Javan dared not move, praying that Michaela would not make a scene. But while he prayed, his younger brother took more direct persuasive action.
“Don’t be silly, Mika,” Rhys Michael said, coming to take the cups from Hubert and offer them himself. “It’s for your own good. You, too, Cathan. It will only make you sleep for a while. I saw your parents. They’re perfectly safe. And I promise you, you shall see them after you’ve slept—certainly no later than tomorrow morning. Isn’t that right, your Grace?” he added, giving Hubert a sharp glance.
To Javan’s surprise, Hubert only bowed, making Javan wonder whether the archbishop actually had backed down or had only recognized the expediency of allowing Rhys Michael appear to have influence over a regent’s wishes. Javan preferred not to think about what it would mean if Rhys Michael really was now in the regents’ camp and ready to do their bidding.
But whatever Rhys Michael’s motivations, the two young Drummonds responded in the manner Hubert had always intended, taking the cups from Rhys Michael and quickly draining them, though Cathan made a face and Michaela averted her eyes. When, after a minute or two of further reassurance on Rhys Michael’s part, both children began nodding off, with no other sign of the drug’s effect, Hubert had guards take them out to return them to their beds. By then, Oriel had finished with Declan, emerging pale and exhausted from his trance. Javan watched him go paler still as he saw the guards disappear with the children.
“I’ve just saved you the further tedium of questioning the Drummond children,” Hubert said, frowning at Oriel’s reaction as he, Rhys Michael, and the other regents returned to stare down at the Healer and his now peacefully slumbering patient. “How is Carmody? Will he be all right?”
Breathing out with a soft shudder, Oriel sat back on his hunkers and made a visible show of folding his hands so they would not tremble. “I think so, your Grace, though I’d like to keep him heavily sedated for several days. And I beg you to excuse him from any further work like today’s for at least a week or so. We cannot do this kind of work indefinitely and not have it take its toll.”
Manfred snorted. “Are you pleading for yourself as well, Oriel? Good God, man, you look like death!”
“I—beg pardon if my appearance causes offense, my lord,” the Healer whispered, staring glassy eyed at Murdoch’s boots. “I m-must rest. Dealing with what I—have just done—takes a great deal out of me.”
“What, squeamish, Oriel?” Murdoch snapped.
Oriel swallowed noisily. “M-my lord, I beg you to permit me some faint vestige of professional pride. You have never seen me shrink from any medical challenge appropriate to my function as a Healer. But to—”
He shook his head, clasped hands clenched hard under his chin as he tried again to steady his nerves. “Surely you can appreciate the position in which you placed me, my lord, knowing that if I could not persuade Carmody to back down, I must use whatever means I had at my disposal to stop him. You made it quite clear what would be the consequences if I did not stop him, did you not? And I was prepared to do it!”
“Which is your function,” Murdoch replied coldly, “just as it is your function to exercise your abilities in whatever other ways the regency may see fit, in exchange for preferential treatment not meted out to others of your race. You are in our service by choice, after all.”
“Yes, my lord,” Oriel whispered, “because it is the only way I may hold any reasonable hope for the safety of my family. In addition, I am a realist. With the—incentives you offer, I know that there will always be someone of my race ready to do as you require—and possibly not do it as well as I. I can do nothing about the use you make of the information I help you gain, my lord, but at least I can make sure that the gaining of that information is done with as little distress to your subjects as is within my power.”
“Why, Oriel,” Murdoch purred, eyes glinting dangerously, “if you are not satisfied with the terms of your employment—”
“Oh, let him be!” Tammaron muttered, crossing his arms on his chest with an explosive sigh. “Surely Oriel’s demonstrated his loyalty enough for one day, and in very unpleasant personal circumstances. Can’t you see he’s exhausted? You already pushed Carmody too bloody far!”
“Carmody brought it on himself,” Murdoch retorted, “and Master Oriel’s impertinence is beginning to wear a little thin.”
