King Javan’s Year (47 page)

“What will you do now?” he asked gently.

Rhun set down his cup and sighed. “Go back to Carthane with Richard. He's shattered, as you can well imagine. Taking on all of his father's responsibilities so young will not be easy. I've offered to travel with the family and help with the burial arrangements—and after.”

“When will you leave?”

“Sometime tomorrow. With his temper, he'll not want to risk staying long in Rhemuth until his anger has cooled. The summer heat puts further urgency upon matters.” He closed his eyes and shook his head briefly. “I don't want to think about it. I do intend to insist that he delay long enough to present himself before the king, to be confirmed in his titles. Given the king's acquiescence in what almost amounted to judicial murder, young Richard will not find this an easy task, but I shall do my utmost to ensure that he says and does nothing that might jeopardize his confirmation. Time enough, later on, for thoughts of vengeance.”

Paulin nodded. Hubert had come back over while Rhun spoke, and exchanged a guarded glance with the
Custodes
Vicar General as he eased himself into another chair beside him.

“I shall keep in mind the new Earl of Carthane's desire for vengeance,” Paulin said carefully. “May I assume that Rhun of Horthness also harbors a—resentment of what has taken place?”

“We'll speak more of it when I return from Carthane,” Rhun said. “But, yes, I think you could certainly say that both Richard and I harbor a ‘resentment.'”

They said nothing as he stood to take his leave, but when he had gone, Paulin glanced meaningfully at his two associates.

“Thank God that man is an ally,” he said.

“Aye, thank God,” Hubert replied. He glanced at the amethyst on his hand, then back at Paulin. “And what of you? Will you still go back to
Arx Fidei
, as was your intention before this Murdoch thing came up?”

Paulin allowed himself a scowl. “My Inquisitor General still is dead, my lord. We should have left this morning to take him home for burial.” He worried at a hangnail on one long thumb, then eyed Hubert again. “Have you thought any more about what we discussed the other day, concerning Serafin's death?”

Hubert shot him a sour look, a frown furrowing the smooth skin between the baby-blue eyes. “When did I have time?” he replied. “And what does Lior say? You said he was with Serafin when it happened.”

“Yes, he was. And I've since recalled that I thought he and Father Lior intended to visit Father Faelan that night. Lior never mentioned it, though.”

“Faelan,” Hubert said thoughtfully. “Well, I'm sure you aren't going to find that
he
had any part in Serafin's death. It still escapes me why the king wanted him in the first place. Have you asked him about it? Serafin, I mean.”

Paulin shook his head. “Not yet, but it can wait. It's only a few weeks until Faelan is due for his monthly debriefing. Meanwhile, I'll question Lior further. He may remember more than he thinks he does.”

Hubert heaved a heavy sigh and lumbered to his feet. “Well, I wish you well of it—though I still think you're grasping for straws. If I could, I'd lend you Oriel. Unfortunately, the king has taken that option out of my hands.

“But you must pardon me now. Pastoral duties call. The bereaved family will wish a Mass said for the repose of Murdoch's soul.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX

Go not after thy lusts, but refrain thyself from thine appetites
.

—Ecclesiasticus 18:30

Word came to Javan that evening that Murdoch was dead.

“It's done,” Guiscard said, reporting to the king shortly after dark. “Apparently he asked Rhun to do the actual deed. Hrorik is resting comfortably—exhausted, of course, and he lost a fair amount of blood from his combined wounds, but he'll be fine. Oriel's been to see him.”

Javan nodded slowly. He was sitting in the window of his presence chamber in a lightweight linen tunic, bare-legged, Charlan silent across from him. The night was sultry and still—not a good night for dying, or for being the instrument of someone's death, even that of an enemy.

“I wish I could say I regretted Murdoch's death,” he said after a moment. “But I honestly believe that justice was done, and seen to be done. A Higher justice—not mine.” He sighed heavily. “It still gives me great personal satisfaction to know he's dead.” He sighed again. “Did he—die well, do you know?”

