The heat grew more oppressive as they made their descent, especially once they came off the castle’s hill to wind through the town. Rhemuth had not seen the coronation of a Haldane king in more than a century, for both Cinhil and Alroy had been crowned in Valoret, where the Festils had kept Court. The streets were lined with people, curious for a proper look at their new king. They had known him but briefly as a boy, during those few months between relocation of the Court to Rhemuth and his own departure to seminary, and had caught but a glimpse of him at the late king’s funeral. Opinion continued to vary on whether the fledgling cleric should have returned to take up his brother’s crown.
But mounted on his tall milk-white steed, resplendent in glittering gold and creamy silks, none could deny that the limping boy of most folks’ memory had taken on at least the appearance of an able-looking king. Certainly his twin, the ill-fated King Alroy, had never cut so fine a figure on horseback. Nor had anyone ever seen a look of such cool determination in Alroy as that displayed by Javan. Vague rumor had it that the new king might be contemplating important reforms in Gwynedd, some of them aimed at clipping the wings of certain former regents, some of whom were said to have used their offices to enrich their own coffers.
Such speculations were natural enough, with a new king come to the throne after an ineffectual predecessor and a regency before that, especially when the new king was young and still naive in the realities of governing. Somewhat more disturbing was the suggestion that he had tolerated Deryni around him for some months after his father’s death, and shown a marked squeamishness for the measures applied to Deryni who came under the full penalties of the new laws.
But that had been before he went to study with the Custodes Fidei, who were noted for their adherence to orthodox doctrine regarding the evils of Deryni magic, and whose Vicar General had been responsible for the Statutes of Ramos that were putting Deryni increasingly in their place. Few knew much about Javan’s career with the Custodes, but surely three years of their indoctrination would ensure that earlier tendencies toward leniency were eradicated along with Deryni themselves.
Such was the reasoning running through many a mind of those watching Javan ride to his coronation that last day in July of 921. As the procession approached the cathedral and the crowds grew larger, their acclaim grew as well, so that an enthusiastic welcome met King Cinhil’s second son as he drew up before the cathedral steps and dismounted.
A new procession awaited him now, set to convey him into the sacred precincts for his king-making. Instead of the choir monks of Valoret’s cathedral chapter to sing him in, a black-clad assemblage from the Ordo Custodum Fidei waited to perform this honor—for he was one of theirs, even if he had set aside his vocation to take up a crown. Eight boy altar servers dressed in white would follow the choristers, drawn up by twos behind them, each carrying a processional torch in a silver-gleaming holder, each looking most uncomfortable in the heat.
Next came the bishops’ procession, a thurifer preceding a deacon bearing the great Rhemuth processional cross and then all the bishops of Gwynedd, by twos—six itinerant bishops and then the titled ones, Dhassa and Grecotha, Nyford and Cashien, Marbury and Stavenham. Rhemuth’s archbishop followed them, glittering and majestic in heavy golden cope and mitre, accompanied by his chaplain. Then came the processional cross of the Primate of All Gwynedd; and behind it, the primate himself, Hubert MacInnis, looming like a walking mountain in his vestments all of white and gold, crowned like a king with the jewels of the precious mitre on his head and with his crozier in his hand, flanked by his chaplain and another deacon.
Bishop Alfred of Woodbourne and Paulin of Ramos were waiting to escort Javan himself—Alfred all in white, Paulin in the full, sweeping black robes of the Vicar General of the Custodes Fidei, mitred as well, for when he resigned his bishopric to found the Order, he had but exchanged his bishop’s mitre for that of an abbot. As part of the procession ahead of Javan continued on into the cathedral, the two came to flank Javan, each extending him an arm, black and white.
Javan paused while Guiscard and Charlan arranged his mantle behind him and a golden canopy moved into place before the cathedral doors, borne by four young knights rather than four earls’ sons as had been done at Alroy’s coronation—Sorle, Gavin, Bertrand, and Tomais. Then he set his hands lightly on his escorts’ arms and mounted the steps into the welcome shade. Charlan and Guiscard fell in directly behind him and slightly to either side, lest they tread on his train, followed by Father Faelan as King’s Confessor.