“Will you let it pass, Murdoch?” Hubert said. “Regardless of your unfortunate confrontation with Carmody, Master Oriel surely has shown himself loyal, for whatever reason. It would be petty to push him beyond his endurance, just to make a point that, in his case, does not need to be made. Oriel, you are excused from further duties for the rest of the day, and I shall place you on limited duty for the next week. During that time, I expect you to bring Master Carmody back to full function. I shall require twice-daily reports on his progress, with resumption of full duty for both of you at the end of a week.”
“I—thank you for the respite, your Grace,” Oriel murmured, bowing his head deeply. “I shall do my best. I—am not certain I can guarantee Carmody’s full recovery in that time, however.”
“I would do my utmost to make certain he is fully recovered within that time,” Murdoch said sharply. “A Deryni who cannot fulfill the terms of his employment is of little use to us—or to his family either.”
“My lord—” Oriel began, appalled.
“We will entertain no further discussion,” Murdoch said. “Archbishop Hubert has been more than generous. Guards, assist Master Oriel to take Carmody to his quarters.”
And that was the end of it. When the guards had taken Oriel and Declan out of the room, Javan was left huddled next to Alroy’s state chair, nervously eying Rhys Michael as he chatted with the two priests, while the regents clustered in the center of the room. Alroy himself looked grey and exhausted from the strain of the morning, near to fainting. Javan had the feeling his own continued presence in the withdrawing room was almost as much from oversight as design, and tried to make himself a part of his stool, as invisible as possible, as he watched Archbishop Hubert pace the floor.
“I trust you’re all aware that we have a far more serious potential problem than just the question of how the MacLean girl died,” Hubert said after a moment. Something in his manner convinced Javan that the archbishop knew exactly how it had happened. “What concerns me most is that Deryni were able to enter this castle without hindrance. God alone knows how many others may have come and gone without our knowledge.”
“Well, they won’t come through that Portal again,” Murdoch said, seating himself on the arm of the king’s chair with a casual familiarity that infuriated Javan, though Alroy did not seem to mind. “I have a team of stonemasons blocking up the one we found. In fact, they’re filling it with stone. Any Deryni who tries to use it from now on is in for a severe shock—hopefully a fatal one.”
As Javan shivered a little, wondering what would happen if Tavis or one of the others tried to use the Portal, Tammaron nodded thoughtfully.
“Hmmm, yes, that’s all very well, but can we be sure there aren’t any more? We know that the Deryni themselves destroyed one in the cathedral sacristy. But what if there are others?”
Hubert nodded. “My thought, precisely—which is why I suggest that, as soon as the weather breaks, we move the court back to Rhemuth. This is a very old castle, my Liege,” he added, at Alroy’s pained grimace of distaste. “Five Deryni kings had their courts here during the Interregnum, with unknown numbers of other sorcerers to support them. We have no way of knowing what other, even more sinister magic they may have left behind, perhaps even worse than a Portal. Besides, Rhemuth is far more comfortable, now that restoration is so far along.”
More comfortable for the regents, Javan thought, as agreement murmured among the adults in the room. The move would bring him no comfort, though. For though there might be Portals at Rhemuth as well as Valoret, Javan had no idea where the former might be.
Not that the
other one he knew of in Valoret would do him any good either—or anyone else, for that matter, since it lay in Archbishop Hubert’s apartments. Tavis had told him of using it that awful Christmas Day when Rhys was killed, but Javan did not even know its exact location, much less whether he could work a Portal on his own. Besides, the very notion of sneaking into the archbishop’s palace to look for it was so unthinkable as to be near suicidal. Discovery in Hubert’s quarters could cost him his freedom or even his place in the succession, not to mention his life. For he was the expendable prince, the already inconvenient spare—and if he made himself too inconvenient, the regents might decide to be very conveniently rid of him.
“How soon would we go?” Alroy asked. “The snow is still awfully heavy.”
“Oh, four to six weeks,” Hubert replied. “Certainly before the start of Lent. That’s ample time to make all the necessary preparations for a move of that magnitude.”
“That suits me fine,” Murdoch said with a tight little smile. “The hunting is much better, farther south.”
