King Javan’s Year (12 page)

Almost trembling, Javan handed off the tunic and his sheaf of papers to Charlan, who was grinning widely. He allowed himself to look at the length of white leather still offered on Jason's hands, but he made himself fold his own hands in his lap, so that he would not touch it.

“Sir Jason, I—am overwhelmed by the honor you do me. But I am as I am.” He could not keep from glancing at his clubfoot, exposed there for all to see, and he had to blink back tears as he let his eyes sweep the others as well.

“Please forgive me, gentlemen, but I—would not have you lessen your standards merely to prove a loyalty that need not be proven. I am more grateful than I can say, for your support and the danger you take upon yourselves by championing my cause, but you need not do this.”

To his utter amazement, the rest of the knights merely smiled and went to one knee, all of them looking expectantly at Jason, who sighed and leaned forward conspiratorially, one forearm resting on his upraised knee. Rhys Michael had drawn back against the edge of the window embrasure, for he was not one of their company in this, but tears of joy glistered in his eyes as he made happy witness to it.

“Sire,” Jason said gravely, “I believe I continue to speak for the rest of my brother knights when I tell you that none of us intend to take another step out of this room or to lift another finger in your service until you agree to accept the accolade.”

“You will but make my task the more difficult, gentlemen,” Javan whispered. “To appear before the lords of state wearing this”—he gestured toward the belt—“would only provoke those who far sooner would have my brother on the throne instead of me.”

“You need not wear the white belt out of this room,” Robear replied, leaning closer. “For now, we would be satisfied if you receive the accolade in secret. Later, when circumstances permit the full ceremony to which you, as king, are entitled—and which your subjects will expect—the ceremony can be repeated and this external sign taken up. But it is not
that
which makes a knight.” He gestured as Jason held up the belt and flexed the length between his two hands. “
We
will know that our king is one of us, and sealed by our recognition as fit to lead us in battle, if need be.”

Trembling, Javan looked around at the five upturned faces, three young and two not so young, awed by their faith in him, then raised his eyes to Jason's.

“Very well,” he whispered.

Smiling, Jason laid the white belt over his shoulder and rose, the others also getting to their feet. “Then kneel, Sire. I think we've wasted enough time as it is.”

“Shouldn't I at least put on my tunic?” Javan asked as he rose, for he was standing before them in only his black breeches.

Jason shook his head and put both his hands on Javan's shoulders, steadying him as he urged him to his knees. “No time, lad. Besides, it's too hot. Let this be the only time you feel the kiss of steel on bare flesh, and remember it well.”

Kneeling there, his face upturned to Jason's, Javan thought it highly unlikely he was ever to forget it. Pressing his palms together in an attitude of prayer, he was aware of the others moving to either side of Jason, two to a side, and of the slither of steel as Jason drew his broadsword and held it flat-bladed before his kneeling king.

“Let this blade stand in the place of the great sword carried by your father, by which blade I was knighted nearly twenty years ago,” he said softly. “Swear upon it, that you will be a good and faithful knight and a true king to your people.”

Placing his hands flat on the blade over Jason's, Javan murmured, “I swear it, so help me God,” and bent to touch his lips to the steel between. Then, as Jason raised the blade before him, himself kissing the cross-hilt before preparing to deliver the accolade, Javan joined his hands again and bowed his head.

“Javan Jashan Urien Haldane,” Jason said, as the right hands of the other knights came to rest lightly on his hand that held the sword. “I dub thee a knight, in the name of the Father”—the blade dipped to touch Javan's right shoulder, cold steel against warm flesh—“and of the Son”—the blade arched over Javan's head to touch his other shoulder—“and of the Holy Spirit.”

The blade moved a third time, touching the flat to the crown of Javan's bowed head, cold against the shaved circle of the tonsure that could not grow out fast enough to satisfy Javan—though he did not spurn the true Master he had served during his years in seminary, as God's knight; only the humans who had tried to force his compliance to a vocation he did not feel, that they might deprive him of his birthright.

