King Javan’s Year (40 page)

Javan gave the archbishop a sour look. “I hardly think we need go that far.” He sighed. “Very well. Is there anything else I should know about?”

A shadow flitted across Hubert's usually open expression. “Nothing else affecting tomorrow, Sire,” he murmured. “Ah, there
is
one other bit of news you may not have heard yet, since you rode early this morning. Brother Serafin collapsed and died last night—his heart, they think. Father Lior was with him and was able to give him the Last Rites. Needless to say, Father Paulin is greatly shocked. This will be a great loss to the Order.”

“Indeed,” Javan murmured, feigning appropriate surprise—and somewhat relieved to learn that Serafin had not gone unshriven into death. “Why, he wasn't that old a man. Still, the heat and all …”

Hubert nodded. “He was not yet fifty, I believe. His blood was high, though. I am told he availed himself of minution on a regular basis—which seemed to help, but—” He shook his head. “It gives one pause. We were nearly of an age, he and I. May God have mercy on his soul.”

“Amen to that,” Javan murmured, crossing himself as Hubert did the same. “It is a sobering event with which to enter my coronation festivities. I confess, I had no personal fondness for the man, but I shall ask Father Faelan to include him in the prayers at my private Masses for the next month.”

All of which was true. He could not honestly mourn Serafin, but praying for him was the least he could do, having been responsible for his death. And most fortunately, the death did not seem to have generated unwelcome suspicion, at least on Hubert's part.

He saw Guiscard trying to catch his eye and gave Hubert a slight bow. “I beg you to excuse me, Archbishop. Additional matters apparently require my attention, and I also feel the need of nourishment before heading down for the final rehearsal. Tomorrow will be upon us all too quickly.”

When the king had gone out with his two aides, nodding silent acknowledgment to the waiting Paulin and Albertus, Hubert followed more casually. Most everyone else from the Court just concluded had filtered out into the great hall, where the open windows admitted a breath of faintly moving air, but Paulin drew Hubert into the relative seclusion of a stairwell entrance.

“What was the anger about?” Paulin demanded.

“The Torenthi delegation,” Hubert answered mildly. “You'd hardly expect him to be happy about it, would you?”

Snorting, Paulin shook his head. “No one is. How about the news of Serafin's death? How did he react?”

Hubert gave a noncommittal shrug, though his expression perhaps reflected a faint dissatisfaction.

“How did you
think
he would react? He offered no false regret over the news, but that's hardly surprising, given his antipathy toward the
Custodes
. Nonetheless, he said he would instruct Father Faelan to include Serafin in his prayers for the next month and affirmed my prayer that God might have mercy on Serafin's soul. It was all entirely proper.”

“Then why do you look like the exchange left a sour taste in your mouth?” Albertus demanded.

Hubert looked sharply at the
Custodes
Grand Master. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Simply that we have an interesting coincidence here—if coincidence it is. At the express request of the king, a particular priest is brought to Court to be his personal chaplain. He has been thoroughly vetted by his superiors and instructed to observe and report on what occurs in the king's household. But only a few days after his arrival, one of the men who vetted that priest is dead.”

Hubert rolled his eyes heavenward and folded pudgy hands over his ample waist. “Next you'll be suggesting that Faelan somehow had a hand in it, or the king. Serafin's heart simply failed.”

“I'm not disputing that,” Paulin muttered. “But what if it were
helped
to fail?”

“Ah, then you're insinuating that Oriel had a hand in it—or maybe Sitric. They're the only Deryni left at Court, and it would take a Deryni to do what you're suggesting.”

“Or maybe a Haldane,” Albertus said quietly. “'Tis said that the king's father once slew a would-be assassin without touching him.”

“I never heard that,” Hubert said.

“I have,” Paulin replied distractedly. “It was early in his reign. A number of Deryni are said also to have been present, chiefly of the redoubtable MacRorie clan. Camber himself was among them, I believe.”

