Just before Hubert arrived, his three fellow regents and the young king had been hearing morning petitions in the great hall. Alroy’s presence, of course, was more formality than necessity, since it was the regents, and usually Tammaron, who would judge the merits of a case and then recommend a disposition, to which Alroy had only to give formal assent. But the king’s presence was a useful fiction in establishing a suitable royal image. He was a Haldane, descendant of great Haldane kings. He was in his Court, listening to the problems of his people. Surely the kingdom was in good hands.
The true holders of the reins of government were equally in evidence. Murdoch and Ewan sat impressively behind an ornately carved table to Alroy’s right, quietly ostentatious in their coronets and fur-lined court robes, respectively officious and merely official. Tammaron, the chancellor’s collar of H’s rich against his robe, stood directly left of the throne. Farther to Alroy’s left and down off the dais, a second table served as desk for a pair of tonsured clarks huddled myopically over several stacks of scrolls and parchment documents. Three liveried heralds maintained order among the score or more petitioners still waiting to be heard.
The current suit was a domestic one, typical of the sort which it was traditional to bring for the king’s judgment at Christmastide, like half a dozen others which the Court had already heard that morning. The presiding herald, who must read the petition, sounded as bored as king and regents looked as he recited the background of a complaint brought by one Master Gilbert, silversmith, against his neighbor, Dickon Thompson the baker, whose son had presumed to court the silversmith’s daughter, against the orders of both sets of parents. The girl’s condition was obvious, enhanced by the fact that she clasped her hands protectively over her swollen abdomen. The matter was routine. The court would order that the two should wed.
And far at the rear of the hall, in a deep window recess that overlooked the snow-covered courtyard at the side and gave view of the old keep beyond, Prince Javan and his Healer sat unobtrusively and listened to the proceedings—though that occupation would not have been apparent from outward appearances. Tavis had propped his booted feet on the opposite seat cushion and leaned his head against the white-washed wall at his back as if he were dozing, while Javan stitched diligently on a red leather headstall he was making, apparently quite absorbed in his work.
But both he and Tavis were using their apparent activities to mask their true intent, for the regents generally were not in favor of either Javan or Rhys Michael attending Courts or council meetings unless there was a particular need for them to do so. Ignorance, they felt, would help to keep superfluous princes in line until and unless needed.
It had not taken long for Javan and Tavis to figure out this rationale, and even less time to decide upon a course of action to counteract the ill effects. They had not been blatant in their protests, or pressed the matter publicly, once they realized the game the regents were playing. They simply had begun to find valid and seemingly innocent reasons for being in and around the great hall when business was being conducted, coupling with that a few careful indications that perhaps Prince Javan was just a little simple, a deficiency quite in keeping with the expectations of those for whom Javan’s club foot was already an issue. The charade was distasteful to Javan, but he and Tavis had finally decided that it was the most feasible ploy if he wished to stay clear of the regents’ attention and continue to learn.
And so he and Tavis had begun to make a practice of spending their mornings and often their afternoons in the little window recess at the rear of the hall, whether or not anything was happening there, taking the meager sunshine which managed to slant in and warm them as they sat and whiled away the time. The acoustics in the window recess were excellent, and made it quite unnecessary for a would-be listener to reveal himself to the front of the hall as long as he was content only to listen and not to see.
Now Javan and Tavis sat in that recess, as had become their usual wont, seemingly relaxed and totally oblivious to the fact that Court was in session at the other end of the hall. Tavis was still motionless, and Javan had just finished attaching the last of a series of thin silver discs to the browband of the headstall he was making, when the doors at the end of the hall opened and Bishop Hubert came through, followed by Bishop Alfred and three other prelates whose faces were familiar to Javan but whose names he did not know. Javan nudged Tavis to get his attention as the quintet strode down the hall, looking neither left nor right.
