The Harrowing of Gwynedd (67 page)

“So I guess what I'm trying to ask is, where are your personal loyalties now? I need to know, before I leave here with you.”

He was extending his Truth-Reading talents as he asked the question, and to his relief, Charlan's reply was open and guileless.

“Sire, I am
your
man,” he said, dark eyes locking fearlessly with Javan's grey ones. “I think I always have been. I suppose I began to realize that oaths were more than mere words at about the time you left Court, and it's become increasingly clear since I was knighted.

“You have other loyal men, as well, that you don't even know about—others of the younger knights, mostly, who served you and your brothers as squires and such, but there are a few of the older men at Court whom you can trust. The ones waiting for you in the abbey yard would all die for you, if need be.”

“Indeed,” Javan murmured, wide-eyed, for while he had been reasonably confident of Charlan's ultimate loyalty, he had not expected the rest of the young knight's revelation. “Will they
live
for me, though, Charlan? That may be far harder, in these next weeks and months. The great lords have been in power long enough to entrench themselves into the next generation. Some of their
sons
hold high office. If I'm not extremely careful how I ease them out, I could find myself in the middle of a civil war—if I don't find myself dead first!”

Charlan tucked the last strap into place on Javan's boots and gave the left boot a slap in signal that he had finished, but he did not get to his feet.

“There are those ready to do what they can to prevent both options, Sire,” he said, looking up at Javan. “We've—taken the liberty, in these past few weeks, of sounding out some of the other knights about specific recommendations in a number of areas that will need your attention fairly quickly, once you're on the throne. There are documents waiting for you, back at Rhemuth, and men to explain them. None of us would presume to tell you what to do, but there's information you'd have no other way of knowing.” He swallowed, looking suddenly apprehensive. “You're—not angry, are you, Sire? We only did it to help you.”

Javan could only stare at Charlan in disbelief for several seconds, though he knew that every word the man had spoken was the truth. But as the implications began to sink in, he clapped Charlan on the shoulder and rose, shaking his head as a faint smile played on his lips.

“How could I be angry, Charlan?” he said quietly. “You've given me real hope, where it all was theory and wishful thinking before.”

Forcing himself to turn to other practicalities—for if they did not get out of there, all the young knight's efforts would be for nought, as well as Javan's own—he moved to the chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out the riding tunic he had worn for his last trip to Rhemuth, the month before. It was black, like every other garment he owned there at the abbey, cut high-collared like a cassock but reaching only to the knee, and slit fore and aft for riding. It would be stifling in the summer heat, for it was a heavier wool than the soutane he had discarded, but that couldn't be helped. He had to look the part of a prince, and this was all he had.

He did not speak as he dressed, and Charlan respected his silence. When he had buttoned the tunic, all but the top three buttons, he pulled a plain black leather belt out of the trunk and buckled it around his waist, then retrieved a small leather pouch from under his mattress.

Inside were his own signet ring, bearing the Haldane arms differenced with the label of a second son, and the mate to Rhys Michael's earring. After slipping the signet onto his left little finger, he gave his hair a few swipes with a comb made of horn, then let Charlan help him thread the twisted wire of the earring through the hole in his right earlobe. He had no mirror to check the overall impression, but he gathered, by Charlan's expression, that he passed muster.

“We'd better ride now,” he murmured, glancing around the cell for the last time. “You can brief me more on the way. We'll hope that matters haven't gotten out of hand down in the yard while we tarried here.”

As Charlan opened the door, Javan bent down and blew out the rushlight, serene but eager as he followed the young knight back along the dim-lit corridor toward the night stair. He had what he wanted from this place, and he did not look back.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

These things hast thou done, and I kept silence; thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself
.

