King Javan’s Year (75 page)

In that instant, Javan knew the deed was already done, and let himself peer out from under lowered lashes as they reached Revan, now waist deep in the water, and Sylvan put the boy back in his mother's arms. The lad twined his arms around her neck and locked his little legs around her waist, no trace of fear remaining as he peered over his mother's shoulder at Revan. The fear seemed to have gone out of her eyes as well.

“It is good, my sister,” Revan murmured, setting one hand on her other shoulder and brushing back hair from the boy's forehead with his other hand. “Have faith in the Lord of Hosts, for He shall sustain you. What is your name?”

“B-Birgit, Master,” she stammered.

“Birgit—a beautiful name for a brave and beautiful soul,” Revan replied. “And the boy?”

“Carrollan, for his grandfather,” she whispered.

“Carrollan,” Revan repeated, his gentle smile eliciting a grin from the boy. “The water's cold, isn't it?”

Soberly the boy nodded.

“Well, this won't take long. Carrollan, you and your mother are going to duck under the water. I know you probably think it's a very silly thing, to duck under the water with all your clothes on, but do you think you can hold on very tightly? And my lady, simply lie back when I bid you. I and the Holy Spirit will do all else.”

As the boy and his mother nodded, the boy's eyes wide with awe, Revan slipped his one arm farther around Birgit's shoulders, bidding his disciples back off a few paces before raising his free hand.

“O Holy Spirit, descend upon these, Thy servants, and free them of whatever evil may have assailed them,” he said, bringing his hand to the back of Carrollan's head. “Give to this woman that peace of mind that can only come from purity in Thy sight, and grant mercy to this child, that his innocence may be restored.”

He tipped them backward as he spoke, invoking the Trinity as their heads disappeared beneath the water.

“Be ye purified of all darkness, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, that ye may regain that holy vision of the Light that brings all souls at last unto the Lord.”

He was bringing them up again as he and those around him uttered a confident “Amen.” Javan got to his feet as Revan brought the two back toward shore, where one of the women waited with a towel. As they all emerged, streaming with water, Javan took off his mantle and laid it around the woman's shoulders, then crouched down to help dry the boy's face. The faint vestiges of Deryni power discernible before were gone, and Javan had no doubt that Carrollan O'Carroll would now react only as human to the test of
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.

He headed back toward Queron and the stallion, one hand supporting the woman's elbow and the other closed around one of the boy's small ones, glancing up and beyond them at Paulin and the others waiting at the top of the hill. Over to the right, he saw Robear sitting his horse beside Albertus' second-in-command, both men staring hard across the bend of the river, Robear standing in his stirrups to point aghast at a line of horsemen emerging over the crest of the next rise. The men were heavily armored and bore the enflamed white cross moline fitchy of the outlawed Order of Saint Michael on their surcoats of Michaeline blue.

“Javan!” he heard someone scream, from back among his own troops.

To his amazement, it was Albertus, urgently wheeling his horse out from behind the
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line and signalling the royal troops forward.

“Sire, come back, it's a trap! They're Ansel's men! The same who held your brother hostage!”

At that very moment in Rhemuth, further elements of a long-set plot were also unfolding. Rhys Michael had not been at all certain he should convene the Council that afternoon, for Archbishop Hubert had taken exception to his handling of a request received the day before from a factor of his brother Manfred, in Culdi. The prince was still smarting from the public dressing-down Hubert had given him in front of the entire Council, as if he were an errant schoolboy.

Afterward Etienne had assured him that it was Hubert who had been in error, not the prince, but Rhys Michael was not eager to give the archbishop another crack at him so soon. On the other hand, the Council was supposed to meet regularly in Javan's absence, to deal with the reports now arriving almost daily from the king's royal commissioners.

Resigned to his duty, Rhys Michael let it be known that the Council would meet as planned, then lost himself in his usual morning exercise and sword drill with Sir Tomais, and with Lord Hildred, who was refining his riding skills. He shared a midday meal in his quarters with his now visibly pregnant princess, Tomais joining them and Cathan serving them.