“Look, it’s some of the bishops,” Javan whispered, edging closer to Tavis so that he could watch them a little longer before they disappeared from sight. “Do you suppose they’ve finally elected an archbishop?”
“If they have, I don’t think it’s Hubert,” Tavis murmured in response, automatically casting out just a little with his Deryni senses to try to read more of the bishop’s mood. “Good God, he’s angry. I don’t dare try to read any deeper, for fear that one of the regents’ trained spies is watching, but I wouldn’t care to have that kind of hatred directed at me.”
As Hubert and his party disappeared behind the edge of the recess, Javan slipped onto the cushioned bench nearer the front of the hall and eased closer to the opening, peering cautiously around the corner. At least for a few minutes, the attention of those at the other end of the hall would be occupied by the men who had just arrived. If he were careful, he probably would not be spotted.
“Your Highness.” Hubert came to a halt and sketched a quick bow to Alroy as his companions did likewise. “I beg pardon for this intrusion, but I must speak with my fellow regents.”
And then, as the others straightened and stood where they had stopped, Hubert beckoned Tammaron and strode over to Murdoch’s and Ewan’s table. Despite the acoustics, neither Javan nor Tavis could hear what Hubert said, though Javan could see his head wagging emphatically, but Tammaron’s face went red and Murdoch’s voice was a near-bellow.
“They what?”
There followed some incoherent sputtering, and then Tammaron crossed back to the king and bent to whisper something in his ear. Alroy’s jaw dropped at Tammaron’s words, but then he was nodding and renewing his grip on his scepter, raising his chin to address the petitioners, who had been waiting and watching curiously the while.
“Good gentles, we must beg your indulgence for this interruption, but a matter has come up which requires our consultation with our regents. If you will leave your names with a herald as you leave, we shall make every effort to hear your petitions in the same order we would have heard them today, but on the day after Christmas.”
With that, he stood, and the heralds began ushering people back out of the hall. Quickly Javan jerked his head back out of sight, staring at Tavis wide-eyed as people began to pass them en route to the doors at the end of the hall.
“Do you know what’s—”
“Ssssssh,” Tavis breathed, holding a finger before his lips and closing his eyes briefly. “And, yes, that’s what I thought I’d heard, but I wanted to make sure.” He opened his eyes and looked at Javan. “The other bishops have elected Alister Cullen Archbishop of Valoret.”
Javan pursed his lips as if to make a low whistle. Almost all the petitioners were gone now, and they could hear the scrape of chairs as Murdoch and Ewan moved from behind their table, Murdoch’s whiny voice muttering something about not standing for this.
“Then, let’s do something about it,” Hubert answered. “Let’s call Oriel, and have him sent to Rhun—”
“Let’s not talk about it here,” came Tammaron’s voice, cold and precise in the growing quiet of the empty hall. “Guard, have Lord Oriel join us in the withdrawing room. Your Highness, I think you’d best go to your apartments. This is adults’ work.”
They heard Alroy’s thin, reedy assent, reluctant, by the sound, and then the echo of light footsteps. After that, even the voices of the regents died away as they, too, left the hall. When Javan chanced another peek around the corner of the alcove, only the clarks
and two of the heralds remained, clearing away the clutter of the interrupted court.
Mystified, Javan turned back to Tavis, almost afraid to speak.
“What do you think they’re going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Tavis whispered, “but I’m almost certain I’m not going to like it.” He considered for a moment, then cocked his head at Javan. “Do you want me to try to find out?”
“Could you?”
“Perhaps. If they’re going to have Oriel contact Rhun, I might be able to pick up something more of their plans from him, without his knowing. It would be good practice for dealing with Rhys, too. He’s come back to Valoret, you know. He arrived early this morning.”
“He did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It slipped my mind. I didn’t see the connection, earlier. Now, I suspect that Alister must have found out last night that he was going to be elected, and sent for Rhys to come.”
“I see,” Javan said thoughtfully. “But—let’s get back to Rhys in a moment. What about Oriel? Do you really think you can read him without his knowing?”
