CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.
Javan’s knees were nearly numb from kneeling, but he knew he must not stand or even shift position. He had been kneeling in near darkness for the best part of an hour now, in the tiny, windowless chamber that the archbishop usually reserved for disciplining errant monks. The starkly functional prie-dieu faced away from the door. Not only was its kneeler unpadded, but the surface was carved with crosses whose imprint would remain on a penitent’s throbbing knees for hours after the actual penance had been endured. Just above eye level on the whitewashed wall, a painted Christ writhed on a painted cross, bloody and nearly lifesized, suffering horribly—a Christ with no pity to spare for a lowly miscreant awaiting judgment.
Javan had heard of the little room, but he had never seen it before tonight. Actually, he supposed he was lucky Hubert had sent him here instead of to one of the abbey dungeons. He could feel the archbishop’s presence behind him, dark and threatening. A single torch near the door cast the shadow of the episcopal chair on the wall before him. It also cast the shadow of Hubert himself, as he rose and came to stand directly behind Javan, toying with the whip of knotted cords piously called the “little discipline.”
“You defied me in public, Javan,” the archbishop finally said, speaking for the first time since entering the room. His voice was deceptively mild. “I can overlook many lapses, for you are yet young, but I cannot overlook open and public defiance, especially in a situation which might have become dangerous to your person.”
Trying to keep from shivering, for he would not show weakness in front of the enemy, Javan kept his head ducked in an attitude of contrition and thrust his crossed arms further into the sleeve openings of his thin black robe. His bare feet ached from the cold, especially his twisted foot, and he wondered whether he would fall, the first time he tried to stand up. Just walking here had been hard enough, without his special boot.
Actually, he suspected that was probably all part of the plan. Javan had known from the start that he would have to pay the price for his performance by the river. He had crossed Hubert inexcusably. Though Hubert dared do no serious physical harm to a prince of the blood, abundant options existed for princely discipline, all of them distinctly unpleasant—and Javan had no doubt that the archbishop would exercise one of the more disagreeable of his options. Other than to place Javan in the charge of two grim and silent Custodes monks for the ride back to Valoret, Hubert had not spoken to him since leaving the river. It was the monks who had brought him to the little chamber, after seeing that he changed from his still damp cleric’s attire into the traditional garment of a penitent. He could sense them lurking just outside the door.
“Javan, I speak to you now, not as one of your regents but as your archbishop,” Hubert said after a heavy sigh. “When you asked to come to Valoret and make a religious retreat, you may have forgotten that you placed yourself under my rule and the rule of this House. The fact that you are not yet in Holy Orders absolves you from the traditional vows of poverty and chastity, but not from obedience. When I allowed you to accompany me to the Willimite encampment, it was with the understanding that you recognized that. I did not expect you to defy me in public, regardless of whether I later came to accept the possible merit of your arguments. It is for that open defiance that you are kneeling here now and for which you must be punished. Do you understand?”
Swallowing miserably, Javan bobbed his head in assent. “Yes, your Grace.”
“And do you understand why this wicked, willful behavior cannot be tolerated?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Why can it not be tolerated?”
“Because you are archbishop, and my spiritual father, your Grace,” Javan murmured, saying what he knew Hubert had to hear before they could wind this uncomfortable business to a speedy end. “But—may I say something, your Grace?”
“If it honestly pertains to this discussion, yes. However, I hope you don’t intend to offer an excuse for what you did.”
“Not an excuse—no, your Grace. But an explanation, if I may.”
“Very well.”
Javan drew a deep breath, calling upon all the eloquence at his command.
“First of all, I beg pardon for any offense my behavior may have given. I truly did not set out to defy you. Had our discussion been able to take place in private, I feel certain you would have seen my argument as disagreement rather than defiance. You have taught me to examine my conscience, your Grace, and in conscience, I felt that I had to do what I did. But I see how my public conduct of the matter appeared to challenge your authority. I am sorry for that, and I deserve whatever just punishment you see fit to impose.”
Hubert snorted, but it was a resigned, almost indulgent snort rather than one of total disbelief. “And why did you feel you had to do it?” he demanded. “What colossal arrogance makes you think that your evaluation of the situation was necessarily superior to mine?”
“Because I’m tired of all the killing!” Javan blurted, half turning to face Hubert, to the agony of his shifting knees. “Your Grace, I don’t know how much more I can take! I try to be a proper prince and endure what I must, for the sake of my rank, but how much can that rank demand? How many more helpless men must I see drawn and quartered, their families coldly killed—”
“You will endure what you must,” Hubert said stonily, setting the end of his whip against Javan’s chin to turn his face back to the bloody Christus. “Like Him, you will endure what is set before you. You will drain your cup to its dregs, because you are a prince and may someday stand in the stead of God, either as a priest or even as your brother the king does now. And it is not for you to determine, at your young and tender age, what you will or will not endure. Do I make myself clear?”
