“Laymen don’t understand the nuances of monastic discipline,” Paulin muttered from inside his alb, which he and Lior were endeavoring to pull off over his head.
“That’s true,” Hubert agreed. “In particular, they wouldn’t understand about minution, especially as it was applied to Father Faelan—and to the king. Of course, Javan was only the heir presumptive then.”
Stony-faced, Paulin emerged from under the folds of white linen and pushed the garment roughly into Lior’s hands. “Thank you, Father, you may leave us.”
Smooth as silk, Lior bowed and laid the alb across a chair back, then quietly withdrew. When he had gone, Paulin turned away from the archbishop and began putting on the wide crimson sash that marked him as Vicar General.
“Mind you, I’m not criticizing your methods,” Hubert said with a droll grimace, moving in to help Paulin wrap the sash around his waist. “I’m certain minution made the desired impression on Father Faelan at the time, just as I’m certain the king will never forget his experience of same. You must admit, however, that by lay standards, Faelan’s interrogation before he came to Court could be viewed as excessive. It could reflect badly on the Order, if he were to make his experience generally known.”
“No one would believe him,” Paulin said.
“Well, the king could allow Faelan to make his statement before Oriel or Sitric and bid them confirm whether or not he was telling the truth …”
Paulin moved a bit farther from the door, closer to the little vesting altar, finishing the knot of his sash with a vicious tug.
“Our wayward prince is getting entirely out of hand,” he said softly after a moment. “I’m not sure you’re as able to control him as you think you are.”
Hubert pursed his rosebud lips and mildly surveyed his Custodes counterpart.
“Thus far, I’m confident he can be brought to heel,” he said. “I think it’s premature to begin considering the sorts of things I suspect are going through your mind. If something were to happen to the king, I’d feel much more at ease if I knew the succession were a bit more secure. I still believe Rhys Michael can be led far more easily than Javan—but then, virgin minds are always easier to guide.”
Snorting, Paulin slung his Custodes mantle around his shoulders, bending his head down to fasten the clasp of haloed lion-heads. “Speaking of virgins, what of the Drummond girl? Is she still?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Hubert said thoughtfully. “She went off with Manfred’s household several weeks ago, as we knew would happen, but I had no opportunity to speak to Rhys Michael after that. He was notably aloof, those last few days, for a young man betrothed to a lovely girl who’s about to go away for several months.”
“Does Javan know about the betrothal?”
“I don’t know that, either. I do have a plan for reuniting our young lovers, however. If we can make the official match a fait accompli before the king realizes what’s happened, so much the better. Let me work matters in my own time, though.”
“Very well.”
“Meanwhile,” Hubert went on, “you will keep me advised regarding Father Faelan’s further reactions regarding what has been set in motion. I should not like to have to place the royal household under interdict. It would considerably increase the tension already hampering my attempts to guide the king in Council.”
“Perhaps Faelan will submit.”
Hubert nodded. “I hope so. Disobedience is a grievous fault in a priest.” He sighed. “Most inconvenient.”
“Indeed.”
After Hubert had gone, Paulin considered a variety of resolutions concerning the increasingly inconvenient Father Faelan. Later he passed on certain orders to his brother, to be carried out at Albertus’ discretion, when general reaction to Faelan’s excommunication had somewhat died away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Let us condemn him with a shameful death.
—Wisdom of Solomon 2:20
Javan felt as if he were walking on eggshells for the first few days after Faelan’s excommunication. Though Faelan himself seemed to bear up well enough, once he had gotten a good night’s sleep, Javan had to face Paulin, Albertus, and Hubert in the Council the next day. The three were civil enough, and Paulin even inquired about Faelan’s state of mind, coolly but correctly solicitous for the excommunicant’s spiritual welfare.
“I couldn’t really comment on that, my lord,” Javan said neutrally. “He was very distressed last night, as you can well imagine. No doubt you will have been informed that he did not appear for Mass this morning.”
“That must have been inconvenient for many of the faithful who customarily attend that Mass and were wont to rely upon his guidance,” Paulin observed.
Javan inclined his head. “No doubt it was. I wish circumstances were otherwise. But you must understand, my lord, that I had no choice but to support Father Faelan in his decision. I have a sworn duty to protect those of my household, and it was not my place to force Faelan to go against his conscience.”
Paulin simply nodded, and Archbishop Oriss deftly turned the Council’s discussion to an inquiry regarding progress on Lord Jerowen’s index of the law, with special attention to the elusive records of Alroy’s regency.
“I believe Lord Tammaron has made notable progress in that regard, Sire,” he said. “Is that not so, my lord?”
“It is,” Tammaron agreed. “A large number of the records have been located, and I hope to deliver them into Lord Jerowen’s custody as soon as we have finished sorting and arranging them in some comprehensible form—perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”
“We find that a goodly number of them date from Duke Ewan’s tenure on the Council,” Rhun added sourly, as Tammaron passed a few sample documents along either side of the table. “Unfortunately, men like Ewan often lack administrative skills.”
