The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  Mince no words, Javan, he told himself. If Alroy is dying, you’re about to have to fight for your crown. You’d just better hope you’re ready …

  He was fastening up the last buckle on his boot when torches approached from the processional door that led into the cloister from the abbey church. Heart pounding in his throat, he scooped up his scapular and rose, automatically starting to don it before the abbot saw him out of uniform—for Father Halex surely would be the one to bring Charlan to him, the only one with authority to do so.

  But then he decided to take the gamble that this was the call he had been waiting for and that he had removed the hated symbol of servitude to the Custodes Fidei for the last time. As the torches approached, Father Halex clearly in the lead and Charlan’s towhead right beside him, Javan dropped the scapular back onto the grass and contented himself with doing up the throat of his soutane.

  Charlan strode out ahead of the abbot as he saw his former master, and Javan drew himself to attention as the young knight drew near and made him a respectful bow, left hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The young knight wore a quilted jazerant over his riding leathers, token indication that this was not a social call, but that seemed to be the extent of his armor. Still, it was a measure of the impact he had made on arrival that Charlan retained his sword and dagger, even within these cloistered walls, though he had not been allowed to bring any of his men with him.

  “Your Highness, I bear important news from Rhemuth,” Charlan said carefully, obviously as aware as Javan that the abbot and his two attendant monks were taking in every word.

  “The king?” Javan asked in a low voice, afraid for what he would hear.

  “The king lives,” Charlan breathed, “but he commands your presence. The Prince Rhys Michael bade me come, and gave me this as token of his authority.”

  Without taking his eyes from Charlan’s dark ones, Javan opened a palm under the closed fist Charlan offered, glancing then at what lay gleaming in the torchlight. It was Rhys Michael’s signet, near mate to Javan’s own, which he kept hidden in a small leather pouch under the mattress in his cell.

  “Brother Javan,” the abbot said pointedly, “this is highly irregular. You are under obedience to this Order. And where is the rest of your habit?”

  “I mean you no disrespect, Father Abbot, but I am under a higher obedience to my king, who is my brother,” Javan replied, ignoring the question of his habit as he glanced back at Charlan. “Rhys Michael sent you, Sir Charlan?”

  “Aye, my lord, for the king was too weak to make his wishes known outside his sickroom.” Charlan delved into the pouch hanging from his belt and produced a folded handkerchief, which he handed to Javan. “As further earnest that this is his personal request, the prince bade me give you this.”

  Carefully Javan unfolded the soft linen, deliberately angling it so that Father Halex could not see what it contained. The earring of twisted gold wire was mate to another he had been directed to remove prior to making his vows and bespoke the very urgency of Rhys Michael’s summons—that this, indeed, touched on the kingship of Gwynedd. He kept his expression neutral as he folded the earring back into its linen nest, deliberately ignoring the abbot as he slipped Rhys Michael’s ring onto his right hand and looked up at Charlan again.

  “I’ll need to boot up and change,” he said, handing the handkerchief back to the young knight for safekeeping. “Look after that, will you? And did you bring me a horse, or shall I borrow one from the abbey stables?”

  “Now, see here, Brother Javan!” the abbot began.

  “It’s Prince Javan now, my Lord Abbot,” Javan replied, rounding on the older man with a look of fierce determination. “And I ride at the command of my king—and your king as well.”

  The abbot gaped and glanced indignantly at his two monks for support. “But you’re under vows. You owe me obedience!”

  “My vows are and always have been temporary, my lord,” Javan said, quietly but firmly. “They now are at an end. I’m leaving. So unless you intend to take up the matter with Sir Charlan and the other knights waiting in the yard, I suggest you stand aside and allow me to pass. Sir Charlan, would you please accompany me?”

  The abbot gave way speechlessly as Javan pressed forward, Charlan at his elbow, and the monks likewise parted to either side, leaving them a clear path across the garden.

