King Javan’s Year (11 page)

“Trouble?” Etienne murmured, so that only Bertrand could hear him.

The young knight pretended casual interest in the rest of the room, but answered readily enough. “Not exactly. The king's asked me to take care of something for him—confidentially.”

“Ah, I see,” Etienne replied, not adding that he saw far more than Bertrand supposed. “Well, I'd best go see if Guiscard has arrived yet. I'm sure he'll want to take a turn on the rota for the vigil tonight. I know I do.”

“Aye, most everyone will want a turn, I expect,” Bertrand agreed. “You might speak to Sir Gavin before you go.”

“I'll do that,” Etienne said.

When he had done so, Etienne de Courcy threaded his way free of the hangers-on still lingering outside the king's sickroom and made his way back to the castle's great hall. Guiscard and word of the king's death had already arrived. As Etienne spotted him, the muffled bell of Saint Hilary's began to toll, once for each year of the king's life, and dragged at his spirits as he wove his way among the knots of sober men and sad-faced women. As the tolling ceased, the booming voice of Great George took up the knell, down in the cathedral.

Sir Guiscard de Courcy was waiting by an open panel of one of the wide window embrasures, trying to catch a breath of cooler air. The dark hair and eyes of both men, and the matching hook noses, made it clear the two were related, even if they had not borne the same surname.

The younger man wore dust-streaked riding leathers of a dark, ox-blood hue, his once-white shirt open at the throat. The matched sword and dagger at his hip were serviceable rather than decorative, the weapons of a seasoned fighting man, but inkstains on the first two fingers of his right hand proclaimed him a man of letters, as well. He glanced around surreptitiously as his father stepped up into the embrasure and they moved deeper into it, both of them feigning interest in the gardens below.

“It's over, then,” Guiscard said.

The elder de Courcy gave him a weary nod. “Not that the bells leave any room for doubt. It happened about half an hour ago.”

Guiscard sighed and gave critical regard to a smear of dust caked with horse-sweat on the inner leg of one of his boots. “We started getting rumors fairly quickly, then. Any trouble over the succession?”

Etienne almost smiled. “Nothing like what I feared. His presence made all the difference—totally unexpected until Rhys Michael sent for him late last night. Whether he can hold on to it remains to be seen. The first test comes this afternoon. He's asked for a Requiem Mass at noon at Saint Hilary's, where Alroy will lie in state for the next three days, with the Accession Council to follow immediately after. That's going to make it almost impossible for you to pass the word and be back by then.”

“Can't be done,” Guiscard said, shaking his head. “I'll have to go later tonight. Why Saint Hilary's?”

“Javan wanted it. There was no way to advise him otherwise. There's to be a vigil there throughout the night—though at least that gives us an excuse to be there. I've put us on the rota. For this afternoon, however, he's going to have to make it through that Accession Council more or less on his own.”

“Can he?” Guiscard said quietly, casting a sidelong glance at his father.

“Good question,” Etienne replied. “If he can, then he's worth fighting for. If not, this all may be academic by nightfall.”

Back where the king had died, Archbishops Oriss and Hubert had withdrawn into the garden to leave the king's body with those who would prepare it for its lying in state.

“What happened in there?” Oriss asked as they sought the shade of a leafy tree. “What made him change his mind?”

Hubert shook his head. “I can only guess that enough of Javan's religious training made an impression that he persuaded his brother not to neglect the final Sacraments.”

“He made a final Confession, then?”

Hubert shrugged vaguely. “He'd received the Last Rites during the night. It was only Viaticum he required.”

“Viaticum. Food for the journey.” Oriss smiled sadly and shook his head. “Poor lad. His father died the same way, I'm told. But he was so young … Was it—a peaceful death, do you think?”

Hubert tried to remember the actual moment of the king's passing, but could not quite focus on it. It had happened while they recited the prayers for the dying … Yes, that was it. So it must have been relatively peaceful. The Healer was there, after all. He would have eased any pain.