Sorle and Oriel joined them just as they were finishing, for Sorle and young Cathan had been working on several new lute tunes in honor of the princess. He and his charge had been moved into quarters adjoining the royal suite before Javan left, for Oriel to be nearer the princess as her pregnancy progressed. Except for Tomais, the prince left them to pass the afternoon in gentler pursuits, Michaela stitching contentedly on a christening gown for their expected child, while Sorle played and he and Cathan and Oriel sang intricate three-part harmonies.

The Council rose as Rhys Michael and his aide came into the sunny council chamber, the prince taking Javan's usual place at the head of the table, but in a less ornate chair than the carved throne chair customarily used by the king. He wore the royal blue of the heir with the Haldane device picked out in scarlet and gold on the left breast, but differenced by a silver bordure around the edge rather than the label of a third son he had borne during Alroy's lifetime.

A silver coronet confined the jet-black hair that was a Haldane hallmark, his earring of twisted gold wire just glinting through the hair on the right. He twisted at his signet ring as he sat down—it still bore his old coat of arms—and glanced around the table to see who was likely to annoy him today. With Albertus and Rhun and Paulin gone with Javan, the meetings had been smaller this last week and less formal.

Tomais had slid into his customary place at his master's right, on a stool set just slightly behind him. Hubert sat immediately to Rhys Michael's right, with Tammaron directly across from him, on the prince's left. Constable Udaut was just beyond Tammaron, Lord Jerowen at the far end of that side. Archbishop Oriss' seat, between Udaut and Tammaron, was empty.

The prince glanced idly in Hubert's direction as Tomais slipped an agenda onto the table in front of him, wondering where Oriss was. Odd, but a fair-haired
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knight seemed to be serving as Hubert's secretary today, seated on a stool directly behind the archbishop with head bent over a sheaf of papers balanced across his knees.

And beyond Hubert was Richard Murdoch, arrogant and surly looking, returned to Court the day before from his seat at Nyford. He and Rhys Michael had quarreled last night, for the young Earl of Carthane had brought his castellan with him to Rhemuth—a big, burly man called Sir Gideon, who had been castellan at Nyford for Richard's father and continued to serve Richard in that capacity—and Gideon had brought far too many men with him to make the prince entirely happy. Lord Udaut had finally intervened, belittling Rhys Michael's objections and ordering Richard's men quartered in the barracks temporarily vacated by the lancers gone north with Javan. The prince hoped they did not intend to stay long.

He noted Lord Hildred on Richard's other side, and Etienne de Courcy beyond him, then glanced back at Oriss' empty place.

“I see that Archbishop Oriss is not present, my lords,” he said. “Does anyone know whether he plans to attend this afternoon's session?”

“Archbishop Oriss begs to be excused, your Highness,” Hubert said lightly. “I believe he did not sleep well last night.”

Satisfied, Rhys Michael nodded and shifted his feet under him to stand. The Haldane sword was with the king, so it could not be laid on the table in token of royal authority, but Lord Tammaron always set the State Crown of crosses and leaves there in its place, as symbol of the king's authority vested in his regent. The prince rose briefly to touch the fingertips of his right hand to his lips, then to the Crown, as a sign of his fealty, then glanced expectantly at Lord Udaut as he settled in his seat again.

“In the absence of the Earl Marshal, the Lord Constable will please convene the Council,” he said.

Looking faintly bored, Udaut rose, slowly drawing his sword as he had at every meeting for the past week, as substitute for the marshal's baton that Albertus would have wielded. But instead of bringing it to salute and reciting the prescribed formula, he sidestepped quickly to the left to seize a handful of Lord Jerowen's tunic, jerking him to his feet.

At the same time, so quickly that Rhys Michael hardly had time to blink, blades slithered from other scabbards, Richard Murdoch overturning his chair to strike Lord Hildred senseless with the pommel of his sword and then confronting Etienne de Courcy, who had come to his feet in a flash but now raised his hands in a warding-off gesture of surrender, not even attempting to resist as Richard disarmed him. Simultaneously, the
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knight sitting behind Hubert launched himself sideways in a flurry of flying papers to sheathe his sword in the belly of an astonished Sir Tomais, before the young knight's sword could even clear its scabbard.