“I really couldn't say,” Guiscard said. “I'm told that he received the Sacraments from Archbishop Hubert. I believe his sons were present at the end. All things considered, his passing was probably far gentler than he deserved.”

The hard note in Guiscard's voice caused Javan to look up sharply, somewhat relieved to know that he was not the only one who did not mourn Murdoch's passing. When the Deryni turned away, moving back into the room to lean both hands on the trestle table, Javan got slowly to his feet.

“So, what are the first repercussions we'll have to weather?” he asked, coming to pour wine for Guiscard and pushing the cup across the table to him. “How is Richard taking it?”

Guiscard took a long pull from the cup before sinking down in the nearest chair, for once unmindful of the protocol that should have kept him standing until the king sat.

“Richard has asked that you receive him formally as the new Earl of Carthane in the morning, after which he requests leave to take his father home to Carthane for burial,” he said wearily, rubbing at his eyes. “I believe Rhun intends to accompany him, to assist with the practicalities of the funeral and assumption of local governance.”

Nodding, Javan wearily turned back toward the window embrasure, where it was cooler. Charlan had risen when the king did and remained leaning against the window's center mullion, arms crossed on his chest, quietly listening.

“I can't refuse, of course,” Javan said, sinking back down on the bottom step of the embrasure. “He's done nothing to merit attainder. It's no crime to loathe the man you believe responsible for your father's death. I don't much like him, either, if only because he's his father's son.

“If the loathing turns to treason, that's another matter; but until and unless he demonstrates treachery, the law says there's nothing I can do to him. So I suppose, for now, we play out our designated roles as king and new liege man. He may go to Carthane, and good riddance; and I will acknowledge him in his title before he leaves.”

Guiscard gave him a little nod. “Shall I so inform him, Sire?” he asked. “He will not be abed yet.”

“Please do so,” Javan replied. “Say that I shall be pleased to convene Court after Mass in the morning and that his petition will be favorably received at that time.” His expression hardened as he gazed out the window at the sleeping city, and he glanced back at Guiscard.

“Tell him also,” the king went on, “that I shall brook no continuation of the quarrel that led to his father's demise. So far as I am concerned, the matter is closed. If he insists on keeping old wounds open, I cannot answer for the consequences.”

“Words that strong, Sire?” Guiscard asked, as Charlan also looked at him askance.

Javan allowed himself a grim, wolfish smile. “I must assert myself, gentlemen. Murdoch's death will have provided a rallying point for some of my enemies. I must pray that strength and justice will provide a rallying point for those who would be my friends.”

If Javan had hoped for an immediate sign of some such polarization in his behalf, he was doomed to disappointment. His supporters were there in full force the next morning to witness the new Earl of Carthane's reception, but they were fewer in numbers and in political weight than those who had sided with the departed Murdoch.

Nor was the Court gala or at all glittering, despite the recency of a coronation—other than Prince Miklos, quietly resplendent in his tawny eastern silks. The heat was partially to blame, but most folk of either political persuasion instinctively chose quiet attire for a Court of such potential explosiveness—for no one really knew what Richard Murdoch planned by way of any public statement about his father's death. Nor did they know what further action might be taken by the king.

Out of deference for the feelings of the women of Murdoch's family, even Javan returned to the semimourning he had worn before his coronation—a deep-grey tunic, open at the throat, relieved only by the belt of silver plaques that carried the Haldane sword. Since this morning also was very much an official function, he also wore the State Crown of crosses and leaves intertwined, with the Ring of Fire on his hand.

He convened Court in the great hall this time, for the recognition of an earl—especially this earl—was of sufficient gravity to attract observers who otherwise might not make the effort to attend. Archbishop Hubert stood at his right as witness for the Church, with Father Faelan holding the Book on which the oaths must be sealed. Rhys Michael sat on Javan's immediate left, with Charlan just beyond him. Oriel again stood behind the king, since Prince Miklos was present, but he looked uneasy at having to be so near Hubert, and did not appear to have slept well.

