The Harrowing of Gwynedd (29 page)

It was a very grand chapel, too, for all that it was much smaller than Javan had expected. Javan's jaw dropped as his escorting priest, whose name was Father Aloysius, threw open the gilded double doors and stood aside for him and Charlan to enter.

Javan had never seen such a room, all floored and walled and vaulted with some white stone that glittered slightly in the light of dozens of vigil candles set before a life-sized statue of the Virgin, just to the left of the altar. Behind the altar, a carved frieze of the same stone, some of it gilded, seemed to explode with angels bearing trumpets and thuribles and palm branches, all hovering above the splendid jewelled tabernacle that stood beneath an equally ornate Presence lamp. And the ceiling—

“I'll tell the chamberlain you're here, your Highness,” Father Aloysius told him nervously. “He'll have a messenger sent up to the castle, so no one will worry. And did you wish to see the archbishop, or would you rather just be left alone? I believe His Grace may be entertaining the Vicar General of the
Custodes Fidei
to dinner this evening.”

“Oh, you needn't disturb His Grace,” Javan replied, lowering his eyes in some alarm. And he
certainly
had no wish to face the
Custodes'
Vicar General tonight. “I don't mean to put anyone out. Besides, I don't think this is really anything that anyone else can help me with. I need to work it out alone. I—feel that if I can just have this quiet time, maybe—I don't know. It's all so very confusing, Father.”

“I know, my son,” the priest whispered. He started to touch the prince's bowed head for comfort, as he might have done for any lesser boy, but then thought better of it and merely made the sign of the cross above him. “God bless you in your quest, Prince Javan.”

“Thank you, Father.”

When the man had gone, Javan glanced sheepishly at Charlan, who was standing by the closed doors with a look of patient forbearance on his handsome face.

“Poor Charlan,” Javan said with a slightly embarrassed smile. “All this excessive kneeling doesn't mean a great deal to you, does it, yet you endure it for my sake, when you'd far rather be back in your bed, especially on a night like this.”

Charlan shrugged deprecatingly and returned the smile. “It's my honor to serve you, your Highness. If it pleases you to spend the night in prayer, then I am proud to watch with you.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, my lord.”

Javan smiled and shook his head, briefly resting a hand on one of Charlan's wrists in a gesture both comradely and compelling. “Well, I can't fault your loyalty. But do keep your watch here by the door, where you can at least sit for part of the time. And feel free to doze, if you like. I have some heaven-storming to do, but there's no reason you should miss an entire night's sleep.”

He turned to move farther into the chapel at that, but not before he saw Charlan covering an enormous yawn with one hand as he sat down on a bench set into a niche to the right of the doors.

Good. The yawn confirmed that the squire was now primed to do Javan's bidding without question, and could be used with impunity to further Javan's plan—once he figured out what that plan was.

But for now, before he could even think about actually doing anything else, Javan had to make sure his physical scenario was plausible, if anyone should come in. He bowed his head as he made his reverence before the altar, kneeling on the hard sleekness of the bottom altar step rather than at the single
prie-dieu
, for that surely must be Hubert's. There was no altar rail to lean on, so he sank back on his heels and folded his hands in his lap, closing his eyes to the glitter of the chapel while he tried to think.

Timing was his main consideration from now on. If Hubert was entertaining the new Vicar General of the
Custodes
, that should mean that he would be late returning to his quarters—though how late was anyone's guess. So Javan dared not wait
too
long.

But nor dared he begin his venture too early, either, for the archbishop's household would still be about until at least after Compline, even if their master was otherwise occupied. That Office must be nearly upon him by now, for it normally fell some three hours after Vespers, at least half of which time Javan had spent in the cathedral with Father Stephen and after. He wondered, as he strained his ears for some faint echo of a Compline bell, whether they would sing it here or in some other chapel—for he gathered that there were several within the precincts of the archbishop's palace. This one did not seem large enough for the entire episcopal household. Nor was it really set up for other than private meditations and celebrations of Mass. He hoped it would not be here, for he did not want to endure more questioning about the vocation he knew he did not have. But he would submit with good grace, if he had to.

