King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Javan did tamper with my mind,” he whispered. “How could I not have known?”

  “Your Grace is fortunate that the Haldane had not time to finish well what he started last week,” Dimitri said, rocking back to sit on the hearth curbing beside Lior. “I cannot say for certain what was the subject of his inquiry, for he left no trace of that, but I think he never made you confession.”

  “But I remember it—”

  “Because you were instructed to remember it,” Dimitri replied. “I cannot say exactly how he was able to accomplish this, but I believe your Grace must assume that he knows, at very least, that the abduction of his brother was a sham—and why. Most likely, he is also aware that both you and my Lord Paulin were party to the deception—though he dare not confront you lest he betray how he learned it. Had my Lord Paulin not interrupted, he might have succeeded in hiding all trace of his night’s work.”

  “Did he—tamper before?” Hubert dared to ask. “Is that how he made me believe he had a genuine vocation?”

  Dimitri shrugged, an eloquent gesture of graceful shoulders moving beneath his black robe. “I cannot say. He is young to have such skill, even if he were Deryni, and was younger still at that time. Any ‘tampering,’ as you put it, would have been relatively simple and very cautious. Nothing so blatant as what he did last week—though that was well enough done. Had he been given another moment or two, I might not have been able to detect the seams in his work.”

  “This is incredible,” Hubert breathed. “I can’t believe this of Javan. Are you certain that Master Oriel had no part in it? I’ve used his services on occasion. Maybe he did it.”

  “Master Oriel—the Healer, yes? I think not. You would have taken care not to let him touch you without witnesses present. Under such circumstances, it would have been very difficult. No, it was the king who touched your mind last week, have no doubt.”

  “Is he Deryni, then?”

  “No, but something similar and just as dangerous, if you do not stop him.”

  The words hung on the air, neither Hubert nor Lior daring to breathe, until Paulin calmly stood and gestured for the two crouching men to rise. “Father Lior, you and Master Dimitri may retire now. Please remain in your quarters. For now, I would prefer that your presence in Rhemuth not become known.”

  When the two had gone, Paulin turned to lay one arm along the edge of the mantel, glancing back over his shoulder at Hubert.

  “What now?” he said softly. “Or would you prefer to sleep on it? We’ve not increased our danger by what happened here tonight. We simply know now far more than we did before. The king doesn’t know that we know—and even if he did, there’s nothing he dares do without betraying himself. I’d like to see just how far he thinks he can take this, now that he’s failed to prevent his brother’s marriage.”

  “Aye, but we don’t dare take any really serious action until there’s another heir,” Hubert muttered. “I shudder to think what might have happened if one of your men had thumped the prince just a little too hard, or an archer had been just a little off target.”

  “Don’t waste energy worrying about might-have-beens,” Paulin replied. “All we have to do now is maintain the status quo until Michaela whelps—perhaps as soon as late summer, if her prince has done his job properly.”

  “Maintain the status quo,” Hubert repeated, snorting. “And what if the king decides to launch a further investigation into his brother’s abduction in these long winter months that are now upon us?”

  “We’ll give him some bodies to reinforce the official version of what happened,” Paulin replied. “One body is like another, when it’s been dead for a week or two.”

  “But aren’t Deryni supposed to be able to do something called a Death-Reading?” Hubert asked. “What if he has Oriel examine the bodies?”

  “Master Dimitri assures me that nothing can be read from a body that long dead,” Paulin replied. “Meanwhile, I’ve already ensured that the men actually responsible are kept far from Court for the next few months. Other than ourselves, no one else has all the pieces of the puzzle.”

  “Suppose he gets to us, then?” Hubert said. “Even if he didn’t risk it himself, Oriel could make us spill everything.”

  “Then we’ll have to see about eliminating Oriel, won’t we?” Paulin said. “And as for the king—so long as neither of us permits a private meeting, without witnesses, we’re safe. He has to touch us to influence us. And I mean to have Master Dimitri do some touching on our behalf. Be patient, Hubert. These next few weeks and months could prove very interesting.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled.

