“Now, will you stand your men down, or must blood be shed in these hallowed grounds?”
“You would not dare to raise steel here,” the abbot muttered.
“Not I, my lord, for I am unarmed, as you see,” Javan replied, raising his hands away from the empty belt around his waist. “But the king’s men have their orders, as have I. If, by defying the king’s wishes, you compel them to draw steel to enforce the royal command, then be it upon your head, not mine.” He drew deep breath, praying that he could pull this off.
“With respect, then, I bid you good morrow, my Lord Abbot, and take my leave of you.”
So saying, he gathered Charlan to his side with a glance and turned to press past the Custodes captain and down the abbey steps, heading both of them toward the waiting knights. The men holding the two extra horses came forward into the center of the yard, several more moving their mounts behind Javan and Charlan to shield them, turning their backs on the Custodes knights with utter disdain—for any show of weakness now could prove fatal.
Only the hollow clip-clop of hooves on cobbles and the soft creak and jingle of the horses’ harnesses intruded on the taut, sullen silence. Javan could feel himself trembling as Charlan gave him a leg up onto a tall, well-made chestnut, but he allowed himself no show of fear or even apprehension as he gathered the reins in his hands and turned the horse’s head toward the gate, even as the others finished mounting up around him.
His knees continued to tremble as he urged the horse forward, Charlan and another knight falling in on either side of him—Bertrand, who had been his squire before Charlan. To his unmitigated relief, no one tried to stop them. But not until they were through the gates and heading down the hill slope toward the main road, picking up a canter, did he allow himself to relax even a little.
Three hours’ ride and a change of horses saw them trotting up the final incline toward the city gates of Rhemuth, just as the first fingers of dawn were thrusting upward from behind the eastern horizon. Even the new horses were spent by then, for they had pushed on at a steady gallop for most of the way. One of the knights spurred on ahead as they approached the awakening city, and the portcullis rumbled upward and the gates swung wide just before the main party reached the city wall. The guards on duty gave Javan royal salute as he rode through the gates, and he squared his shoulders and tried to look confident as Charlan led the band on up the King’s Way toward the castle on the hill.
The castle yard was abustle with activity as they rode into it, crowded with horses and liveried servants and armed guards and courtiers all milling apprehensively. The heat was already oppressive. As Javan’s party rode into the yard, a wave of somberly dressed lords of various degrees came spilling onto the great hall steps. Pushing through from their rear, accompanied by Sir Tomais, who had once been his squire, was a worried-looking Rhys Michael, set apart by the bright splash of a short crimson cape slung over one shoulder, despite the heat.
The brothers’ eyes locked as Javan drew rein and flung his right leg over the pommel to jump lightly to the ground. Charlan was at his side immediately, opening a path for him as he headed up the steps. Bertrand and three more of Charlan’s knights followed close behind, gloved hands set casually on the hilts of their swords, though their expressions spoke of a far from casual concern for their royal charge.
Rhys Michael came partway down the steps to meet him, a guarded look of relief on his handsome face. The crimson cape slipped down onto his arm as he reached out to embrace his brother.
“Thank God you’re here!” he whispered fiercely, dropping his forehead to his brother’s shoulder for just an instant. “Let me put this on you, before we do another thing,” he added, just before the two drew apart. “It’s the clearest symbol I can think of, for the moment.”
Nodding slightly, and more relieved than he could say, Javan let his brother lay the cape around his shoulders, noting the murmuring the action produced, as Rhys Michael also seized his hand and kissed it. He need not have feared on Rhys Michael’s account. As they turned to go inside, arm in arm, Charlan taking the lead and the other knights at their heels, Javan pulled off Rhys Michael’s signet and passed it back to him.
“How is he?” he murmured, nodding to several lesser courtiers as they headed left across the near end of the great hall and down a short flight of steps.
“Not good. He had a reasonably comfortable night, once he’d had me send for you, but only because of the medication.”
