King Javan’s Year (19 page)

“Let's have Niallan do it, shall we?” Joram replied, glancing at Javan. “Someone has to, so that Guiscard doesn't find out you can do it yourself. And the more of us you learn to work with, the more versatile you'll be.”

After the workout Joram had given him, and the very successful rapport with Jesse, the gentle Niallan was hardly likely to be very frightening. Besides, Javan liked the bishop.

“I have no objection,” he said, “though his Grace had better be warned that I'm still awfully new at this.”

Niallan chuckled and went to guide Javan onto the Portal Square, setting his hands on the king's shoulders from behind. “You really needn't title me so formally, Sire,” the bishop said. “I'm not even officially a bishop anymore. Why don't you just call me Niallan? Or Father Niallan, if you must use a title. And it would please me greatly if I might simply call you my prince.”

The warmth of the Deryni bishop was irresistible, and Javan found himself grinning delightedly back over his shoulder. “Niallan. Thank you, I like that name. But you'll have to forgive me if I slip from time to time. I've spent the last three years making sure I remembered what ecclesiastical titles were due to whom.”

“All in a good cause, my prince,” Niallan murmured, reaching his right hand around to fold across Javan's forehead. “Close your eyes and relax now, and we'll get this done. You're going to want your bed fairly soon, I think.”

The warmth that wrapped itself around Javan's mind was so soothing and reassuring that he was able to slip immediately to that deeply centered state in which controls might be surrendered. He gave himself into the Deryni bishop's guidance, adrift for just an instant, then felt the brief thrill of the energies shifting, the touch of vertigo—and they were back in the Portal cubicle in the study at Rhemuth. He opened his eyes to a different kind of vertigo—a brief fading into the edge of sleep, almost instantly overcome. He fought a yawn, remembering the twist of parchment in his pouch.

“You're fine,” Niallan whispered in his ear, steadying him with a quick press of his shoulders and then reaching out for the sliding panel. As it slid back, Guiscard turned from his post by the door, darting forward as Javan staggered a little coming out.

“He's just tired,” Niallan murmured. “A bit of sleep will fix everything. Get him to bed as soon as you can.”

“Aye, your Grace,” Guiscard replied—and took Javan by the arm.

They made their way out of the basilica without incident, leaving the unwitting Father Ascelin to snore on in his bed, with no memory of their visit. Neither did Charlan remember anything of the affair, aware only that the king had spent some time by his brother's bier in prayer and now was ready to return to his quarters. He gave Javan his arm as they trudged back up the cobbled approach to the inner ward, for the footing was slippery from the rainfall, and the king seemed suddenly very tired.

There were steaming horses being walked out in the castle yard as they came back beneath the gatehouse, and weary men bedding down in the hall, who eyed Javan with interest as he and his escort came up the great hall steps and headed through the hall. Javan was too bleary-eyed to get a good look at the men, but Guiscard stiffened as he noted the badges on their surcoats, and Charlan tried to hurry them on toward the stair.

“Murdoch's men,” Guiscard murmured, under his breath. “I don't like the looks of this. Why couldn't he have waited until tomorrow?”

They clattered up the first flight and met Bertrand coming down, just at the first-floor landing. The young knight drew them urgently along a back corridor rather than continuing up.

“Lord Murdoch has arrived and he's in a nasty mood,” he said, hurrying them toward another stair. “He's in your apartments with four of his men-at-arms, Sire, and he says he isn't leaving until he sees you. Sir Robear explained that you were praying, but he said he was prepared to wait. I was afraid I'd have to come all the way to the basilica to find you.”

“Sorry,” Javan murmured. “I didn't think anyone would want me this late. Who else is there of ours, besides Robear?”

“Lord Jerowen and Tomais,” Bertrand replied, “and I've already sent six men to stand by in the corridor. Baron de Courcy's gone to roust Constable Udaut and see about containing the men in the hall, just in case Murdoch tries something stupid. Tammaron's there, too, trying to calm Murdoch down.”