“Then Deryni obviously were responsible, if in fact the incident occurred,” Hubert stated flatly. “I don't believe it, though. And I don't believe that Javan
or
secret Deryni infiltrators of the Court somehow murdered Serafin by magic. It's absurd!”

“You're probably right,” Paulin said, reluctantly backing down. “Still, I'm going to question Father Lior again, since he was there when Serafin died. And in a few weeks, when Father Faelan comes for his monthly debriefing, we'll inquire of him as well. I'm still uneasy as to why Javan should have requested him, in particular.”

“To throw us off the scent,” Hubert said sourly. “To lull us into a false sense of security because we have one of
our
confessors in the royal household. That's all it is. That's all it
can
be.”

“I hope you're right,” Paulin said after a taut pause. “I do hope you're right.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

For thou, O God, hast heard my vows; thou hast given me the heritage of those that fear thy name
.

—Psalms 61:5

No incidents or accusations marred the final rehearsal for the coronation. After Javan's inspired handling of young Duke Tambert, a significant proportion of those who had been present seemed inclined to grant him more respect than might have been forthcoming before. When king and courtiers finally declared themselves mutually satisfied with preparations for the upcoming ceremony, Javan dismissed all with his thanks and retired back to the castle, there to take a quiet supper in his quarters with his intimates and make an early night of it. He slept soundly and could not remember whatever dreams he had.

Coronation day dawned bright and clear, a little cooler than previous days, but promising sultry heat before noon. Javan rose with the sun again and spent nearly an hour on his knees before the little shrine he had asked to be set up in one corner of his sleeping chamber. Earlier in the week, from a box of boyhood treasures he had left in Rhys Michael's keeping before going off to seminary, he had retrieved a little Saint Michael medal given him by Evaine. He dared not wear it for his coronation, where hostile eyes might see the badge of the outlawed Michaeline Order, but he clasped it close in his hand as he prayed for the strength and wisdom to take up his crown worthily and asked God's forgiveness for condoning the killing of Brother Serafin. Just after he heard Saint Hilary's bell ring Prime, Charlan came in to inform him that his bath was ready in the outer room.

Those closest to him were waiting to assist him—Guiscard and his father, Robear and Jason, Bertrand, Gavin, and Sorle. Father Faelan was there as well, to read him the day's Psalms while he soaked in his tub and a barber trimmed his hair and the senior knights laid out the robes he would wear for his sacring. Just before he got out of the bath, Oriel turned up briefly to examine his bad foot and put what he could of strength upon it for the day's demands. Javan would ride to and from his coronation, but the rest of the day would be spent mostly on his feet.

They dressed him in silence when he had finished towelling off—reverent service that underlined the solemnity of the day's undertaking, each garment placed upon him with care, every lace and button done up with fastidious attention. Over the traditional alb-like garment of fine linen next to his skin they placed an outer robe of white slubbed silk, embellished at the collar and cuffs and down the front with bold embroidery of gold bullion. White breeches encased his legs, since he must ride, and supple new boots of white leather had been made as well, under Sir Jason's direction—too light for any hard use, but more than adequate for the sedate procession to and from the cathedral, with the right one artfully designed to disguise his thickened ankle and give him the extra support that foot required. He grinned as he tried the boots' fit, striding back and forth several times under the eyes of his knights and hardly limping at all.

“They wouldn't do for everyday wear,” Jason allowed, “but your faithful black workaday ones would have glared against all this white. Besides that, these will be cooler. You're going to be warm enough, under all these layers, without having your feet die as well.”

Javan chuckled delightedly and pivoted again, then went to let them lay the mantle around his shoulders. “You'd best have a care, or I'll be appointing you royal bootmaker, Jason. Thank you.”

“You're very welcome, Sire.”

The mantle itself was a vast, featherweight wonder of white silk damask woven with a self-pattern of crowns and lion faces, heavily embroidered down the fronts and around the border but lined with supple white samite rather than the heavy fur that had adorned Alroy's mantle five years before at a May coronation. As Charlan fastened its jewelled clasp over the stiff standing collar of the over-tunic and Guiscard shook out its folds and spread its length behind him for the others to admire, Javan could hardly feel its weight.

