’t even a war with Marek. Do you really think he’d make a true bid to take back the throne? Not now. Not with only one infant son between him and the obliteration of his house.”
“Has it occurred to you,” Paulin said, “that this could be a ruse to lure you from safety? You aren’t that much more secure than Marek, with only one heir living and hope of another. The man is Deryni, Sire. So is Miklos. So is Arion. What if they mean to use their accursed magic against you?”
Rhys Michael turned away with a faintly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, for he had no answer for that argument.
“I can’t worry about that just now,” he said softly. “As an anointed king, I believe and hope that divine grace will be granted me to withstand even their magic. It may also be that, against an army, magic is not so effective as it is against an individual man. ’Tis said that an arrow or a sword can be faster and more deadly than a spell—I don’t know.
“But this I do know: If you allow any foreign prince to take and keep Culliecairn, which belongs to Gwynedd, then the very sovereignty of the Crown
of Gwynedd is a sham, never mind the man who wears that crown. I’ve learned to accept my own impotence as a man, but I beg you not to further hollow away the crown you hope someday to put upon my son’s head. What kind of a kingdom would you leave to your sons?”
The question took Richard sufficiently off guard to silence him. Rhun and Tammaron were also at a loss for words, for all three had sons who stood to inherit the power wielded by their fathers. Manfred exchanged a glance with Hubert, for his sons, too—Hubert’s nephews—had also benefited from the power wielded by their kin at court. Even Albertus became more subdued, for in order to become Grand Master of the Custodes knights, he had resigned his title early to a son already at court—Bonner Sinclair, the young Earl of Tarleton, who was also nephew to Paulin.
Of all the men in that room, only Robert Oriss had attained his position of influence without the connivance of the former regents and had been uninvolved in the coup. Unlike Hubert, Rhemuth’s archbishop had no relatives who stood to benefit from his high office; but seeing the royal house purified of its Deryni taints was an aspiration all of them shared.
“No one wishes to impugn the sovereignty of the crown, Sire,” the old archbishop said slowly. “But perhaps Culliecairn does not represent an erosion of royal authority so much as an erosion of royal loyalties—in this case, loyalties to the Crown. What of the Earl of Eastmarch, who should have protected and held Culliecairn for you? He has a Torenthi wife. It is even said she comes of Deryni stock. Who is to say that it was not Eastmarch’s connivance that helped betray Culliecairn to its captors?”
“If so, he has already paid with his life,” Rhys Michael said quietly. “But Hrorik would never betray me. I trust my northern vassals, and especially the Earl of Eastmarch and his kin. However, I betray him, if I do not ride to the aid of his widow.”
“Perhaps we ought to send a viceroy,” Manfred said, clearly with himself in mind for such an appointment. “I like not the thought of putting your Highness at risk.”
King Javan’s Year Page 61