Meanwhile, Charlan already had begun to snore softly behind him, chin resting on his chest above folded arms, and the chapel seemed secure. Later, Javan would try to check outside and figure out which way he had to go to find Hubert's apartments. For now, he would try to get his thoughts in order, and plan what he would do if Hubert did or did not come in to question him.

Nor did he have long to wait for a resolution to that set of options. Though no one came to the chapel in response to the Compline bells that soon sounded, the doors did open about half an hour later, at about the time the office would have been over. Javan started at the sound, turning to look as he also heard Charlan shuffling to his feet with a murmured apology. To his consternation, but no real surprise, not only Archbishop Hubert but also Paulin of Ramos were entering the chapel. Paulin showed his usual sour expression, but the archbishop's pink face was wreathed with smiles.

“Why, Prince Javan, how pleasant to see you. And why are you kneeling on the cold, hard floor, dear boy? You're quite welcome to use my
prie-dieu
.”

Javan rose as the archbishop approached, suddenly certain of the suggestion he would try to plant in Hubert's mind as he kissed the archbishop's ring. Again he used the ruse of pretending to stagger a little on his lame foot, catching himself on Hubert's hand, to prolong the contact.

“Your Grace,” he murmured. “I'm very sorry to have interrupted your evening. I only wanted to keep a vigil, and Father Aloysius didn't think the cathedral was appropriate.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Hubert replied. “And he did right not to send you back to the castle in this storm. You're certainly most welcome to keep your vigil here.” He smiled wider. “Am I to understand that a vocation is making itself known?”

Javan lowered his eyes. “Well, I—I'm not certain, your Grace. That's what I have to find out.”

“Would it help to talk about it?” Hubert offered. “I'm sure you must know that I've given spiritual direction to many young priests.”

“I—think that might be premature, your Grace,” Javan replied carefully. “I wouldn't want to waste your time, especially when you have a guest.”

“Oh, it would hardly be a waste of time, your Highness. I'm sure that Father General would be as delighted as I if you were to discover that you have a vocation like your dear father—God rest his soul. But I won't press the issue. It's an important decision, and these things take time to discover. I'll leave instructions that you're not to be disturbed for the night. And if you
should
feel a need for counsel, my quarters are just down the corridor. You have only to ask.”

Javan could hardly believe his good fortune, for not only had Hubert responded to the suggestion to leave Javan alone for the night, but this chapel was not the one Javan had thought. His quick probe, as he kissed the archbishop's hand again in farewell, caught a clear picture of the archbishop's apartments, but three doors down—and his ability to make the probe undetected reassured him that he could probably deal with Hubert if he were discovered, later in the night.

His heart was pounding with excitement as he made the expected responses to the archbishop's parting blessing, but he forced himself to pretend that nothing was amiss, sinking down piously on the
prie-dieu
before Hubert and Paulin had even gotten through the doors, to be certain that picture was etched in Hubert's memory—for he planned to leave Charlan kneeling here in his master's cloak, when he eventually went out to visit Hubert's quarters, just in case anyone should glance inside and expect to see him.

He agonized for the next half hour, wondering how long Hubert would stay out with Paulin. Should he try to go soon, hoping to be in and out before Hubert returned, or wait until he had a fair expectation that Hubert slept, and try to sneak in and out under the archbishop's nose? Either option had risks that Javan would as soon avoid, but he was going to have to do
something
, if he had any hope of delivering his report.

And what if, overcoming the risks, he succeeded in finding the Portal in Hubert's quarters and then discovered that he could not operate it after all? He had been making all his plans under the assumption that he
could
, but the fact of the matter was that he never had done it all on his own. Tavis had expressed faith that Javan was about ready to try it, and Javan
thought
he understood how it was done, from watching Tavis—but what if the theory and the practice were miles apart?