Whether that was true of Ewan or simply Rhun taking the opportunity to further tarnish Ewan’s good name, Javan did not know. He found it interesting that Rhun had framed his comment in such a way that even being Truth-Read, he could not be caught in an outright lie. He wondered if Rhun suspected him or had simply developed the skill from working with his own Deryni, as a further defense against what he himself was quite willing to have used on others.
Javan did know that in the two months since he had first raised the question about the regency records, Tammaron and his staff had spent long hours working late in the chancery offices—though whether they were searching for the missing records or fabricating new ones was not at all clear. Whatever the source, Tammaron did indeed deliver the records to Lord Jerowen that very night.
Javan suspended official meetings of the Council for the remainder of the week. It took that long to make sense of the records and begin to see how they fit into the overall picture emerging of the state of Gwynedd’s laws. He found it difficult to concentrate on administration when he was worried about Faelan, but he made himself spend time with Jerowen, learning what he could.
Meanwhile, a Custodes priest named Father Daíthi quietly took up the day-to-day duties attached to the Chapel Royal, so that the pattern of Mass and daily Offices resumed even in Father Faelan’s absence. Javan visited Faelan regularly in his quarters and tried to convince him that submission was probably the better part of valor—Paulin would never relent until the priest had made his peace with the Order—but Faelan was tearfully adamant that he would not. Daily Father Daíthi was sent on behalf of the Order to plead with Faelan to reconsider, for the sake of his immortal soul; daily Faelan heard the plea and shakily declined.
It was nearly a week after Faelan’s excommunication that Lord Albertus decided it was time to carry out the orders Paulin had given him. Toward midnight, the Grand Master of the Equites Custodum Fidei and three of his knights made their way quietly up a back stair to the quarters of the king’s former confessor, approaching from the opposite end of the corridor from where the king’s apartments lay. Albertus’ quiet knock brought Father Faelan to the door almost
immediately, wide-eyed and instantly apprehensive when he saw who it was.
His apprehension was well founded, for two of the knights manhandled him back into the room without preamble, one of them clapping a hand over his mouth before he could cry out and the third binding his hands behind with brisk efficiency. Albertus said nothing while the prisoner was secured, merely pulling the door gently closed behind him and then casting his gaze dispassionately around the room.
The setting was quite to his liking, just as he had envisioned it. Faelan had been at his devotions, his breviary lying open on the armrest of the prie-dieu in the little oratory. Beside it burned a fat yellow candle in a holder of black wrought iron, its light all but overpowering the subtler glow of the Presence Lamp flickering behind red glass farther back in the oratory. Beyond the prie-dieu, between it and the narrow window embrasure, was a small writing table with a chair behind. One of the knights pulled out the chair and set it in the center of the little chamber, where his fellows deposited their prisoner without ceremony.
The motion shifted Albertus’ attention back to the object of their midnight visit. As one of the knights came to stand with his back against the door, leaving the other two to keep their prisoner under control, Albertus moved a few strides closer to the quaking Faelan, saying nothing as he gazed down at him in disdain. Faelan had been thoroughly gagged, with fabric stuffed hard into his mouth and a wide band tied around his cheeks.
“Good evening, Father,” he said softly.
Faelan looked terrified and was, pale as whey against the stark blackness of his habit, which was open at the throat. This late, he clearly had not been expecting further visitors. As was his custom, he had put aside both his hooded scapular and the braided cincture of Haldane crimson and gold before kneeling down to read the final Office of the night. The scapular, with its crimson lining and the haloed lion’s head of the Order emblazoned on the left breast, lay neatly folded in prescribed fashion on the chest at the foot of his bed, with the cincture coiled atop it. Albertus smiled as he returned his gaze to his captive, but the smile was cold.
“I see that some of the discipline of the Order remains, Father,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Perhaps that means there is still hope for you. I am instructed to ask you a few questions. It would be inconvenient if you were to draw attention to our conversation, and I do not know that I can trust you not to cry out, so I shall leave you gagged and phrase my questions so that you may answer yes or no by the appropriate motion of your head. Do you understand?”
Faelan was nearly retching with terror behind his gag, but he managed to nod yes.
“Good,” Albertus said. “Now, I understand that you resent the discipline that was given you before you were brought to be the king’s chaplain. I wonder, was it the scourging or the minution to which you most objected?”
Eyes widening, Faelan made a futile attempt to struggle free, cut short when one of his captors cuffed him sharply on the side of his head.
“Here now, Father, that’s hardly appropriate behavior when these good brethren are merely trying to restrain you for your own good,” Albertus purred. “They haven’t drawn blood, though. I think that’s what frightens you most, isn’t it, Father?”
As Faelan wilted in his captors’ hands, gone white with fear, Albertus smiled.
“I thought so,” he said. “Perhaps a short discourse is indicated, for your instruction.” He folded his hands behind his back.
“The efficacy of minution is twofold. First, it is granted as a grace to assist brethren in maintaining the spiritual serenity appropriate to a celibate life. In all candor, I have never heard report that the vow of celibacy was difficult for you, Father, so it must be the second application that distresses you. As a discipline, minution is intended as a test and a reinforcement of one’s vow of absolute obedience. That is why we require it once of every member of the Order, whether clergy like yourself or laymen like myself and these good brethren.” He indicated the knights with a sweep of one hand, then let that hand rest lightly on the hilt of the dagger at his waist.
