The Harrowing of Gwynedd (54 page)

“If it honestly pertains to this discussion, yes. However, I hope you don't intend to offer an excuse for what you did.”

“Not an excuse—no, your Grace. But an explanation, if I may.”

“Very well.”

Javan drew a deep breath, calling upon all the eloquence at his command.

“First of all, I beg pardon for any offense my behavior may have given. I truly did not set out to defy you. Had our discussion been able to take place in private, I feel certain you would have seen my argument as disagreement rather than defiance. You have taught me to examine my conscience, your Grace, and in conscience, I felt that I
had
to do what I did. But I see how my public conduct of the matter appeared to challenge your authority. I am sorry for that, and I deserve whatever just punishment you see fit to impose.”

Hubert snorted, but it was a resigned, almost indulgent snort rather than one of total disbelief. “And
why
did you feel you
had
to do it?” he demanded. “What colossal arrogance makes you think that your evaluation of the situation was necessarily superior to mine?”

“Because I'm
tired
of all the killing!” Javan blurted, half turning to face Hubert, to the agony of his shifting knees. “Your Grace, I don't know how much more I can take! I try to be a proper prince and endure what I must, for the sake of my rank, but how much can that rank demand? How many more helpless men must I see drawn and quartered, their families coldly killed—”

“You will endure what you must,” Hubert said stonily, setting the end of his whip against Javan's chin to turn his face back to the bloody
Christus
. “Like Him, you will endure what is set before you. You will drain your cup to its dregs, because you are a prince and may someday stand in the stead of God, either as a priest or even as your brother the king does now. And it is not for you to determine, at your young and tender age, what you will or will not endure. Do I make myself clear?”

Tears welling in his eyes despite his will to the contrary, Javan nodded jerkily.

“
Do
—
I
—
make
—
myself
—
clear?
” Hubert repeated, with each word rapping Javan smartly on the shoulder with the end of the whip.

Sinking back dejectedly on his heels, no longer worrying about his knees, Javan managed to murmur, “Yes, your Grace.”

“Excellent. I am delighted that we understand one another. Now.” Hubert took in a deep breath and sighed. “There is the matter of penitence. I am satisfied that you understand your error and that you are contrite. Accordingly, I forgive you—with the understanding that you will not allow this to happen again. We shall speak later of the implications of what you have done. Abbot Secorim will be dining with me this evening, and I expect you to join us. In the meantime, however, there is the matter of a suitable punishment for your behavior. Do you have any suggestions?”

Javan shook his head.

“Very well, then. First of all, because you have confessed your fault readily, without trying to deny your guilt, I shall do you the courtesy of treating you as a man instead of a wayward boy. Accordingly, I shall
not
turn you over my knee and thrash you.”

Javan allowed himself the faintest sigh of relief at that reprieve.

“However,” the archbishop went on, “since your offense was against my authority as archbishop, when you owed me obedience as a retreatant under my roof, I suggest that the penalty be assigned as if you were a lay brother living under the rule of this House. If one of my monks had committed this offense, the penalty would be twenty lashes, administered by two of his brethren.” Javan started as the thongs of the “little discipline” were flicked lightly over his shoulder. “It can draw blood, but you will not be scarred. Do you accept this punishment?”

Javan swallowed, but he gave a nod. He had feared far worse.

“I accept it, your Grace,” he murmured.

“Then you will signify your acceptance by kissing the ‘discipline,'” Hubert said, shoving the handle of the whip under Javan's nose. “The appropriate verbal response is,
‘Deo gratias.'
”

“
Deo gratias
,” Javan murmured obediently, ducking his head to comply, trying not to notice the smooth gleam of the knots in the leather thongs.

“So be it. And may God sustain you in your repentance and aid you to bear manfully the penalty you have invoked by your transgression,” Hubert murmured, withdrawing the whip and using it to trace a cross over Javan's head. “
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen
.”

