King Javan’s Year (63 page)

He had hoped for time to implant more complex controls for the future, which would not require physical touch for their triggering, but the footsteps were approaching too quickly for that—could Father Sixtus really walk that fast? Just as the door opened, he withdrew with a final command for Hubert to give him absolution, keeping his head bowed over tight-clasped hands until Hubert had pronounced the prescribed formula. To his horror, as he looked up, it was Paulin and not Father Sixtus who had come striding into the little room, clearly as surprised as he.

“I do beg your pardon, Sire, your Grace,” Paulin murmured. “I did not realize …”

“No harm,” Hubert assured him, giving Javan a hand up. “His Highness and I were just finishing. I give you leave to perform your penance in the Chapel Royal, Sire. 'Twill be a cold ride back up to the castle. Think upon your sin as you ride, offering up your discomfort to God. But the sin is a small one, and easily transformed into a virtue. Remember that.”

“I will endeavor to do so, your Grace,” Javan murmured, bowing formally to the archbishop and then inclining his head toward Paulin. “Vicar General.”

Then he was fleeing from the archbishop's quarters, shaking in afterreaction once he had reached the safety of Guiscard and Charlan and was on his way out of the episcopal precincts.

“Paulin came in, just at the end,” he murmured as they went into the cathedral close to mount up. “I don't think he suspected anything, but it was a near-run thing. I'll tell you more when we get back to the castle. And then I think we'd better go and visit your father, Guiscard.”

Paulin, meanwhile, was by no means devoid of suspicion.

“What did he want of you?” he demanded, sitting down in the chair next to Hubert's.

“Absolution,” the archbishop replied blandly, but with an arch little smile. “It seems that the king's brother is not the only one who burns for want of a lady's favors.”

“Javan?” Paulin murmured, incredulous.

“Yes. So much for
Custodes
discipline of the flesh.” Hubert smiled. “It's clear he hasn't succumbed as yet, except to impure thoughts, but one may entertain fond hopes. Would you like to know who has inspired such an occasion of sin?”

“I can't imagine,” Paulin replied, clearly intrigued—and dubious.

“Would the name Juliana of Horthness surprise you?” Hubert returned. “He mentioned several others as well, but Rhun's dark-eyed daughter seems to be the one who troubles him most.”

“Yes, she
would
trouble him—a bewitching creature—though one must wonder whether the troubling has more political origins than carnal ones, in Javan's case.” He looked at Hubert closely. “Are you sure he was sincere about this? He couldn't have been making it up, to test how you'd react?”

“You're suggesting that he'd fake a confession, sully the Sacrament?” Hubert said. “Not Javan. He may have forsaken his vows, but I can't imagine that of him. No, I think he's simply a healthy young man beginning to discover his own passions. That's becoming in a king. I hold great hopes for him, Paulin.”

And that same night in Culdi, assured of privacy by his indulgent host, another healthy young man reclined in a pile of sleeping furs pulled onto the floor in front of a cozy fire, a fair, tousled head cradled against his shoulder. In the near dark, the king's brother almost could not see the thin red scar of the healed wound just above his left knee. Master Stevanus had removed the sutures nearly a week ago, and most of the bruising had faded. He was pleased at how quickly he had healed.

As if reading his thoughts, his comely companion snuggled closer and reached a slender hand across to stroke lightly up the scar and then on to tease at his manhood. He chuckled at that, stretching languidly, and then rolled over to enfold her in his arms again. It mattered little to him that on the morrow, the Church would set such formal blessing upon their union as to make her his princess, for she had come to him some days ago as his bride. So far as Rhys Michael was concerned, he and Michaela Drummond were already husband and wife.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE

He shall serve among great men, and appear before princes; he will travel through strange countries
.

—Ecclesiasticus 39:4

The next morning, while Rhys Michael and his princess-to-be made preparations for their formal nuptials, the bride's guardian was scanning over a letter long prepared and now ready to be sent, purporting to be a follow-up to an earlier missive telling of the prince's safe rescue from his abductors and his imminent return to Rhemuth. Since the first letter had never been sent, it most certainly had never arrived.

