He was unhooking the clasp of his mantle even as he rode beneath the gatehouse arch of the inner ward, letting the crimson silk and cloth of gold slip from his shoulders as soon as he had drawn rein before the great hall steps. Waiting squires rescued the garment, to install it at his place in the hall for the festivities to follow, and Javan gathered his intimates to him with a weary gesture and headed directly for his quarters.
Once there, jewelled girdle and tunic of gold and underrobe of linen were likewise discarded before he plopped down on a stool. He guzzled two cups of cool water in quick succession while he let Charlan sponge him down, then just sat quietly in the faint breeze of the open window for a few minutes, eyes closed and thinking of nothing, while Jason and Robear removed the golden spurs and then the white boots.
“I’ve brought you some light refreshments, Sire,” Guiscard said, breaking in on his reverie to set a tray on the trestle table. “You haven’t eaten since last night, and you should have something in you before you start on wine this evening.”
Nodding his agreement with a sigh, Javan moved back into the room to sit at his accustomed place. The time was sufficient for a quick debriefing while he ate. The others were drinking watered wine in the heat, but mostly saving their appetites for the banquet to follow.
“All right, let’s start with the most startling development of the day,” Javan said as he attacked part of a cold joint of chicken. “The Kheldour lords were rather conspicuous by their presence. Does anyone know what they’re planning? Am I going to have any unpleasant surprises at Court this evening?”
Etienne de Courcy leaned back in his chair, affable and easy even in the heat. “The situation, as you know, is very precariously balanced, Sire. It’s encouraging that they didn’t have to be coerced to offer you fealty, but the border attire was a blatant statement of separation, if they choose to make it so.”
“What about young Graham?” Javan asked. “He swore in his own right, so I suppose that confirmed that he’s officially of age now. And while he wasn’t exactly dressed for a coronation, it was a step up from riding leathers and northern tweeds. Any indications what kind of a man he’s turning out to be?”
Jerowen Reynolds came to lean on the table beside Etienne. “Levelheaded, Sire—which is remarkable, considering that it was his father’s death that started the quarrel.”
“He wasn’t there; his uncles were,” Javan said with a snort, gesturing with his chicken. “I was there, and I find it difficult to keep a level head regarding those responsible. What do you think will satisfy them? What are they going to ask?”
“No one knows,” Etienne replied. “We weren’t even certain they were going to show up, as you know. I’d expect a request for a private audience, at very least—and God knows what they’ll demand.”
“Demand?” Robear said. “Since when do subjects demand something of their king?”
“They’ll demand,” Javan said simply, washing down a swallow of chicken with wine. “I’d demand. And I would’ve demanded, three years ago, if I’d been able. Most of you weren’t there. You didn’t see what was done to Duke Ewan—and then to Declan Carmody and his wife and sons. I’ve never forgiven Murdoch for that and I never will. Now that I’m king, if the Kheldour lords demand justice, I’m going to do my best to give it to them.”
“Just don’t underestimate Murdoch and his friends,” Jason said. “Your position is much stronger than it was even a few weeks ago, but you aren’t ready for a showdown with the former regents as a group. And they will stick together—you can depend on it!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Javan said. “Now, what other potentially tricky negotiations have I got to get through? Jerowen?”
The law lord consulted a written itinerary. “Hmmm, the usual delegations from various of our neighbors. You are aware, I assume, that Torenth has sent an official observer.”
“Yes, Hubert told me yesterday.” Javan set down his cup. “One of the king’s brothers, I hear.”
Jerowen nodded. “Prince Miklos, he’s called. He’s not much older than you are. Said to be charming, brought only a small entourage. And of course, he’s Deryni, like all the rest of the House of Furstan.”
“I see. And?”
Jerowen shrugged. “He and his men have behaved impeccably thus far, Sire. The Earl Marshal had archers stationed in the galleries at the cathedral, and there will be more on call tonight. Would you like Oriel or Sitric available as well? At least you’d know if Miklos was lying—and he’d know that you knew.”
