King Javan’s Year (8 page)

Alroy swallowed hard, stifling another cough, and glanced uneasily at Oriel, still bowed deep in trancing beside him.

“He knows some of it,” Javan whispered, answering the unasked question. “No one else does, other than the Deryni working directly with Father Joram.”

“What about Rhysem?” Alroy whispered, looking beyond the bed where Rhys Michael guarded the door.

Javan shook his head. “There was no way to tell him. And it only would have made things more dangerous, once I was away from Court.”

“But you're back now,” Alroy said anxiously. “And you
do
intend to stay, don't you?”

Javan smiled faintly. “I'm not meant to be a priest,” he said, “though I think I understand now what Father was giving up in accepting the crown. In any case, the seminary's been a grand place to hide, these past few years—and to acquire a useful education while I gave myself time to grow up. I'd hoped it would all be in aid of helping you rule, as one of your ministers; but I suppose I guessed, deep inside, that it wasn't going to happen. Murdoch and his cronies were never going to let you rule.”

“That's why they kept me drugged,” Alroy whispered, closing his eyes briefly. “Just enough to take the edge off any resistance or independent thought. I knew, after a while—but there wasn't anything I could do about it.

“I've foiled their plans, though, haven't I? At least I've given
you
time. You're four years older than I was when I became king. You won't need to have regents. And you're onto them. You won't be as gullible as I was.”

Javan bowed his head, blinking back new tears. It was senseless to pretend that Alroy was not dying.

“I—hope I'll have better luck,” he murmured. “God, how I wish there were something I could do for you.”

Alroy swallowed noisily, tears swimming in the shadowed eyes. “You've done it, just by being here,” he whispered. “I'm glad it was in time. Oriel has—has promised that I don't have to suffer any more. But stay with me … please. Even if I seem to be far, far away before the end, somehow I'll know you're there. It isn't that I'm afraid, though I do wish …”

His voice trailed off, and Javan leaned closer to peer into the clouded grey eyes.

“You do wish what?” he breathed.

“It would have been a comfort to receive the Sacrament one last time,” he murmured, not looking at Javan. “But I
won't
receive it from Hubert. That would be sacrilege.”

The coughing bout that started this time was one that Oriel could not muffle, and he stirred from his Healer's trancing to help Javan shift the king onto his side, where Alroy still coughed uncontrollably until Oriel sent him plummeting into unconsciousness.

“It will have to be the drugs soon,” Oriel murmured, when the coughing had abated and he could at last distract enough attention from his patient to look across at the anxious Javan. “I can bring him around once more, for just a few minutes, but anything beyond that would only prolong his suffering needlessly. If you have anything else you need to say to one another, you'd better make up your mind quickly.”

Mind whirling furiously, Javan gave Oriel a nod. From somewhere—he had an impression of Evaine's memory behind it—a compelling image had flashed in his mind. Suddenly bringing a parallel of that image into present reality became all important.

“Master Oriel, can you delay that last time for a few more minutes, in a good cause?” he asked.

“As long as it isn't for too many more minutes, Sire,” the Healer replied. “What do you intend to do?”

Javan's thin smile was not pleasant. “Something that will not please the archbishop,” he said, motioning for Rhys Michael to join him. “Rhysem, come and stay with him, would you? And pay no mind to any shouting and arguing you may hear from the next room.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Behold, I have set before thee an open door
.

—Revelations 3:8

Beckoning a puzzled Rhys Michael to come and stand beside the royal sickbed, Javan buttoned up the neck of his tunic, then clapped a reassuring hand to his younger brother's shoulder before himself heading toward the door. He drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he set his hands on the latch, then opened the door and stepped through, pulling it to, but not latched.

More of Alroy's lords of state had gathered in the anteroom since his arrival. Two of the knights who had accompanied him and Charlan from the yard had taken up stations just inside the door that opened to the corridor, one to each side, casual but alert. Charlan himself still stood easy vigilance with his back to the door jamb, arms folded across his chest, half blocking the doorway to any further entrance or egress. Beyond him, Javan could see Tomais with Bertrand and more of the other knights who had ridden with him, quietly congregated outside.