Tomais' choked cry broke the instant of shocked betrayal that briefly had frozen Rhys Michael to his seat. Survival instinct launched him into action then, throwing himself to the side away from Tomais and at the same time groping frantically for the dagger at his waist. Surely this could not be happening!

But Earl Tammaron was already catching him with an arm around his shoulders from behind, with a speed and skill Rhys Michael had never even suspected, dragging him upright in his chair again with the flat of a dagger's blade pressed hard beneath the royal right ear. Rhys Michael tried to duck out of Tammaron's grasp, hands coming up in reflex to claw at the restraint, but the earl jerked his arm hard across his captive's throat with a whispered “Don't.” At the same time, Rhys Michael was aware of the
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knight reaching a gloved hand across to pluck the dagger from his belt.

As soon as he had done so, Tammaron abruptly released the prince's throat and stepped back, though a hand remained resting lightly on the prince's sleeve, the dagger turning idly in his other hand in warning. Gasping for breath, Rhys Michael recoiled from him in horror, still hardly able to comprehend the betrayal—then whipped his head around at an anguished gurgling behind him to see the
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knight bending over Tomais, the prince's own dagger bright with the blood gushing from Tomais' throat.

With a cry of denial, Rhys Michael tried to go to the dying man, but Tammaron's hand stayed him. Meanwhile, Tomais' murderer tossed the bloody blade on the floor in a gesture of finality, then bent to retrieve his sword from Tomais' belly, looking coldly into the prince's eyes as he wiped his blade clean on a corner of the dying man's mantle. As Tomais' feeble twitchings ceased, Rhys Michael buried his face in his hands with a sob and turned away, certain they meant to kill him as well.

“I would advise,” Hubert said in the sudden silence that followed, “that anyone wishing to share the fate of Sir Tomais has only to offer further resistance. Your Highness, I regret the necessity of having to eliminate your aide in so brutal a manner, for I believe he was also a friend, but I wish you to understand very clearly that what is now unfolding is deadly serious. Now, you will oblige me by drinking this.”

As he spoke, he brought out a little silver flask from somewhere in his ample cassock, setting it on the table and pushing it closer to the prince. Rhys Michael stared at it and him with blank incomprehension for several seconds, suddenly fearing what it might contain—and no one could help him. The traitorous Richard Murdoch had bolted the door and then herded Etienne and the groggy Lord Hildred over to join Jerowen on one of the benches along the long wall of the Council chamber, where Earl Udaut now held all three of the prisoners at sword's point.

“What is it?” he managed to whisper.

“Your brother Alroy was well acquainted with it,” Hubert said with a smile that contained no mirth at all. “Over the years we have found it exceedingly useful for keeping headstrong princes tranquil and biddable.”

“No,” Rhys Michael whispered.

“I do not wish to hear that word from you again, your Highness,” Hubert said coldly, taking up the little flask and removing its stopper, not taking his eyes from Rhys Michael's as he set the flask back on the table and pushed it toward the prince again. “If you prefer, Lord Tammaron can hold you while my good
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knight applies more direct persuasions, but I do not think you will find his methods to your liking. Drink it.”

The blond knight was now standing casually by Rhys Michael's right side, his sword now sheathed, gloved hands resting lightly on his sword belt, but the prince had no doubt that the man could and would force him to drink, if he did not obey of his own free will. Deciding not to dignify Hubert's threat by giving him a direct answer, Rhys Michael raised his chin defiantly and favored the archbishop with a withering glance, then took up the little flask in a trembling hand and tossed down its contents in a single swallow. When he had set the flask back on the table, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth in a gesture of utter disdain, then folded his arms belligerently across his chest.

“Thank you,” Hubert said, smiling the cold smile again. “Now we shall sit here together for a few moments and await word that our other objectives have been attained.”

The minutes ticked by. Rhys Michael could feel his tension unwinding despite his fear, the dull lethargy of the drugged wine slowly insinuating itself into body and mind. Richard and Udaut both pulled chairs from around the table to sit facing their prisoners. Hubert, in one of the most hypocritical displays Rhys Michael had ever seen, lumbered his bulk to his feet and came to kneel ponderously beside the dead Tomais and give him the Last Rites.