“Amen,” Javan whispered, before Hubert had to prompt him.

“Very good. I'll leave you for a while, then, to prepare yourself,” Hubert said. “When the brothers come in, you will stand. They will ask your forgiveness, which you will give. You will then strip to the waist and kneel, upright and with your arms outstretched in imitation of Our Saviour, on Whose example of suffering you will meditate while the penance is carried out. The brothers chastising you have many years experience disciplining young monks and will attempt to gauge their strokes by what they believe you should be able to endure without crying out. If you
do
cry out, an extra lash will be added for each occurrence. Please try to ensure that this will not be necessary.”

He was gone before Javan could try to assure him that such would be uppermost in his mind. The soft snick of the door closing made his empty stomach churn, and he wondered how long he had before the monks came in. As he eased off his knees to stand, he gasped with the sharp pain of circulation suddenly returning. Steadying himself against the kneeler's armrest to spare his lame foot, he bent to massage first one knee and then the other as he flexed them in turn. Hubert had said that the “discipline” would not scar him, but what about his knees? The pain was fierce as circulation returned—and went completely numb as someone knocked softly at the door and then the latch lifted.

Chilled, Javan stood straighter and watched as the two
Custodes
monks entered, the taller one carrying a bucket with two short handles protruding from it. Their hoods were up, and the torchlight behind them, so he could not see their faces, but he sensed they were not the same ones who had brought him here. A sharp whiff of vinegar twitched at his nostrils as the one put down the bucket and both of them knelt.

“Pray, forgive us, your Highness, for what we must do for the good of your soul,” the shorter one murmured.

Javan nodded, his voice catching a little in his throat. “I—forgive you right readily,” he managed to whisper.

He could not quite seem to manage the fastening at the neck of his robe, however, and had to let the taller man help him. Opened, the upper part of the garment fell in loose folds around his waist, girt in by the plain rope cincture tied around his waist, leaving his upper body exposed.

“Lift the edge of your robe a little before you kneel, your Highness,” the man murmured, guiding him to face the
prie-dieu
and the fresco beyond. “The sharper discomfort in your knees will help keep your mind off your back.”

Surprised, Javan did as he was bidden, wincing a little as he lowered himself onto the carved wood—though at least it was a familiar pain. The pungent tang of vinegar was much stronger as he heard the men taking their whips out of the bucket, and it made the bile rise up in his throat.

“Brace yourself against the armrest before you raise your arms,” the monk advised again, now behind him, “and bite on this.” A hand thrust something brown and flat in front of his mouth—a thick piece of leather, he realized, as he bit down.

“Now let us all recite a silent
Pater Noster
,” the other monk said quietly. “And afterward, let each stroke of the little discipline drive your error from you, that you may be sanctified in the mercy of the Lord our God.”

Javan prayed the prayer as he had never prayed it before, arms outstretched and head held steady, focusing on the lettering painted above the suffering Christ's head—
INRI
, picked out in a ruddy gold that glowed in the torchlight. He must have prayed it faster than the monks, for it seemed forever before the first stroke snapped across his back, more startling and wet than painful. The second was no worse, but the third stung like nettles, and the fourth began to burn. After a few more, he became increasingly thankful he had the piece of leather to bite on. By the time they reached the halfway point, he only hoped he could hang on.

For the second ten, he could only endure, impaled on his own will not to cry out, his arms trembling as if he hung on a cross in truth, like the man on the Tree before him, though he uttered not a sound. He lost count before they finished, and was only aware that it was over when he heard them putting the whips back into the bucket.

“Well stood, lad,” the short monk murmured beside his left ear. “You can put your arms down now—though I'd advise you to keep a good bite on that bit of leather.”

His arms were trembling so badly, he could not think what the man meant; but when he had been guided to rest his hands on the armrest in front of him, he found out. He gasped as the other monk sponged cold vinegar over his back, the acidic liquid burning in each weal. He wondered whether he was bleeding, though he could not tell with the vinegar running down his back.