The sword lifted. Tears were glittering in Javan's eyes as he raised them to Jason's and to those of the other four who had laid hands on the sword with which he was knighted. And as Jason sheathed his blade, Javan had to clear his throat before he could whisper “Amen.”

“Rise now, Sir Javan Haldane,” Jason said, holding out a right hand to him. “And I think that Sir Charlan should be the one to put the belt on him, since he's the youngest among us.”

Charlan smiled as Jason pulled the white leather off his shoulder and held it out, but shook his head.

“Nay, Sir Jason,
you
should do it,” he said. “Not only are you senior among us, but you made the belt. And you helped him buy the leather for that first belt that never got made.”

Robear gave a nod. “He's right, Jason. You should do it.”

Sighing, but obviously pleased, Jason raised an eyebrow and glanced at the rest of them for confirmation, then slipped the ring end of the belt around Javan's narrow waist without further demur, drawing the end through the ring to snug it up, then passing the end up behind the belt and down through the loop thus formed. When he had adjusted it to his liking, he went to his knees and took Javan's right hand, pressing its back to his lips in homage before releasing it to offer up his own joined palms in the gesture of fealty.

“My king and liege,” he said. “I am your man of life and limb and earthly worship. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk. So help me God.”

The others were going to their knees even as Jason said it, likewise lifting up their hands, and Javan's hands were trembling as he enclosed Jason's between his. In the emotion of the moment, he could not remember the exact words he was supposed to respond, but he knew the sense of what they wanted to hear.

“I receive your faith and truth and I pledge my faith and truth in return,” he said. “Insofar as such grace is given me, I promise to be a true liege to all of you, to protect and defend you with all my heart and with all my strength and with all my might. So help me God.”

Jason bowed to touch his forehead to their joined hands then. Javan was moving on to clasp Robear's hands when a brisk knock on the outer door shattered the solemnity of the moment.

Instantly Jason was on his feet and moving toward the door, signalling them to finish. Briskly, but careful not to hurry, Javan took the fealty of Robear, then of the three younger knights, lifting one finger to his lips and retreating to his stool as he heard voices in the outer room. Charlan came with him, bending to remove the telltale white belt. He had it shielded behind his body, coiling it up again, when Jason and Bertrand entered, with the Healer Oriel between them.

“I'm told that you asked to see Master Oriel,” Jason said carefully. “That your foot was giving you some trouble, after your ride. Bertrand has brought him, as you requested.”

Carefully Javan drew breath. After the emotional experience of his knighting, he felt drained—or perhaps it was Oriel's fatigue-banishing spell giving out. The knights had given him their unqualified trust, as one of them. Now, perhaps, it was time to trust them just a little.

“Yes, I did ask to see Master Oriel,” he said quietly, restraining a yawn. “He was my Healer after Tavis O'Neill left court, and he risked a great deal to keep me apprised of my brother's condition after I was sent to the seminary. Without his personal courage and support last night, I doubt that Rhys Michael would have had the courage to summon me against the wishes of the great lords.”

As Rhys Michael shook his head in agreement, wide-eyed, the knights glanced uncomfortably among themselves, several of them casting covert glances at Javan's foot.

“You must forgive us, Sire,” Robear said. “We accept whatever limitations your foot may cause you, but we do not know what they are. I don't believe anyone realized that you needed a Healer's attention.”

“I'm afraid I misled you,” Javan said, “and for that I apologize. It wasn't really my foot I called him for. A long ride after long absence from a horse will always have its cost, but what I really need is some sleep, before I face the Council. One doesn't get much sleep in a monastery, and you know what last night was like. An hour of Healer's sleep is better than half a night's ordinary sleep. I trust him to do only what I ask of him. Will you trust him as well?”

Sorle, dark and quick and handsome, cast a suspicious glance over the Deryni.

“Is he not the creature of the great lords, Sire?” he said. “Of Earl Tammaron and Archbishop Hubert?”

“Oriel, answer him,” Javan said.

Trembling, Oriel locked his eyes on Sorle's, looking very young and vulnerable.

