The Harrowing of Gwynedd (21 page)

Not that praying displeased the regents—or its gradual increase, as Javan realized it was permitted. On the contrary, Javan found that the regents interpreted this pastime as a growing inclination toward a religious vocation, following in the footsteps of his late father. Such a vocation for this middle son surely was to be encouraged—for if Javan could be persuaded to enter the religious life, that would remove him from the succession, clearing the way for the biddable Rhys Michael to succeed Alroy, if Alroy died before producing an heir.

Javan did not disabuse them of their notion. He did gain much from daily attendance at Mass and the frequent observation of other religious devotions, when his schedule permitted, but what he gained was not always what the regents thought. And sometimes, Charlan gained more than he realized, too, for the centered stillness produced by prayer in squire and prince alike often afforded Javan an unsurpassed opportunity to tamper with his watchdog's mind.

Oh, Javan liked Charlan well enough, if he had to have a constant shadow, chosen by the regents, for the young man was only a few years older than himself, and had a wry, easy sense of humor that helped to pass the time. He was also well educated and conversant with most of the court gossip that went on in the castle—information he readily shared with his young master.

But Charlan had also told Javan quite openly that one of Earl Murdoch's agents held weekly interrogations of all three of the principal royal squires, always with a Deryni sniffer present to Truth-Read the sessions. Which meant that anything Javan said or did in front of Charlan was as good as said or done in front of the regents themselves, whether or not Charlan meant to betray his prince's confidences—unless Javan blurred the squire's memory, of course, which was precisely how he had covered his several secret meetings with Tavis. Javan was becoming fairly confident in his ability to carry out reasonably sophisticated tampering—though Tavis had warned him that using his fledgling powers without real need was senselessly risky and that princes must not flaunt their powers, whether political or esoteric. Javan believed him.

Neither sort of power was to give Javan much success in finding out what happened to Tavis and Ansel that night, however. He realized rather quickly that something must have gone wrong, for he heard the faint echoes of swordplay in the King's Tower shortly after midnight—an altercation that surely must involve his friends, though he dared not let on that he knew. For an hour thereafter, the corridors of Valoret Castle had resounded to the sounds of running feet and shouted orders. His one cautious attempt to ease his door ajar and ask a passing guard about it had produced only a polite but inflexible request, bordering on a command, to go back to bed, all was under control.

Nor was Charlan any more successful in gaining information, when Javan sent him out an hour later to fetch them a snack—and Charlan was as curious as he. Charlan returned under guard, with bread, cheese, ale, and a tale of nearly having his ears boxed for venturing out after being told to stay put. The continued presence of two guards outside suggested that the story was true, and Truth-Reading confirmed it. Javan's own, more authoritative attempt to question those guards only produced a grim, taciturn sergeant who assured him in even stronger terms that all was under control—and if Javan persisted in asking questions and did not go back to bed, he might consider himself temporarily under house arrest, prince or no prince.

Javan did not have to feign his indignation, though he backed down, nonetheless. He learned later that he had not been singled out in this, for both his brothers had received identical treatment, but he still resented it. It also meant that the situation
was
serious, and the frightened castle garrison were taking a holding action while they awaited further direction, the regents presumably having been informed and summoned back to deal with the crisis. Knowing the probable cause of the crisis, Javan did not fear for his own safety or that of his brothers, but he spent an uneasy remainder of the night worrying about Tavis and Ansel, only dozing fitfully when Charlan finally insisted he at least lie down.

Even hints of what actually had happened did not come until late the next morning, when Javan at last was summoned to the regents' private withdrawing room beyond the great hall, no reason given. Javan left his rooms with some foreboding, for Squire Charlan pointedly had
not
been invited.

“Can't you tell me
anything
?” Javan demanded of the guard assigned to escort him, as they headed down the stairs to cross the castle yard. He had dressed carefully in a conservative tunic and cloak of nondescript greys, and he pulled the fur collar of his cloak closer against the wind as they stepped outside.

“Connor, slow up, will you? You're walking too fast, and the cobbles are slippery. Be a sport, and tell me what's going on.”

