The Harrowing of Gwynedd (66 page)

Regardless of
what
had been done, its result could only be welcome, for it might be the one thing to keep Javan alive until he came into his own. He regretted that it had not seemed to help Alroy, whose failing health was of increasing concern. Tonight, during Matins, he had offered up special prayers for his brother's recovery, for throughout the day he had become increasingly aware of a vague uneasiness somehow centered on his brother. The psychic bonding so often noted between twins seemed further heightened in Javan, whose perceptions had been strengthening in all areas as his unexpected powers emerged and matured. Tonight, when most of those around him slept and psychic interference was at its ebb, that impression of dark foreboding connected with his twin was even stronger.

Closing his eyes, Javan tried to bring the perception into clearer focus, ignoring the faint, tickling sensation of several carp come to investigate his feet and to mouth gently at his toes. He gained a greater measure of tranquillity, but no clearer impression of what was amiss. After a while he looked up with a start, his attention recalled to the present by the sound of horses approaching the gate to the yard on the other side of the cloister wall, and a somehow familiar voice shouting “Porter!”

Charlan?
The thought came immediately to Javan, as he turned his head to listen more closely and the voice cried out again.

“Porter? Open the gate, I say. Open in the name of the king! I bear a message for Prince Javan!”

It
was
Charlan!

Even as Javan jerked his feet out of the water and set to drying them hastily on the hem of his soutane, other voices were added to Charlan's, along with the sounds of bolts being withdrawn and the clatter of many hooves on cobblestones as a large number of horses entered the yard. The glare of many torches lit the air above the cloister wall, and Javan estimated that there might be as many as a dozen men with his former squire. As the voices died down, Javan realized that someone must have been summoned to speak to Charlan.

But what was Charlan doing here at this hour? It could not be to tell of Alroy's death, for he had demanded admittance in the name of the king and asked to see
Prince
Javan.

Of course, Alroy
could
be dead and Rhys Michael declared king—but surely not even Rhun or Murdoch would have been stupid enough to send Charlan to tell his former master that his crown was usurped.

Which all suggested that Alroy was still alive but failing. As Javan slipped his good foot into his sandal and then set about the more time-consuming process of putting his special boot back on, he decided that could also account for what he had been feeling all day. And if Alroy was failing—

Mince no words, Javan
, he told himself.
If Alroy is dying, you're about to have to fight for your crown. You'd just better hope you're ready
…

He was fastening up the last buckle on his boot when torches approached from the processional door that led into the cloister from the abbey church. Heart pounding in his throat, he scooped up his scapular and rose, automatically starting to don it before the abbot saw him out of uniform—for Father Halex surely would be the one to bring Charlan to him, the only one with authority to do so.

But then he decided to take the gamble that this was the call he had been waiting for and that he had removed the hated symbol of servitude to the
Custodes Fidei
for the last time. As the torches approached, Father Halex clearly in the lead and Charlan's towhead right beside him, Javan dropped the scapular back onto the grass and contented himself with doing up the throat of his soutane.

Charlan strode out ahead of the abbot as he saw his former master, and Javan drew himself to attention as the young knight drew near and made him a respectful bow, left hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The young knight wore a quilted jazerant over his riding leathers, token indication that this was not a social call, but that seemed to be the extent of his armor. Still, it was a measure of the impact he had made on arrival that Charlan retained his sword and dagger, even within these cloistered walls, though he had not been allowed to bring any of his men with him.

“Your Highness, I bear important news from Rhemuth,” Charlan said carefully, obviously as aware as Javan that the abbot and his two attendant monks were taking in every word.

“The king?” Javan asked in a low voice, afraid for what he would hear.

“The king lives,” Charlan breathed, “but he commands your presence. The Prince Rhys Michael bade me come, and gave me this as token of his authority.”

Without taking his eyes from Charlan's dark ones, Javan opened a palm under the closed fist Charlan offered, glancing then at what lay gleaming in the torchlight. It was Rhys Michael's signet, near mate to Javan's own, which he kept hidden in a small leather pouch under the mattress in his cell.

