The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  Timing was his main consideration from now on. If Hubert was entertaining the new Vicar General of the Custodes, that should mean that he would be late returning to his quarters—though how late was anyone’s guess. So Javan dared not wait too long.

  But nor dared he begin his venture too early, either, for the archbishop’s household would still be about until at least after Compline, even if their master was otherwise occupied. That Office must be nearly upon him by now, for it normally fell some three hours after Vespers, at least half of which time Javan had spent in the cathedral with Father Stephen and after. He wondered, as he strained his ears for some faint echo of a Compline bell, whether they would sing it here or in some other chapel—for he gathered that there were several within the precincts of the archbishop’s palace. This one did not seem large enough for the entire episcopal household. Nor was it really set up for other than private meditations and celebrations of Mass. He hoped it would not be here, for he did not want to endure more questioning about the vocation he knew he did not have. But he would submit with good grace, if he had to.

  Meanwhile, Charlan already had begun to snore softly behind him, chin resting on his chest above folded arms, and the chapel seemed secure. Later, Javan would try to check outside and figure out which way he had to go to find Hubert’s apartments. For now, he would try to get his thoughts in order, and plan what he would do if Hubert did or did not come in to question him.

  Nor did he have long to wait for a resolution to that set of options. Though no one came to the chapel in response to the Compline bells that soon sounded, the doors did open about half an hour later, at about the time the office would have been over. Javan started at the sound, turning to look as he also heard Charlan shuffling to his feet with a murmured apology. To his consternation, but no real surprise, not only Archbishop Hubert but also Paulin of Ramos were entering the chapel. Paulin showed his usual sour expression, but the archbishop’s pink face was wreathed with smiles.

  “Why, Prince Javan, how pleasant to see you. And why are you kneeling on the cold, hard floor, dear boy? You’re quite welcome to use my prie-dieu.”

  Javan rose as the archbishop approached, suddenly certain of the suggestion he would try to plant in Hubert’s mind as he kissed the archbishop’s ring. Again he used the ruse of pretending to stagger a little on his lame foot, catching himself on Hubert’s hand, to prolong the contact.

  “Your Grace,” he murmured. “I’m very sorry to have interrupted your evening. I only wanted to keep a vigil, and Father Aloysius didn’t think the cathedral was appropriate.”

  “Hmmm, yes,” Hubert replied. “And he did right not to send you back to the castle in this storm. You’re certainly most welcome to keep your vigil here.” He smiled wider. “Am I to understand that a vocation is making itself known?”

  Javan lowered his eyes. “Well, I—I’m not certain, your Grace. That’s what I have to find out.”

  “Would it help to talk about it?” Hubert offered. “I’m sure you must know that I’ve given spiritual direction to many young priests.”

  “I—think that might be premature, your Grace,” Javan replied carefully. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time, especially when you have a guest.”

  “Oh, it would hardly be a waste of time, your Highness. I’m sure that Father General would be as delighted as I if you were to discover that you have a vocation like your dear father—God rest his soul. But I won’t press the issue. It’s an important decision, and these things take time to discover. I’ll leave instructions that you’re not to be disturbed for the night. And if you should feel a need for counsel, my quarters are just down the corridor. You have only to ask.”

  Javan could hardly believe his good fortune, for not only had Hubert responded to the suggestion to leave Javan alone for the night, but this chapel was not the one Javan had thought. His quick probe, as he kissed the archbishop’s hand again in farewell, caught a clear picture of the archbishop’s apartments, but three doors down—and his ability to make the probe undetected reassured him that he could probably deal with Hubert if he were discovered, later in the night.

  His heart was pounding with excitement as he made the expected responses to the archbishop’s parting blessing, but he forced himself to pretend that nothing was amiss, sinking down piously on the prie-dieu before Hubert and Paulin had even gotten through the doors, to be certain that picture was etched in Hubert’s memory—for he planned to leave Charlan kneeling here in his master’s cloak, when he eventually went out to visit Hubert’s quarters, just in case anyone should glance inside and expect to see him.

  He agonized for the next half hour, wondering how long Hubert would stay out with Paulin. Should he try to go soon, hoping to be in and out before Hubert returned, or wait until he had a fair expectation that Hubert slept, and try to sneak in and out under the archbishop’s nose? Either option had risks that Javan would as soon avoid, but he was going to have to do something, if he had any hope of delivering his report.

  And what if, overcoming the risks, he succeeded in finding the Portal in Hubert’s quarters and then discovered that he could not operate it after all? He had been making all his plans under the assumption that he could, but the fact of the matter was that he never had done it all on his own. Tavis had expressed faith that Javan was about ready to try it, and Javan thought he understood how it was done, from watching Tavis—but what if the theory and the practice were miles apart?

  He sighed and rubbed his hands across his face, glancing up at the splendor of the altar without really seeing it. He must not allow himself to get bogged down in doubts or he would end up doing nothing—which might be best in the long run, a more cautious part of him counseled. It was what Tavis himself would probably advise, reckoning no report worth the risk Javan was preparing to take.

