King Javan’s Year (13 page)

Robear was with them now, along with Jason and Charlan, Sorle, Bertrand, and Tomais. The six formed a phalanx around him and Rhys Michael as they moved quietly through the hall, shielding them from physical danger, but he could feel the eyes upon him, assessing, calculating. He held his head high and tried to carry himself like a king.

It was not easy in the heat and got harder when he and his party had gained the great hall porch. The sun beat down on his bare head and dazzled his eyes, making an oven of even the lightweight tunic he wore—though at least with everyone else in somber garments, he did not feel as conspicuous as he had before, or that his own attire proclaimed his former clergy status quite so stridently. He had been pleasantly surprised to discover that the tunic Jason had brought him, though black, was cut with a square neck rather than the standing collar that would have made it so like the clerical garb he had put aside. The loosely woven linen had felt almost cool against his skin when he put it on, though it was not cool just now, standing there in the sun, with the muffled bells of Saint Hilary's and the cathedral down below tolling out the passing of a king.

He tried to put the heat from his mind as a stir in the hall behind him presaged the approach of the cortege. Some of the courtiers in the hall swept down the steps ahead of it, murmuring among themselves and seeking shelter from the sun in the meager shade of walls, but silence breathed from the hall as the great processional cross from Rhemuth Cathedral emerged from the inner dimness.

It was borne by a crucifer in the full black habit and hooded scapular of the
Custodes Fidei
, the hood drawn up to obscure his face. Boy acolytes from the cathedral flanked him with processional torches, sweltering in cassocks and surplices, and a thurifer walked behind them, trailing a cloud of pungent incense smoke and contributing to everyone's discomfort.

Following them came Manfred MacInnis with the sheathed State Sword held before him, and Earl Tammaron with a crimson cushion bearing the State Crown of Gwynedd—the real one, not the scaled-down version they had made to crown a twelve-year-old king.

And behind the crown came Alroy himself, his bier borne on the shoulders of six of his knights, his pale, wasted body laid out with hands folded on the breast of a plain white robe like an alb—perhaps the very one he had worn for the anointing at his sacring. Covering him from the waist down, they had laid a pall of Haldane crimson worked with the royal arms, supple with silken embroidery and appliqué, spilling off the sides and end of the bier and over the shoulders of the knights at that end. Sir Gavin walked beside the bier, head bowed and sword grasped by the blade like a cross.

The two archbishops followed side by side carrying their croziers, both perspiring in heavy black copes and mitres. They paused as the knights carried Alroy down the steps to the castle yard, allowing Javan and Rhys Michael to join the procession directly behind the bier, as chief mourners. The Court began falling in behind the archbishops as the cortege started across the castle yard, silent but for the continued tolling of the bells.

The basilica was crowded and close, as Javan had known it would be, offering respite from the sun but not from the heat. He had known the service would be an ordeal; but the combination of too many candles, too much incense, and too many bodies confined in a space with too little ventilation far exceeded his expectations, especially when he must deal with his grief and the prospects in store for him at the Accession Council. Sweat plastered his tunic to his body and occasionally ran into his eyes, matting his hair to his skull, and the very air was thick and hard to breathe.

Mercifully, the next two hours passed mostly in a blur, as the tone-deaf Archbishop Oriss labored through the sung Requiem with a hastily assembled choir brought up from his cathedral, and Javan knelt dutifully with his remaining brother and their escort of knights at the very front of the basilica. Unremitting sunlight poured through the clerestory windows, raising the temperature in the crowded church and starkly illuminating the black-draped catafalque and its royal burden, paling the flames of the six massive candlesticks around it to insignificance. At the head of the catafalque, the State Crown rested on its crimson cushion in a particularly glaring ray of sunlight, the incense smoke twining among the crosses and leaves. Up on Alroy's body, though Javan could not see it from where he knelt, Earl Tammaron had laid the Great Sword of Gwynedd atop the Haldane pall, the hilt slipped under the dead king's folded hands.