“Those are the masters I am forced to serve, my lord,” he whispered, “because my wife and daughter are held as hostage. I have seen the cost to other Deryni who did not do as they were told. When the great lords still were regents, I watched them order Declan Carmody's family killed before his very eyes. Some in this room saw it as well, and how the regents then took Declan's life by slow torture. They will do the same to me and mine if I defy them openly.”

“And yet Master Oriel has freely given me aid,” Javan said. “I trust his integrity, be he Deryni or not. In return, I will not put him in a position in which he must openly choose between me and those who hold his family hostage. Even coming here now could put him at risk, as the great lords will know that I am conferring with those who support me. Fortunately, they're probably conferring, too, and I hope will not miss him. But I must not keep him overlong and I do need his services.”

A heavy yawn took him this time without him being able to prevent it, and he glanced at Oriel and got to his feet. “You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen. Robear, can I ask you to handle whatever arrangements need to be made in the next hour or so?”

“The main thing is who should be asked to attend the Council,” Robear replied. “And security arrangements. The great lords may take exception to what you did this morning, once they've had a chance to think about it.”

Javan had been slowly heading back toward the sleeping chamber as he listened, making a point of walking as boldly as he could without his supportive boot, hardly limping at all, but the mere sight of the curtained bed in the corner of the room reminded him just how exhausted he was. “I throw myself on your good judgment, Robear. Summon the ones you think will work best for me and make arrangements to secure the castle against whatever kind of internal insurrection the former regents might think to try.” He shook his head as a huge yawn claimed his attention.

“I'm sorry. Charlan, wake me when it's time to dress and go back down. And feel free to continue using these rooms. I assure you, I shan't hear a thing.”

As Charlan drew the others out of the room, shepherding them back toward the window embrasure, Javan swung his legs up on the bed and lay back on the pillows with a sigh, shifting a little aside so that Oriel could sit on the edge beside him.

“Thank you for coming and thank you for what you said in there,” he murmured. “You told them just what you ought to have.”

Oriel gave him a taut smile. “I had little choice, did I, after you'd committed me?”

Grimacing, Javan rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “We all have our charades to play, Oriel. At least if they know you're on my side, for whatever reason, they'll be inclined to protect you. I intend to do what I can, as I promised you several years ago, but I can't be everywhere at once. Especially not for a while.”

Oriel allowed himself a resigned shrug. “No matter. For now, it's enough that they mean well by you.” He glanced down at Javan's foot. “Is your foot bothering you, or was that really part of the ruse to get me here, as you told them?”

Javan flexed the foot and winced. “As I said, a ride like last night, after so long a time away from horses, does have its price. But I can live with that. You promised me Healer's sleep. I think I can spare about an hour.”

Oriel nodded and set his hands to either side of Javan's head, thumbs pressed to the temples. “An hour will certainly help—though two would be better. May I take you really deep?”

Javan drew a deep breath and closed his eyes as he let it out. “Do what you think is best,” he whispered.

“Thank you.”

Javan could feel the Healer's mind questing at his shields, and he let them fall away, confident that Oriel would not take advantage.

“Let yourself float now,” the Healer murmured, pushing sleep before him as his mind came into Javan's. It was like a wave of dark water, cool and all embracing, and Javan let it carry him deep, deeper …

“That's right,” Oriel whispered. “Rather than set a specific length of time, I'll leave you to sleep on until Charlan rouses you. If he's kind, you could pick up an extra quarter hour or so. And I'll see what I can do with that foot before I leave …”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

They compassed me about also with words of hatred; and fought against me without a cause
.

—Psalms 109:3

By noon, as Javan made his way downstairs to accompany his brother's body to Saint Hilary's, he found his fatigue much diminished and his composure considerably restored—though the latter suffered new assaults as he made his way through the great hall among his new subjects, heading with his escort knights toward the door to the courtyard beyond. Sir Robear had counseled him and Rhys Michael not to go back to the sickroom where Alroy had died, but to await the procession on the great hall porch.