  But Javan was convinced that his information was vital. Furthermore, with the collapse of his communication network with his Deryni allies, he was foundering in uncertainty. He had to know how they were faring—or at least let them know how he was faring. Caution had no chance in the face of youthful zeal.

  And so, very shortly, Javan went quietly to the back of the chapel, reaching the dozing Charlan just as the squire was startling out of sleep at the approach of his master.

  “Go back to sleep, Charlan,” Javan commanded, reinforcing the order with a hand across the squire’s eyes as Charlan wavered, half in and half out of his seat, and then subsided. “I want you to put on my cloak and go up to the prie-dieu. Don’t stir for anyone.” While he guided Charlan to stand, he worked the clasp of his cloak with his free hand. “You’ll remember none of this. Just go up and kneel by the altar. Put the hood up.”

  He helped Charlan pull it forward as the squire adjusted the cloak over his own, walking with him then to see him safely ensconced at the prie-dieu. When he had finished, he stepped back to look at Charlan. From behind, hunched over the prie-dieu and swathed in Javan’s grey-fur cloak, Javan was sure no one could tell the difference. He doubted anyone would look in, after Hubert had given orders, but if they did, the sight of anyone bowed in such intense meditation should deter any further intrusion. He drew a deep breath as he set his hands on the door latches, listening to the silence outside for a dozen heartbeats before he dared to turn the handles and slowly ease one door ajar.

  Nothing moved in the corridor outside. Torches in cressets spaced along the long, wood-panelled walls splashed dull pools of firelight along the stone flags, but no one seemed to be lurking in the shadows. By the sounds drifting up a stairwell at the end of the corridor, which must lead down to the part of the palace Javan had thought he was in, initially, he judged that Hubert’s dinner for Paulin was still in progress—which should keep both Hubert and most of the rest of the staff occupied for at least a little while yet. And Javan had already decided that he was looking for a garderobe, if anyone should come upon him—an excuse that should save him, up until the very moment he set his hand on Hubert’s door.<
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  And if there was a servant inside, and Hubert not yet there, Javan could always say that the archbishop had invited him—which even Hubert would verify. But it would all be so much simpler, if no one was there at all!

  He forced himself to walk casually as he headed in the direction of Hubert’s door. He had not seen it when Father Aloysius brought him in, because it lay just around a corner, beyond the chapel. But as Javan turned that corner, pretending to inspect the other doors to either side, there was no mistaking which one was Hubert’s. The wide architrave surrounding it was carved and gilded, with cherubim set at the corners and the symbols of the four evangelists ranged across the lintel. The doorjambs bore full-sized croziers carved in deep relief. The door itself displayed the full heraldic achievement of Hubert MacInnis, second son of the Baron of Marlor, his family arms impaled with those of the See of Valoret and the whole surmounted by the miter and mantling of an archbishop.

  Javan walked on past it the first time, straining his ears and his powers for any hint of someone within, continuing on to the next corridor intersection to get his bearings before heading back. He did not think there was anyone inside, but now that he was about to run out of plausible excuses, if he was caught, he thought briefly of giving it all up.

  But only briefly. For when he slipped his hand inside his tunic to feel the sealed packet of his report, still nestled next to his heart, the touch brought back all the urgency of what so many others had risked, many of them for him, and he knew he must put his own fears aside and proceed.

  To his relief, no one responded when he tapped lightly on the door. He tapped again harder, and when still no one responded, he gently tried the latch—and found, to his utter relief, that the door was not locked. And why should it be, for who would dare to enter the archbishop’s apartments without permission?

  Hardly daring to breathe, Javan slipped inside and glanced around quickly, flattening himself against the wall beside the door. The anteroom into which he had entered was dimly lit by a vigil lamp burning beneath a painted icon of Saint Sebastian, its reddish gleam picking out the gilt on the arrows piercing the martyr’s body—all too vivid a reminder of his own fate, if he was caught, figuratively, if not literally. Beyond, another door standing slightly ajar led into a larger room furnished with several comfortable-looking chairs piled with cushions and furs, grouped around a large, stone-manteled fireplace, the floor before it covered with a dark-patterned carpet and more furs. Javan inspected the room as he entered, looking for another door or curtained opening that might conceal the oratory, but he remembered that Tavis had said it opened off the sleeping chamber—and a closed door, just to the right of the fireplace, must lead to that.

  Now he was really getting daring, left with no possible explanation, once he went into Hubert’s bedroom. Cautiously he tried that door, holding his breath as the latch moved beneath his hand and the door swung silently inward. At least it did not creak. He caught the gleam of another votive light off to the right, which must certainly be the oratory; but just before he was able to close the door behind him, he heard someone come into the anteroom from the corridor outside, closing the door with no attempt to be quiet.

  Good God, it was either Hubert or a servant, and either way, someone was almost certain to come where Javan was!

  In an instant that seemed like eternity, he scanned the room. Hiding in the oratory was his first thought, but that was out of the question because the curtains across its entrance were open. If Hubert decided to pray before retiring—

  And there was not enough light to see what other hiding places the room might afford—and which would continue to offer hiding, once the candles were lit. The only thing Javan could make out for certain was the location of the great state bed, directly across from the still partially opened door, its vast canopy and hangings looming dark and forbidding in the gloom.