  “I did bring you a horse, your Highness,” Charlan murmured breathlessly as they made for the processional door, away from the now-muttering abbot. “I have a spare pair of breeches and a short tunic in my saddlebag, too, if you’re in need of proper riding clothes. It would be a grim ride, bare-legged.”

  “No, I have what I need in my cell, from my last trip to Rhemuth,” Javan said. “Nothing fancy, but it will do the job.” He pushed open the processional door and led Charlan briefly into the south transept and around to the night stair. As they mounted the stair, Javan steadying his hobbling gait with a hand on the thick rope swagged up the wall, he glanced back over his shoulder at the following Charlan.

  “How is my brother Alroy, Charlan? Did you see him?”

  “No, sir. Only Rhys Michael. But he said he’d just come from the king, and he looked really worried. I’m reasonably confident we can get you back to Rhemuth in time, but I don’t think I’d have been sent like this, in the middle of the night, unless it was urgent. Rhys Michael took a big risk, too, sending me the way he did. It’s my impression that it was against the wishes of Archbishop Hubert and whatever other great lords might have been waiting outside the king’s chamber.”

  They had reached the landing now, and Javan led the young knight quickly along the dormer corridor, limping only a little on the flat, ignoring the occasional sleepy head that peered out of a doorway.

  “In here,” Javan murmured, pausing to take up the night-light set in a niche in the corridor before leading Charlan into the tiny room designated as his monastic cell.

  He lit the rushlight in another niche inside, then handed the night-light to Charlan to replace in the hallway while he began unbuttoning his soutane, starting to formulate a plan of action as he did so.

  “I hope you don’t mind squiring for me, the way you used to do,” Javan said as the young knight ducked anxiously back into the room. “You’ll find my other boot and my riding things in that chest at the foot of the bed. I want to get out of here as quickly as we can, before the abbot decides that his Custodes men are a match for yours.”

  Grinning, Charlan bent to the task assigned.

  “The possibility had crossed my mind, your Highness,” he said easily, quickly producing the desired boot and then beginning to rummage through the stacks of uniformly black garments. “However, I think the presence of a dozen armed knights in his yard may have dampened the good abbot’s enthusiasm for such rash action. Are these the breeches you wanted?” he asked, holding a handful of black aloft by one leg.

  Glancing up, Javan gave a nod.

  “As for being your squire,” Charlan went on, tossing the breeches onto the bed, “I shall always count those months in your service as my honor and privilege. I—hope you’ll be gracious enough to accept my continued service, when you are king.”

  “When I am king—”

  Javan had been in the process of stripping the hated Custodes cincture from around his waist, and he stiffened and then swallowed before deliberately dropping it onto the bed like a limp snake—the braided cincture of crimson and gold intertwined, whose colors the Custodes Fidei had usurped from the Haldane royal house to lend credibility to their mission against Deryni.

  “I hope I needn’t tell you that being king is the last thing I would have wished, if it meant that harm would come to my brother,” Javan said quietly. He shrugged out of the heavy soutane and let it fall in a pool of wool around his feet, stepping free awkwardly to sit on the edge of the bed, now clad only in the baggy underdrawers the monks were allowed.

  “I have to face realities, though,” he continued as Ch
arlan knelt at his feet and began unbuckling the special boot. “I hope that doesn’t sound disloyal. But if he’s to die before he gets an heir—”

  Charlan shot him an appraising look before returning his attention to the buckles.

  “Better you than Rhys Michael,” he said shortly, not looking up. “Oh, I have no quarrel with your younger brother, Sire, but you’re the heir. And you have the backbone to stand up to the lords of state—which I don’t think your brother does. The king certainly doesn’t.”

  Anger flared in the grey Haldane eyes, and Javan kicked his good foot free of its sandal.

  “It isn’t Alroy’s fault that he’s been under their thumb,” he said sharply. “He’s always been frail. And once the regents had driven Lord Rhys and Bishop Alister from Court, the court physicians had orders to keep him just slightly sedated all the time, even when he was healthy otherwise. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but I saw it for myself, the last few times I had a chance to be alone with him.”

