King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  Smiling, Manfred folded the missive and sealed it, handing it and a second sealed missive to a knight standing by in Culdi livery, waiting to take it away.

  “The second dispatch is to be forwarded to Lord Albertus,” he said, rising to move with the man toward the door. “The messenger will find him lying at Grecotha, headquartered at the bishop’s palace. Ask him to convey my greetings as well to my son, the Bishop Edward, and say that I look forward to visiting him in Grecotha after Christmas.”

  As the man bowed and withdrew, Manfred smiled contentedly and headed downstairs to where his wife was helping his ward dress for her wedding to a prince. He had waited long for this day.

  And in Rhemuth, Paulin of Ramos also was sealing a letter, though it was intended for his principal abbey at Arx Fidei rather than any royal or episcopal palace.

  “Say to Father Lior that I urge him to use all speed in executing these instructions, but also great care,” he said to the Custodes knight he entrusted with the letter. “We enter into ever more delicate aspects of our negotiations. God go with you.”

  As the man bowed and withdrew, Paulin pondered the events he had set in motion, hoping he was wrong, but prepared to respond if his fears proved well founded.

  Javan received Earl Manfred’s letter as he sat at supper with his Council four days later, in the little withdrawing room behind the dais in the great hall. Out of deference to his brother’s continued captivity, he had resumed the wearing of semi-mourning grey, though relieved by the belt of silver plaques that carried the Haldane sword. The coronet of running lions was on his head, now actually serving some purpose besides denoting his rank, for his hair was growing longer and beginning to fall in his eyes if he did not restrain it under a circlet.

  He held up a hand for silence as he recognized the livery on the man one of his guards escorted into the room. A letter from Manfred was no more than he had expected, knowing of the plot from his interview with Hubert, but as he read it, he found himself reacting as if the information were new, a part of him undeniably impressed at the finesse with which his enemies had carried it off.

  Manfred covered himself in the very first line by alluding to another letter supposedly sent some days ago. It was so well done that Javan almost had to laugh, suppressing the impulse by momentarily burying his face in one hand and emitting a great, shuddering sigh that he hoped his listeners would take for relief.

  “My brother is safe,” he announced as he passed the letter to Tammaron to read aloud. “Apparently an earlier letter went astray. Lord Tammaron, if you please.”

  While Tammaron read out the text, to the apparent astonishment and relief of everyone present, Javan was weighing all the new implications. No earlier letter had gone astray—not from Manfred or from Rhys Michael. Most assuredly, the alleged earlier letters had never even been sent. Alluding to a previous letter also obviated the need to go into specifics of the “rescue” at this time, since that would have been reported before. If Javan pressed for particulars later on, Manfred could always plead that the passage of time had blurred some of the details; and anyway, the prince’s return now was far more important than how he was rescued.

  That left the question of Michaela. Manfred’s letter made no mention of his ward, but Javan had no doubt that her romance with the recuperating prince was being actively encouraged—and that a sympathetic priest could be found to marry the young lovers without the dreary inconvenience of posting banns. If the two were not already wed, they soon would be—certainly before Manfred brought them back for Christmas Court.

  Oh, Rhysem, Javan found himself thinking. Don’t you see how they’re using you?

  He wondered about the captured prisoners, too. He was certain that whatever Sitric “discovered,” it would only support the “Deryni plot” theory that had been part of the point of this exercise. Certainly none of the prisoners would ever reach Javan for questioning. Not with Oriel at the king’s beck and call.

  “… as soon as his Highness is fit to travel,” Tammaron was reading, “for I know that you will wish to reassure yourself of his safety in person, as soon as may be practicable. I remain your Highness’ most loyal subject, Manfred MacInnis, Earl of—but this is most welcome news, Sire! After so long, I confess I had begun to lose hope. But he is rescued, and relatively unharmed!”

  “Aye,” Javan said weakly. “It will be—interesting to see what Earl Manfred manages to learn from the captured abductors.”