Javan had gone very still, his mind racing furiously. Knowing what he did about the possible Torenthi links of Paulin’s Deryni, the renewal of diplomatic relations with Torenth suddenly seemed suspiciously convenient. And an interview with a Deryni prince meant that Javan dared not even have Guiscard or Etienne attend him at the audience, lest Miklos detect another Deryni where none should be.
But perhaps he could have Oriel attend him. The presence of a Healer at the king’s side could hardly be questioned, and might discourage any Torenthi trickery, if they thought he was under Deryni protection.
“Y-e-e-e-e-s,” he said, slowly drawing out the word. “I believe I will ask Master Oriel to be present. And I believe Lord Rhun had already infiltrated Sitric among the guards assigned to ‘escort’ our Torenthi visitors. Tell me, though, is the Torenthi Court still harboring the Festillic Pretender?”
“Well, not officially,” Etienne replied. “Mark of Festil is believed to have gone into Arjenol to continue his schooling. It remains to be seen what kind of support Torenth will give him, once he’s ready to make his move.”
“So we wait,” Javan said. “And meanwhile, we entertain Torenthi princes at our Court.”
Robear shrugged. “We’re not at war, Sire. Haven’t been for some years. And maybe he’s brought an interesting gift.”
“Interesting—it could well be that.” Javan drummed his fingertips on the table for a few seconds, then shook his head.
“Well, gentlemen, it looks as if I begin my lessons in foreign diplomacy right near the top. Have those archers continue to stand by, will you, Jerowen? Unobtrusively, of course, but just in case. I’m told that for speed, an arrow is far quicker than a spell.”
Nervous laughter rippled among them at that, after which Jason resumed his briefing. A little later, when they had finished, Oriel came to examine his foot, which was fine, and to guide him into deep, refreshing sleep for an hour, while the others also changed their coronation finery for cooler attire.
An hour later the newly crowned king was rousing himself, somewhat restored, to don a long, sleeveless tunic of crimson silk over a thin white shirt of cotton gauze—not as elegant as his earlier attire, but it was infinitely more appropriate to the heat and looked kingly enough with the jewelled white girdle and the Haldane sword and the boots with the golden spurs and the State Crown. He was almost comfortable as he made his way down to the great hall to receive the official congratulations of his subjects and guests.
The entire atmosphere of the festivity was different from that of Alroy’s coronation five years before. Then the order of the evening had been to amuse and entertain a preadolescent king and his younger brothers—and to show off the wealth and the power of the young king’s regents. King Javan was already two years a man, however, at least in law. Accordingly, the protocol had been expanded to include more adult interests and diversions.
Chiefest among these, besides the necessity to receive the official greetings of foreign emissaries, was the inclusion of far more members of the fair sex than Javan remembered from five years before—though he had to admit that active notice of such things would not have occurred to him at age eleven. Perhaps his present awareness came of having his blood stirred so thoroughly the day before by the fair Anne of Cassan—whose presence even now, standing with her husband at the far end of the room, made his stomach do pleasant, flip-floppy things every time he looked at her.
There were other lovel
ies aplenty, too, some of them potential political disasters, like Rhun’s dark-eyed daughter Juliana or—already a danger to Rhys Michael—Michaela Drummond. He lost track of the number of other young ladies of “suitable breeding” who were presented to him and his brother between their arrival and the first course. Blond or raven-tressed, titian or chestnut, they ranged in age all the way from hopefuls of nine or ten to more mature beauties approaching thirty. Their gowns were a veritable nosegay of summer flower colors—azure and rose and violet and buttercup—with scents to accompany in dizzying variety.
Javan had heard of such parades for the marriage mart, but he had hoped not to be subjected to one so soon. He watched with grudging appreciation, his attention occasionally caught briefly by a tossing curl or a twinkling eye, but he schooled himself to polite neutrality. His relief was profound when he and Rhys Michael at last could retreat to the more remote public display of merely sitting at the center of the head table.