He sighed and rubbed his hands across his face, glancing up at the splendor of the altar without really seeing it. He must not allow himself to get bogged down in doubts or he would end up doing nothing—which might be best in the long run, a more cautious part of him counseled. It was what Tavis himself would probably advise, reckoning no report worth the risk Javan was preparing to take.

But Javan was convinced that his information was vital. Furthermore, with the collapse of his communication network with his Deryni allies, he was foundering in uncertainty. He
had
to know how they were faring—or at least let them know how he was faring. Caution had no chance in the face of youthful zeal.

And so, very shortly, Javan went quietly to the back of the chapel, reaching the dozing Charlan just as the squire was startling out of sleep at the approach of his master.

“Go back to sleep, Charlan,” Javan commanded, reinforcing the order with a hand across the squire's eyes as Charlan wavered, half in and half out of his seat, and then subsided. “I want you to put on my cloak and go up to the
prie-dieu
. Don't stir for anyone.” While he guided Charlan to stand, he worked the clasp of his cloak with his free hand. “You'll remember none of this. Just go up and kneel by the altar. Put the hood up.”

He helped Charlan pull it forward as the squire adjusted the cloak over his own, walking with him then to see him safely ensconced at the
prie-dieu
. When he had finished, he stepped back to look at Charlan. From behind, hunched over the
prie-dieu
and swathed in Javan's grey-fur cloak, Javan was sure no one could tell the difference. He doubted anyone would look in, after Hubert had given orders, but if they did, the sight of anyone bowed in such intense meditation should deter any further intrusion. He drew a deep breath as he set his hands on the door latches, listening to the silence outside for a dozen heartbeats before he dared to turn the handles and slowly ease one door ajar.

Nothing moved in the corridor outside. Torches in cressets spaced along the long, wood-panelled walls splashed dull pools of firelight along the stone flags, but no one seemed to be lurking in the shadows. By the sounds drifting up a stairwell at the end of the corridor, which must lead down to the part of the palace Javan had thought he was in, initially, he judged that Hubert's dinner for Paulin was still in progress—which should keep both Hubert and most of the rest of the staff occupied for at least a little while yet. And Javan had already decided that he was looking for a garderobe, if anyone should come upon him—an excuse that should save him, up until the very moment he set his hand on Hubert's door.

And if there was a servant
inside
, and Hubert not yet there, Javan could always say that the archbishop had invited him—which even Hubert would verify. But it would all be so much simpler, if no one was there at all!

He forced himself to walk casually as he headed in the direction of Hubert's door. He had not seen it when Father Aloysius brought him in, because it lay just around a corner, beyond the chapel. But as Javan turned that corner, pretending to inspect the other doors to either side, there was no mistaking which one was Hubert's. The wide architrave surrounding it was carved and gilded, with cherubim set at the corners and the symbols of the four evangelists ranged across the lintel. The doorjambs bore full-sized croziers carved in deep relief. The door itself displayed the full heraldic achievement of Hubert MacInnis, second son of the Baron of Marlor, his family arms impaled with those of the See of Valoret and the whole surmounted by the miter and mantling of an archbishop.

Javan walked on past it the first time, straining his ears and his powers for any hint of someone within, continuing on to the next corridor intersection to get his bearings before heading back. He did not
think
there was anyone inside, but now that he was about to run out of plausible excuses, if he was caught, he thought briefly of giving it all up.

But only briefly. For when he slipped his hand inside his tunic to feel the sealed packet of his report, still nestled next to his heart, the touch brought back all the urgency of what so many others had risked, many of them for
him
, and he knew he must put his own fears aside and proceed.

To his relief, no one responded when he tapped lightly on the door. He tapped again harder, and when still no one responded, he gently tried the latch—and found, to his utter relief, that the door was not locked. And why should it be, for who would dare to enter the archbishop's apartments without permission?