“What are they giving him?”
“Extract of poppy.” Rhys Michael made a face. “Oh, it makes the coughing stop and eases the worst of the pain. But it also eases him into such a heavy sleep that it’s difficult to rouse him. The fever hasn’t helped. Most of the time I don’t think he’s really aware what’s going on around him.”
“Why do I suddenly suspect that the former regents have been trying to capitalize on that?” Javan murmured.
With a mirthless laugh, Rhys Michael ushered his brother through a short colonnaded passageway that led into a wing fronting the gardens.
“That was the thin line I trod, when I took it on myself to send for you. I hope you don’t mind that I threatened them with the thought that I might soon be king.”
“Not at all.” Javan’s answering smile held the same grim determination. “I used the same argument myself, when persuading the abbot that he oughtn’t to try to stop my leaving. But back to Alroy—the drugs do ease him?”
“That depends on your definition of ease,” the younger prince replied. “His lungs still fill with fluid; he just doesn’t cough it up, or realize that he needs to.”
“And Master Oriel concurs with this treatment?”
“Aye. It’s probably the one thing on which he and the royal physicians agree. They—” He stumbled and came to a halt, suddenly blinking back tears, and swallowed hard, shaking his head.
“Javan, they say his lungs are nearly gone. All Oriel or anybody else can do is ease the passing. It’s a question of letting him literally cough his lungs out or—letting him dream away what little time he has left.”
As Rhys Michael knuckled at his bowed forehead, shaking his head despairingly, Javan had to fight back his own tears, grieving already for the elder brother who had never really stood a chance against the circumstances of his position. He had tried to prepare himself for news of this sort, but actually hearing it was far more difficult than he had expected.
“Dear, gentle Jesu, it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he breathed, trying to get a grip on himself. “He’s only sixteen, for God’s sake! His life should be just beginning!”
“Sire, Lord Manfred is coming up fast,” Charlan murmured, just ahead of him, calling his knights closer with a gesture. “I’d hoped he wouldn’t get here so quickly.”
Stiffening, Javan forced back his tears and made himself look up, dropping his hands to his sides and raising his chin defiantly to the first of the great lords he must either win over or subdue. His eyes locked with Manfred’s as the older man approached, and Javan decided then and there that he was not going to be the one to look away first.
“Lord Manfred,” he acknowledged tonelessly as the man came within hailing distance.
“Your Highnesses,” the cool, clipped reply came, edged with disapproval.
The Earl of Culdi had changed very little since Javan last had seen him: a more faded blond than his brother Hubert and slightly taller, but merely beefy where Hubert was undeniably fat. He held himself like the soldier he was, the blue eyes keen as flint above a sweeping pair of blond moustaches beginning to go grey.
He eyed first Javan and then Rhys Michael with an expression just short of distaste, quickly taking in the crimson cape, the ring on Javan’s hand, the twisted gold in his ear—and the six armed knights surrounding him. But whatever his true emotions, his words sounded of careful solicitude, calculated not to cause blatant offense in this new, unexpected, and undesired presence.
“Your arrival is most
timely, your Highnesses,” he said. “The king is awake and asking for both of you. My brother has had the physicians delay his medication until I could locate you. Please come with me.”
He made them both a brisk bow, just short of arrogance, then turned on his heel and headed back the way he had come, not waiting to see if they followed.
They did, of course. Javan pulled off the crimson cape and handed it off to Charlan as they walked, for the heat of the day already was becoming unbearable, even within the insulation of the castle’s thick stone walls.
The buzz of voices ahead got louder as they rounded a turn in the corridor and approached the end; there three steps led down into an open colonnade where fifteen or twenty men were lounging. Those seated came to their feet as the royal party approached, a few of them bowing, but whether to acknowledge the royal brothers or the Lord Manfred was hard to tell.