  —Hebrews 13:4

  “Interesting” was not precisely the word Javan would have used to describe the days that followed. The next morning, before departing for the cathedral with his household for the Te Deum service, he dispatched Sir Robert with letters to Culdi written the night before—an anxious one to his brother, begging for assurance that he was indeed recovering, and a sterner one to Manfred, complaining that he had not received any previous letter and demanding details of the rescue and prisoners.

  He met with his great lords in the afternoon. Udaut questioned how Ansel was continuing to elude capture. Hubert wondered whether Master Oriel ought to be sent to Culdi to attend the prince as Healer—which made Javan wonder whether his brother’s injuries were more serious than he was being told. He longed to ride north to meet Manfred’s party, if only partway, but Tammaron rightly pointed out that, since Ansel and his band were still at large, such an action could only expose the king to needless danger.

  The advice was no more than prudent, if Ansel had indeed been involved in the abduction of Rhys Michael—which, of course, he had not. That Tammaron believed it tended to suggest that he, at least, had not been a part of the plot. To ignore his counsel and go anyway would only make the king appear reckless, prone to taking needless chances. Besides that, the weather was worsening.

  Accordingly, Javan made himself bide his time as the days passed, though he fretted over the delay and made certain his Council was aware of it. Further letters arrived almost daily—from Manfred, from Tomais and Robear, from Lord Ainslie, and eventually several short ones from Rhys Michael himself—reassuring the king that his brother was indeed safe and making a good recovery. Like Manfred’s letters, those from the prince suggested that earlier ones had never reached Rhemuth. After nearly a week came word that Lord Manfred expected to depart any day now.

  This latter message arrived in the company of a band of Custodes knights, several of whom had assisted Earl Manfred’s men in the prince’s rescue. They brought with them five bodies alleged to be those of abductors taken during Rhys Michael’s rescue, who had since died of their wounds or under torture. An accompanying letter from Lord Albertus regretted that so little information had been extracted from the men beyond their mere involvement with the outlawed Ansel, but assured the king that he and Rhun were redoubling their efforts to run down more of the men.

  Meanwhile, the dead “abductors” were unknown to anyone at Court—as Javan had been almost certain would be the case. Paulin had the bodies laid out in the castle yard the afternoon they arrived and bade all men at Court look at them with an eye toward identification, but no one recognized any of the faces. Oriel also passed among the bodies, pausing briefly by each to test with his powers, but he and Javan had known before he started that it was a futile exercise.

  But the exercise did not end there. The next morning, despite Javan’s personal distaste for such measures, Constable Udaut ordered the bodies beheaded and quartered. It was a variation on the traditional sentence of hanging, drawing, and quartering usually meted out to live traitors and served at least part of the same deterrent function. By noon, portions of the bodies would be en route to most of the major cities of Gwynedd, with orders to display them at crossroads and above town gates as a warning to other Deryni who might consider treac
hery against the Crown of Gwynedd.

  The fact that none of these men might actually have been Deryni would never now be proven. Nor was it even certain they had been involved in any way. One thing Oriel did note, in his inspection of the bodies, was that several of the men bore calluses more in keeping with farmers than with fighting men.

  “I’m sorry to say that it wouldn’t really surprise me if they simply rounded up a handful of peasants and killed them appropriately, just to provide some bodies,” he had confided to the king. “Needless to say, I can’t prove anything.”

  Nonetheless, the law required Javan to be present at the beheadings—though he excused himself when the further butchery began. The entire thing brought back all too vivid memories of another judicial mutilation of the dead, in the person of Ansel’s brother Davin; and under the regents’ governance, Javan had been forced to watch more than one live victim subjected to this form of execution. The very notion made the gorge rise in his throat.

  Fortunately, no one could require Javan to stay and watch it, once the formal beheadings were accomplished. But even the awareness that it had been done set a sour note on the next few days, until word came that Earl Manfred’s party lay half a day’s ride north and would arrive on the morrow.