  Charlan freed the last buckle, glancing up as he eased the boot from Javan’s crippled foot and rocked back on his heels. “Did Master Oriel tell you that, Sire?”

  The question could be taken many ways. That Charlan was even here bespoke a loyalty to all three Haldane brothers that went beyond whatever duty he might feel he owed the former regents; but Javan was not certain he liked having Charlan link him with the Deryni Oriel. It skirted too close to the truth about Javan’s own growing talents.

  Of course, Javan could use those talents to make sure of Charlan, here and now. Kneeling there at Javan’s feet, the young knight could never get out of range in time to prevent Javan touching him and triggering old controls. But if Javan was about to be king and must use those talents to keep his throne, he would rather not force loyalty that appeared to be freely offered.

  Careful not to show his concern, Javan pulled the breeches to him and thrust his feet into the legs, standing long enough to pull them up and do up the fastenings. He stepped back into the special boot before sitting back down again, so that Charlan could do up the buckles while he pulled the mate onto his good left foot.

  “As a matter of fact, Master Oriel did tell me about it,” he said, taking the slight gamble—for he could always seize control later, if Charlan proved treacherous. “He didn’t approve, and he thought I should know—as Alroy’s brother as well as heir presumptive. As you’ll recall, the terms of his service don’t permit open disagreement with his ‘employers,’ regardless of his professional opinion.” He cocked his head at Charlan, who was doing up the last buckles.

  “What about you, Charlan? You were open enough, when you first entered my service, to confess that you were obliged to report to the regents concerning me. I’d like to think that you told me that out of a personal loyalty that went beyond official duty. But all of that changed when I left Court. You became the king’s squire—which means that any oaths you swore to him were essentially to the regents and then the great lords, as well.” He drew a deep breath.

  “So I guess what I’m trying to ask is, where are your personal loyalties now? I need to know, before I leave here with you.”

  He was extending his Truth-Reading talents as he asked the question, and to his relief, Charlan’s reply was open and guileless.

  “Sire, I am your man,” he said, dark eyes locking fearlessly with Javan’s grey ones. “I think I always have been. I suppose I began to realize that oaths were more than mere words at about the time you left Court, and it’s become increasingly clear since I was knighted.

  “You have other loyal men, as well, that you don’t even know about—others of the younger knights, mostly, who served you and your brothers as squires and such, but there are a few of the older men at Court whom you can trust. The ones waiting for you in the abbey yard would all die for you, if need be.”

  “Indeed,” Javan murmured, wide-eyed, for while he had been reasonably confident of Charlan’s ultimate loyalty, he had not expected the rest of the young knight’s revelation. “Will they live for me, though, Charlan? That may be far harder, in these next weeks and months. The great lords have been in power long enough to entrench themselves into the next generation. Some of their sons hold high office. If I’m not extremely careful how I ease them out, I could find myself in the middle of a civil war—if I don’t find myself dead first!”

  Charlan tucked the last strap into place on Javan’s boots and gave the left boot a slap in signal that he had finished, but he did not get to his feet.

  “There are those ready to do what they can to prevent both options, Sire,” he said, looking up at Javan. “We’ve—taken the liberty, in these past few weeks, of sounding out some of the other knights about specific recommendations in a number of areas that will need your attention fairly quickly, once you’re on the throne. There are documents waiting for you, back at Rhemuth, and men to explain them. None of us would presume to tell you what to do, but there’s information you’d have no other way of knowing.” He swallowed, looking suddenly apprehensive. “You’re—not angry, are you, Sire? We only did it to help you.”

  Javan could only stare at Charlan in disbelief for several seconds, though he knew that every word the man had spoken was the truth. But as the implications began to sink in, he clapped Charlan on the shoulder and rose, shaking his head as a faint smile played on his lips.

  “How could I be angry, Charlan?” he said quietly. “You’ve given me real hope, where it all was theory and wishful thinking before.”