With Rhys Michael to his right and Hubert to his left, he was soon tucking into the banquet’s first course, sampling from fresh-baked venison tartlets, a clear soup with tiny dumplings floating in it, a salad of fresh garden vegetables in a mint vinaigrette, and skewered bits of fish roasted with an almond sauce. Everything was good, but Javan ate sparingly, both because of the heat and his earlier snack and because he knew there were at least five or six more removes.
Between the first and second removes, he received the emissaries of Llannedd and Mooryn in the withdrawing room behind the dais. Rhys Michael and Guiscard accompanied him, along with Hubert and Tammaron and several others of his senior ministers. Felicitations were presented, along with gifts—a leather pouchful of balass rubies from the mountains of Mooryn and ingots of ruddy gold from Llannedd—and then all returned to the great hall for the second remove.
It was during the interval between the third and fourth removes, as the sun was slanting long rays through the western windows of the great hall, that Javan prepared to receive the emissary of the King of Torenth. Oriel came to join him, quietly dressed in a dull-green tunic that suggested but did not proclaim his healing function, for the wearing of the old “official” badge of the Healer’s call was now prohibited by law. His presence should discourage any too-close scrutiny on the part of their Deryni visitor.
And if Miklos did perceive more than he should, at least Javan could fall back on the precedent of being a Haldane, which line was already known to have acquired from somewhere the power to deal with Imre of Festil. Good manners probably would prevent the Torenthi prince from mentioning that, if he did notice anything.
Having taken all the precautions he could then, Javan contented himself with having his brother seated at his left, Charlan holding the Haldane sword between the two of them, and Jerowen Reynolds standing to his right to advise him as they took their places in the withdrawing room. Master Oriel he had stand directly behind his chair. More of the knights whose loyalty was beyond question were ranged informally toward the front of the room—Jason and Robear, Sorle, Bertrand, and Tomais—and he knew that the half-dozen guards at the back, Sitric among them, had bows and arrows stashed nearby.
Also present, being disinclined to risk missing anything important that might spring from an official communication with Torenth on so important a day, were most of the rest of his Council. Tammaron was there, along with Manfred, Rhun, and Murdoch, and also Archbishop Hubert and Albertus—though not Paulin, interestingly enough. Javan had to wonder whether the latter’s absence meant anything.
The room stilled as Javan settled in the chair of state, now draped with the gold-lined mantle he had worn from the cathedral. When he had checked his crown to be sure it was straight, turning to his brother for confirmation, he signalled the guards at the door to proceed. As they threw the doors wide, a Torenthi herald announced his ambassador’s style and titles.
“The emissary of the King of Torenth—His Serene Highness, the Prince Miklos von Furstan.”
A Torenthi escort of six led the princely party, conical helmets bright-polished, cuirasses gleaming from beneath eastern silks in the same shade of tawny orange as the background of the banner their captain carried just behind them. The white roundel that covered most of the banner was charged with the leaping black hart of the House of Furstan, the ribbands and cordons of past battle honors streaming from the head of the staff to cascade over the captain’s white gauntlets.
The escort saluted by twos as they came within a few paces of Javan’s chair, white-gloved fists snapping to chests as helmeted heads inclined precisely enough to render respect but not subservience. As each pair made their devoirs, they parted to either side so that the banner-bearer approached through an honor guard of three on each side. He bowed his head briefly but did not dip the Torenthi banner, only stepping to the left and turning slightly to permit the approach of a strikingly blond young man in tawny silks, the jewelled diadem across his brow proclaiming his rank.
A curved sword hung at the Torenthi prince’s side, its golden scabbard and hilt heavily carved and set with pearls and citrine. A squire or aide accompanied him, younger than himself, bearing something perhaps the size of a man’s forearm wrapped in more of the tawny silk.