Then came the bearers of the royal regalia: Lord Albertus as Earl Marshal, with the State Sword; Murdoch with the Haldane banner, golden lion lifting and shimmering on the faint breeze against a field of crimson silk; young Duke Graham bearing the sceptre on a crimson cushion, slender ivory encrusted with gold; Rhun with the Ring of Fire on a silver salver; and Tammaron bearing the State Crown of leaves and crosses intertwined. Behind them came Rhys Michael, still escorted by his Kheldish earls, followed by other nobility entitled to a place in the coronation procession.
Javan held his head high as he proceeded down the aisle to the choir’s introit, Laetatus sum. I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord. As he went he was mindful of every eye upon him, weighing him, trying to decide what kind of a king he would be—this bold young man who had asserted his rights and taken up the crown most had thought destined to pass to his younger brother. Now, it seemed, this second son of King Cinhil had developed a mind of his own and intended to assert it—to what end, no one yet knew. He looked the king, though—hardly even limping in new white boots that made it difficult to see his handicap.
The assembled congregation bent in homage as he passed, following his progress into the choir, to the foot of the sanctuary steps, where the white-clad figure made a graceful reverence and then moved to the right to kneel at a faldstool. The sable head bowed in prayer as the singing went on and the rest of the procession continued filing into the cathedral to take their places, regalia being placed upon the altar, the archbishops praying silently at the foot of the altar steps, until all at last were present and ready.
This spectacle was observed with general interest by most of the congregation gathered to witness the rite now beginning, and with rather more analytical intent by diplomatic envoys from several other neighboring lands—Howicce and Llannedd to the southwest, Meara, Mooryn, and Torenth.
Representing Arion, King of Torenth, was his brother Miklos, but a year older than Javan himself—tall and graceful for his years, fair-haired and light-eyed, languid eastern manners masking a quick comprehension of all about him, quietly aglitter in tawny eastern silks. Sitting in a seat of honor along with other foreign dignitaries massed along one side of the choir, accompanied by the obviously high-born young aide who was his companion for this excursion, Prince Miklos watched with detached curiosity as the two archbishops went to raise up the young king and lead him into the center of the choir to be presented to his people. When his brother Arion was crowned some three years before in Beldour, Miklos had been quite old enough to know what he was seeing, and found it interesting to compare that rite with the one now unfolding.
“All hail Javan Jashan Urien, our undoubted king!” the Archbishop-Primate of Gwynedd announced, he and the other archbishop raising the king’s arms to the East. “Be ye willing to do homage and service in his behalf?”
“God save King Javan!” the thundering response came, echoing in the vaulting of the great cathedral.
Thrice more the archbishop asked the question, turning Javan to the South, West, and North in what Miklos knew was a magical invocation of the angelic entities who ruled the Quarters, even though the humans of Gwynedd had no comprehension of such matters—nor wanted to, especially since the restoration of the Haldane line, at the expense of the Deryni Festils.
But now, having called the Four Quarters to witness—who were present, Miklos had no doubt—the archbishop was drawing the young ki
ng before the altar itself, where the great Book of Holy Writ lay open. From beside it he took up a sheet of parchment already prepared.
“My Lord Javan, are you now willing to take the coronation oath, sworn by your ancestors in times past?” he demanded.
“I am willing,” Javan replied in a clear, steady tenor.
As Miklos watched, idly preparing to Read the truth of the king’s oath, Javan boldly mounted the altar steps and laid his right hand on the open Book, the archbishop setting his left atop it and reading from the parchment.
“Javan Jashan Urien, here before God and men declared and affirmed to be the undisputed heir of our late beloved King Alroy, will you solemnly promise and swear to keep the peace in Gwynedd and to govern its peoples according to our ancient laws and customs?”
“I solemnly promise to do so,” Javan replied.
“Will you, to the utmost of your power, cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?”
“I will.”