The guard Connor, a freckled, stoutly built fellow barely out of his teens, glanced uncomfortably at his royal charge, though he did shorten his pace to accommodate Javan's slight limp. This particular man was inclined to humor all three princes, but he clearly had his orders.

“You know I'm not supposed to say, your Highness,” he murmured. “You'll find out, soon enough.”

“Then, what difference will a few minutes make? Connor, I'm dying of suspense. Please?”

Connor snorted good-naturedly. Javan could tell he was wavering. They were nearly across the snow-covered courtyard, preparing to mount the ice-slick steps to the great hall entrance, so as the man set his hand under the prince's elbow to steady him, Javan reached out just slightly with his mind and nudged.

“Come on, Connor, tell me!” Javan whispered fiercely. “Just a hint. Am I under arrest, or is this about last night?”

Connor snorted and glanced around uneasily as they climbed, wiping at his nose with a casual brush of his sleeve. The gesture also covered the slight movement of his lips.

“Nah, it isn't you, lad. It's the trouble last night,” he admitted in a low voice. “There's Deryni involved, and someone was killed. That's all
I
know. But you never heard it from me!”

Javan faked a stumble to cover his reaction, mixed of relief for his personal safety and horror for his friends, but he was able to manage a wry grin as he caught himself on Connor's arm.

“Heard what?” he whispered.

He feared for Tavis and Ansel, though, as he followed Connor through the great hall, for he was remembering another day, not four months past, when the dead body of Ansel's brother had been brought to this very place. Please God, it was not Ansel today—or Tavis!

Fortunately, no dead bodies occupied the hall or the regents' withdrawing room this time—though Jamie Drummond gave him a scare at first, sprawled unmoving in an armchair against the righthand wall. A closer look reassured him that Jamie was breathing, though unconscious; and since the Healer Oriel was in attendance and did not look concerned, Javan relaxed a little.

But he was not at all sure he liked the looks of the priest standing beside Oriel, also watching Jamie. The man appeared to be in his early forties, with bright black eyes that missed nothing. The badge embroidered over his left breast was quite unfamiliar to Javan, as was the unusual cincture of braided red and gold knotted over the black cassock. Javan could not imagine what Order wore such a habit. He supposed the man could not be some strange new sort of Deryni sniffer, given the regents' ban on Deryni priests, but that supposition did not make him any less uneasy.

He became more uneasy when he saw that Ansel's mother, the Lady Elinor, also had been included in the morning's gathering. She was dressed all in black, her fair hair partially covered by a veil of black lace, and she had been weeping. Her chair was set in the center of the room with its back to where Jamie slumped, a guard standing directly behind her so she could not see her husband if she turned. The Deryni sniffer Declan Carmody, no longer in chains, crouched beside her with a cup in his hand, nervously dividing his attention between her and Archbishop Hubert, who stood in front of her—which made Javan wonder whether Tavis had succeeded in blocking her Deryni powers before disaster intervened, for Hubert looked suspicious. But then, Hubert almost always looked suspicious.

Murdoch and Tammaron stood beyond, with Manfred MacInnis and Manfred's seedy son Iver, all of them congregated around a chair of state obviously meant for Alroy, though the king was not yet present. Manfred had been making some emphatic point to Tammaron, but he abandoned it immediately as Javan came into the room, all four of them sketching him offhand bows. Beside them, a few paces to the right of the state chair, Javan could just see Rhys Michael silhouetted against the fireplace behind, gaily clad in royal blue and white, looking almost excited at whatever was taking place.

“Ah, your Highness,” Murdoch said, motioning Javan to a stool beside Rhys Michael's as Hubert also turned his attention on the prince, pink rosebud lips pursed thoughtfully. “No doubt you are wondering why you have been summoned here. I apologize for the mystery. It seems a Deryni plot was interrupted last night. We are just wrapping up the loose ends, as you see. A pity your Tavis O'Neill is not here to assist these others of his race who have consented to use their accursed talents for the good of the realm.”