“Not ‘read’ him, precisely, but—never mind. Someday I’ll try to explain it.” He stood and peered around the corner, then smoothed his tunic with his hand and drew his mantle closely around him as he glanced back at Javan.
“Go back to your chamber and stay there, my prince. Plead indisposition. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If I’ve not returned by dark, start discreetly trying to find out why. It may mean that I’ve been discovered, in which case you’re the only possible one who might be able to save me.”
“I understand,” Javan whispered. “Be careful, though.”
“Sound advice.” Tavis grinned. “You follow it, as well.”
With that, he made a casual bow and headed quite unhurriedly toward the far end of the hall, nodding to the clarks as he passed. Javan gathered up his cloak and leatherwork and limped slowly in the opposite direction, out the main doors of the hall and along the covered walk which led to his quarters.
He reached the common room which he and Rhys Michael shared, but there he encountered his younger brother and two of the squires playing at strategy with some of Rhys Michael’s toy knights. That necessitated that he stop and talk with them for a few minutes, pretending not to understand the tactical situation they had set up and showing them the headstall with its little silver roundels. But then he let a little of his real nervousness show as a headache and went on into his own room, ostensibly for a nap.
There he stood and shook, his back hard against the carved oak door which separated him from the eyes of his brother and the squires, until he realized that his shaking was as much from the cold as from after-reaction to what was taking place. With that, he roused himself from his apprehensions and built up the fire, curling up before the hearth in a pile of sleeping furs and, in truth, dozing. Finally, just at dark, a quick rap at the door heralded Tavis’s return. Javan scrambled to his knees as the Healer entered and closed the door behind him. Tavis’s face was still and solemn with tension and fatigue, the pale, water-blue eyes like stone.
“What did you find out?” Javan asked.
“That the regents do not much care for Deryni archbishops.”
As Javan stared up at him quizzically, Tavis crossed to the sleeping furs and collapsed to sit cross-legged beside Javan.
“I waited out of sight near the withdrawing room until Oriel came out,” he said wearily. “He looked ashen, bereft of hope or solace. They’d made him work in front of them, directly reaching out to Rhun’s Deryni; they usually let him work through a relay, to conserve his strength.”
“How do you know? Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words. But I saw his face as he left the withdrawing room. When I then ‘chanced’ to meet him a little while later in another corridor, there was still a great deal of spillover from his shields. As Healer to fellow Healer in distress, it was no unexpected matter for me to probe a little. Of course, his shields immediately strengthened, but there was enough of a delay that he couldn’t hide everything from me.” He averted his eyes. “I almost wish I hadn’t read him at all.”
“Why? What did you learn?” Javan breathed. Then, with growing suspicion, as Tavis at first did not respond: “Tavis, what did they have him tell Rhun?”
“They had him send a death sentence,” Tavis replied evenly.
“A death sentence? Of Bishop Alister?”
“Not directly, though they may have talked about that, too. Tell me, though, to what Order does Bishop Alister belong?”
“Saint Michael,” Javan replied promptly. “But, you know that!”
“Aye.” Tavis nodded wearily. “And to what Order did Archbishop Jaffray belong?”
“Saint Gabriel,” Javan responded again. “Tavis, what are you trying to tell me?”
“Just one more question,” Tavis said, massaging his forehead with his hand as if he hoped to knead out the memory. “Think about the major religious houses of both those Orders, and their locations, and then tell me where Baron Rhun and his troops are.”
“In the Lendour highl—” Javan’s voice broke off and a horrified look came across his face. “Tavis, they’re not going to have Rhun destroy Saint Neot’s and Haut Eirial!”