“
Brother
Javan,” the abbot said pointedly, “this is highly irregular. You are under obedience to this Order. And where is the rest of your habit?”

“I mean you no disrespect, Father Abbot, but I am under a higher obedience to my king, who is my brother,” Javan replied, ignoring the question of his habit as he glanced back at Charlan. “
Rhys Michael
sent you, Sir Charlan?”

“Aye, my lord, for the king was too weak to make his wishes known outside his sickroom.” Charlan delved into the pouch hanging from his belt and produced a folded handkerchief, which he handed to Javan. “As further earnest that this is his personal request, the prince bade me give you this.”

Carefully Javan unfolded the soft linen, deliberately angling it so that Father Halex could not see what it contained. The earring of twisted gold wire was mate to another he had been directed to remove prior to making his vows and bespoke the very urgency of Rhys Michael's summons—that this, indeed, touched on the kingship of Gwynedd. He kept his expression neutral as he folded the earring back into its linen nest, deliberately ignoring the abbot as he slipped Rhys Michael's ring onto his right hand and looked up at Charlan again.

“I'll need to boot up and change,” he said, handing the handkerchief back to the young knight for safekeeping. “Look after that, will you? And did you bring me a horse, or shall I borrow one from the abbey stables?”

“Now, see here, Brother Javan!” the abbot began.

“It's
Prince
Javan now, my Lord Abbot,” Javan replied, rounding on the older man with a look of fierce determination. “And I ride at the command of my king—and your king as well.”

The abbot gaped and glanced indignantly at his two monks for support. “But you're under vows. You owe me obedience!”

“My vows are and always have been temporary, my lord,” Javan said, quietly but firmly. “They now are at an end. I'm leaving. So unless you intend to take up the matter with Sir Charlan and the other knights waiting in the yard, I suggest you stand aside and allow me to pass. Sir Charlan, would you please accompany me?”

The abbot gave way speechlessly as Javan pressed forward, Charlan at his elbow, and the monks likewise parted to either side, leaving them a clear path across the garden.

“I did bring you a horse, your Highness,” Charlan murmured breathlessly as they made for the processional door, away from the now-muttering abbot. “I have a spare pair of breeches and a short tunic in my saddlebag, too, if you're in need of proper riding clothes. It would be a grim ride, bare-legged.”

“No, I have what I need in my cell, from my last trip to Rhemuth,” Javan said. “Nothing fancy, but it will do the job.” He pushed open the processional door and led Charlan briefly into the south transept and around to the night stair. As they mounted the stair, Javan steadying his hobbling gait with a hand on the thick rope swagged up the wall, he glanced back over his shoulder at the following Charlan.

“How
is
my brother Alroy, Charlan? Did you see him?”

“No, sir. Only Rhys Michael. But he said he'd just come from the king, and he looked really worried. I'm reasonably confident we can get you back to Rhemuth in time, but I don't think I'd have been sent like this, in the middle of the night, unless it was urgent. Rhys Michael took a big risk, too, sending me the way he did. It's my impression that it was against the wishes of Archbishop Hubert and whatever other great lords might have been waiting outside the king's chamber.”

They had reached the landing now, and Javan led the young knight quickly along the dormer corridor, limping only a little on the flat, ignoring the occasional sleepy head that peered out of a doorway.

“In here,” Javan murmured, pausing to take up the night-light set in a niche in the corridor before leading Charlan into the tiny room designated as his monastic cell.

He lit the rushlight in another niche inside, then handed the night-light to Charlan to replace in the hallway while he began unbuttoning his soutane, starting to formulate a plan of action as he did so.

“I hope you don't mind squiring for me, the way you used to do,” Javan said as the young knight ducked anxiously back into the room. “You'll find my other boot and my riding things in that chest at the foot of the bed. I want to get out of here as quickly as we can, before the abbot decides that his
Custodes
men are a match for yours.”

