“We plan to repeat that design around the windows, Sire,” he volunteered. “The greens will tone with the green of the slate. We’ve been told to set slate on the floor, as well, but just in the window embrasures. It’s—ah—rather expensive.”
“So I gathered,” Javan said. He glanced at Charlan and Guiscard, waiting patiently just to one side of the scaffolding, and nodded as the latter indicated it was time to go.
“Well, thank you, Master William. I’m very pleased. I’ve other engagements now, but I’ll have a quick look at a few of the other rooms on my way out. Good day to all of you.”
“Sire,” the man replied with a bow, the other men also stopping work briefly to tug at forelocks as he went out.
“Most of the rest of the rooms on this level will be set aside as guest chambers,” Guiscard said rather more loudly than he needed to, shepherding them left as they went out the door. “If you’ll come this way, Sire, I’ll show you a typical one.”
The door to the next room was closed, but Guiscard pushed it open and led the way in. Like the library, it was plastered and whitewashed over the stone, but hardly a third the size, with a single window embrasure in the wall opposite the door, deep enough for one person to sit on either side.
The window itself was mullioned, with lead cames holding lozenge-shaped panes of glass in the lower half and wood shutters closing off the upper. To the right of the window, occupying the corner angle of the room, was a tiny fireplace with a nicely carved hood. The floor was paved with smooth square and rectangular flagstones set in a random pattern.
“Very fine,” Javan commented, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening in the corridor. “Are they all to this standard?”
“They are,” Guiscard replied, stepping very deliberately onto a square flag in the center of the room—the only one both square and in the center—and turning to look pointedly at Javan. “No garde-robes in rooms this small, of course, Sire, but they’ll be quite comfortable, nonetheless—especially these that catch the afternoon sun.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Javan stepped briefly into the window embrasure to peer out the window. Like the library windows, this one also overlooked the stable yards. Dusting off his hands, he stepped back down and eyed the square where Guiscard was still standing.
“Well, I’ve seen enough,” he said, moving toward the door. “We’d better get back. I want a bath before I have to face a public supper.”
Guiscard pulled the door shut behind them—it already had its inside bolt, Javan had noted—and the three retreated down the corridor in silence, each alone with his thoughts of what the room would mean the next time they entered it.
Supper, fortunately, was not the ordeal Javan had feared. All of his enemies were there, but so were his friends; and everyone seemed determined to put on congenial faces, now that court mourning was ended and things were gearing up for the coronation, but three days away.
Still eschewing Haldane crimson, Javan wore a long, tawny green-gold tunic of raw silk, discreetly jewelled at cuffs and standing collar but open at the throat, belted with a girdle of bronze plaques set with amber. The dagger at his hip was a border dirk set with a water-pale cairngorm in the pommel, like sunlight on peat in a highland stream. By careful combing of his hair, he was able to wear the hammered gold circlet of running lions without a cap of maintenance—no technical pretense of crown, but more than a prince’s coronet. The Eye of Rom gleamed in his right earlobe and the Ring of Fire winked on his left hand beside his signet.
The end of official mourning had brought the ladies out again—the wives and daughters of the great lords in residence and a few early arrivals for the coronation to come. The pastels and muted hues of their raiment were welcome relief from the blacks and greys of strict mourning, even though bright colors or too-gaudy adornment were still to be eschewed until coronation day itself. Still, the feminine presence lent an air of gentility to what had been largely an all-male enclave during those first few weeks. The fare was simple but plentiful, the wine ample, the music soothing and unobtrusive.
It was a night for circulating rather than sitting still, at least for everyone but the king. Somewhat to Javan’s surprise, unlike any other public banquet of his experience, the guests came to him. Either Charlan or Guiscard was always at his back, ready to answer his questions, prompt him on the names of guests, or simply bring him what he needed. Rhys Michael started out sitting at his right, cool in the royal blue of the heir, but soon after eating, he asked to be excused. Later, Javan noticed him in one of the window embrasures off to the right, with Cathan Drummond and the two Fitz-Arthur boys again, talking animatedly to several pretty girls, one of whom was Michaela.
