King Javan’s Year

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Good Lord, you’d think I faked the whole abduction,” the prince muttered as Javan sat him down on a stool in front of Oriel. “I told you, I was hit in the head several times, and I had a nasty cut above my knee. Ouch, yes, it’s still tender!” he objected, as Oriel ran his fingers through the sable hair and Guiscard bent to remove his left boot to get at the knee. “This is ridiculous.”

  “I read two distinct head injuries,” Oriel murmured, his eyes going unfocused as his fingers probed at the base of the prince’s skull. “This one’s fairly well healed; probably accounts for the recurring headaches you mentioned, but they should diminish fairly quickly. The other one—” He shifted to finger the right temple, then moved on to examine the nearly healed wound in the prince’s neck.

  “The second blow’s nothing to worry about, but how did you get this?” he asked. “It nicked the jugular.”

  Rhys Michael squirmed as the Healer fingered the spot, straightening his now-bootless left leg so that Guiscard could push up the leg of his breeches to expose his other injury.

  “I—guess it must have been worse than they wanted me to know,” he murmured, shrinking from the Healer’s touch. “When they rescued me, I was riding ahead of one of the abductors. I was blindfolded, and my wrists were bound. The man who had me was about to cut my throat when they got him. Earl Manfred’s battle surgeon said it was really close.”

  “I’ll say,” Oriel murmured, laying his fingers flat over it. “You’ve got to have lost a fair amount of blood from this. Relax now, and I’ll heal it properly.”

  “No, don’t. It’s all right—” the prince began, panic lighting his eyes.

  Javan was already catching his wrists and sending to Oriel to do what was necessary, watching dispassionately as the Healer’s hand shifted to compress the twin pressure points on either side of his patient’s neck, the other hand pressing to his forehead. The combined onslaught of physical compulsion and a command to sleep overcame the prince’s shields long enough for Oriel to work his healing magic. He was probing the leg scar that Guiscard had exposed as Rhys Michael fought his way back to consciousness, Guiscard now standing behind the prince with his hands on the royal shoulders.

  “Now, this is interesting,” the Healer was saying, prodding at the faint pin-dots of red that marked the former suture line. “The wound was certainly sutured, but there wasn’t any need for it. The cut was very superficial. Quite a lot of bruising, though. Most of it has been reabsorbed by now, but I find evidence of a great deal more trauma than is consistent with the extent of the wound.” He glanced at Rhys Michael. “What did they tell you about this injury, your Highness?”

  Rhys Michael laid his head back against Guiscard’s chest and drew a deep breath. “What are you saying? That I wasn’t really injured? I assure you I was.”

  “No one is saying that you weren’t,” Javan replied, watching him closely. “What we’re suggesting, however, is that your wounds were quite premeditated, for effect, as was your abduction.”

  The prince stiffened, then sat forward incredulously. “What do you mean?” he whispered. “Who would do that? Of course I was abducted.”

  Without specifying the source of his information, Javan briefly told his brother of the Custodes involvement in the kidnapping, and how the affair had been engineered with the dual purpose of reuniting Rhys Michael with Michaela and further discrediting Ansel MacRorie.

  “It all worked, too, didn’t it?” he finished. “Even once you’d been ‘rescued,’ you never suspected a thing—perhaps partially because you didn’t want to, by then. You didn’t even write to tell me you were safe. The first thing I knew of it was a letter from Manfred alluding to some earlier one that never arrived.”

  “But I did write, as soon as I was able,” Rhys Michael said, wide-eyed. “And Manfred assured me he’d written as well. I didn’t tell you about Michaela because I wanted to tell you in person, but I must have written half a dozen times.”

  “Well, none of the letters arrived until the one that came with the first of Manfred’s to get through,” Javan replied, knowing that his brother had spoken only the truth. “That should tell you something. But there isn’t time to sort this out now. What’s done is done, and we’re going to have to live with it. Which brings us to an important question: What do you intend to do about Michaela?”

  “What do you mean?” Rhys Michael asked, suddenly apprehensive.

