The Harrowing of Gwynedd (53 page)

To Javan's dismay, the multitudes crowded around to kiss
his
hand then, before forming new lines to go into the water to receive purification at Revan's hands. And one man who came down from the slope opposite where Hubert watched and waited was a prize indeed—Lord Torcuill de la Marche, a Deryni who had served Javan's father. The once striking Torcuill looked terrible and nearly fell from his horse as he drew rein at the bottom of the hill and dismounted.

The crowd rumbled dangerously, for he was the first Deryni from outside their ranks to come to their attention. They had not known of Ursin's identity, and the few Willimite Deryni had long ago denounced their powers.

“Your Highness, is it true?” Torcuill murmured, staggering to within a few yards of Javan, desperation and hope writ harsh across his face. “I've been riding for days.”

Playing out his necessary part, Javan drew his mantle more closely around him and stood a little straighter.

“I know you,” he said coolly. “You're Deryni. I remember you from court, before my father died. Is
what
true?”

“That Master Revan can redeem me.” His voice breaking with emotion, Torcuill collapsed at Javan's feet, clutching at an edge of his mantle. “Oh, God, I hate what I am!” he sobbed. “It's cost me—
everything
. My—my wife, my children, my lands—everything I spent a lifetime working for. I tried to save them, but a—mob found us. They killed theeeem,” he wailed. “My wife and all my pretty bairns. They're dead, can't you see? Oh God, what's to become of me? I want to blot it out! I want to rip it all from my memory!”

Even knowing it was all an act, Javan could not help but be moved. His hands were trembling from more than the chill of being wet as he lifted his eyes to Revan, who had waded out of the water as Torcuill poured out his grief. Dripping, the prophet knelt on the grass beside Torcuill and stroked a gentle hand across his brow.

“What is your name, my brother?” he whispered, slipping his hand to the man's shoulder as Torcuill sat back on his heels to look at him uncertainly.

“Torcuill de la Marche,” the Deryni replied.

“Torcuill,” Revan repeated. “And do you truly mean what you say, dear Torcuill? Do you earnestly entreat the Lord to wash you clean of your iniquity and make you pure?”

Awed, Torcuill blinked a little dazedly at Revan, then nodded.

“Praise be to God, who has brought you to this place,” Revan breathed. “Torcuill de la Marche, I believe you have found what you seek, if you will but take it. If you truly repent of your past life and are determined to set it aside forever, the Lord can give you purification. Yes, and forgetfulness of what you were, if you desire it. Will you take His peace?”

Breathing hard, taking Revan's hand as if it were a lifeline, Torcuill nodded. “What must I do?”

“Come with me,” Revan whispered, rising to tug at Torcuill's hand. “Come into the cleansing waters with me, and the Lord shall give you peace. This is His promise to His children, Torcuill. Believe it, and you shall be redeemed.”

Trembling, Torcuill rose. Weeping, he followed Revan into the water, Sylvan and Joachim plunging after to steady him at first as the two waded deeper, deeper. Javan, sensing movement on the hillside behind them, knew that Hubert was taking the bait, coming down to see the miracle for himself. He sank to his knees to watch Revan do his work, aware that the rest of the multitude were also kneeling all around him, hampering Hubert's progress.

Sylvan and the Willimite remained in the shallows as Revan led his subject into chest-deep water and set his arm behind Torcuill's back, bowing their heads over folded hands as the prophet laid his right hand across the Deryni's forehead and lowered him into the water. Javan could not hear him clearly, but the words did not matter anyway. Both Torcuill and Revan had already set their stage with exacting perfection. By the time a dazed Torcuill was wading out of the water, assisted by one of the Willimites, many of the others watching around Javan had started toward the lines forming up again. And Hubert and Father Lior were striding through the throng like avenging angels, their guards clearing a path before them, directly to Javan.

“Arrest that man!” Hubert ordered, pointing past Javan at Torcuill, emerging from the water. “I know him, and I'll have him hanged. He's a notorious Deryni.”