Javan had the impression Murdoch was not referring only to animal game.
“Quite true,” Tammaron agreed. “I confess, I’ve grown rather tired of Valoret, knowing the greater comforts awaiting us at Rhemuth. And I know my wife will prefer it.”
Manfred cleared his throat, controlling a tiny smile. “Ah, yes, connubial harmony. Which reminds me that it might be well to—ah—‘regularize’ certain other considerations in the next few months,” he said. “May we discuss the Lady Richeldis?”
“What did you have in mind?” Hubert said, as Iver became instantly more attentive, drifting closer from his vantage point nearer the wall.
“Well, ordinarily, I would not have pursued the matter for another year or two, since the girl is barely twelve, but I think last night’s events clearly demonstrate that the remaining MacLean heiress may not be totally safe under the mere protection of her present guardians, innocent though they may be of any—ah—subversive leanings.”
Tammaron raised an eyebrow. “You propose to bestow her wardship elsewhere?”
“Not only her wardship but her hand,” Manfred replied. “Surely you’re aware that my son has developed a fondness for the girl.” Iver at least had the good grace to blush as his father laid an arm around his shoulders. “I propose that the marriage be celebrated immediately, as soon as the banns can be read, so that the MacLean lands may be secured with a family strong enough to protect them.”
“But her uncle still lives,” Alroy blurted, consternation clouding his brow. “And surely such haste is less than seemly, with her sister not yet dead a day.”
“Why, do you fancy her yourself, Sire?” Murdoch retorted, chuckling unpleasantly as his eyes raked Alroy’s thin form and the boy went bright red. “I had no idea you were so eager.”
Iver stifled a snigger, and Hubert coughed self-importantly.
“There’ll be time enough for that,” the archbishop muttered. “In the meantime, I agree that the marriage should go forward as soon as a decent interval has elapsed. The Lady Richeldis must have a more potent protector. Perhaps we might make the happy event the first major court function upon the return of the king to his new capital. Sire, you surely do not object to that?”
After the derision he had already suffered, Alroy certainly had no objections that he was willing to voice. Nor did Javan, though he now was virtually certain that either Iver or, more likely, his father, had had a hand in Giesele’s murder—someone among the regents, in any case. Some lackey had done the actual deed, of course, while his superiors secured their alibis by being prominently elsewhere, but Manfred’s family certainly had stood to gain a great deal.
Far more than the unfortunate Richeldis, who must be sacrificed on the marriage bed to the loutish Iver MacInnis. But Javan dared not voice his suspicions, lest he add himself to the list of sacrifices.
So he kept his own counsel and tried to be at least polite in congratulating Iver MacInnis on his coming marriage and wondered what the archbishop had to say to Father Lior, when the two stayed to confer while the others began dispersing for a midday repast. He found out on Candlemas, little more than a week later, when the regents pulled their biggest coup since ousting Alister Cullen from the archbishop’s seat—the formal institution of a new religious order to replace the Michaelines.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Woe be unto them that decree unrighteous decrees, and that write grievousness which they have prescribed.
—Proverbs 10:1
“Archbishop Hubert says it’s going to be a splendid order!” Rhys Michael told Javan excitedly, just before they entered the cathedral on that chill February morning. “The Michaelines will look shabby by comparison. Just wait until you hear all the details!”
Javan wondered how his younger brother had become privy to such details when he was not, but he dared not inquire further as he and Rhys Michael followed Alroy down the center aisle. The regents and their families preceded and trailed them in casual procession, all too readily placed to overhear anything said among the royal brothers and report it back to Hubert. Behind the regents came half a dozen royal squires, at least some of whom Javan knew were also more loyal to the regents than to their royal masters.
Javan supposed he should have guessed that something of this sort was in the wind. No one had explained the mysterious scarlet and gold cinctures, even Tammaron brushing him off with an evasive answer the one time he dared to ask, but they had been showing up with disturbing frequency and regularity, their wearers obviously in the archbishop’s confidence and favor.