“Occasionally we require it again, Father,” he said softly, “especially when there is some suspicion that the pupil has forgotten his lesson from the first time ’round. If the pupil continues to forget, it sometimes becomes necessary to keep repeating the lesson, until the pupil either learns or …”
As he let his voice trail off suggestively, Faelan shook his head again, horrified. Unaffected by his victim’s terror, Albertus glanced at one of the knights holding him. At his nod, the man wrenched Faelan forward so that his fellow could pull back first one sleeve and then the other, examining his arms for the scar of the previous munition. There was none, for Oriel had healed it. Faelan closed his eyes briefly as they made their inspection, whimpering a little in his throat and trying to look away, but Albertus seized his chin and turned him face-on again as the knights yanked him back in the chair.
“Why, Father Faelan, we can find no scar to prove that you have ever undergone minution,” the Grand Master said softly. “You allowed Master Oriel to heal it, didn’t you?” He shook his head. “Could you not bear to retain one little scar to remind you of the obedience you owe your Order? Or perhaps, when you came to Court, you chose instead to offer your obedience to the king, far beyond what was required of you as his confessor.
“Yes, I fear we have come upon the truth now, Father. You rejected the discipline of the Order, just as the king rejected it. Besides the pride and disobedience that led to your suspension and excommunication, I think you have broken your vows to the Order and made yourself the king’s man instead of God’s man. Did you really think that your betrayal could remain undiscovered?”
Faelan was sobbing now, shaking his head in terrified denial, as Albertus casually reached over to the foot of the bed and caught up the Custodes cincture of Haldane crimson and gold.
“You have disgraced this token, Father,” Albertus said softly, uncoiling the doubled length of silken cord, knotted and intertwined together. “You have chosen loyalty to the colors of the House of Haldane over the unity of holy and secular law that this cincture symbolizes. So be it. You shall not be asked to wear these colors again as a member of the Ordo Custodum Fidei.”
He wrapped several turns of the cincture around each of his hands, leaving a span between them slightly narrower than his shoulders, then glanced at the two knights holding the captive and gave a nod. Helpless as they braced their hands to hold him, Faelan closed his eyes and tried to gasp out a prayer around the gag already choking him, now well aware that it was not minution that was to be his death.
When Father Faelan did not answer the summons of the priest who came the next morning to deliver his now-customary plea for a return to the fold, the man tried the door and found it locked, then went and told the guard outside the entrance to the king’s apartments. The guard reported it to Sir Guiscard, who was duty aide that morning.
Inside, the king was dressing for weapons practice, Charlan helping him buckle on leather body armor. Both Charlan and Guiscard were already similarly attired. The guard’s report raised immediate apprehension in the minds of all three men, for it was not at all like Faelan to sleep so soundly or so late, especially this past week.
Exchanging worried glances with his aides, Javan told the guard to make certain the priest did not leave, hurriedly strapping on the Haldane sword over his practice leathers while Guiscard briefly disappeared to his quarters across the hall to fetch a slender length of brass rod, sharply bent at the end. Wordlessly Javan led the way to Faelan’s quarters, Father Daíthi trailing wide-eyed behind in custody of the guard. A knock at Faelan’s door produced no response.
“Father Faelan?” Javan called, knocking again. “Father Faelan, are you in there?”
Again, no response. As expected, the door latch did not move when Javan tried it, so he stepped back to let Guiscard crouch down with his bit of brass.
“Do you think he’s gon
e out?” Javan asked softly as Guiscard probed at the lock. He could sense no living presence beyond the door. “He hasn’t left this room since the excommunication, but maybe he decided to submit. Maybe he went down to the chapel to pray.”
The lock yielded with a quiet, well-oiled click, perhaps helped along by Guiscard’s powers, and the Deryni tucked his pick into a belt pouch as he rose, one hand on the latch.
“Let me go in first, Sire,” he murmured, pushing the door just slightly ajar and moving between Javan and the door.
Javan found his right hand dropping to rest on the hilt of his sword. He sensed no danger, but nonetheless he let Guiscard go first, dread suddenly fueling his apprehension rather than personal peril.
As Guiscard cautiously pushed the door open, Javan’s eyes were dazzled at first by the bright sunlight streaming through the open shutters on the window, harsh after the near darkness of the corridor. Shading his eyes with his free hand, Javan sidestepped left into the room behind Guiscard, keeping his back to the wall and trying to pierce the brightness as Charlan surged in behind him. Guiscard was already around the door to the right and checking the bed, which was empty, signalling with a hand gesture for Charlan to close the door behind them, shutting out the guard and the priest.
The room appeared to be deserted. Faelan’s breviary lay in its customary place on the armrest of the prie-dieu, neatly closed, but there was no candle in the candlestick beside it. Shifting his gaze to the little writing desk, Javan spotted what was left of the missing candle beside several sheets of vellum fanned out to nearly cover the surface, the burnt-out stub just visible in a congealed puddle of wax that extended very near one of the pages.
King Javan’s Year Page 43