Grinning, Charlan bent to the task assigned.

“The possibility
had
crossed my mind, your Highness,” he said easily, quickly producing the desired boot and then beginning to rummage through the stacks of uniformly black garments. “However, I think the presence of a dozen armed knights in his yard may have dampened the good abbot's enthusiasm for such rash action. Are these the breeches you wanted?” he asked, holding a handful of black aloft by one leg.

Glancing up, Javan gave a nod.

“As for being your squire,” Charlan went on, tossing the breeches onto the bed, “I shall always count those months in your service as my honor and privilege. I—hope you'll be gracious enough to accept my continued service, when you are king.”

“When I am king—”

Javan had been in the process of stripping the hated
Custodes
cincture from around his waist, and he stiffened and then swallowed before deliberately dropping it onto the bed like a limp snake—the braided cincture of crimson and gold intertwined, whose colors the
Custodes Fidei
had usurped from the Haldane royal house to lend credibility to their mission against Deryni.

“I hope I needn't tell you that being king is the last thing I would have wished, if it meant that harm would come to my brother,” Javan said quietly. He shrugged out of the heavy soutane and let it fall in a pool of wool around his feet, stepping free awkwardly to sit on the edge of the bed, now clad only in the baggy underdrawers the monks were allowed.

“I have to face realities, though,” he continued as Charlan knelt at his feet and began unbuckling the special boot. “I hope that doesn't sound disloyal. But if he's to die before he gets an heir—”

Charlan shot him an appraising look before returning his attention to the buckles.

“Better you than Rhys Michael,” he said shortly, not looking up. “Oh, I have no quarrel with your younger brother, Sire, but
you're
the heir. And
you
have the backbone to stand up to the lords of state—which I don't think your brother does. The king certainly doesn't.”

Anger flared in the grey Haldane eyes, and Javan kicked his good foot free of its sandal.

“It isn't Alroy's fault that he's been under their thumb,” he said sharply. “He's always been frail. And once the regents had driven Lord Rhys and Bishop Alister from Court, the court physicians had orders to keep him just slightly sedated all the time, even when he was healthy otherwise. I didn't want to believe it at first, but I saw it for myself, the last few times I had a chance to be alone with him.”

Charlan freed the last buckle, glancing up as he eased the boot from Javan's crippled foot and rocked back on his heels. “Did Master Oriel tell you that, Sire?”

The question could be taken many ways. That Charlan was even here bespoke a loyalty to all three Haldane brothers that went beyond whatever duty he might feel he owed the former regents; but Javan was not certain he liked having Charlan link him with the Deryni Oriel. It skirted too close to the truth about Javan's own growing talents.

Of course, Javan could use those talents to make sure of Charlan, here and now. Kneeling there at Javan's feet, the young knight could never get out of range in time to prevent Javan touching him and triggering old controls. But if Javan was about to be king and must use those talents to keep his throne, he would rather not force loyalty that appeared to be freely offered.

Careful not to show his concern, Javan pulled the breeches to him and thrust his feet into the legs, standing long enough to pull them up and do up the fastenings. He stepped back into the special boot before sitting back down again, so that Charlan could do up the buckles while he pulled the mate onto his good left foot.

“As a matter of fact, Master Oriel did tell me about it,” he said, taking the slight gamble—for he could always seize control later, if Charlan proved treacherous. “He didn't approve, and he thought I should know—as Alroy's brother as well as heir presumptive. As you'll recall, the terms of his service don't permit open disagreement with his ‘employers,' regardless of his professional opinion.” He cocked his head at Charlan, who was doing up the last buckles.

“What about you, Charlan? You were open enough, when you first entered my service, to confess that you were obliged to report to the regents concerning me. I'd like to think that you told me that out of a personal loyalty that went beyond official duty. But all of that changed when I left Court. You became the king's squire—which means that any oaths you swore to him were essentially to the regents and then the great lords, as well.” He drew a deep breath.