God, could they
know
? Had they captured Tavis or Ansel last night and now were testing Javan? And if Tavis
had
been captured, would he want Javan to defend him to the point of compromising his own situation?

“O'Neill?” Javan managed to put a full measure of scorn and bitterness into his voice as he limped toward his seat, pointedly favoring the lame foot and taking care to feign far more discomfort than he usually felt, even on bad days, hating what he knew he must say. “I trusted him and he abandoned me! Good riddance to
that
one.”

Fortunately, Alroy's arrival spared Javan having to answer any challenge someone might wish to make of that denial, though he knew it was what the regents had long hoped to hear. The lack of challenge probably also meant that Tavis had
not
been caught or killed. All rose at the king's entrance saving Jamie, who appeared to be either ill or drugged—he definitely was not dead. Elinor had to be helped to her feet by Carmody's hand under her elbow, so dazed was she.

Alroy noticed that and gave Hubert a sour glance as he flopped down in the chair of state. He actually looked annoyed, which was rare for Alroy. Haldane crimson cloaked him, and the Haldane sword clattered against the chair as he settled, but he had not bothered with any kind of circlet or crown. His black hair was rumpled from pushing back the fur-lined hood attached to a capelet around his shoulders, and dark circles stained the fair skin under his eyes. Nor did he look as if he had slept much.

“Would someone please tell me what is going on?” he said. “I can't seem to get a straight answer out of anybody.” His face showed even more disapproval as Elinor wobbled back into her chair and leaned her head on her hands. “I heard an unholy commotion last night, but no one would tell me what had happened. What's wrong with the Lady Elinor, and what have you done to Jamie Drummond? Surely you don't expect me to believe that the two of them somehow were to blame.”

Shaking his head, Hubert came over to Alroy and bowed over his hand, smiling with prim forbearance.

“Do not trouble yourself, my Liege. Deryni intruders entered the castle through a hitherto unknown Portal last night. Whatever else they may have come to do, they murdered a young girl.”

“What?”

“Since one of the assassins is believed to have been the outlaw Ansel MacRorie, Lady Elinor's son,” Hubert went on blithely, “we thought to question her and her good lord about the matter—and to ascertain, at the same time, just how much of a Deryni threat they themselves might pose. It should have been done when they first returned to court,” Hubert added, at Alroy's expression of stunned outrage. “They have always claimed to be of very little Deryni blood, but one never knows.”

Javan managed not to show his own dismay—at least no more than Alroy was doing—but inside, he was near panic.

God, it had been
Ansel
who was recognized!—though apparently not caught, for Hubert had said they only
believed
that to have been the identity of one of the intruders. And Tavis must have gotten away as well, thank God!

But what girl had been killed? Surely not by Ansel or Tavis. And what had been done to Elinor and Jamie? With Oriel and Declan Carmody present, Javan's imagination suggested a variety of unpleasant possibilities that might be applied to his own person with equal ease, if anyone had cause to suspect he had any knowledge of last night's events. He must try to be invisible to the two Deryni and pray that suspicion did not turn his way.

And
who had been killed?
Maybe Rhys Michael knew, since he had gotten here first. Surely no one would take it amiss if Javan evidenced a curiosity about that.

Leaning a little closer to his younger brother, Javan poked him in the ribs, hardly moving his lips as he whispered, “Who got killed?”

“The Lady Giesele MacLean,” Rhys Michael whispered back. “They think somebody smothered her with a pillow—probably Ansel.”

“He
smothered
her?” Javan gasped, though at Tammaron's sharp glance he immediately stifled further reaction.

Fortunately, his near-outburst was completely overshadowed by Alroy's reaction to what Hubert had said. The king had come to his feet during Javan's exchange with Rhys Michael, and he looked as if he might faint.

“What have you done to Lady Elinor and her husband?” the king demanded. “You—you haven't harmed them, have you?” he ventured, voicing an even more immediate concern to Javan than Giesele's death—for his own fate might be the same as theirs. “The lady has always been so kind to me, and I have never had reason to doubt Lord Jamie's loyalty.”