“Arrest him for being born Deryni, your Grace?” Javan said, as the guards laid hands on the bemused Torcuill and dragged him unresisting before Hubert. “He is Deryni no longer. The Master Revan has washed away his past.”

“Yes, yes, and confession and absolution wash away a man's past, too, but he still must make restitution for what he has done.”

“And what has Lord Torcuill done besides what you would have everyone of his race to do?” Javan retorted. “Can you not recognize when your prayers have been answered, Archbishop? Torcuill de la Marche is no longer Deryni. Test him, if you doubt it.”

“I shall do precisely that,” Hubert said between clenched teeth, motioning Lior forward with his Deryni pricker.

But all their testing revealed no chink in the illusion just fabricated. Twice Torcuill was dosed with
merasha
, only to slip into a drowsy, compliant state, apparently remembering little of his past life.

“But, he
was
Deryni,” Hubert murmured, as Lior gave him a shrug signifying that nothing more could be done. “I
know
he was Deryni. That's why he was removed from the royal council.”

“And well did you rid us of him,” Javan agreed, lying through his teeth. “But now a better way has been presented to rid us of the Deryni—and to save them as well. And is not your mandate as archbishop the cure of souls?”

“I'll not be instructed in my duties by a boy, even if he
is
a prince,” Hubert muttered between clenched teeth. “You go too far, Javan.”

“I apologize if I have offended your Grace,” Javan murmured, making a contrite little bow. “But I
know
it must be better to save lives than to take them. Surely you cannot argue that, your Grace.”

“Hmmm, we shall see,” Hubert replied. “And we shall speak more of this later.”

“Of course, your Grace. But in the meantime, I suggest you satisfy yourself that there's nothing Deryni about Master Revan and let's be gone—because if you try to take him, you'll have to deal with all these people. I wouldn't count our chances too high, if you threaten their prophet. He
has power
, your Grace. I've felt it. And it isn't Deryni power.”

He was hoping that the faint challenge would make Hubert decline to test Revan with
merasha
, if only because it put the drug that much closer to himself, but Hubert became most adamant on that point.

“I don't intend to use force unless it's absolutely necessary,” Hubert said, as two guards waded out to request Revan's presence. “If he's legitimate, he won't mind being given a clean bill of health where Deryni are concerned. And if this
is
some Deryni trick, we'll know that, too.”

But Revan approached compliantly enough, giving Hubert courteous greeting and kneeling to kiss his ring in token of filial obedience as a son of the Church.

“I am honored to meet your Grace,” Revan murmured. “I am likewise honored that you thought to lend your presence to this gathering. The people are heartened to see their archbishop acknowledging the wonder it has been my good fortune to bring. And the participation of their prince has won all their hearts.”

Hubert snorted, somewhat disarmed by the acclamation. “I don't presume to understand all of this, though further inquiries will be made, you can be certain. And I shan't attempt to take you into custody here. Your followers might not like it.”

“No, your Grace, they would not, though they would permit it if I told them to do so.”

“I see.” Hubert sniffed. “I shall ask you point-blank, then. Are you Deryni?”

“Of course not, your Grace,” Revan said with a smile. “In my younger, more foolish days, I served a Deryni household, but all that is behind me now. Does the good Father Lior wish to test my veracity? I understand that the most holy
Custodes Fidei
are quite adept at unmasking secret Deryni.”

Hubert laughed a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Do you think that will prevent me having you tested, simply because you have raised the point first? I assure you, it will not. Father Lior?”

At the snap of his fingers, Lior was at his side, readying his
merasha
. Smiling slightly, Revan held out his hand, hardly flinching when Lior jammed the charged needles deep into his palm. As Lior pulled the needles out and mixed a few additional drops of the drug with the blood on the upturned palm, Revan merely smiled wistfully and shook his head.