“I think he—just slipped away,” he said slowly. “He'd been given medication, after all. He must have been asleep when it finally happened. One of the physicians told me last night that it would be like drowning.” He shook his head. “I don't think he suffered, there at the end.”

Oriss gave him a quizzical look, but did not comment.

“Javan surprised me, though,” Hubert went on. “I'd really come to believe that he thought that he had a genuine vocation—or at least that he was resigned.”

Oriss snorted. “Obviously not. And what on earth made de Courcy come to his defense that way? I thought he was Tammaron's man.”

“Apparently he's the
king's
man,” Hubert replied. “I shall be very surprised if he doesn't show up at the Accession Council. If he does, and there are many more like him, we can forget about overturning the succession.”

“Then Javan's in,” Oriss said. “There's nothing we can do about it.”

“A temporary setback,” Hubert assured him. “We'll give him a chance, since we have no choice, but if he remains a problem, we'll give him a chance to hang himself.”

Oriss looked up sharply. “You wouldn't kill him? He'll be an anointed king!”

“My dear Robert,” Hubert replied, with a look of astonished affront. “I am not a regicide. The boy has been like a son to me.”

“Well, what do we do, then, if he refuses to cooperate?”

“Let's wait until he does,” Hubert replied. “If all else fails, there are other ways to ensure a cooperative king.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Separate thyself from thine enemies, and take heed of thy friends
.

—Ecclesiasticus 6:13

In Rhys Michael's bedchamber, meanwhile, the new king had stripped down and immersed himself gratefully in a deep wooden tub of tepid water, hastily filled by a parade of earnest and curious servants. The bath was cool and refreshing, and the temporary solitude seductive, once Charlan had shooed everyone out, but Javan knew he dared not indulge the luxury of staying very long in it. Not only were there things to do and people waiting to talk to him, but he truly feared he might fall asleep and drown.

He was saved from this danger by Charlan's return, all too soon. A brisk sudsing revived him somewhat, as did several submersions to rinse the sweat and travel grime out of his hair. His former squire provided further diversion by lamenting the state of Javan's barbering as he toweled the royal head.

“You're fortunate the
Custodes
don't use a full tonsure as some orders do,” Charlan said, briefly testing the stubble on the fist-size shaven patch on Javan's crown. “This is going to look bad enough until it grows out. When was it last done? About a week ago?”

“About that,” Javan said. “I hate it, too.” He stood up to climb shakily out of the tub, unsteady on his bad foot, then wrapped himself in the linen sheeting Charlan offered. He was almost cool for a few minutes, while Charlan went to find him clean clothes, but body heat soon began to reverse the benefits of the dunking, and he had to throw it off.

He would have preferred to stretch out naked on the canopied bed and simply succumb to sleep for about a week. Instead, he dutifully pulled on the clean breeches Charlan brought and hobbled into the outer room to sit in the cool of a shady window, where a faint breeze stirred across his skin and Rhys Michael chattered at him while making his own lesser ablutions.

Very soon Tomais brought him the first of the promised briefing documents to begin reading, after which Tomais and Charlan disappeared for several minutes. They returned with another of the young knights who had fetched Javan from
Arx Fidei
—Sir Sorle Dalriada, who had been the last of Cinhil's squires to be knighted by Cinhil himself and was several years older than either Charlan or Tomais.

“Sir Sorle,” Javan said, smiling, as the dark young knight sketched him an elegant bow. “Did you have a hand in this?” he asked, slightly lifting the documents in his hand. “I seem to recall a penchant for the law, back when you used to tutor us.”

Sorle grinned and pulled another stool closer, settling on it as the other two did the same. Rhys Michael also joined them, pulling on a loose-fitting tunic of gauzy black linen.

“I wish I could claim total credit, my prince,” Sorle said, “but several of your escort today had a hand in it—and some other gentlemen you probably won't remember, but who remember you. Lord Jerowen Reynolds was one; and the de Courcys, father and son. Baron de Courcy was the one who spoke up for you when old Hubert got fuddled on who came next in the succession.”

“Yes. I asked Bertrand who he was,” Javan said. “The name's familiar, but I didn't recognize him. Have I met him before?”