Manfred drew up just before the steps, at the last door on the right. Setting his hand to the latch, he stood aside as he pushed it open. Javan did not like the smile on his face, just before he bowed so that Javan could not see it. As he had feared, others of the former regents were in the anteroom within, chiefest among them Manfred’s brother, Hubert MacInnis, Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd.
The archbishop bestirred himself to stand as Javan entered, Rhys Michael and Charlan following. At Hubert’s gesture, Tomais and Bertrand and the other knights remained outside, though not without Rhys Michael’s cautious exchange of glances with Charlan, who stationed himself with his back against the edge of the open door, resisting any attempt of Manfred to close it. If the princes called, Charlan and the other knights would come, regardless of what the archbishop wanted.
Hubert himself had grown more mountainous than ever, in only the month since Javan last had seen him; or perhaps it was the sheer expanse of purple cassock, unbroken by the extra layers of episcopal attire with which the archbishop usually was wont to adorn his ample person. A pudgy left hand fingered the amethyst-set pectoral cross hanging around his fleshy neck. The rosebud mouth was set in petulant disapproval. He started to extend his ring to Javan as their eyes met, then thought better of it and clasped the ringed hand to its mate in a pious but distant pose of self-righteous authority.
“Brother Javan. We had not thought to see you here. Do you not have duties which require your presence at the seminary? To quit the abbey without leave is a grievous fault, which I am certain will earn you a severe penance when you return.”
From behind him, two Custodes priests moved a little closer, so that for the first time Javan became aware of the candles burning in a far corner of the room, flanking a jewelled altar cross and the veiled silhouette of a ciborium. The presence of the Blessed Sacrament outside the king’s sickroom confirmed that Alroy’s condition was grave indeed.
Glancing around, Javan chose his words carefully. He thought he could control Hubert if he had to, but not in front of so many—and best if he could deescalate this situation with his wits alone. In addition to Earl Tammaron, whom he occasionally almost liked, and Manfred’s pimply-faced son Iver, whom almost no one liked, Earl Murdoch’s two sons also were present—the randy and devious Sir Richard, who was married to the constable’s daughter, and the burly bully Cashel, but a year older than Javan and the king, who was constantly spoiling for a fight and was good enough to win most of them. They were but a few of the new blood the former regents were attempting to insert into the Council of Gwynedd—and would do so, Javan decided then and there, literally over his dead body.
“I have not come to argue monastic discipline with you, Archbishop,” he said quietly—but forcefully. “I have come at the command of the king. My duty now is here, at his side, so long as he lives; and to take up his crown when he is gone, as is my birthright.”
As the young lords glanced restively among themselves, and Tammaron looked decidedly uneasy, Hubert drew himself up in his full archepiscopal dignity.
“Do you forsake your vows so easily, then, Brother Javan?” he said. “You made promises to me and to God. You cannot simply set those promises aside as the whim takes you.”
Javan set his fists on his hips and looked the archbishop up and down.
“I’ll not be drawn into argument, your Grace,” he said evenly, “and certainly not about temporary vows all but forced upon me while I was underage. I’ve come to see my brother, who commands my presence and is dying. If there’s a drop of Christian charity in your body, you’ll stand aside so that I may obey his dying wish.”
As he headed past Hubert, Rhys Michael stayed well on Javan’s other side, screened from the archbishop’s bulk. The speechless Hubert glanced at his compatriots for support, which was not forthcoming, though gloomy looks abounded. By the time Hubert had wits enough to look back, the princes were already disappearing behind the door to the king’s sickroom, Rhys Michael pushing the door closed behind them.
Inside, the Healer Oriel rose from his stool at the head of the king’s bed. He had been wringing out yet another cool cloth for the king’s forehead, but now he replaced the cloth in the basin held by a squire and dismissed the boy with a gesture.
“Wait outside, please, Quiric,” he murmured. “I’ll call you when I need you again.”
When the boy had withdrawn, bowing nervously to Javan and to Rhys Michael, who opened the door far enough to let him pass, Oriel said, “Thank you for coming, your Highness.”