“Magnificent!” someone murmured.

“Fit for a king, Sire!” another one quipped.

He hefted it on his shoulders as Guiscard and his father gathered up masses of it in their arms to keep it from getting soiled when they made their way downstairs to join the procession forming up, suffering Charlan to give his hair a final combing. The barber's ministrations had left it rather shorter than the fashion, but his grown-out tonsure now was all but disappeared unless one looked very closely. As Javan glanced into the polished metal mirror that Robear held up for him, he could see a lean, solemn face that put him in mind of a Roman statue. With the Eye of Rom winking in his ear above the stiff tunic collar and the mantle's clasp, it was a king who looked back at him. He straightened on an intake of breath, squaring his shoulders, and all of them sank to one knee around him.

“God save the king!” Robear said boldly, right fist going to his chest in a salute that was echoed by the others.

Tears were prickling at Javan's eyelids as he motioned them to rise, and he did not dare to speak for the lump in his throat as they formed up around him to escort him down to the castle yard. Rhys Michael and Tomais joined them en route, the prince clad head to toe in crimson, with the Haldane lion emblazoned on chest and back in appliqué and embroidery, differenced with the label of a third son. A silver circlet confined his sable hair, and he flashed Javan a grin as they embraced briefly and continued together out to the yard.

Those who would attend the king were waiting for him, friend and foe alike, most bedecked in the richest raiment that finance and the heat allowed. The composition of the coronation party was not exactly as Javan would have liked, but he had managed to intersperse most of his intimates among those jealously clinging to offices exercised in the past.

First in the procession, and only awaiting the order to move out, came a full score of black-clad
Custodes
knights—hard-eyed men capped with steel and mounted on jet-black steeds, apparently oblivious to the heat in their full black mantles faced with scarlet. Twenty black surcoats bore the Order's red moline cross charged with a haloed lion's head, and swallow-tailed pennons fluttered from steel-tipped lances in twenty mailed fists—black, charged with a red moline cross. They made a proud display, but Javan hardly spared them a second glance, for the scarlet fringes on the white sashes of their knighthood seemed to him to profane the very concept of chivalry, just as the braided cincture of Haldane crimson and gold encircling each left shoulder profaned the colors of Javan's House.

Far more pleasing in his sight was the elite guard of ten Haldane lancers in the crimson livery of Gwynedd, drawn up behind the
Custodes
knights and waiting for Jason and Robear to join them. They dipped their lances in brisk precision as Javan appeared on the great hall steps, fully as smart in appearance for being half the
Custodes'
strength. And just behind them, holding the horses Rhys Michael and Tomais would ride—

“Well, will you look at that, Sire?” Charlan murmured, touching Javan's elbow to direct his attention.

Relief warred with apprehension as Javan looked where Charlan indicated, for the Kheldish lords—at least the Earls of Eastmarch and Marley—had, indeed, decided to grace the coronation with their presence, but so accoutred as to cause serious uncertainty about their intentions. Eschewing court silks for the leather and tweed of the far north, their hair clubbed back in fat border braids, the two sat a matched pair of piebald border ponies, incongruous among the sleek steeds of the lancers and Rhys Michael's leggy chestnut. Javan's quick scrutiny of the surrounding area did not immediately discover the whereabouts of their nephew, Graham, but he guessed the young duke must be there somewhere.

“Oh, my,” Rhys Michael muttered. “Look who's here. You don't really expect me to go down there with them, do you?”

Javan kept his face impassive, for he had seen the object of the two earls' unwavering interest—Murdoch, the chief instigator of their brother's slaughter, standing farther along in the line of march with the royal banner, just ahead of the horse waiting for Javan himself.

“I—ah—don't think they have any quarrel with
you
, Rhysem,” he said softly. “I would
not
want to be in Murdoch's shoes, though—especially not later today, when everyone's had a bit too much to drink and is off his best behavior. But go ahead down, and give them my greeting.”