  That was all too obvious a possibility, and truly audacious, but as Javan heard footsteps passing from the anteroom into the one with the fireplace, panic triumphed over reason, and he darted to the bed’s far side, there to drop to his belly and slither underneath as quickly as he dared, even as he realized he could have gone into the oratory, and simply said he was waiting there for Hubert, at the archbishop’s invitation. He prayed that whoever had just come in would not notice that the bedroom door was not closed all the way.

  His heart was hammering as he inched his way as close toward the head of the bed as he could get, curling up in a tight, miserable ball. The bed was high enough that he could lie on his side, his back hard against the wall, but it was also high enough that someone just might think to look under it, before the archbishop mounted the steps on the bed’s other side to get into it.

  Javan would not be anything but dead if that happened, for he could offer no excuse for being found here. And the packet he carried next to his breast would surely seal his fate.

  He tried to make himself consider options as he lay there in the dark, certain that anyone who came in now would instantly hear his heart pounding and yank him from his hiding place. Numb with terror, he forced himself to take deep, careful breaths and slow his racing pulse. Gradually the booming in his ears receded until he could pick out the faint, desultory sounds of someone moving around in the next room.

  Brighter light began to spill through the crack of the partially open door. Soon the scent of woodsmoke and the crackle of a good fire underscored Javan’s realization that a servant must be responsible, making things ready for the master’s return. Briefly the prince considered trying to make a dash for the oratory, so near and yet so far away, in hopes that he might yet use his excuse of waiting there for Hubert. But he gave up that idea immediately as stronger light approached the partly open doorway and then a hand pushed it open, sandalled feet below a black monastic robe carrying the light around the room to light several candles in wall sconces and on the chest to the right of the great bed.

  Javan tried to breathe very, very softly as he watched the feet move back and forth, their owner laying out night robes and water for washing up and even slippers, just beside the bed steps, so close that Javan could have reached out and touched them. He wondered briefly whether contact with the man’s foot would be sufficient to let him extend control and concluded that it probably would. He decided not to try it, though, not knowing when Hubert might show up to interrupt.

  The decision was a prudent one, for Hubert returned very shortly in the company of someone who lingered long enough in the outer chamber to have a cup of wine before taking his leave. The monk working in the sleeping chamber went out to serve them, but he left the connecting door open and continued to move back and forth between the two rooms, finishing up his chores. Javan never did learn who the visitor was, but he heard his own name mentioned several times. Nor did he catch the gist of what else they were discussing, though at least their tone was positive.

  All of which was very fine, but then the visitor left. Javan spent the next half hour or so in sheer, quaking terror, while Hubert padded around the sleeping chamber, getting ready for bed. After the monk had assisted him from canonicals to nightrobes and left with his blessing, Javan had to watch the fat feet pacing back and forth in their embroidered slippers, their owner pausing from time to time to gaze out at the snowfall while he had another cup of wine. Javan approved of the wine, for it increased the chances that Hubert would sleep deeply when he eventually did go to sleep, but when was he going to do it?

  Apparently, not for a while, Javan soon realized. Hubert had another cup of wine—or perhaps it was water; Javan could not tell from under the bed. Then he had to use the garderobe. Then he came out to kneel in the oratory for a little while.

  Finally he rose and came back into the room, drawing the curtains before the oratory and extinguishing the candles in the wall sconces, and Javan thought he might be going to bed at last. Hubert did get into bed, dangerously straining the lattice of ropes that supported the mattress so close over Javan’s head
. But then he took up a scroll from the chest beside the bed, where a candle still burned, and began to read.

  The situation was fast growing intolerable. Javan now believed he was reasonably safe from discovery here under the bed—and eventually, Hubert would fall asleep—but he was beginning to worry about Charlan, left waiting in the chapel. The squire would stay indefinitely the way Javan had left him, but what if someone tried to speak to him? Javan had never planned to be gone this long.

  So he must move things along. With the curtains now closed across the oratory, Javan felt reasonably certain it was safe to try using the Portal—once Hubert was asleep. But could he somehow help Hubert along? He dared not touch the archbishop directly, so long as there were signs that he was still awake—as occasional rustlings of the scroll periodically attested—but perhaps he could encourage Hubert to sleep without actually having to touch him. Javan knew that trained Deryni could communicate at a distance with individuals whose minds they already knew; and they could certainly Truth-Read without touching someone, as he himself could do. And earlier, Hubert had responded to his suggestion that no one should disturb him. If he could combine all those principles …

  Slowly, carefully, he shifted until he could lay his right hand flat against the underside of the mattress just above his head, visualizing Hubert’s bulk only a double handspan above it. Closing his eyes, he gathered all his concentration, the way Tavis had taught him, and began sending the soft, gentle command to sleep. He synchronized his breathing with Hubert’s, having to speed his own up considerably in the beginning; but when he began to slow his, Hubert’s followed.

  So sleepy, so drowsy, Javan continued to send, as he slowed the breathing yet again, certain now that he was having an effect.