  Gesturing for Oriel and Guiscard to join Charlan by the door, Javan crouched down at his brother’s feet, resting one hand on his knee.

  “Think back to the reason I was against this marriage, Rhysem,” he murmured. “Especially right now, another Haldane heir might provide just the impetus to push my enemies to drastic action. Are you sleeping with her?”

  “Of course I’m sleeping with her. We’ve only been married a fortnight.”

  “Do you think it might be a good idea to abstain for a while, until we get this sorted out?” Javan said patiently.

  Rhys Michael started to make a sharp retort, then thought better of it and ducked his head to study his hands.

  “You don’t really think that’s what the great lords are waiting for, do you?” he whispered.

  “You weigh all the evidence and tell me.”

  A heavy silence fell between them for a moment, and then Rhys Michael stirred uneasily.

  “Let me think about this,” he murmured. “I’m confused. I’ve drunk too much wine, and I can’t think straight right now. Besides, we’ve got to get back to the banquet.”

  Javan nodded, getting to his feet. “I agree with everything you’ve said. Do think about it, though. I’ll try to protect you; I’ll try to protect all of us. But don’t trust anything you’re told unless you test it and find it’s true.”

  He hoped Rhys Michael would read the second meaning in his last words and learn to tap an ability to Truth-Read that Javan was confident would develop in conjunction with his shields. Meanwhile, it was time to return to the banquet before someone came looking for them.

  “Let’s go back in together,” he said, offering his brother a hand up. “That way, it will be clear we got to talking while we were away. Guiscard, you can escort Master Oriel back to his quarters. Thank you, Oriel. Charlan, let’s make this look like an appropriately jolly escapade on behalf of two princes who should know better. Rhysem, are you game?”

  By the time they reentered the great hall, the two brothers were laughing and joking, arms around one another’s shoulders to hold each other up. The singers had finished, to be replaced by jugglers, and a wine-mellow Michaela greeted both brothers with kisses as they settled to either side of her. Javan even allowed himself to appear flustered and a little flattered when Juliana of Horthness boldly asked if she might partner the king when the dancing began. Archbishops Hubert and Oriss were seated to Javan’s left, the former of whom immediately offered the king more wine. Beyond Rhys Michael and his bride, a beaming Manfred and his countess basked in the satisfaction of being seated at the high table, in lieu of the bride’s parents.

  The royal brothers’ short disappearance seemed to have aroused no untoward notice, especially given their obvious good humour when they reappeared. The penultimate course was presented—tiny tartlets filled with quince and nuts, and fragrant cheeses with toasted slivers of bread—and Javan gradually began to relax a little. Later, he danced with the bride and then with several ladies of the Court, including the dark-eyed Juliana.

  It was only later on, while he caught his breath during another musical interlude between sets, that he noticed a new addition to the Court, as he cast his casual gaze over the throng now dispersed mainly along the edges of the hall. He should have expected it, but he was still a little shocked. The quick little man pouring wine for Rhun of Horthness and wearing his livery had not been seen since shortly after the coronation, but the pockmarked face was unmistakable. That Rhun had brought the Deryni Sitric back to Court meant that Javan must now exercise even greater caution
, if he wished to maintain the delicate balance between survival and disaster.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Live joyfully with thy wife whom thou lovest all the days of the life of thy vanity … for that is thy portion in this life, and in thy labour which thou takest under the sun.

  —Ecclesiastes 9:9

  Sitric’s return kept Javan even more wary, though the Deryni was little seen in the days and weeks that followed, and Javan was reluctant to ask Rhun about him. He bade his key personnel be alert for any appearance by Sitric, even those who knew nothing of his own more esoteric machinations, and warned them never to venture forth from their respective quarters unattended, for casual probing by Sitric became less likely when a potential witness or witnesses must also be dealt with. The directive helped fuel uneasiness of Deryni in general, but Sitric was one Deryni who definitely merited such uneasiness. Javan tried not to think too much about what might have become of Paulin’s Deryni, though he kept an eye out for the face.