“Charlan says that my brother fancies Michaela Drummond,” Javan said to Guiscard during a lull between courtiers and their ladies come to offer greetings. He sipped at a cup of ale as he noted the pert profile and the sweep of a thick, bronze-gold braid falling past her waist. “Is that your impression, as well?”
“If he does, he has good taste,” Guiscard replied, “but I can’t say I’ve noticed anything in particular. She’s a fine-looking lass, though, and well regarded. She’d make a better royal bride than many I could name who’re campaigning for the job.”
“I don’t intend that there should be any royal brides for a while,” Javan said quietly, giving Guiscard a sidelong glance.
Guiscard shrugged and allowed himself a wan smile. “Then you’ll open yourself to yet another pressure from the Council,” he said. “It’s generally expected that a king should wed fairly young.”
“It’s also generally expected that a king should not have to be on guard against his own ministers, who might arrange a convenient ‘accident’ for said king once he produced an heir,” Javan replied. “Unfortunately, we’ve already got a ready-made cadre of men who’ve tasted the power of a regency. The prospect of another, longer regency might be too tempting to resist. I think I’d prefer a few years to consolidate my position, before having to worry about being ousted in favor of my son.”
“The same argument applies for your brother, then,” Guiscard said. “I hadn’t really thought about that aspect of things, but if he marries before you and secures the succession in the junior line, you both might provide tempting targets.”
Javan nodded. “That’s why I’m appalled at the thought there might be something between him and Michaela. I fear I shall have to speak to my brother.” He sighed and set his cup aside. “But not tonight. I think we have more immediately pressing matters to attend to, as soon as we can decently break away.”
It was several more hours before that could be done. Charlan and Guiscard continued to take turns attending him, ready to carry messages, identify people, and generally see to the king’s comfort. Throughout the evening, most of the members of his Court came to him in twos and threes to pay their respects.
Those conspicuous by their distance were the ones he would have expected—Murdoch, Rhun, Manfred—who paid their dutiful calls on him once but did not stay. Both Paulin and Albertus stayed rather longer, the former obviously fishing for further information on the condition of Father Faelan, wondering how much Javan knew.
“He was sleeping peacefully when I left to come down,” Javan said ingenuously. “I’m sure he’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
It was late by the time Javan could withdraw to his apartments with a few close intimates, calling Guiscard and Charlan to remain after the others had gone; later still when he summoned Oriel to join them, there to impart to the Healer what Faelan had told him that afternoon.
“We haven’t dared to touch him,” Javan whispered, when the Healer had read all that he or Guiscard knew about Faelan’s condition. “It may just be my own suspicions of anything Paulin has a hand in, but I do think that someone questioned him besides Paulin, Lior, and Serafin. If it was a Deryni we don’t know about, he could present complications we don’t need. Have you heard anything about someone worki
ng for the Custodes?”
Oriel shook his head, troubled. “Nary a word, Sire. Sitric certainly hasn’t let on. But he might not know, either, especially if a new man is working for Paulin voluntarily.”
Charlan’s eyes were huge. With his memory unfettered in this select company, he was absorbing the new information with horrified fascination.
“What kind of man would willingly sell out his own kind?” he whispered. “And to corrupt a priest—”
Javan snorted. “It’s a measure of Custodes zeal, the depths to which they’ll stoop to achieve their aims, to annihilate those responsible for outrages that are long past. Faelan’s in their obedience, so they feel justified in doing whatever they must to use him as their tool. If that means setting him up to spy on me and using a Deryni to make him more efficient, they’ll do whatever’s necessary.” He sighed.
“Of course, we don’t know that they did that. We don’t even know for certain that there’s another Deryni involved. We need to find out, Oriel. And you’re the only one who has the legitimate excuse to Read him.”