—Psalms 50:21

Down in the abbey yard, things had not gotten precisely out of hand, but the half-dozen
Custodes
monks and priests initially drawn to the yard by the arrival of Charlan and his men had now been joined by nearly a score of
Custodes
knights. The royal knights sat their horses in a quiet but uneasy knot near the gate, most of them with torches in their hands, two of the men holding extra mounts. The
Custodes
men were drawn up in two precise lines across the front of the abbey steps, many of them also holding torches.

Javan assessed the situation at a glance as he came out the postern door, Charlan at his elbow and the abbot and his two monks at his heels. If it came to an armed confrontation, he did not like the odds. The
Custodes
men outnumbered Charlan's knights by nearly two to one and were better armored as well, with steel greaves and vambraces protecting legs and arms and the gleam of steel at the throats of black brigantines. The royal knights were well mounted and armed, but they wore no real armor—only leather jacks and light steel caps, in deference to the heat. Up on the cloister wall, though Javan could not see them against the torches' glare, he knew there would be at least half a dozen
Custodes
archers, only awaiting the order to let fly.

“Lord Joshua,” he called, seizing the initiative by heading directly for the captain of the
Custodes
force. “My thanks for the honor you do me by turning out an additional escort. However, these good knights who accompanied Sir Charlan on his royal errand are well qualified to accompany me back to Rhemuth.”

The
Custodes
captain glanced uncertainly at the abbot, but at least he made no move toward the sword at his belt.

“Father Abbot was concerned that these men might attempt to take you from the abbey against your will, Brother Javan,” the man said.

Javan allowed the man a forbearing hint of a smile. “My will is not a factor in this discussion, Captain,” he said easily. “It is the
king's
will that I accompany these gentlemen back to Rhemuth. Do you intend to question
him
?”

The captain's jaw tightened, but before he could reply, the abbot set his hand on the man's steel-clad arm and moved a step closer. “My information is that the king is too ill to issue orders, Brother Javan. Now I beg you to return to your cell and await further official word from Rhemuth.”

“How official must it be?” Javan retorted, thrusting Rhys Michael's ring under the abbot's nose. “My brother, Prince Rhys Michael Haldane, commands me to come, in the name of my brother the king, who is dying. If some have their way, then that same Rhys Michael shall be the next king—in which case, he will not look kindly upon those who have defied his commands. And if the proper succession is allowed to occur, then
I
shall be king—and I assure you, I shall not forget those who obstruct me.

“Now, will you stand your men down, or must blood be shed in these hallowed grounds?”

“You would not dare to raise steel here,” the abbot muttered.

“Not I, my lord, for I am unarmed, as you see,” Javan replied, raising his hands away from the empty belt around his waist. “But the king's men have their orders, as have I. If, by defying the king's wishes, you compel them to draw steel to enforce the royal command, then be it upon your head, not mine.” He drew deep breath, praying that he could pull this off.

“With respect, then, I bid you good morrow, my Lord Abbot, and take my leave of you.”

So saying, he gathered Charlan to his side with a glance and turned to press past the
Custodes
captain and down the abbey steps, heading both of them toward the waiting knights. The men holding the two extra horses came forward into the center of the yard, several more moving their mounts behind Javan and Charlan to shield them, turning their backs on the
Custodes
knights with utter disdain—for any show of weakness now could prove fatal.

Only the hollow clip-clop of hooves on cobbles and the soft creak and jingle of the horses' harnesses intruded on the taut, sullen silence. Javan could feel himself trembling as Charlan gave him a leg up onto a tall, well-made chestnut, but he allowed himself no show of fear or even apprehension as he gathered the reins in his hands and turned the horse's head toward the gate, even as the others finished mounting up around him.

His knees continued to tremble as he urged the horse forward, Charlan and another knight falling in on either side of him—Bertrand, who had been his squire before Charlan. To his unmitigated relief, no one tried to stop them. But not until they were through the gates and heading down the hill slope toward the main road, picking up a canter, did he allow himself to relax even a little.