  Charlan, in particular, the king kept ever by his side, for he dared not risk Sitric getting his hands on him. It had become obvious some weeks before that the young knight could function at full efficiency in his master’s behalf only if he retained full awareness at all times—but that was dangerous, if someone like Sitric should get hold of him. To minimize the danger, Javan reinforced the safeguards he had set before, which should protect Charlan from casual inspection by Sitric or his like; but anything more was apt to invite more serious inspection.

  Meanwhile, the business of the Court resumed, with the full Council meeting daily during the two weeks prior to Christmas to rehash what was known about Rhys Michael’s abduction. Much time was spent commending the efforts of those who had brought about his rescue, but in the final days before Christmas, most serious considerations of the Court ground to a standstill.

  An island of serenity in the midst of more festive events was the solemnity of the Vigil of Christmas, kept in the hushed final hours of Christmas Eve in a cathedral ablaze with candles and attended by virtually everyone who was anyone at Court. Javan treasured the magic and the stillness as midnight approached, kneeling reverently in the royal stall with his brother and sister-in-law, with Charlan and Guiscard close by.

  As Archbishop Oriss celebrated the first Mass of Christmas, assisted by Hubert, Javan could almost make himself believe that even Hubert was not entirely beyond redemption—for surely the mere handling of the sacred Elements on this holy night conferred a grace that transcended petty human failings. When he received the Sacrament from Hubert’s hands, it was the first time in many months that he did not feel sullied by the experience. Such, he reflected, was surely part of the miracle of Christ’s Mass.

  The principal activity scheduled for Christmas Day itself was a hunt given for the younger members of the Court. Javan gathered the hunt at midday and led a brisk chase out across the new snow with festive good humour, giving his brother the honor of taking up the lead, once the great stag hounds picked up the scent. Michaela rode at her husband’s side, tawny hair flying in the wind, looking more like a wayward girl than the princess set to be acknowledged on the morrow in the first of the great formal ceremonies set for the season. Her brother also rode with the hunt, along with most of the other squires and the young men ready to be knighted at Twelfth Night—and the daughters of the Court, sent forth by doting parents in hopes of catching a suitor’s eye.

  Javan had no intention of being lured into matrimony any time soon, but since learning of Rhys Michael’s marriage he had decided that perhaps its potential danger might be at least partially defused if he himself appeared to be thinking along similar lines. He had set the stage, he realized, by choosing to leave Hubert with the impression that he had felt lustful stirrings regarding Juliana of Horthness. So he decided to reinforce that impression by riding with Juliana for a time, feigning the reluctant interest he had already intimated to Hubert. When the pack lost the scent and pulled up to regroup, Juliana pouted prettily and avowed that she cared little for stag-hunting anyway; it was the thrill of the chase that amused her. As she toyed with the end of a glossy dark braid and turned smouldering glances in his direction, Javan pretended to be amused—or was it bemused? But that night he retired early, and alone.

  The morrow saw a show of pageantry almost rivaling his coronation—Saint Stephen’s Day, as the king led Rhysem and his bride down to the cathedral in festive procession and there witnessed their renewed nuptial vows. Javan could certainly understand his brother’s passion. With her tawny hair coiled close at the back of her head and crowned with a wreath of holly and ivy, Michaela was a vision to stir the loins of any red-blooded male as she moved serenely down the aisle on Manfred’s arm, gowned in the same royal blue as her waiting prince.

  She held her head like a queen as she knelt beside Rhys Michael, and the two repeated the vows they had exchanged in Culdi. After Hubert had confirmed them husband and wife, laying the end of his stole across their joined hands to pronounce the blessing, she remained kneeling as Rhys Michael rose and turned to remove the wreath of holly and ivy, giving it into her hands while he pulled out the pins that held her hair in place—for it was time-honored custom that queens and princesses came to their crownings with hair unbound, regardless of their married status.