  It was what they would expect him to say, under the circumstances, and it would be interesting—interesting to see how they played out the charade. Meanwhile, he was not certain how long he could maintain his own charade of pretending to be surprised as well as relieved.

  “Gentlemen, you will forgive me, I hope, if I beg leave to retire early,” he went on. “I—will have letters to write back to Culdi, seeking further news of my brother’s condition and word of when we might expect his return. Words cannot express my relief. Meanwhile, I would count it a great favor, Archbishop Oriss, if you would arrange for a solemn Te Deum to be sung at the cathedral tomorrow morning, in thanksgiving for my brother’s safe release.”

  He really was fighting back tears as he stumbled blindly to his feet and made his escape, though the tears were as much of frustration as of relief. Charlan and Etienne fell in behind him, but Guiscard remained a few minutes, ostensibly to exchange comments with Lord Jerowen but actually to gauge the Council’s reaction after Javan’s departure.

  “Virtually everyone seemed surprised and relieved at the news,” he reported half an hour later. “Paulin and Hubert were a little weak in the ‘surprise’ category, but we knew that, of course.”

  “That’s as may be,” Javan murmured. He had laid aside his circlet and thrown himself into a chair in front of the fire with a cup of wine. His hair was disheveled, and his hands moved with ill-disguised uneasiness, caressing the sides of the cup. “Now we have to try to guess what they’ll do next.”

  “Well, ‘confirmation’ that Deryni abducted the prince and tried to use him for bargaining won’t help the Deryni cause,” Guiscard said. “And of more immediate concern, it’s more than likely that your brother will return in the next week or two with a bride. Once he’s got her pregnant,” he went on bluntly, “the odds for a fatal accident involving one or more Haldane princes increase dramatically.” He glanced around curiously. “Where’s my father?”

  “Gone to report to Joram,” Javan murmured. “I didn’t dare go myself, after what’s happened. No telling who will want to see me after they think I’ve had a chance to catch my breath.”

  “There’s never any respite, is there?” Charlan muttered, shaking his head. “Why can’t they leave you alone?”

  “Loyal Charlan,” Javan said bleakly. “They can’t leave me alone because I keep reminding them that I’m not and never will be their puppet. But there’s no help for that. If Rhysem has gone and married Michaela, we’ll just have to muddle on from there. I don’t intend to go down without a fight, though. Once some of the dust of the last month has settled—probably not until Rhysem is actually back—I still intend to proceed with what we were going to do before all this started. Maybe I can still salvage something from this mess I’ve made of being king.”

  “Sire, that isn’t true,” Guiscard murmured, sitting forward in indignation.

  “Certainly not,” Charlan agreed. “No one could ask for a better or braver master.”

  “Yes, but will bravery be enough?” Javan quipped. Smiling wearily, he drank deeply from his cup, then leaned back in his chair, resting his head against its back. “It might be different if I dared to unleash the powers I think I have at my disposal. It certainly might be different if I dared to call old allies back to Court. I know now that most of the Deryni who served my father were honest, upright men and women—though you’ll never convince our enemies of that. But sometimes I do wish …”

  As he closed his eyes and his voice trailed off, his two aides exchanged tro
ubled looks, one a Deryni and one human, drawn together by their common love and loyalty for the third man in the room, who embodied perhaps the best of both races. Whether the enemies of such a man could allow him to retain his crown remained to be seen.

  The man conversing earnestly with the Archbishop-Primate of All Gwynedd had determined that it should not be allowed. Paulin of Ramos had taken many gambles to bring him where he was tonight, and now prepared to take yet another, if his companion proved at all cooperative.

  “There’s someone you should meet,” he told the archbishop. “He arrived last night, but I wanted to wait until today’s news arrived.”

  Hubert was sipping a cup of mulled cider in the rather spartan dayroom that connected his parlor with Paulin’s quarters, here at Paulin’s invitation after leaving the aborted supper party up at the castle. The Custodes Vicar General had been nursing some secret satisfaction all the way back. His eyes were almost feverishly bright as he searched his superior’s face for any warning to back off.