“And do you pledge that Evil and Wrong-Doing shall be suppressed and the law of God maintained?”
“All this I pledge,” Javan said.
As the archbishop laid the parchment back on the altar, Javan moved closer to sign it, lifting it up when he had done so and laying his right hand on Scripture again as he turned to face the people.
“That which I have here promised,” he said loudly, “I will perform and keep, so help me God.”
So saying, he laid the oath back on the altar and bent to kiss the Book, then retreated back down the altar steps to the center of the sanctuary, where he turned to face the archbishop once more.
Watching him, Miklos nodded slightly to himself. Javan Haldane had spoken the truth, at least of his intentions, but it remained to be seen whether he could keep his oath. As king, he had sworn to suppress Evil and Wrong-Doing. But if, as Gwynedd’s Church taught, Evil and Wrong-Doing were personified by Deryni, then the king either must turn away from his former friends who were Deryni, or be forsworn. Except as an item of intellectual interest, that mattered not at all to Miklos, for Javan was not his king, but it mattered a great deal to the dark-haired boy sitting beside him.
“Javan Jashan Urien Haldane,” the archbishop said, “having given your sacred pledge before God and this holy people, now must you humble yourself by setting aside the trappings of worldly glory, that through us, the servant of the Most High, you may be prepared and brought before Him as a holy oblation.”
As he spoke, two Custodes priests came forward to take away the white mantle and the silken overrobe, leaving the king to stand in the plain white underrobe of fine linen, so like a priestly alb. In this he sank gracefully to his knees and then laid himself prostrate at the archbishop’s feet, resting his forehead on the backs of his hands rather than spreading his arms in the cruciform attitude Miklos would have expected—though perhaps this was a small display of independence. Miklos had been privy to certain privileged information regarding Prince Javan Haldane’s years in seminary—all but a prisoner, some said, with only feigned espousal of a priestly vocation. Small wonder, then, if he chose to distance his sacring just a little from too-close comparison with a priestly ordination.
The archbishops and other assisting clergy went to kneel around the king, all of them facing the altar, and at a signal from the Master of Ceremonies, the congregation likewise went to their knees. Then, after a moment of utter silence, the choir began to sing the Veni Creator, whose melody, written by a Bremagni king centuries before, was familiar even to the eastern-trained ears of a Torenthi prince.
“Veni Creator Spiritus, mentes tuorum visita, imple superna gratia, quae tu creasti pectora …”
The choir sang a full four verses, after which the second archbishop censed the altar and the oblation with brisk efficiency while the corpulent Archbishop MacInnis intoned a sacring prayer. At its conclusion, the congregation were allowed to sit and the choir began a new chant: an unfamiliar setting for a familiar coronation formula, used even in Torenth.
“Zadok the priest and Nathan the prophet have anointed him king in Gihon and they are come up from thence rejoicing …”
As the anthem ended, two priests went to set a chair before the still-prostrate king, then helped him rise to his knees as the archbishop sat in the chair and the four knights bearing the golden canopy moved into place once more. Miklos could not hear the archbishop’s words as he anointed the kneeling Javan on head, breast, and hands, for knowledge, valor, and glory; but he knew it for the most solemn moment of the sacring, whereby an anointed king became more than man but not quite priest, sealed unto his divine office by the unction of the sacring oil. He had sensed that moment of ineffable magic at his brother’s coronation, and he sensed it anew as Gwynedd’s anointed lord rose to be clothed in the garments of kingship.
Over the priestly robe of white linen went a new tunic of cloth of gold, stiff with bullion and laidwork and scarlet-winking jewels, ablaze in the summer sun that beat mercilessly through the stained glass windows. Around the king’s narrow waist the archbishop fastened the white girdle of chivalry studded with jewels, while two of his knights fastened the golden spurs upon his heels. Though not yet old enough for formal knighthood, he was now the fount of honor for his kingdom, whence knighthood and all other nobility derived. Only a handful of those present knew that the delivery of these symbols to the king betokened no mere potential but a right already earned, by right of his own knights’ election.