There were not many seats in the anteroom, for it was not large, but those who were seated came to their feet as Javan appeared, the same question in every pair of eyes.

“The king yet lives, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “but the end is drawing near. Archbishop, may I see you, please?”

At the direct address, a flushed and suspicious-looking Hubert drew himself erect and made his ponderous way forward, inclining his head as Javan stepped back into the room with a slight bow and indicated that Hubert should follow.

“I trust this betokens a change of heart, Brother Javan,” Hubert said in a low voice as the prince closed the door behind them. “Do I dare to hope that the king has managed to remind you where your true duty lies?”

Javan controlled his growing disgust at the hypocrisy of the man and kept his voice equally low and uninflected.

“Indeed, I am reminded of a Christian duty that takes precedence over any personal consideration, your Grace,” he said quietly. “It has always been my brother's wish, as a faithful son of the Church, to receive the full solace of the Sacraments before he dies. I understand that you gave him Unction during the night, but that he has declined to receive Communion. Can you explain why that might be?”

Hubert lifted both hands in a gesture of denial. “The King's Grace is not himself, from the illness and the drugs. I offered him the Blessed Sacrament, but he would not receive it.”

“He is ready to receive it now,” Javan murmured, adding only in his mind,
but not from you
.

A tiny, self-satisfied smile curved at the archbishop's rosebud mouth. “It will be my privilege, of course. No priest could desire any greater fulfillment than to minister thus to a dying man.”

“Then please do so.”

“I shall need but a moment,” Hubert replied.

Inclining his head in what he hoped the archbishop would take for a sign of conciliation, Javan opened the door to allow Hubert's passage, then closed it behind him and leaned his head briefly against the door jamb, calming and centering himself before he turned back to beckon to Rhys Michael.

“Be ready to follow my lead when he comes back,” he whispered to his brother. “And Oriel, please try not to look surprised at anything you may see or hear.”

As Rhys Michael approached, both he and Oriel giving Javan odd looks, a quiet rap at the door preceded the turning of the door latch. Touching one finger across his lips in a gesture for silence, Javan drew Rhys Michael to one side with him and turned his gaze attentively to the opening door.

Slowly the door swung inward to reveal two ornate candlesticks held by the two
Custodes
priests, who had donned wilted white surplices over their cassocks and looked very warm. Behind them, reverently bearing the veiled ciborium at his breast, came a sweating and pink-faced Hubert, his already-damp purple cassock now layered under a surplice lavish with lace. In the room behind him, everyone had gone to their knees in respect to the Blessed Sacrament passing among them.

Crossing himself piously, Javan also bent in respect, but only to touch one knee to the floor in a genuflection. Rhys Michael haltingly did the same. As Javan stood, he moved forward with authority to put both hands on the candlestick held by one of the startled
Custodes
.

“My brother and I will serve as his Grace's acolytes today, good Fathers,” Javan said to the priests, glancing back to call Rhys Michael forward, then looking beyond them at Hubert when his man did not immediately relinquish the candlestick. “I ask most humbly that you permit this, your Grace. We have served this way before. It would mean a great deal to us—and to the king, I believe.”

Though a little taken aback, Hubert hesitated only briefly before nodding dismissal to the two priests. Javan's candlestick was heavy in his hands as he took its weight, inclining his head in a proper ecclesiastical bow.

When the door had closed behind the departing priests, Javan and his brother made Hubert proper bows as well, the candlesticks held carefully aloft, then turned to lead the way over to the royal bed, where Oriel had sunk dutifully to his knees as Hubert entered, though one hand still maintained contact with the unconscious king. Rhys Michael went to Oriel's side; and when Javan had led the archbishop around to the other side, he turned to set his free hand on one of Hubert's wrists, close to where he grasped the ciborium, at the same time using the physical contact to trigger the controls he had set so long ago and so rarely had dared to use.