Oriel shivered. “It’s dangerous.”
“For you, personally? Not unless there is another Deryni, and he’s set some kind of trap, to guard against tampering with his tampering. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that would take someone pretty powerful—probably far more powerful than the Custodes would risk, for fear he might turn on them.
“For anything else, though, you have the perfect justification: I was worried about his health and asked you to see him. If he’s clean, no problem; and we can set up a few safeguards to keep him from becoming a liability.”
“And if he isn’t clean?”
“I suspect that’s going to depend on degree. If there’s something really blatant, then you get out and you report back to Hubert immediately. Tell him that you think someone has tried to plant a Deryni spy in my household. We’ll put it all on him to figure out how to get out of it. Areas of grey, we’ll judge once we know.”
Guiscard was nodding, a faint smile on his rugged face. “You’re getting very good at this, Sire.”
Javan managed a strained smile in return. “Being very scared makes you very good or very dead. But thanks for the vote of confidence. I was thinking about this all through the rehearsal and all through dinner.”
“Well, it was thinking well spent.” Guiscard glanced at Oriel. “Are you willing to try it?”
Shrugging, Oriel got to his feet. “I don’t suppose it’s any worse than a lot of the things I’ve had to do these last few years—and a far sight better than many. And Faelan isn’t Deryni.” He darted a quick look at Javan. “We do know he isn’t Deryni, don’t we?”
“Of that, at least, I’m sure,” Javan said. “Let’s go look in on him. Charlan, you can come; I’d be expected to have an aide with me. Guiscard, you’d better stay; no need to risk your cover on this.”
A few minutes saw them approaching the modest quarters set aside for the king’s confessor, just down the corridor from the royal apartments. A man-at-arms in Haldane livery was standing guard outside and snapped to attention as the king and his party approached.
“At ease,” Javan murmured. “How is Father Faelan? Has he stirred?”
“No, Sire. Sir Guiscard said I was to look in on him every hour, but he hasn’t moved.”
“Well, I’ve brought Master Oriel to have a look at him,” Javan said, gesturing for the door to be opened. “See that we aren’t disturbed.”
With a nod of agreement, the guard obeyed. Ushering Oriel and Charlan inside, Javan followed and pulled the door closed behind them.
The room was similar to the one next to the library, but with an arched doorway opening off to the left into a tiny oratory lit with a red votive candle. Just to the right of the door, another light burned in a niche at the head of a low bed, vaguely illuminating the figure of a black-clad man curled onto his side and facing them. A large trunk loomed at the foot of the bed, a heavy fustian curtain beyond it screening a garderobe. A chair and a writing table took up most of the rest of the room, the table pushed against the wall between the oratory and a small fireplace set in the far left angle of the room.
Without saying anything, Oriel went to the writing table and fetched a candle in a stand, lighting it from the rushlight at the head of the bed and then handing it to Javan. Charlan stood with his back against the closed door, watching. The Healer crouched down beside the bed and studied its occupant for nearly a minute before reaching out a hand and laying it lightly across the sleeping man’s brow.
Utter silence reigned for several seconds, stirred only by the slow, somewhat labored breathing of their subject. Then Oriel sighed and withdrew his hand briefly, rising long enough to shift himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
“Well, that’s something,” he murmured, closing the man’s wrist in his hand. “He definitely isn’t Deryni, by any test I know to apply, and there’s no overt sign of tampering. He’s certainly exhausted, though. Let’s find out why.”
Retaining the wrist, he set his other hand on the priest’s forehead again and bowed his head, as Javan eased nearer the head of the bed and crouched to hold the candle closer. After a few minutes Oriel shook his head and rolled Faelan onto his back, pushing back the sleeve on the wrist he held until his questing fingers found the bandage at the elbow. As Javan leaned forward on his knees to watch, and Charlan, too, moved closer, Oriel unwound the bandage to reveal the angry, barely healing wound of Faelan’s blood-letting. The Healer’s lips tightened as he turned the arm to the light.