“Yes, but he's shaved off his beard and moustache since then,” Charlan said. “Nor was the occasion particularly auspicious. He gave you and Alroy a rather remarkable Cardounet board at your thirteenth birthday court—but I don't think you ever got to play with it.”

Javan closed his eyes briefly, trying
not
to remember that particular birthday. He remembered the board clearly—a splendid thing of ebony and olivewood, with inlays of mother-of-pearl and semiprecious stones set around the edges. The playing pieces had been lavish as well, with real gems set in the crowns of the priest-kings and the archbishops' mitres.

He also remembered the rest of that afternoon, though he wished he could not—when the regents had turned on Duke Ewan of Claibourne, and the Deryni Declan Carmody had broken under the strain—and paid for it with his life and the lives of his wife and two young sons.

“I remember,” he said quietly. “You're right; it
was
the missing beard. He's one of the southern barons, isn't he?”

“Aye, from down by Mooryn, where my family come from,” Charlan said. “As you may have gathered, he's extremely well versed in the law, as is Lord Jerowen. They've both been functionaries in the chancellor's office for several years. You'd be well advised to retain them—and these two rascals as well! Sir Jason? Sir Robear?”

As he said the last names, two burly figures in the livery of the household garrison stepped into the room, one tall and fair, the other shorter and slightly darker, both of them bearded and going grey. Wide smiles split their beards as they made him respectful bows. The taller one, Sir Robear, had a mass of black fabric draped over one arm.

“I've brought you something cooler to wear, Sire,” he said, bending a knee to lay it across Javan's lap. “My wife cut it down from an old one of mine, when it became apparent there was going to be a need for it. The rest of the day will be difficult enough without sweltering in the tunic you wore here—and I don't think you want to continue looking like a seminarian.”

“No, I don't. Thank you, Robear,” Javan managed to murmur, touched by the man's sensitivity to the situation and heartened by his presence—though not by the prospect of putting on black again. The short, loose-sleeved tunic he held up briefly was made of a nubbly, loosely woven linen, and undoubtedly as cool as anything he was likely to find, but it still was black.

“I've brought you something as well, Sire,” the other knight said, dropping to one knee and fumbling in a pouch at his belt, which bore his coat of arms picked out in bright threads and dyes.

All in a rush Javan realized that Robear was wearing a similar pouch and flashed back to the day he and Rhys Michael had bought the pouches for the two knights—and for two more, both dead now: Piedur in a border skirmish a few years back and Corund in the ambush that had claimed the life of Ansel MacRorie's brother Davin.

The memory brought less pleasant images as well, for Tavis O'Neill had lost his hand that day. But it also had been the day when Javan first began to realize that he was not like other humans and that unexpected powers were awakening in him.

He yanked himself back from that memory as Jason delved deep into his pouch and produced a coil of snow-white leather, perhaps three fingers wide.

“I see that your Highness has remembered the pouch,” Jason said quietly, shaking out the white leather so that all could see that it was a knight's belt, with a simple gold ring attached at one end. “I regret that this is not the same piece of leather that your Highness bought that day, but I remembered the longing that went with the purchase and telling Master Tavis—though you never knew it—that I doubted you would ever wear the white belt unless you became king.”

The older knight's callused fingers caressed the soft leather, and his dark eyes met Javan's squarely. “I am here to tell you, Sire, that you have merited this belt even before this morning's sorrow made you king, by your courage and by the honor you have shown in all your conduct over these difficult years since your beloved father died. I am also here to tell you that we are prepared—all of us present here, and on behalf of many who cannot be present just now—we are prepared to offer you the knightly accolade that goes with this token of that estate, to receive it here and now, for you are surely worthy of it.”

Stunned, Javan could only blink at Jason for an interminable instant, hardly able to believe the honor this very senior and respected knight was doing him. Knighthood had been a childhood dream he had long ago put aside in the expediency of survival. He had not let himself think about the white belt for several years, believing it beyond any reasonable likelihood of attainment—and caught up in what he must do for his own survival. To have it now within reach, and offered by a knight of Jason's standing—