Sighing, Javan came around to the other side of the bed, forcing his gaze to move across the still, almost-motionless form of his brother the king, nearly as white as the linen sheeting drawn up just past his waist. Alroy’s labored breath still stirred the narrow chest, but the closed eyes had dark smudges beneath them. Perspiration soaked the raven hair, which was slightly longer than Javan’s monastic barbering.
Javan started to reach for the slack left hand lying atop the sheet beside Alroy’s body—it wore the Haldane Ring of Fire, despite Alroy’s desperate illness—then paused to lift his gaze to Oriel instead.
“How long?” he whispered, searching the Healer’s eyes.
“However long he has, prolonging his suffering cannot be justified,” Oriel murmured, “for he cannot possibly recover. I have his pain controlled for now, and his sleep is one of Healer’s crafting, not the drugs he has been taking; but I cannot hold this for very long.”
“And if you do nothing?” Javan said.
Oriel bowed his head. “He wanted desperately to see you, my prince—and that he should be able to speak to you a final time without his mind clouded by the drugs that can give him ease. I have promised that I will make that possible—though it means that your final exchange with him will not be entirely private, for I cannot maintain my controls at a distance. I—will try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”
Javan swallowed with difficulty. “I—see. And when we have spoken? When he has told me what he wishes me to know?”
“Then I have promised that I will give him ease,” the Healer said, not looking at him. “It will not be a fatal dose, for I may not, by my Healer’s oaths; but I will give him peaceful sleep until he—until he quite literally drowns in the fluids that are filling his lungs.” He swallowed, as if feeling those fluids encroach upon his own lungs. “But he will not suffer anymore. It is the best ease I can offer him, once he has unburdened his soul to you.”
Tears were filling Javan’s eyes, and he had to blink hard to regain control.
“Has he unburdened his soul to a priest?” he asked quietly. “I saw that they’d brought the Blessed Sacrament outside. Has he received the Last Rites?”
Oriel’s lips compressed beneath his faint smudge of moustache as he shook his head. “He said that there is no priest in Rhemuth from whom he will accept them. A few hours ago, while he slept, both archbishops came and anointed him anyway and gave him conditional absolution, but he has absolutely refused to receive Communion from them or any of their priests. Perhaps you can reason with him.”
Javan ducked his head, remembering how often he had been obliged to accept Communion from Hubert, loathing the man but forcing himself to separate the man from the Sacrament he dispensed. That Alroy finally was taking a stand on this point spoke much of his moral courage, however belatedly it was being manifest. At least on that point, Javan thought he might be able to ease Alroy’s mind.
But first he must discover his brother’s mind, on which there were far more pressing concerns than the outward token of a peace with the Maker Whom he very shortly would behold. Drawing deep breath, Javan dared to take Alroy’s limp hand in his, pressing its back tenderly to his lips before glancing across at Oriel.
“Wake him, please,” he said softly. “And I shall rely upon your holy vows as a Healer to ensure that what passes between the king and myself does not go beyond this room.”
Nodding, Oriel passed one hand across the king’s closed eyes, withdrawing then to let the fingertips of both hands rest lightly against the bare right shoulder. Alroy stirred at that touch; but as the grey eyes fluttered open, no pain in any part of their regard, they sought only Javan’s. The fever-flushed lips parted in a relieved smile, and the hand in Javan’s tightened, weak in strength but fierce in joy and thanksgiving.
“You came,” he breathed. “Rhysem said he’d bring you, and he did!”
“He did,” Javan agreed. “Or actually, Charlan did—though it was Rhysem who was brave enough to send him. Shall I call him over?”
Faintly Alroy’s head turned back and forth on the pillow, his eyes never leaving Javan’s.
“No, there will be a little time yet for him,” he whispered. “Oriel has promised me. But first I wanted to give you our father’s ring and the Eye of Rom. They belong to the King of Gwynedd—and I am king no longer.”
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 51