  Javan decided not to ride out to meet them. Snow was falling, the arriving party was large, and adding the king and a suitable escort would only compound the confusion when they entered the city. There was also the added awkwardness of knowing that Michaela would be with Rhys Michael. He wondered how his brother intended to make the announcement of his ill-advised marriage.

  A rider came to warn of their approach just before noon the next day. It was the Tuesday after the beginning of Advent. Javan assembled the Court on the great hall steps to await their arrival.

  He had taken great care in his dress, to make certain he conveyed the desired impression on his brother as well as the watching lords of state. The rich mantle of Haldane crimson that muffled him against the cold was lined with black fox. The crimson tunic underneath was emblazoned with the Haldane lion full across the chest, the Haldane sword buckled around his waist. A matching cap of maintenance graced his head, supporting a band of hammered gold chased with celtic interlace and studded with cabochon rubies—not the familiar circlet of running lions, but not the State Crown, either. The image was relaxed but also official. There must be no doubt in Rhys Michael’s mind just who was in authority.

  The cavalcade that began winding up the cobbled approach to the castle mound well befitted the homecoming of a prince. After an escort of nearly threescore Custodes knights, led by Albertus, came several dozen of Earl Manfred’s men, followed by Sir Robear and Sir Tomais riding side by side and then Manfred himself with the prince beside him, mounted on a fine white horse. Following the pair came the women of Manfred’s household and another twenty mounted men-at-arms, these in the livery of Rhun of Horthness.

  The Custodes knights split to either side in a guard of honor as the first of their number reached the castle gates, allowing Manfred’s men and then the earl himself to pass through with his precious charge. Rhys Michael looked pale and a little tense as the procession came into the castle yard, but he seemed steady enough in the saddle. Snow powdered his sable hair and frosted the shoulders of a vast blue cloak lined with grey squirrel.

  The king broke into a grin and raised a gloved hand in greeting as his brother came into sight, gathering his furs closer around him as he headed down the great hall steps.

  “Brother, at last!” he called as Manfred and the prince came even with the great hall steps and drew rein.

  “Javan!”

  Rhys Michael had dismounted by the time Javan could reach him, and buried his face against Javan’s shoulder as the two embraced.

  “My God, Rhysem, I thought I’d never see you again,” Javan murmured as they drew apart. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you much? Nobody was ever very specific about your injuries.”

  Rhys Michael gave him a sickly grin and shook his head, his words tumbling out in nervous relief. “I didn’t want to scare you. It wasn’t really too bad, all things considered. I’ve got a new scar to show you, on my leg.” He gestured vaguely in that direction. “And they said I nearly got my throat cut when I was being rescued. I’m okay now, though. I got whacked on the head a couple of times, and I still get headaches—but not as bad as before. I suppose it was a really stupid thing to do, to get myself kidnapped.”

  Javan snorted as he chuckled. “If I thought you’d enjoyed putting either of us through this, I’d finish you off myself! It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Well, at least it didn’t turn out too badly,” Rhys Michael replied, looking sheepish. “After Earl Manfred’s men rescued me, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” He flashed Javan a sickly smile, then ducked his head and started to turn away. “Wait here a minute. There’s something you need to know.”

  Javan hardly needed to guess what his brother was talking about. As Rhys Michael moved quickly back along the line of riders now starting to dismount, Javan could see Manfred helping another blue-cloaked figure alight from a little grey palfrey.

  Resigned, he moved back onto the great hall steps, out of the mud, to stand between Charlan and Guiscard as Rhys Michael turned to lead the figure toward him. He could not see her face inside the shadow of her hood, but it obviously had to be Michaela. Hubert and Oriss had come forward while he was down with Rhys Michael, coped and mitred to welcome the prince home, and Paulin stood a little behind Hubert, like a great, dark bird of prey. Javan knew they must be gloating.