  “Why are you acting so strangely?” Hubert muttered, taking another swallow of cider. “Who is this you want me to meet?”

  For answer, Paulin went to the door that led into his sleeping chamber and threw it open. Father Lior was waiting behind it, standing beside a middle-aged man with greying, mousy-brown hair cut just below his ears, one of which was pierced by a gold ring. The eyes were averted, but a neatly trimmed beard and moustache framed a sensuous mouth. Under a hooded black mantle, completely unadorned, he was wearing an ankle-length robe that gave the vague impression of religious attire, but without the hooded scapular or braided cincture that would have made of it a Custodes habit.

  “You know Father Lior,” Paulin said as the two moved into the room and Lior came to kiss Hubert’s ring, “but you’ve not yet met Master Dimitri.”

  The man looked up as his name was spoken, piercing black eyes catching and holding Hubert’s as he continued forward. Hubert gasped, drawing back his hand from Lior, staring as Dimitri sank gracefully to his knees at Hubert’s feet and bent forward to touch his forehead to the floor. As he straightened to sit back onto his haunches, small hands resting easily on his thighs, the black eyes reengaged Hubert’s.

  “My suspicions were aroused when I came in last week and found the king at your feet, your hands in his,” Paulin said, sitting easily in the chair beside Hubert’s. “Something bothered me about it. I know you were just giving him absolution after confession,” he said, raising a hand as Hubert started to protest. “But after he’d gone, and you told me what he’d confessed, that didn’t ring true, either.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Hubert said, unable to take his eyes from Dimitri’s.

  “I’m getting to that. Javan has been very careful to avoid romantic entanglements with any of the eligible young ladies of court. It may well be that occasionally he has found himself entertaining lewd fantasies regarding any or all of these ladies. He’s a red-blooded young man like any other of his age.

  “But given the less than cordial relationship you and he have enjoyed since his return to Court, do you really think it likely that he would have confessed such intimate failings to you? And certainly not about Juliana of Horthness, whose father he despises. Even if the young lady in question had aroused such passions, and he felt the overwhelming urge to confess it, there are many other priests to whom he could have made confession anonymously, and without mentioning the lady’s name. Names are not necessary, as you know, and are usually discouraged.”

  “He did tell me, though.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you believe that he did,” Paulin said lightly, keeping a casual eye on Dimitri, who had not moved. “I can’t begin to guess how he might have persuaded you of that,” he went on, “but I begin to suspect that it may not have been any ordinary persuasion.

  “Now, who would be capable of that? A Deryni, of course. Master Oriel comes to mind immediately, but I should think his involvement rather unlikely, if only because he’s so obvious. Besides that, his movements have been severely restricted since becoming part of the king’s household.

  “That leaves several distressing possibilities. Some other Deryni working secretly for the king, perhaps? Or is it possible that the king himself has somehow acquired the power to alter your memory?”

  “That isn’t possible!” Hubert whispered, at last dragging his eyes from Dimitri’s to stare aghast at Paulin. “He’s human! I know he is!”

  “Is he?” Paulin said softly. “His father is said to have withstood every magic that King Imre could raise against him. That doesn’t even begin to explain how he blasted a Deryni Michaeline named Father Humphrey, who had poisoned the salt used at the baptism of Cinhil’s firstborn son. Were you even aware that there was an infant prince before Alroy and Javan?”

  Hubert shook his head.

  “I thought not.” Paulin went on. “I can’t verify the story about standing up to Imre, but I did manage to gain access to Archbishop Anscom’s official register of baptisms and deaths. It was Anscom who presided over the little prince’s baptism and then administered the Last Rites. Interestingly enough, the very next entry refers to one Humphrey of Gallareaux, priest of the Order of Saint Michael, who also received the final Rites of the Church on that date. I’d say that tends to confirm the other story I’d heard that Cinhil somehow called upon incredible powers to kill the man who had murdered his son.”

  “Dear Jesu,” Hubert said after a few seconds. “But even if it were true, that doesn’t mean his other sons inherited such powers. Alroy certainly didn’t have any magic, and you’d think Javan would have used his by now, if he had any.”