Somehow Javan made it through the Mass. After, with his six escort knights in tow, he sought temporary refuge in Rhys Michael's rooms again, stripping off his tunic to let Charlan sponge him off with cool water and even dunking his head in a basin to cool it. Robear made him eat some bread and cheese and gnaw on a joint of roast capon—and he knew he needed sustenance before going down to face the Council—but he could not summon up much appetite. He did manage to fortify himself with a cup of ale, while he reviewed the list of knights Jason had summoned to the meeting ahead and Jason briefed him on essentials that must be covered. A brief summary of topics needing future investigation or legislation bore closer examination for the future.

When he had dressed again, suffering Charlan's brief ministrations with a comb, he let Rhys Michael set a coronet on his head that he had never worn before—a golden circlet hammered with a repoussé of running lions, their legs and tails intertwined. It had been Alroy's. He looked into the polished metal mirror that Charlan held before him, at the royal diadem set above stark raven hair and eyes that seemed to have gone almost colorless, then drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

“Does that look like a king to you?” he murmured to his brother.

Rhys Michael managed a taut smile and gave him a nod.

“Let's try it on the Council and see what they think.”

A full two dozen knights in his Haldane livery were waiting for him and his party outside the doors to the Council chamber, all of them armed and battle-ready. Though he recognized one of Udaut's senior captains among them and apparently in charge, a full third of the men were among those who had accompanied him back from
Arx Fidei
. Standing to one side of them were a silver-haired stranger and the hook-nosed baron who had come to his defense outside Alroy's sickroom, both of them in black, both of them wearing swords and daggers. Among a handful of other knights behind them, who were not wearing livery, Javan noticed another man who looked to be a son or younger brother of the bold baron.

“The older man is Lord Jerowen Reynolds, Sire,” Charlan murmured close beside his ear. “The baron is Etienne de Courcy, as you know. And that's his son toward the back—Sir Guiscard.”

Javan nodded. “I may owe de Courcy my crown,” he said under his breath, studying the man anew. “He's the lawyer?”

“Aye, my lord. So is Lord Jerowen. He and the de Courcys have been working on draft documents to support that summary you looked at while you ate.”

Along with the other knights, Lord Jerowen and both de Courcys bowed as Javan drew abreast of them.

“Gentlemen,” Javan said quietly, acknowledging their bows with a nod.

Before he could say anything further, Jason touched his elbow.

“We'd best go inside, my liege,” he murmured. “You've made the Council cool their heels for nearly half an hour already.”

Javan managed a wry grin. “If the process has brought them relief from the heat, then I've done them a favor, haven't I?” he murmured, heartened when most of his audience at least smiled and a few even chuckled. “But you're right. We should go in. Wish me luck, gentlemen.”

The liveried knights drew back, for they would remain outside unless needed. At Charlan's signal, Tomais and Bertrand threw open the doors to the Council chamber. The room beyond
was
cooler, breathing a puff of breeze against Javan's face and neck as he started forward—or was it a shiver of apprehension? The low murmur of voices gave way immediately to the sound of chairs being pushed back, wood grating against stone, and the hollow scuff of shoes and boots knocking against chair legs, spurs and scabbards ringing against wood and stone.

Javan refused to let himself be intimidated as he stepped across the threshold. The room was familiar, paneled in golden oak, its vaulted ceiling plastered between the support beams and painted with a starry sky picked out in gilt. A series of deep windows along the left looked out on a vista of sunny garden, with the long table set parallel. To reach the head of the table, he must traverse the full length of the room.

Taking his time and hardly limping at all, Javan made his way deliberately between the table and the windows, so that his adversaries must view him against the glare. Benches had been set up against the long wall on the other side of the table, and most of his small party headed there, though Charlan and Jason followed directly behind him and Rhys Michael made for the chair at the foot of the table. Earl Tammaron and Archbishop Hubert had been sitting to either side of the high-backed chair with the Haldane arms painted on its back, and they bowed as Javan eased in front of it. The sheathed Sword of State lay on the table with its hilt pointed toward the chair: the sword that had been his father's—and his brother's—and was one of the symbols of Haldane sovereignty.