Three hours' ride and a change of horses saw them trotting up the final incline toward the city gates of Rhemuth, just as the first fingers of dawn were thrusting upward from behind the eastern horizon. Even the new horses were spent by then, for they had pushed on at a steady gallop for most of the way. One of the knights spurred on ahead as they approached the awakening city, and the portcullis rumbled upward and the gates swung wide just before the main party reached the city wall. The guards on duty gave Javan royal salute as he rode through the gates, and he squared his shoulders and tried to look confident as Charlan led the band on up the King's Way toward the castle on the hill.

The castle yard was abustle with activity as they rode into it, crowded with horses and liveried servants and armed guards and courtiers all milling apprehensively. The heat was already oppressive. As Javan's party rode into the yard, a wave of somberly dressed lords of various degrees came spilling onto the great hall steps. Pushing through from their rear, accompanied by Sir Tomais, who had once been his squire, was a worried-looking Rhys Michael, set apart by the bright splash of a short crimson cape slung over one shoulder, despite the heat.

The brothers' eyes locked as Javan drew rein and flung his right leg over the pommel to jump lightly to the ground. Charlan was at his side immediately, opening a path for him as he headed up the steps. Bertrand and three more of Charlan's knights followed close behind, gloved hands set casually on the hilts of their swords, though their expressions spoke of a far from casual concern for their royal charge.

Rhys Michael came partway down the steps to meet him, a guarded look of relief on his handsome face. The crimson cape slipped down onto his arm as he reached out to embrace his brother.

“Thank God you're here!” he whispered fiercely, dropping his forehead to his brother's shoulder for just an instant. “Let me put this on you, before we do another thing,” he added, just before the two drew apart. “It's the clearest symbol
I
can think of, for the moment.”

Nodding slightly, and more relieved than he could say, Javan let his brother lay the cape around his shoulders, noting the murmuring the action produced, as Rhys Michael also seized his hand and kissed it. He need not have feared on Rhys Michael's account. As they turned to go inside, arm in arm, Charlan taking the lead and the other knights at their heels, Javan pulled off Rhys Michael's signet and passed it back to him.

“How is he?” he murmured, nodding to several lesser courtiers as they headed left across the near end of the great hall and down a short flight of steps.

“Not good. He had a reasonably comfortable night, once he'd had me send for you, but only because of the medication.”

“What are they giving him?”

“Extract of poppy.” Rhys Michael made a face. “Oh, it makes the coughing stop and eases the worst of the pain. But it also eases him into such a heavy sleep that it's difficult to rouse him. The fever hasn't helped. Most of the time I don't think he's really aware what's going on around him.”

“Why do I suddenly suspect that the former regents have been trying to capitalize on that?” Javan murmured.

With a mirthless laugh, Rhys Michael ushered his brother through a short colonnaded passageway that led into a wing fronting the gardens.

“That was the thin line
I
trod, when I took it on myself to send for you. I hope you don't mind that I threatened them with the thought that
I
might soon be king.”

“Not at all.” Javan's answering smile held the same grim determination. “I used the same argument myself, when persuading the abbot that he oughtn't to try to stop my leaving. But back to Alroy—the drugs do ease him?”

“That depends on your definition of ease,” the younger prince replied. “His lungs still fill with fluid; he just doesn't cough it up, or realize that he needs to.”

“And Master Oriel concurs with this treatment?”

“Aye. It's probably the one thing on which he and the royal physicians agree. They—” He stumbled and came to a halt, suddenly blinking back tears, and swallowed hard, shaking his head.

“Javan, they say his lungs are nearly gone. All Oriel or anybody else can do is ease the passing. It's a question of letting him literally cough his lungs out or—letting him dream away what little time he has left.”

As Rhys Michael knuckled at his bowed forehead, shaking his head despairingly, Javan had to fight back his own tears, grieving already for the elder brother who had never really stood a chance against the circumstances of his position. He had tried to prepare himself for news of this sort, but actually hearing it was far more difficult than he had expected.