The pain abated a little from the treatment, though, and he was able to stop his trembling as the short monk helped him draw his robe back over his shoulders and stand.

“You're a credit to your house, my prince,” the monk said quietly. “I've known grown men to cry out from less than we gave you.”

Javan winced as he straightened his knees, still leaning hard on the
prie-dieu
, not looking at the man. “I'm surprised you didn't keep on until I
did
cry out. Wasn't that the whole purpose?”

“Only to a certain point,” the man said frankly. “The true purpose was to test your self-control, to bring you right to the brink, but not break you. The penalty should be sharp enough to hurt a great deal, to the very edge of what one can bear, to impress the seriousness of one's error, but not enough to humiliate or do permanent harm. You'll remember this lesson, I think—and the fact that you tested yourself beyond what you thought your limits were. That builds character rather than tearing it down.”

“We'll take you to your squire now, your Highness,” the taller man said. “He'll help you bathe and dress. His Grace is expecting you in less than an hour.”

Several hours later, long after the final course had been cleared away by silent, obliging monks, Javan remained a reluctant guest at Hubert's table. He could not have said, afterward, what he had eaten, but it lay in his stomach like lead—a condition not helped by the fact that the room was far too warm. Furthermore, Hubert had seated him closest to the fire—normally an act of solicitude to an honored guest, but one which tonight only made Javan more aware of the state of his back. According to Charlan, some of the weals crisscrossing the royal back probably would show bruising by morning, but the squire assured him that there was no blood. Indeed, he had commended the skill of the monks who carried out the punishment.

“You're lucky those monks knew
exactly
what they were doing, your Highness,” Charlan allowed, as he gently bathed the weals, dried them, and then applied a soothing ointment. “I don't suppose you have much experience with such things—princes don't get thrashed the way squires do—but this really doesn't look too bad. If you wouldn't mind a little friendly advice from someone who's survived a few thrashings, I'd suggest that you wear soft shirts, sleep on your stomach for the next few nights, and choose stools to sit on rather than chairs.”

The first had already been laid out with the starkly plain black tunic and hose they had decided was politic for the evening; the second was a necessity to be tested later that night; and the third turned out not to be a choice that must be made. Hubert had provided a stool at the place designated at table, but otherwise made no allusion to what had happened earlier in the evening. Javan could not tell whether Secorim knew or not, though the abbot surely must have received reports, both from his men present at the riverside and from the two who had carried out the punishment. While they supped, neither abbot nor archbishop spoke of any but the most inconsequential of subjects, and Javan spoke hardly at all.

After supper, however, as Hubert poured strong red wine for all three of them, Javan knew that further avoidance of the afternoon's events was going to be impossible—and it was becoming equally impossible to ignore his back. Soft as his old shirt was, next to his skin, he could feel the linen sticking to his flesh—from sweat, he was sure, but he kept imagining it was blood. Seeing the bloodred wine in the cup Hubert set before him did not improve his state of mind.

“So,” Hubert said, sitting back with his elbows on the arms of his chair, a fine silver goblet cupped between his two hands. “Why don't you tell Father Secorim what you know of this Master Revan, and why you feel that the new baptism he preaches does not present a threat to Mother Church.”

Javan cupped his hands around his own goblet, considering very carefully before he spoke. He had barely tasted his wine, for fear of loosening his tongue too much—he
knew
it was strong. Still, the temptation was great to drain it and ask for more—anything to numb the burning ache of his back.

“It's—difficult to know where to begin, Father Secorim,” he said after a slight pause. “I like to think I've studied a great deal, but I'm not a theologian. Nonetheless, I have always been taught that our God is a loving and merciful God, Who cannot bear to see His children suffer.”

“He is also a just God, your Highness,” Secorim replied, “and He will not suffer the wicked to go unpunished.”