  “I think perhaps he has,” Paulin said quietly. “That’s why I asked Master Dimitri to join us this evening. This doesn’t mean I think Javan has the high magic his father occasionally tapped,” he added, at Hubert’s look of horror, “but I think, perhaps, he wields the subtler magics. Of all the princes, Hubert, he would have been the one most likely to be corrupted by Deryni influence. The Healer Tavis O’Neill was his constant companion for several years before being driven from Court.”

  “This is preposterous,” Hubert began. “He can’t possibly—”

  “What if he Truth-Reads?” Paulin insisted. “What if he can compel people to tell the truth? Tavis might have taught him how. Maybe he even learned how to make people forget, after he’d plied his wicked work. What do you suppose you and Javan might have talked about before he confessed stirrings of lust for a girl he’s always studiously avoided? Can you remember? What kinds of questions do you think he might have asked regarding what you really know about Rhys Michael’s abduction?”

  Hubert’s eyes had been getting wider and wider as Paulin piled suggestion upon suggestion, and he was pressing tightly clenched hands to his rosebud lips as Paulin finished, the baby-blue eyes wide and frightened.

  “Dear God, how can we know?” He breathed. “How can any—”

  He broke off as his darting eyes met Dimitri’s again and could not move on, his body going rigid as he realized what Paulin had been leading up to. Faintly smiling, Dimitri raised up onto his knees and laid his hands palm-up on Hubert’s knees, his eyes inviting Hubert’s touch but no longer compelling.

  “Is this familiar, Hubert?” Paulin’s voice whispered, close by Hubert’s side. “What was Javan really doing when I came in that other night? How many times has he done this before? Is this, perhaps, why you believed him, years ago, when he told you he had a vocation and asked to go into the abbey? I’ve always wondered how he managed to beguile you so easily; you’re usually far less gullible than that.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Hubert found himself saying. “It can’t have been. I surely would have known.”

  “I believe Master Dimitri can show you how surely you would have known,” Paulin purred. “There’s only one way to find out. All you have to do is lay your hands on his.”

  Hubert’s heart was pounding in his chest, apprehension immobilizi
ng him, but gradually anger began to supplant the fear—anger that perhaps he had indeed been used. He remembered Javan’s confession clearly, but if it had never really happened—

  Trembling, he forced himself to lower his clenched fists to his lap, staring at Dimitri’s upturned hands. Then, timidly drawing a breath, he made himself unclench his fists and set his hands on the Deryni’s, every muscle tensed.

  Nothing happened. In the first shocked seconds of contact, Hubert could not believe it. After half a dozen heartbeats, he let himself exhale. As he slowly drew another breath, Dimitri glanced casually at their joined hands, then slowly closed his thumbs inward, not to catch Hubert’s hands but to stroke gently along their backs.

  “I shan’t hurt you,” he said softly, speaking for the first time. His voice had a melody to it, the accent recalling eastern climes. The eyes seemed to have depths to them that called to Hubert, inviting him to drown in blissful nothingness.

  “Rest easy, my lord,” the voice urged, as waves of relaxation now began to wash into Hubert’s mind. “This need not be difficult for either of us. Just relax …”

  The next thing Hubert knew, he was jerking back awake in his chair, surprised to see a bearded stranger kneeling at his feet, hands folded piously at his waist. Paulin was sitting in the chair beside him. For some reason, Father Lior was perched on the granite curbing that edged the hearth behind the stranger, his arms wrapped around his knees. And all of them were looking at him expectantly.

  “Do you remember anything of the past half hour?” Paulin said quietly from beside him.

  Hubert whipped his head around to stare at the Custodes Vicar General. “What are you talking about?” he said. “Who is this man?”

  For answer, Paulin nodded to the bearded man, who calmly reached out to brush his fingertips across the back of one of Hubert’s hands. Memory came flooding back so abruptly that Hubert gasped. He could feel himself blanching with shock as he looked first to Master Dimitri, who had done it, then over at Paulin, who had ordered it.