“Shall I see if my father needs any assistance, Sire?” Guiscard said. And in Javan's mind he added,
If you can hear me, my prince, perhaps I ought not to be present at this interview until we're certain Murdoch has no Deryni with him
.

Javan shot a startled look at Guiscard, commensurate with having unexpectedly heard the voice in his mind, but he was also frantically considering his options as they climbed the next stair. At least it was Murdoch rather than Rhun. Murdoch would rant and rave and probably be insufferably insulting, but he was not likely to take direct action; Rhun might well take arms—and certainly had at least one Deryni collaborator working for him, who would be a definite danger until he could be gotten out of Rhun's clutches and convinced that he no longer need work against his own kind.

“Yes, please give Baron de Courcy my compliments and have Constable Udaut take whatever measures are necessary to secure those men in the great hall,” he said. “Try to avoid actually taking them into custody if you can; but I want them loyal or out within the hour. Is that clear?”

Guiscard smiled and sketched him a jaunty salute. “It shall be done, my prince. God keep your Highness.”

They had reached the top of the stairs. As Guiscard reversed to go back down, Javan paused to draw a deep breath and to tug his tunic more smoothly over his hips.

“Very well, gentlemen,” he said to Bertrand and Charlan. “Let's go and see what my Lord Murdoch has to say, shall we?”

There were guards—six of them, wearing Javan's livery—standing attentively outside the door to his apartments. The door was standing slightly ajar, and Javan could hear angry voices disputing inside. The guards snapped to attention as he approached, and the captain gave Javan a nod and loosened his sword in its scabbard before opening the door and preceding him in, hand on the hilt.

Murdoch of Carthane was not a happy man. This was not an unusual occurrence, for even at the best of times Murdoch managed to find fault with something, but several days in the saddle with little or no sleep had made the tendency a certainty. The narrow, gaunt face with its close-trimmed beard looked thinner still with the shadows of fatigue staining the hollows of his eyes and new lines etching his forehead. The prim, prissy lips were drawn back in a grimace of distaste. Though usually fastidious in his dress, Murdoch's riding leathers were streaked with mud and sweat. He had been berating Tammaron, towering over the chancellor by a full head, and he rounded on the guard captain who preceded Javan with murder in his eye, only checking his anger as he saw Javan himself.

“My Lord Murdoch,” Javan said politely, seizing the initiative before Murdoch could. “We are moved by your courtesy, that you should make such speed to pay your respects to the late king our brother—as we ourselves have been doing this past hour. But your salutations to us could have waited until morning. You obviously have ridden long and hard.”

“Yes, and I have been to see the archbishops before I came here,” Murdoch said, omitting any title of respect. “You seem to have neatly sidestepped your holy vows in order to seize the crown from your brother.”

“To seize the crown from my brother?” Javan replied, all wide-eyed innocence. “My brother is dead. To whom should the Crown of Gwynedd go, besides his twin?”

“You were to have set aside that claim when you entered Holy Orders,” Murdoch said, and swept a cold glance at Javan's foot in its special boot. “It is not fitting that a cripple should wear the crown. I understood that you had accepted that.”

“Then you have
mis
understood,” Javan said calmly, raising a hand to cut off indignant responses on the part of his supporters. “Such physical limitation as I may have does not affect my ability to rule, just as it would not have affected my ability to function as a priest. If you have already spoken with Archbishop Hubert, then you will know that it was never my intention to put aside my royal duty. Nor have I done so.”

“But Rhys Michael was to be—”

“Rhys Michael is now heir presumptive,” Jerowen Reynolds interjected smoothly, “and Prince Javan now is king. Or do you dispute that, my lord?”

The captain at Javan's side had wrapped a gloved hand more resolutely around the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowed at Murdoch in speculation, and his men were lurking in the doorway. Murdoch's jaws were so tightly clenched that he looked like to shear off his teeth, but he managed to give a grudging shake of his head.

“And you, gentlemen,” Jerowen continued, pointedly turning his glance on Murdoch's four men-at-arms. “Will you do reverence to your king?”