Further to my letter of three days ago
, Earl Manfred had written, in consultation with Lord Albertus and several of his knights, who had paid an incognito visit to Culdi soon after Rhys Michael's arrival.

I continue to thank God that the prince's injuries were not of a serious nature. Though exhausted from his ordeal, he is resting comfortably and making daily progress, but my battle surgeon has determined that it would be best if he lies here at Culdi for perhaps another week before embarking for Rhemuth
.

Regarding the prisoners taken when his Highness was rescued
—
interrogation is proceeding, with the valuable assistance of Master Sitric, who confirms that MacRorie was their commander. I still regret that he managed to elude capture. One of the prisoners was Deryni, and died of his wounds; another died when Sitric attempted to force a Reading. The ones remaining are human, but we are proceeding with caution, as one has already tried to commit suicide
.

I shall bring the Prince Rhys Michael back to Rhemuth as soon as I may, and shall bid him write to you again as soon as he is able. He still finds this very tiring, because of recurring headaches caused by a blow to his head. These are abating
.

Since Christmas Court approaches, it is my present intention to return with my entire household as soon as his Highness is fit to travel, for I know that you will wish to reassure yourself of his safety in person, as soon as may be practicable. I remain your Highness' most loyal subject, Manfred MacInnis, Earl of Culdi
.

Smiling, Manfred folded the missive and sealed it, handing it and a second sealed missive to a knight standing by in Culdi livery, waiting to take it away.

“The second dispatch is to be forwarded to Lord Albertus,” he said, rising to move with the man toward the door. “The messenger will find him lying at Grecotha, headquartered at the bishop's palace. Ask him to convey my greetings as well to my son, the Bishop Edward, and say that I look forward to visiting him in Grecotha after Christmas.”

As the man bowed and withdrew, Manfred smiled contentedly and headed downstairs to where his wife was helping his ward dress for her wedding to a prince. He had waited long for this day.

And in Rhemuth, Paulin of Ramos also was sealing a letter, though it was intended for his principal abbey at
Arx Fidei
rather than any royal or episcopal palace.

“Say to Father Lior that I urge him to use all speed in executing these instructions, but also great care,” he said to the
Custodes
knight he entrusted with the letter. “We enter into ever more delicate aspects of our negotiations. God go with you.”

As the man bowed and withdrew, Paulin pondered the events he had set in motion, hoping he was wrong, but prepared to respond if his fears proved well founded.

Javan received Earl Manfred's letter as he sat at supper with his Council four days later, in the little withdrawing room behind the dais in the great hall. Out of deference to his brother's continued captivity, he had resumed the wearing of semi-mourning grey, though relieved by the belt of silver plaques that carried the Haldane sword. The coronet of running lions was on his head, now actually serving some purpose besides denoting his rank, for his hair was growing longer and beginning to fall in his eyes if he did not restrain it under a circlet.

He held up a hand for silence as he recognized the livery on the man one of his guards escorted into the room. A letter from Manfred was no more than he had expected, knowing of the plot from his interview with Hubert, but as he read it, he found himself reacting as if the information were new, a part of him undeniably impressed at the finesse with which his enemies had carried it off.

Manfred covered himself in the very first line by alluding to another letter supposedly sent some days ago. It was so well done that Javan almost had to laugh, suppressing the impulse by momentarily burying his face in one hand and emitting a great, shuddering sigh that he hoped his listeners would take for relief.

“My brother is safe,” he announced as he passed the letter to Tammaron to read aloud. “Apparently an earlier letter went astray. Lord Tammaron, if you please.”

While Tammaron read out the text, to the apparent astonishment and relief of everyone present, Javan was weighing all the new implications. No earlier letter had gone astray—not from Manfred or from Rhys Michael. Most assuredly, the alleged earlier letters had never even been sent. Alluding to a previous letter also obviated the need to go into specifics of the “rescue” at this time, since that would have been reported before. If Javan pressed for particulars later on, Manfred could always plead that the passage of time had blurred some of the details; and anyway, the prince's return now was far more important than how he was rescued.