Mercifully, or perhaps ominously, the
Custodes Fidei
were but little in evidence, Paulin and his party having left Rhemuth at first light to escort the body of Brother Serafin back to
Arx Fidei
for burial. Albertus had remained, since the Earl Marshal's presence was desirable for witness of Richard's oath, but Guiscard had told Javan that the
Custodes
Grand Master was expected to ride out immediately after court to catch up with his
Custodes
brethren.

Into a hall already taut with suspicions and uncertainty came Richard and his wife, his younger brother, and his widowed mother, all in deepest mourning, along with the various other members of Court who had supported Murdoch. Some there were among Javan's supporters who feared that Richard might even refuse to put his hands between those of the king and swear him fealty; but Richard was too canny for that. Whatever plans he might be hatching for revenge could be engineered far more easily by the lawfully recognized Earl of Carthane. And whatever resentment he harbored for this particular King of Gwynedd, he had respect for the royal office and for the grave responsibilities he assumed with his father's title as earl.

“I, Richard, Earl of Carthane, do become your liege man of life and limb,” he said softly but distinctly, with his joined hands clasped firmly between Javan's. “Faith and trust will I bear unto you, in living and dying, against all manner of folk, so help me God.”

He was not lying—which only meant that, as yet, Richard Murdoch had not formed any conscious or certain intention to betray the oath he had just given to his young king.

Nonetheless, Javan detected a note of uneasiness underlying the words, which continued to reverberate as he repeated his own affirmation of the oath, learned by rote for the coronation two days previous and rehearsed so many times that day.

“This do I hear, Richard of Carthane. I, for my part, pledge the protection of Gwynedd to you and all your people, to protect and defend you against every creature with all my power. This is the word of Javan Jashan Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd and Kheldour, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, Overlord of Carthane. So help me God.”

He bent to kiss the Book when he had released Richard's hands, and Richard followed suit, but Javan wondered, as the new earl was invested with the other symbols of his office—the coronet, the golden belt, the sword, the banner, the cauldron—how long either of them would be able to keep the oaths they had just sworn. Carthane lay to the south, in the angle formed by the Lendour River and the great estuary that extended up from the Southern Sea. Nyford, its principal city, had already been the scene of anti-Deryni riots and purges in the past decade. Would Richard be able to hold against that kind of pressure? Would he even try?

These were questions not readily answerable, and Richard and his party did not tarry for further exploration of such questions. As soon as the barest courtesies had been exchanged, Richard took his leave and departed the hall, his supporters following to see him off. Very shortly, while Javan moved informally among those remaining in the hall in the aftermath of the morning's business, Guiscard came to tell him that Rhun had ridden out with Richard's party. Sitric had gone with them, Rhun perhaps fearing that the king would steal him as he had stolen Oriel. Javan could not say he would miss any of them. Sitric gone left one less danger at Court.

He prepared to quit the hall, intending to retire for the hottest part of the day and relax for an hour before plunging back into business with a Council meeting that afternoon. Charlan was with him. Guiscard had gone to see where Oriel had gotten to, for Prince Miklos was heading in Javan's direction. With Etienne prudently keeping his distance, Javan was on his own for this encounter with the Deryni prince.

“My good Lord Javan,” Miklos said, making the king a graceful gesture of deference. His young aide accompanied him, quiet and solemn in dark brown shot through with gold, but with dark eyes that missed little.

“In light of what has happened these last few days, I think it best I take my leave of you as well,” Miklos said. “I do regret having been the catalyst for so unfortunate a set of circumstances as has marred your coronation festivities, and hope that you will bear no enmity toward me or toward my sovereign liege. My brother Arion desires only peace between our two Houses.”

“That is my wish as well, my lord,” Javan replied.

“It is the wish of all men of goodwill,” Miklos agreed. “But I trust that your Highness will agree that inquiries needed to be made regarding the fate of Lord Kennet and Lady Sudrey.” He cocked his head wistfully. “Might it be possible to see the Earl Hrorik before I leave? A firsthand assurance from Lady Sudrey's husband would do much to alleviate my brother's concern for the well-being of our kinswoman.”