Tavis closed his eyes and let his chin sink down to his chest with a slight nod. “I think so. I have reason to believe that Rhun and his men are within a few hours’ ride of either house—both, if they split up—and that this has been planned for some time. I suspect that this is why Rhun is still in the field so late in the season—because the regents were awaiting the election results, and perhaps even hoped for just such an excuse as this to vent their hatred on the Deryni houses. Jaffray was Gabrilite. Besides, the Gabrilites train other Deryni. As for the Michaelines, they were already in bad odor, especially once the regents ousted Alister as chancellor. That’s connection enough, so far as they’re concerned.”
“But, we can’t let them do it!” Javan whispered. “It isn’t right. Deryni didn’t elect Alister. It takes ten votes, so seven of those couldn’t have been Deryni. And to blame the Deryni Orders is—is—outrageous!”
“I quite agree. However, they are likely enough targets, if you hate like the regents. Consider: Jaffray is dead, so they can’t do anything to him, but they can do something to his Order. That’s vengeance, of a sort. And Alister …”
“Bother Alister! The regents are going to condone the destruction of both the Orders,” Javan whispered. “We can’t just stand by and allow innocent holy men to be murdered. We have to warn them!”
Tavis huddled down in the furs and thought for a moment, rubbing the soft skin at the end of his stump against his lips, then looked at Javan.
“All right. I have an idea that might work, and it could solve another problem at the same time. How are you feeling?”
“What? All right, I guess.”
“No,” said Tavis, reaching aside for pen and parchment, “you feel terrible.” He touched the end of his stump fleetingly to the boy’s forehead, then exclaimed aloud and shook his head. “Ach, you have a roaring fever—or will have, by the time this reaches its destination,” he added with a tight little smile. He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began writing.
“In fact, I’m worried for your very life, Javan, though I would never tell your beloved regents that, for fear they might blame me. But if I send our friend Rhys the information about the religious houses—which I managed to gather this afternoon, only to return and find you taken gravely ill—do you think Rhys will be able to resist coming to your aid?”
With an expression of sudden dawning, Javan slowly nodded.
When, an hour later, a royal squire came to deliver Tavis’s message, he found Rhys ensconced with the new archbishop. Joram, Jebediah, and Bishops Niallan and Kai were also there. It was just past Vespers, and the six Deryni had taken a light supper together before settling down to discuss the ramifications of Camber’s new office and
the precautions which needed to be taken.
By now, the regents’ displeasure at the outcome of the election was certain. Word of the initial reaction in the great hall had come from one of Bishop Ailin’s contacts in the castle, late in the afternoon, and they could imagine the tone, at least, of later discussions. The next twenty-four hours appeared to be the critical ones. If they could see Alister safely enthroned and reinstated on the regency council, as was now his due, there was a good chance that further reaction against their kind might yet be avoided or at least delayed.
So deeply were they immersed in their discussion, safe from either human or Deryni eavesdropping behind the defense of Camber’s wards, that they did not note any physical approach outside until a tentative knock at the door jarred them hollowly from their intense concentration.
“Good God, who can that be?” Camber murmured, as much in annoyance as in apprehension. Simultaneously, he raised his shields to full protection, checked to be certain his colleagues had done the same, and dispelled the wards with a wave of his hand and a mental command.
He did not stand or turn in his chair as Joram went to answer the door, but he did cast out with his mind to identify the caller. An unknown human mind waited on the other side of the door, vaguely familiar yet not attached to any name that Camber knew. Joram eased the door open and then stood aside to glance at Rhys.
“Rhys, he wants to speak with you.”
Rising, Rhys went to the door where one of the royal squires waited, Camber lightly linking in and observing through the Healer’s eyes.
“Bertrand, isn’t it?” Rhys asked.
Bertrand gave a nervous bow.
“Aye, my lord. A priest downstairs said I might find you here. I—hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m sorry, Your Graces,” he added, as he spied the three bishops now turning to peer at him.
Rhys favored the boy with a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Bertrand.” He noticed that the boy held a folded and sealed square of parchment. “Do you have a message for me?”
Camber the Heretic Page 43