And over all, the great crimson mantle of earthly majesty—damask silk reembroidered with the Haldane lions in a darker shade of crimson and set with gems for eyes, lined with cloth of gold rather than fur for this summer rite, but no less rich, with a wide band worked round the hem in stiff bullion and gems, as wide as a man’s two hands.
So adorned, his mantle spilling down the steps behind him, the king now was invested with more of the regalia of his office: first the State Sword, placed briefly in his hands to be kissed and then returned to the tall, gaunt man in black—who, according to Dimitri, was the Earl Marshal of Gwynedd as well as Grand Master of the new Order that had replaced the Michaelines.
As the man carried the sword back to the altar, there to lift it briefly in black-gloved hands before depositing it with a bow, a tight-lipped man in emerald and ultramarine carried forward a silver salver bearing a dazzle of red and gold—a ring, for the archbishop placed it on the king’s finger with an admonition Miklos could not hear. Following that, a noble, fair-haired lad in grey, wearing an ornate but not royal coronet, brought forward the sceptre, an ivory rod encrusted with gold, which the archbishop set in the king’s hands briefly, then returned to its keeper.
For now it was time for the crowning itself, the outward culmination of all this rite. Bowing to the king, the archbishop and his assistant took him by both his hands and led him across the sanctuary almost to the steps of the altar, where a kneeler had been set a short pace out and the king now knelt, hands clasped and head bowed. Solemnly, reverently, the second archbishop approached the altar and took up the crown, bearing it before him in gloved hands as he rejoined his fellow and gave it over. Javan lifted his head to gaze at it, blazing bright-gold in the sunlight, as Gwynedd’s primate raised it above his head and likewise raised his prayer to heaven.
“Bless, we beseech Thee, O Lord, this crown, and so sanctify Thy servant, Javan, upon whose head Thou dost place it today as a sign of royal majesty. Grant that he may, by Thy grace, be filled with all princely virtues. Through the King Eternal, Our Lord, Who lives and reigns with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever. Amen.”
He set it on the king’s head as the echoed “Amen” rustled through the cathedral and a trumpet fanfare announced the accomplishment to those without as well as within. The Deryni Prince Miklos of Torenth caught his breath to see a blur of subtle power briefly surrounding the king’s head like a nimbus of light—though, looking around, no one else seemed able to see it, with the possible exc
eption of his companion, who had watched the entire ritual in tight-lipped concentration. It was rumored, and had been for many years, that the new king’s father had somehow wielded magic in the time of the other’s father, and that the latter had taken his own life rather than accept defeat at the hands of such a man. Certain it was that the other’s mother had perished in battle with the new king’s father …
Miklos gave the king another careful look, extending his powers to try to fathom more of what he had seen; but it was gone, and King Javan of Gwynedd merely human once more. During the homage and fealty that followed, and then the Mass, whose form differed slightly from that to which Miklos was accustomed, he used the focused concentration in the great cathedral to try to Read the new king more clearly, but shields seemed to surround him—either from the natural warding produced by the structure of the liturgy or from King Javan himself, Miklos had no way of telling.
He was quietly thoughtful, his young companion tautly silent, as they made their way up to the castle afterward for the coronation feast and its informal Court. He wondered how King Javan would react when Miklos presented his brother Arion’s compliments and requested a coronation boon of the newly crowned king.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Delivei him that suffereth wrong from the hand of the oppressor; and be not faint-hearted when thou sittest in judgment.
—Ecclesiasticus 4:9
It was midafternoon as Javan’s coronation procession wound its way back up the hill to Rhemuth keep, through cheering throngs lining the streets. A faint breeze stirred outside the packed cathedral, but the sun was still blazing down. Javan was soaking wet beneath the thin silks of his coronation robes, and endured the slow ride back to the castle largely by anticipation of stripping everything off and collapsing for an hour or two before going back on display. Having fasted since the night before, he was also ferociously hungry, with a nagging headache pulsing just behind his eyes that owed to the heat as well as the hunger.
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