  Her brother now brought forward the silver coronet on a cushion of royal blue, kneeling before Hubert so that he might cense and asperse it in blessing. Then Hubert was offering it to Rhys Michael with a bow, the prince turning with pride and joy to place it on her head and raise her up with a ceremonial kiss on each cheek and then a more loverly one on the lips.

  Afterward, the pair presided at another banquet in their honor, with Javan yielding pride of place to the bride. There was dancing that afternoon and into the night, and Javan made a point of partnering nearly every lady present. Though he hated himself for it, he continued to feign special attention toward Juliana of Horthness—who flirted outrageously, to the guarded approval of her doting father.

  Increasingly aware what a dangerous tightrope he was walking, Javan decided to back off just a little. The next morning he made a point of seeking out the new confessor Paulin had designated for the Chapel Royal, and again repented himself of entertaining lascivious thoughts where Juliana was concerned. A fleeting touch of the unwitting priest’s mind ensured that the confession would find its way back to the ears for which it was intended. Within a few days, Rhun’s attitude softened markedly, and even Hubert seemed a trifle more indulgent—though Paulin continued to be aloof.

  The whirl of holiday festivities continued for the next fortnight, with hunting in the daytime, feasting at night, and occasional informal Courts in between. Daily came new arrivals, as the great lords from farther away gathered in preparation for Twelfth Night, the most important Court of the year.

  The day dawned cold but clear, with new snow on the ground. For the formal Court at noon, Javan wore the State Crown of leaves and crosses intertwined, and cream-colored wool heavy with gold embroidery under a scarlet mantle lined with ermine. Rhys Michael and Michaela sat at his left, regally coronetted and in royal blue, and both archbishops stood at his right in golden copes and mitres as the Court paid their respects.

  One of the more welcome offerings of the day was the assurance of loyalty from far Cassan, both the formal greetings of the Princess Anne and Fane Fitz-Arthur and the shakily lettered missive from the four-year-old Duke Tambert, declaring Friends—Tambert and Javan. The boy’s obvious hero-worship and affection elicited an indulgent chuckle around the great hall when Javan read it out, for many had been present when the king received the boy before his coronation. The letter also helped lift Javan’s spirits when the time came to knight Cashel Murdoch and several other senior squires of the Court, mostly relatives of the great lords. He far rather would have withheld the accolade altogether, for these young men were not of his choosing or in his trust, but he knew he dared not risk offending the men’s relatives. At least
Robear’s hand was on the sword with his when he dubbed them, distancing him a bit from responsibility; for since he was not yet of an age for official knighting himself, and only a handful present knew of his private knighting the day he returned to claim his crown, he might not confer the accolade alone.

  “Next year you will be the first, my prince,” Robear murmured in a private aside as the first candidate approached the throne to be presented. “God knows you’ve more than earned your spurs.”

  Even far Kheldour was heard from, at that gala Twelfth Night Court. Duke Graham sent his respects and duty to the king in this new year, as did his uncles, but Earl Hrorik sent a further missive a few days later, advising the king that letters had been received, as expected, from the King of Torenth. He enclosed the letters, along with fair copies of Lady Sudrey’s reply and his own comments.

  Some there may be who would claim that love blinds me, Sire, but even those of the most suspicious nature could find no fault with my lady’s faithfulness or loyalty, either to her husband or to the king whose justice extends even to these far northern climes. I believe that your Highness may safely put aside any further concerns regarding my Lady Sudrey, for there is no possibility that she would ever return to Torenth or provide information to her Torenthi kin that might damage her family in Kheldour or Kheldour’s rightful liege. I am and beg to remain your Highness’ loyal subject, Hrorik, Earl of East-march.

  At least Kheldour seemed to be back in the fold. Would that those lords closer to home were as loyal. Javan still had not decided how to deal with the treachery of Paulin and Hubert in engineering his brother’s abduction.

  And the plot was bearing fruit already. Javan tried not to let his imagination run rampant the first few mornings Michaela declined to join him and Rhys Michael hunting, but toward the end of January, he had Guiscard make quiet inquiries among the servants who looked after Rhysem and his bride—though none of them would ever remember being questioned on the subject.