That left the question of Michaela. Manfred's letter made no mention of his ward, but Javan had no doubt that her romance with the recuperating prince was being actively encouraged—and that a sympathetic priest could be found to marry the young lovers without the dreary inconvenience of posting banns. If the two were not already wed, they soon would be—certainly before Manfred brought them back for Christmas Court.

Oh, Rhysem
, Javan found himself thinking.
Don't you see how they're using you?

He wondered about the captured prisoners, too. He was certain that whatever Sitric “discovered,” it would only support the “Deryni plot” theory that had been part of the point of this exercise. Certainly none of the prisoners would ever reach Javan for questioning. Not with Oriel at the king's beck and call.

“… as soon as his Highness is fit to travel,” Tammaron was reading, “for I know that you will wish to reassure yourself of his safety in person, as soon as may be practicable. I remain your Highness' most loyal subject, Manfred MacInnis, Earl of—but this is most welcome news, Sire! After so long, I confess I had begun to lose hope. But he is rescued, and relatively unharmed!”

“Aye,” Javan said weakly. “It will be—interesting to see what Earl Manfred manages to learn from the captured abductors.”

It was what they would expect him to say, under the circumstances, and it
would
be interesting—interesting to see how they played out the charade. Meanwhile, he was not certain how long he could maintain his own charade of pretending to be surprised as well as relieved.

“Gentlemen, you will forgive me, I hope, if I beg leave to retire early,” he went on. “I—will have letters to write back to Culdi, seeking further news of my brother's condition and word of when we might expect his return. Words cannot express my relief. Meanwhile, I would count it a great favor, Archbishop Oriss, if you would arrange for a solemn
Te Deum
to be sung at the cathedral tomorrow morning, in thanksgiving for my brother's safe release.”

He really was fighting back tears as he stumbled blindly to his feet and made his escape, though the tears were as much of frustration as of relief. Charlan and Etienne fell in behind him, but Guiscard remained a few minutes, ostensibly to exchange comments with Lord Jerowen but actually to gauge the Council's reaction after Javan's departure.

“Virtually everyone seemed surprised and relieved at the news,” he reported half an hour later. “Paulin and Hubert were a little weak in the ‘surprise' category, but we knew that, of course.”

“That's as may be,” Javan murmured. He had laid aside his circlet and thrown himself into a chair in front of the fire with a cup of wine. His hair was disheveled, and his hands moved with ill-disguised uneasiness, caressing the sides of the cup. “Now we have to try to guess what they'll do next.”

“Well, ‘confirmation' that Deryni abducted the prince and tried to use him for bargaining won't help the Deryni cause,” Guiscard said. “And of more immediate concern, it's more than likely that your brother will return in the next week or two with a bride. Once he's got her pregnant,” he went on bluntly, “the odds for a fatal accident involving one or more Haldane princes increase dramatically.” He glanced around curiously. “Where's my father?”

“Gone to report to Joram,” Javan murmured. “I didn't dare go myself, after what's happened. No telling who will want to see me after they think I've had a chance to catch my breath.”

“There's never any respite, is there?” Charlan muttered, shaking his head. “Why can't they leave you alone?”

“Loyal Charlan,” Javan said bleakly. “They can't leave me alone because I keep reminding them that I'm not and never will be their puppet. But there's no help for that. If Rhysem has gone and married Michaela, we'll just have to muddle on from there. I don't intend to go down without a fight, though. Once some of the dust of the last month has settled—probably not until Rhysem is actually back—I still intend to proceed with what we were going to do before all this started. Maybe I can still salvage something from this mess I've made of being king.”

“Sire, that isn't true,” Guiscard murmured, sitting forward in indignation.

“Certainly not,” Charlan agreed. “No one could ask for a better or braver master.”