“You honor me, Father, by giving me a wound like in kind but not degree to Our Lord's wounds. But I truly am not worthy of this honor. I am not fit to tie the lachets of His sandals. Truly, I am but the humble messenger, bringing God's promise to these who have walked in darkness.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the still captive Torcuill. “One need not be
of
the Dark to sense the Dark and seek to light it.”

By now it was obvious that Lior would get no reaction from his drug. With a snort, Hubert slapped away the hand of one of the guards supporting Revan on his knees before him.

“Oh, get away and let him be. I don't know what he is, but he isn't Deryni. Maybe he
is
sent by God to cleanse us of the Deryni curse. I don't know. You men, bring the horses down. I'm tired of this place. And his Highness and I have some unfinished business when we return to Valoret.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
SIX

I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came
.

—Job 3:26

Javan's knees were nearly numb from kneeling, but he knew he must not stand or even shift position. He had been kneeling in near darkness for the best part of an hour now, in the tiny, windowless chamber that the archbishop usually reserved for disciplining errant monks. The starkly functional
prie-dieu
faced away from the door. Not only was its kneeler unpadded, but the surface was carved with crosses whose imprint would remain on a penitent's throbbing knees for hours after the actual penance had been endured. Just above eye level on the whitewashed wall, a painted Christ writhed on a painted cross, bloody and nearly lifesized, suffering horribly—a Christ with no pity to spare for a lowly miscreant awaiting judgment.

Javan had heard of the little room, but he had never seen it before tonight. Actually, he supposed he was lucky Hubert had sent him here instead of to one of the abbey dungeons. He could feel the archbishop's presence behind him, dark and threatening. A single torch near the door cast the shadow of the episcopal chair on the wall before him. It also cast the shadow of Hubert himself, as he rose and came to stand directly behind Javan, toying with the whip of knotted cords piously called the “little discipline.”

“You defied me in public, Javan,” the archbishop finally said, speaking for the first time since entering the room. His voice was deceptively mild. “I can overlook many lapses, for you are yet young, but I cannot overlook open and public defiance, especially in a situation which might have become dangerous to your person.”

Trying to keep from shivering, for he would
not
show weakness in front of the enemy, Javan kept his head ducked in an attitude of contrition and thrust his crossed arms further into the sleeve openings of his thin black robe. His bare feet ached from the cold, especially his twisted foot, and he wondered whether he would fall, the first time he tried to stand up. Just walking here had been hard enough, without his special boot.

Actually, he suspected that was probably all part of the plan. Javan had known from the start that he would have to pay the price for his performance by the river. He had crossed Hubert inexcusably. Though Hubert dared do no serious physical harm to a prince of the blood, abundant options existed for princely discipline, all of them distinctly unpleasant—and Javan had no doubt that the archbishop would exercise one of the more disagreeable of his options. Other than to place Javan in the charge of two grim and silent
Custodes
monks for the ride back to Valoret, Hubert had not spoken to him since leaving the river. It was the monks who had brought him to the little chamber, after seeing that he changed from his still damp cleric's attire into the traditional garment of a penitent. He could sense them lurking just outside the door.

“Javan, I speak to you now, not as one of your regents but as your archbishop,” Hubert said after a heavy sigh. “When you asked to come to Valoret and make a religious retreat, you may have forgotten that you placed yourself under my rule and the rule of this House. The fact that you are not yet in Holy Orders absolves you from the traditional vows of poverty and chastity, but not from obedience. When I allowed you to accompany me to the Willimite encampment, it was with the understanding that you recognized that. I did
not
expect you to defy me in public, regardless of whether I later came to accept the possible merit of your arguments. It is for that open defiance that you are kneeling here now and for which you must be punished. Do you understand?”

Swallowing miserably, Javan bobbed his head in assent. “Yes, your Grace.”

“And do you understand why this wicked, willful behavior cannot be tolerated?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“
Why
can it not be tolerated?”

“Because you are archbishop, and my spiritual father, your Grace,” Javan murmured, saying what he knew Hubert had to hear before they could wind this uncomfortable business to a speedy end. “But—may I say something, your Grace?”