  Forcing himself to turn to other practicalities—for if they did not get out of there, all the young knight’s efforts would be for nought, as well as Javan’s own—he moved to the chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out the riding tunic he had worn for his last trip to Rhemuth, the month before. It was black, like every other garment he owned there at the abbey, cut high-collared like a cassock but reaching only to the knee, and slit fore and aft for riding. It would be stifling in the summer heat, for it was a heavier wool than the soutane he had discarded, but that couldn’t be helped. He had to look the part of a prince, and this was all he had.

  He did not speak as he dressed, and Charlan respected his silence. When he had buttoned the tunic, all but the top three buttons, he pulled a plain black leather belt out of the trunk and buckled it around his waist, then retrieved a small leather pouch from under his mattress.

  Inside were his own signet ring, bearing the Haldane arms differenced with the label of a second son, and the mate to Rhys Michael’s earring. After slipping the signet onto his left little finger, he gave his hair a few swipes with a comb made of horn, then let Charlan help him thread the twisted wire of the earring through the hole in his right earlobe. He had no mirror to check the overall impression, but he gathered, by Charlan’s expression, that he passed muster.

  “We’d better ride now,” he murmured, glancing around the cell for the last time. “You can brief me more on the way. We’ll hope that matters haven’t gotten out of hand down in the yard while we tarried here.”

  As Charlan opened the door, Javan bent down and blew out the rushlight, serene but eager as he followed the young knight back along the dim-lit corridor toward the night stair. He had what he wanted from this place, and he did not look back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  These things hast thou done, and I kept silence; thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself.

  —Psalms 50:21

  Down in the abbey yard, things had not gotten precisely out of hand, but the half-dozen Custodes monks and priests initially drawn to the yard by the arrival of Charlan and his men had now been joined by nearly a score of Custodes knights. The royal knights sat their horses in a quiet but uneasy knot near the gate, most of them with torches in their hands, two of the men holding extra mounts. The Custodes men were drawn up in two precise lines across the front of the abbey steps, many of them also holding torches.

  Javan assessed the situation at a glance as he came out the poster
n door, Charlan at his elbow and the abbot and his two monks at his heels. If it came to an armed confrontation, he did not like the odds. The Custodes men outnumbered Charlan’s knights by nearly two to one and were better armored as well, with steel greaves and vambraces protecting legs and arms and the gleam of steel at the throats of black brigantines. The royal knights were well mounted and armed, but they wore no real armor—only leather jacks and light steel caps, in deference to the heat. Up on the cloister wall, though Javan could not see them against the torches’ glare, he knew there would be at least half a dozen Custodes archers, only awaiting the order to let fly.

  “Lord Joshua,” he called, seizing the initiative by heading directly for the captain of the Custodes force. “My thanks for the honor you do me by turning out an additional escort. However, these good knights who accompanied Sir Charlan on his royal errand are well qualified to accompany me back to Rhemuth.”

  The Custodes captain glanced uncertainly at the abbot, but at least he made no move toward the sword at his belt.

  “Father Abbot was concerned that these men might attempt to take you from the abbey against your will, Brother Javan,” the man said.

  Javan allowed the man a forbearing hint of a smile. “My will is not a factor in this discussion, Captain,” he said easily. “It is the king’s will that I accompany these gentlemen back to Rhemuth. Do you intend to question him?”

  The captain’s jaw tightened, but before he could reply, the abbot set his hand on the man’s steel-clad arm and moved a step closer. “My information is that the king is too ill to issue orders, Brother Javan. Now I beg you to return to your cell and await further official word from Rhemuth.”

  “How official must it be?” Javan retorted, thrusting Rhys Michael’s ring under the abbot’s nose. “My brother, Prince Rhys Michael Haldane, commands me to come, in the name of my brother the king, who is dying. If some have their way, then that same Rhys Michael shall be the next king—in which case, he will not look kindly upon those who have defied his commands. And if the proper succession is allowed to occur, then I shall be king—and I assure you, I shall not forget those who obstruct me.