  Javan braced himself to receive his brother. Just before the pair reached the bottom step, Rhys Michael paused to turn and fold back his companion’s hood. The close-wrapped white coif of a married woman covered Michaela’s glorious tawny hair, a jewelled circlet binding its veil across her brow. Its severity obviously was intended to convey an impression of greater maturity, but it only emphasized the spray of freckles across her fair cheeks and the wide, apprehensive gaze of a very frightened young girl.

  “I hope you won’t be angry, brother,” Rhys Michael said, turning to meet Javan’s eyes squarely as he led her forward, her hand enclosed in his. “Michaela nursed me back to health, and we realized that our love was too strong to be put aside. I’ve married her, Javan, and we ask that you give us your blessing.”

  As he finished, he and Michaela both dropped to their knees on the bottommost step, both heads ducking in anticipation of a royal explosion. Javan knew they certainly deserved one, but he also knew that any protest he made now would only be seen as begrudgery by friend and foe alike. Nor would it reverse what had already been done.

  “Of course I give you my blessing,” he murmured, coming down to lay his hand on their joined ones and raise them up. “Michaela, I welcome you as a sister and pray that you find only happiness as a member of our family.” He gave her a chaste kiss on both cheeks, then turned to embrace his brother.

  “And congratulations to you, Rhysem,” he murmured, dropping his voice to add, whispering, “we’ll talk more about this later. But you do understand, I hope, that it isn’t the marriage I object to—just the timing.”

  As they drew apart, Javan caught one of his brother’s hands in his, reached out for one of Michaela’s, and turned them both to face Hubert. “My Lord Archbishop, my brother informs me that he and the Lady Michaela have wed. Will you grant them your blessing? We must also arrange for a proper Mass of thanksgiving, in which the lady may be officially recognized in her new rank.”

  As he joined their hands and stepped back, bowing to Hubert, the pair knelt for Hubert’s blessing, after which the watching courtiers broke out in spontaneous applause and cheers. It was difficult for Javan to maintain the required façade of brotherly indulgence, but somehow he managed, only succumbing to a fit of shaking when he had reached the privacy of his quarters an hour later.

  “I knew the marriage was a foregone conclusion,” he told Guiscar
d when he had regained a degree of composure. “That still didn’t prepare me to actually deal with it. I don’t know whether I found Manfred or Rhun more insufferable. I don’t want to believe that Rhysem connived with them to set this up, but it’s very tempting. I’ve got to find out how much he knows about what’s happened to him in this last month. Later this evening, once the banquet is well under way, I want you to arrange for Oriel to be brought down to the withdrawing room behind the dais. I’ll find an excuse at some point to get Rhysem alone there for a few minutes.”

  He found his opportunity a few hours into the banquet, while singers were entertaining the Court with a medley of madrigals in honor of the royal couple. To no one’s surprise, Rhys Michael had been partaking liberally of the wine on offer at the feast and had excused himself to seek out a garderobe. About then, Juliana of Horthness came up to the high table “to gossip with Michaela, which also made it a good time for Javan to flee.

  He waited a few minutes after Rhys Michael had disappeared behind the dais before following with Charlan. They were waiting for the prince when he emerged from the garderobe, drawing his mantle around him against the cold.

  “Rhysem, I need to talk to you for a few minutes,” Javan said, taking his brother by the arm and steering him toward the door to the withdrawing room. “I promise it won’t take long. It’s either now, or keep you from your bride later tonight; you choose.”

  Rolling his eyes heavenward, Rhys Michael let himself be propelled in the direction Javan was taking him, the wine keeping him amiable.

  “I didn’t think I was going to get off that lightly,” he said good-naturedly.

  He faltered a little as they entered the room, for Charlan closed the door behind them and bolted it, and Guiscard and Oriel were waiting beside the fireplace.

  “First of all, I want to satisfy myself about your injuries,” Javan said, fingers digging into his brother’s arm as Rhys Michael started to balk, suddenly sobered. “I want you to tell Master Oriel about each and every injury you can remember.”