Javan touched the fingertips of his right hand to his lips, then to the crossing on the sword, where the hilt met the quillons. As he sat, gesturing for the rest to take their seats, he directed his gaze appraisingly across the men gathered 'round the table.

It was not as bad as he had feared. Neither Murdoch nor Rhun was here—the two men he had least been looking forward to dealing with. Archbishop Oriss and Lord Udaut were seated beyond Earl Tammaron, along the left side of the table. Rhys Michael was at the other end, with Manfred MacInnis at his right.

But between Manfred and Udaut was a man Javan had last seen more than three years ago, at the institution of the
Custodes Fidei
. Prior to that, “Brother Albertus” had been Peter Sinclair, Earl of Tarleton; but on that day, having resigned his earldom to his eldest son, he had become Grand Master of the
Equites Custodum Fidei
—the Knights of the Guardians of the Faith—a poor substitute for Lord Jebediah of Alcara, who had been Grand Master of the Michaelines.

And across from Albertus sat the man who was directly responsible for the
Custodes Fidei
, its knights, and indeed, most of the organized persecution of Deryni over the last five years: Paulin of Ramos, who had set aside a bishop's mitre to become Vicar General of the new Order, and who had been born a Sinclair, the younger brother of Albertus. Both were Tammaron's stepsons by his wife's first marriage, though nearly of his generation. Javan had no idea how close they were to their stepfather, but the brothers themselves were said to be thick as thieves. He felt a little sick to see them sitting here, for he had not realized that they were on Alroy's Council.

He glanced aside at Charlan, who was settling himself on a stool at Javan's right, as Jason scooted closer on the left and passed him a written agenda, which Javan laid on the table before him.

“I thank you for your prompt attendance, gentlemen,” he said, looking down the table. “The Earl Marshal will please convene the Council.”

He had expected Manfred to stand, for the marshal's ivory baton lay on the table before him, close by his right hand. But to Javan's dismay, it was Albertus who rose and took up the baton, shifting it from his left hand to his right to salute the king. Only then did Javan realize that Albertus wore his sword on his right and was left-handed. The
Custodes
Grand Master reminded Javan of a great, black bird of prey as he addressed the room in a soldier's voice.

“My lords, I call to order this first Council of Gwynedd following the death of our late beloved King Alroy Bearand Brion Haldane. Let Justice, tempered by Mercy, prevail in all our judgments. So be it.”

“So be it,” the others repeated as Albertus folded back into his seat.

It had
not
been the prescribed formula. And Albertus' careful wording to avoid mentioning Javan's name betokened a challenge that must be met and disarmed immediately, or all was lost.

“Lord Albertus,” he said, though he raised his voice hardly at all, “I was under the impression that Lord Manfred MacInnis was still Earl Marshal of this kingdom. Furthermore, since this is an Accession Council, I believe it is customary to invoke the name of the present king as well as the late one. If I am mistaken in the first instance, pray, at least correct the second.”

Slowly and deliberately Paulin, not Albertus, stood, deliberately directing his gaze toward Tammaron, seated at Javan's left. “My Lord Chancellor, until the matter of the succession is properly settled, Lord Albertus may not comply with Brother Javan's request, both of them being under vows of obedience to me.”

Javan felt his jaw clench involuntarily. So
that
was how they were going to play it—invoking Tammaron's leadership for the moment and going back to the old question of Javan's “vows.” Keeping his anger tightly in check, Javan leaned back in his chair and glanced at Tammaron, ready to Truth-Read what was being said.

“Tammaron, you will not answer him,” he said. “Since Father Paulin was not present earlier today, he was not privy to the exchange in which the temporary nature of my vows was discussed. Such Holy Orders as I took are not an impediment to the crown—only to marriage. Such Orders can be dispensed, as was done for my late father. As for the vows I made with the
Custodes Fidei
, ask Archbishop Hubert whether I, at any time, indicated a desire or intention that any vows be permanent.”

Bowing slightly from his place, Paulin smiled and gestured in the direction of a shadowed corner behind him, just inside the door.