“Close your eyes, Archbishop,” he commanded softly, at the same time holding out his candlestick for Rhys Michael to take. “Close your eyes and hear my words. You cannot resist.”

As Hubert meekly obeyed, Rhys Michael took the second candlestick and passed it to Oriel to set on the bedside table, prince and Healer both wide-eyed. Heart pounding, Javan shifted his now-empty hand under the ciborium's veil to cup under its bowl, suddenly aware of the potency of what Hubert held—and that whatever he did would be Witnessed by the sacred energy focused in the Sacrament.

Javan shivered at that realization. He meant no sacrilege, no disrespect. But he must ensure that his brother was allowed to receive that Sacrament in the manner of his choosing, from hands he could respect; and those hands were not Hubert's hands. Trusting that God would understand, Javan took the ciborium away from Hubert and set it on the little table on his side of the bed, then led Hubert back across the room and sat him down on a stool that groaned under his weight.

“My brother will receive Communion now, Archbishop,” he said quietly, setting his hand firmly on Hubert's sweating forehead, “but not from your hands. My Holy Orders still are valid, so I shall offer him this gift. You will sit here with your eyes closed and say and do nothing and remember nothing. Sleep deep now and hear nothing until I call you by name. Hear and remember nothing.”

The archbishop actually began to snore, so deeply did he sleep. As Javan came back to his brother's bed, Oriel was staring at him in amazement, and Rhys Michael looked very scared.

“Oriel, please help him to sit,” Javan whispered as he came and picked up the ciborium.

Gently, tenderly, Oriel eased Alroy onto his back again, then slid one arm under the king's shoulders and lifted him up. Alroy's breathing had changed as the Healer turned him, and rattled faintly with a wet, liquid sound. Supporting him against his left shoulder, Oriel laid his right hand over the ravaged lungs.

“Come back to us now, Alroy,” he whispered softly in the king's ear, at the same time easing him back to consciousness and clamping his controls more tightly on the pain and the reflexes that would set him coughing again.

At once the black eyelashes fluttered, no pain showing in the grey eyes that wandered dreamily for a few seconds, then focused on the veiled cup that Javan held. The king blinked once, then shifted his gaze to the one who held the cup.

“The Blessed Sacrament,” he murmured in wonder. “But what will Hubert—”

“Never mind Hubert,” Javan whispered, shaking his head. “If you want it from someone besides him, it has to be me and it has to be now.”

Alroy swallowed hard and nodded, tears welling in the grey eyes, and Javan bowed his head over the cup in his hand, casting back in memory for words he often had heard at
Arx Fidei
when nursing the dying.

“O Lord of Hosts, Heavenly Father,” he said, translating from the Latin for Alroy's benefit, “we beg Thee at this moment, above all, to deliver this Thy servant Alroy from all evil and to strengthen him with the Bread of Life, the Body of our Lord the Christ, Who lives and reigns with Thee for ever and ever. Amen.”

“Amen” came the hushed response from Rhys Michael and Oriel, mouthed as well by Alroy.

Hands trembling, Javan lifted the veiled lid off the ciborium and laid it aside on the table beside the bed. He had never actually given anyone Communion before, but again he called upon the memories of watching others do it, reverently extracting a single Host from the golden cup and holding it above, where Alroy could see it clearly.

“
Ecce Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi
,” he murmured, shifting to the traditional Latin. Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world.

“
Domine, non sum dignus
…” Alroy whispered, echoed by the others. Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come under my roof. Speak but the word, and my soul shall be healed …

With that, Javan made the Sign of the Cross over his brother with the Host, recalling another prayer as he put it reverently on his brother's tongue.

“Receive, my brother, this food for your journey, the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, that He may guard you from the malicious enemy and lead you into everlasting life. Amen.”

“Amen,” Alroy whispered, closing his eyes until, after a moment's labored effort, he swallowed.

“Javan?” he whispered weakly then, before Javan could cover the cup. “One thing more—please.”