“Where ever are they going to put everyone?” Alroy wondered in a low stage whisper to Javan, as they passed into the choir and entered the stall set aside for the royal brothers.
Javan, all too aware of the throngs packing the nave and the audience this would give the archbishop’s newest triumph, could only shake his head and murmur, “Good question.” He refrained from adding his own hope that perhaps the new order would be very small.
“Well, at least we have some of the best seats,” Rhys Michael observed, slipping to his knees on the other side of Alroy and craning his neck toward the altar area. “The ceremony’s supposed to be really impressive. I suppose it is going to be crowded, though.”
Indeed, if only for reasons of logistics, Candlemas—which was also the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin—seemed particularly ill-suited for the institution of any new religious order, of whatever size. Not only was the day’s usual liturgy considerably lengthened because of the feast itself, but the very process of blessing all the candles for the coming year was a formidable physical undertaking in its own right, requiring a fair amount of space and time. Javan doubted they would be out of here by noon. Hundreds of candles had been piled before the altar, boxes and baskets of them, from the tall, elegant brands used on the altar down to humble votive lights and the tapers for lighting all of them. Their honey-sweet fragrance filled the sanctuary and choir and drifted into the nave—a soothing scent, were it not for the fact that Javan knew his every reaction to be under scrutiny by watchers of a most critical disposition.
Murdoch, Tammaron, and their wives and children faced the princes across the choir, up behind the two rows of choir monks who would sing the day’s responses. In the fourth and last row, returned from his wedding trip at last, Rhun of Horthness sat flanked by his bride of a few weeks and a dark-eyed girl someone had said was a daughter of a first marriage. The recently made Earl of Sheele seemed far more interested in fondling his new countess’ shoulder than in watching what was about to occur, but Javan knew that the outward air of dissipation concealed a sharp intellect and awareness that missed very little. No, things would not be easier, now that Rhun was back.
Nor was the disposition of attendees on the king’s side of the choir any more reassuring. The royal squires formed a buffer row immediately behind the princes, young Cathan Drummond now among them, but behind them knelt Manfr
ed and his family, with little Michaela Drummond now among the attendants of Manfred’s wife, the Lady Estellan. The parents of Cathan and Michaela were nowhere to be seen. A thinner and very sad-looking Richeldis MacLean, still wearing black for her dead sister, sat sandwiched between her future mother-in-law and her affianced husband, their marriage banns having been read for the first time the previous Sunday.
Javan saw little to hint at the day’s double intention as the ritual began, though he sensed a large number of men standing quietly in the ambulatory aisle that ran behind the high altar. Dawn was still a faint glow behind the stained glass beyond as a splendidly vested Archbishop Hubert entered, attended by his auxiliary bishop, Ailin MacGregor, and several priests Javan did not recognize. Hubert’s cope was a rich, stiff brocade of violet and gold, heavily embellished with gold bullion on orphreys and hood. MacGregor’s was hardly less sumptuous. Even Hubert bowed more deeply under the weight of his vestments as he stood before the altar with its piles of candles and began to sing the day’s opening prayers.
“Dominus vobiscum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” the choir answered.
“Oremus. Domine sancte, Pater omnipotens, aeterne Deus, qui omnia ex nihilo creasti.…” Holy Lord, almighty Father, eternal God, who didst create all things out of nothing, and by thy command didst cause this liquid to become perfect wax through the work of bees.… we humbly beseech thee … graciously to bless and hallow these candles for the service of men.… Be pleased to grant that as these lights, kindled with visible fire, dispel the darkness of night, so may our hearts, enlightened by that invisible fire, the radiance of the Holy Spirit, be free from all blindness of sin.…
The prayers for blessing the candles were lengthy and threefold, and seemed interminable to Javan, dreading what would follow. When Hubert had finished singing, he sprinkled the candles three times with holy water while the choir sang the antiphon, Asperges me. Next, he censed the candles thrice. The pungent bite of the incense smoke mingled with and overpowered the honey scent as he finished, making Javan sneeze.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 18