Javan sensed just the faintest prickle of shields surrounding prince and man—entirely expected—but no hint of probing from beyond those shields, which was well. His own shields he kept close and low, lest his visitors detect them, and he could feel Oriel’s shields behind him, slightly extended to include him as well.
“Javan of Gwynedd,” the prince said, making him a mannerly bow that, like the salutes of his escort, could not be mistaken for deference or arrogance. “On this, your coronation day, I bring felicitations from my king and brother, Arion of Torenth. Although in the past our fathers and, indeed, our two kingdoms may have harbored profound differences, my lord wishes you to know that he bears you no personal ill will and prays for you a most fruitful and peaceful reign. To that end, he asks me to present unto your Highness this small token of his regard, as one Christian prince to another.”
He turned briefly to his attendant, who laid the silk-wrapped package across both his hands.
“Since rumor of your Highness’ scholarly interests has reached even to Torenth, it was thought that this might become a worthy addition to your Highness’ library,” the prince went on, folding back the wrappings to reveal a rather aged-looking scroll. “It is an account of the life of an ancestor of yours, the blessed Saint King Bearand Haldane. I am told that it was begun during his lifetime, when his exploits were still fresh in the minds of those who record such matters, and finished not long after his death. The writing style, alas, is not to my personal taste, but the illuminations are far above the average—if I may be permitted to show your Highness?”
As Miklos partially unrolled the scroll to display a lavishly illuminated panel, Javan sat forward with interest, then signalled his assent for the prince to come closer. Miklos did so, easing down upon one knee on a cushion beside Javan’s chair, there to spread the scroll across Javan’s lap and the arms of the chair.
“You see, here, the spectacle of Bearand’s coronation—much as we witnessed today,” Miklos said, pointing out the scene. “And here, embarking upon the great venture of the Southern Seas. Here, the great sea battle with the Moorish host—you can see the admiral who later was instrumental in founding the late lamented Michaeline Order. And here, several of the miracles later attributed to Saint Bearand …”
By no word or action did the Torenthi prince transgress the conventions of guestship; and he was careful never to touch his host. But as the two of them scrolled through the yellowed parchment roll, the account of a Haldane king more than a century dead, Javan could feel the faint brush of the other’s shields against his. He kept his own shields soft—though hard enough to keep Miklos out—and met the prince’s gaze squarely as Miklos finished showing the scroll and began winding it up again, still on one knee beside the chair of state.
“I trust that your Highness will find the scroll of interest,” the prince said blandly. “The Haldane line is a fascinating one.”
Javan gave the prince a faint smile, well aware that Miklos was not referring to the scroll at all.
“Yes, it is a great honor to be part of so noble a lineage,” he said. “Please convey my thanks to King Arion, your brother, for his kind gift, and say that I shall endeavor to find it a worthy place in the library I am assembling here at Rhemuth. As well, I thank your Highness for honoring me with your presence at my coronation. I am glad to know that matters may stand at peace between our two kingdoms. Unlike many of my predecessors, I am not minded to take my country into war, unless no other option remains. I hope that his Highness of Torenth shares these aspirations toward peace.”
“He does, indeed, Sire,” Miklos said, rising gracefully to his feet and backing off a few paces with a bow. “To that end, and because our two countries are at peace—and have been so for several years now—my lord now ventures to request a boon of your Highness, sovereign to sovereign, on this, your coronation day.”
Javan allowed himself a faint smile, though a murmur of misgiving rippled among the rest of those present. He had been half expecting something beyond the mere presentation of a gift, though what it was remained to be seen.
“If it be not to the detriment of my kingdom, I will consider it, my lord. What is it the King of Torenth desires?”
Miklos made a disparaging motion with both hands and smiled as well. “Indeed, gracious prince, the matter reeks of ancient history, for you and I and even my brother were but infants when it occurred. My lord would know the fate of certain Torenthi hostages taken by Gwynedd during the reign of the late king your father—distant kin to our House, as it happens.”
King Javan’s Year Page 32