“Well, at least we can do something about this,” he murmured. He probed lightly at the hurt, gently rolling the vein above and below it, then pressed his fingers over the wound and went into Healing trance. Javan found himself fingering his own arm as Oriel worked, remembering another wound and another blood-letting, recalling the sinking despair as he realized he was totally in their power, helpless to prevent his life draining away if they chose to let it happen …
“Let’s have a look at his back now,” Oriel said, his words jarring Javan from his reverie. Faelan’s arm now was clean, the injury gone as if it had never been. “Sir Charlan, would you give me a hand?”
Javan helped, too, showing them how the hated scapular and its hood came off, watching Oriel untie and pull off the cincture, helping them raise the limp Faelan to a sitting position so Oriel could reach down the neck of Faelan’s habit to check his back.
“Hmmm, the weals are still nasty—some bruising. No wonder he was sleeping on his side.”
“Do you want the habit off, sir?” Charlan asked.
Oriel shook his head, reaching deeper. “Not necessary. I think I can manage from here.”
His eyes had gone a little glazed again, indicative of Healing trance. After a few more seconds he sighed and withdrew, letting Charlan help him lay the priest back on the pillows. Javan was watching him, wide-eyed, and shot Charlan a pained glance. They both knew about weals on backs, too.
“We could have used Master Oriel’s services that other time, eh, my prince?” Charlan whispered with a strained smile.
“Aye.”
At Javan’s whispered reply, Oriel looked up sharply, gasping as Javan sent him the quick, painful image of his own encounter with the “little discipline,” at Hubert’s order.
“They dared to do that to you, Sire?” he whispered.
Javan swallowed and made himself push back the memory. “That’s past now,” he said. “And I did defy Hubert. In that sense, I suppose I deserved my stripes. Faelan didn’t deserve his, though. And the other—the minution—it was never meant to be a torture or a threat.” He sighed. “One more thing the Custodes have to answer for. How can we minimize Faelan’s part in this, Oriel? He doesn’t want to be a part of it. Is there anything we can do to protect him—and us?”
“Perhaps.” Oriel sat back with his hands on his thighs and stared at Faelan for a long moment, then looked at Javan. “The safest thing, of co
urse, is simply to avoid letting him know anything that it would be dangerous for the Custodes to know.”
“And erase anything potentially dangerous before he goes off for his monthly debriefing,” Javan agreed.
Oriel nodded. “So long as we know precisely when he’s to go, that might suffice. It wouldn’t protect him from Sitric, though—or from a Deryni in Paulin’s service.”
“Is there one?” Javan asked. “You still haven’t said for certain.”
“I don’t know for certain,” Oriel replied. “And before I try to find out, are you sure we want to get further involved? So far, I haven’t gone beyond what might be expected of a Healer in the line of duty. But if I probe and find what you suspect, we’re committed. At very least, I’ll have to cover myself; and if I can’t, we have no choice but to go to Hubert.”
“That may not be our only choice,” Javan replied. “If you just patch things for now, will it hold for a few days until we figure out what else to do?”
“It should, if no one gets his hands on him in the meantime.”
“Let’s bring him around, then, and see what he has to say for himself,” Javan said, rising from his knees to change places with the Healer. “I’ll ask the questions. I’m the only one of us he knows, and he wasn’t too keen on having a Healer examine him.”
Holding the candle so he would be well illuminated when Faelan woke, Javan waited until Oriel had taken up a position behind him, then glanced back at the Healer and nodded. Without speaking, Oriel leaned forward briefly to touch the priest’s hand, giving the command. Faelan’s eyelids fluttered as the Healer straightened, eyes opening uncertainly and then darting in alarm first to Javan, then to Oriel, to Charlan, and back to the king.
“You’re perfectly safe, Father,” Javan said. “This is Master Oriel, and that’s Sir Charlan, one of my aides. Are you feeling better?”