He was quite unarmed, as was Javan, but Robear and Tomais wore swords at their sides, as did Bertrand. Charlan wore a dagger. The guards in the doorway carried short spears in addition to swords and poniards, and wore brigandines similar to those sported by the men-at-arms.

The four weighed the odds and the options and obviously decided that compliance was the better part of survival—though they undoubtedly would hear about it from their lord when they withdrew. First one man and then the other three uneasily bent one knee, bowing their heads in homage as Murdoch fumed. Javan breathed a guarded little sigh of relief, motioning them to rise, then turned his gaze back to Murdoch.

“The devotion of a loyal subject is beyond price, my lord,” he said quietly, in a double-edged statement that Murdoch could take any way he liked. “However, as the hour grows extremely late, I shall ask you to retire, as I intend to do. You have ridden hard and must be yearning for your bed.”

To that, at least, Murdoch could hardly object; nor did he. Favoring Javan with the most scornful of nods, he took his leave, his men falling in behind him in ragged escort. The guard captain went with him, he and his men following at a respectful distance to ensure that Murdoch did indeed leave that part of the castle. As the door closed behind them, Lord Jerowen came around from behind the table, he and Charlan steadying Javan as the king shivered and swayed on his feet.

“I'm all right,” Javan murmured, though he found himself reeling under waves of drowsiness now that the crisis was past. “And my especial thanks to you, Lord Jerowen. I wasn't expecting to have to face Murdoch tonight.”

“It's my honor to serve you, Sire,” Jerowen said.

“And mine, to be served by good men and true,” Javan replied, glancing toward his sleeping chamber. “But you'll excuse me now, I hope. After visiting my brother, and then this—” He drew a deep breath. “Bertrand, would you fetch me something to drink while Charlan helps me undress?”

By the time he had climbed up onto the bed and Charlan had pulled off his boots, Bertrand was back with a goblet and a pitcher of wine.

“Shall I pour for you, Sire?” Bertrand asked, moving to set them on the table by the head of the bed.

“No, Charlan can do that, thank you,” Javan said, surreptitiously retrieving Joram's twist of parchment from the pouch at his waist. “But bring me some water for it, if you please. It's too late to drink undiluted wine.”

As Bertrand retreated, and Charlan picked up pitcher and goblet to pour, Javan stayed him with a hand on his wrist, extending control, and opened the twist of parchment over the cup. A fine, crystalline powder sifted into the bottom, and Javan pressed the parchment into Charlan's hand when he had taken the goblet in his own hand.

“Just a little in the bottom,” he murmured, setting it under the lip of the pitcher. “And dispose of that later, remembering nothing of it.”

He swirled the wine in the goblet as Charlan put the pitcher aside as if Javan had said nothing at all, and when Bertrand returned with a flask of water, Javan let him top up the wine.

“Thank you both,” he said, raising the cup a little in salute before draining it in four smooth gulps. “Wake me if there's anything really urgent,” he said, as he handed Charlan the empty goblet, “but otherwise let me sleep as long as I can. Tomorrow shouldn't be
too
demanding, unless Rhun shows up, too.” He tried not to think about tomorrow
night
. “Monday is going to be rough, though. And Tuesday, in its way, will be even worse.”

He could feel Joram's drug already at work in him as he lay back on the pillows, gentle but insistent, dulling the edge of headache he had started to develop during the confrontation with Murdoch.

“We'll be here if you need us, Sire,” he heard Charlan say through a fog of encroaching sleep.

He was oblivious long before they finished laying out their pallets for the night.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment
.

—Psalms 104:2

Fortunately for Javan, Sunday proved to be the day of rest it was intended to be. He heard Mass at noon in the castle's Chapel Royal with Rhys Michael and about a dozen of his supporters, went with his brother to pay another official visit to the dead king, then closeted himself with his advisors for the rest of the afternoon to continue going over the briefing documents they had prepared for him. The weather continued to moderate, with thunderstorms again darkening the sky periodically and lowering the temperature each time a new deluge poured down. That evening he dined informally in the great hall with the Court, because it was expected, but he retired early, pleading the need for sleep before the ordeal of the funeral the next day.