Tears welling in his eyes despite his will to the contrary, Javan nodded jerkily.
“Do—I—make—myself—clear?” Hubert repeated, with each word rapping Javan smartly on the shoulder with the end of the whip.
Sinking back dejectedly on his heels, no longer worrying about his knees, Javan managed to murmur, “Yes, your Grace.”
“Excellent. I am delighted that we understand one another. Now.” Hubert took in a deep breath and sighed. “There is the matter of penitence. I am satisfied that you understand your error and that you are contrite. Accordingly, I forgive you—with the understanding that you will not allow this to happen again. We shall speak later of the implications of what you have done. Abbot Secorim will be dining with me this evening, and I expect you to join us. In the meantime, however, there is the matter of a suitable punishment for your behavior. Do you have any suggestions?”
Javan shook his head.
“Very well, then. First of all, because you have confessed your fault readily, without trying to deny your guilt, I shall do you the courtesy of treating you as a man instead of a wayward boy. Accordingly, I shall not turn you over my knee and thrash you.”
Javan allowed himself the faintest sigh of relief at that reprieve.
“However,” the archbishop went on, “since your offense was against my authority as archbishop, when you owed me obedience as a retreatant under my roof, I suggest that the penalty be assigned as if you were a lay brother living under the rule of this House. If one of my monks had committed this offense, the penalty would be twenty lashes, administered by two of his brethren.” Javan started as the thongs of the “little discipline” were flicked lightly over his shoulder. “It can draw blood, but you will not be scarred. Do you accept this punishment?”
Javan swallowed, but he gave a nod. He had feared far worse.
“I accept it, your Grace,” he murmured.
“Then you will signify your acceptance by kissing the ‘discipline,’” Hubert said, shoving the handle of the whip under Javan’s nose. “The appropriate verbal response is, ‘Deo gratias.’”
“Deo gratias,” Javan murmured obediently, ducking his head to comply, trying not to notice the smooth gleam of the knots in the leather thongs.
“So be it. And may God sustain you in your repentance and aid you to bear manfully the penalty you have invoked by your transgression,” Hubert murmured, withdrawing the whip and using it to trace a cross over Javan’s head. “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”
“Amen,” Javan whispered, before Hubert had to prompt him.
“Very good. I’ll leave you for a while, then, to prepare yourself,” Hubert said. “When the brothers come in, you will stand. They will ask your forgiveness, which you will give. You will then strip to the waist and kneel, upright and with your arms outstretched in imitation of Our Saviour, on Whose example of suffering you will meditate while the penance is carried out. The brothers chastising you have many years experience disciplining young monks and will attempt to gauge their strokes by what they believe you should be able to endure without crying out. If you do cry out, an extra lash will be added for each occurrence. Please try to ensure that this will not be necessary.”
He was gone before Javan could try to assure him that such would be uppermost in his mind. The soft snick of the door closing made his empty stomach churn, and he wondered how long he had before the monks came in. As he eased off his knees to stand, he gasped with the sharp pain of circulation suddenly returning. Steadying himself against the kneeler’s armrest to spare his lame foot, he bent to massage first one knee and then the other as he flexed them in turn. Hubert had said that the “discipline” would not scar him, but what about his knees? The pain was fierce as circulation returned—and went completely numb as someone knocked softly at the door and then the latch lifted.
Chilled, Javan stood straighter and watched as the two Custodes monks entered, the taller one carrying a bucket with two short handles protruding from it. Their hoods were up, and the torchlight behind them, so he could not see their faces, but he sensed they were not the same ones who had brought him here. A sharp whiff of vinegar twitched at his nostrils as the one put down the bucket and both of them knelt.
“Pray, forgive us, your Highness, for what we must do for the good of your soul,” the shorter one murmured.
Javan nodded, his voice catching a little in his throat. “I—forgive you right readily,” he managed to whisper.
He could not quite seem to manage the fastening at the neck of his robe, however, and had to let the taller man help him. Opened, the upper part of the garment fell in loose folds around his waist, girt in by the plain rope cincture tied around his waist, leaving his upper body exposed.
“Lift the edge of your robe a little before you kneel, your Highness,” the man murmured, guiding him to face the prie-dieu and the fresco beyond. “The sharper discomfort in your knees will help keep your mind off your back.”
Surprised, Javan did as he was bidden, wincing a little as he lowered himself onto the carved wood—though at least it was a familiar pain. The pungent tang of vinegar was much stronger as he heard the men taking their whips out of the bucket, and it made the bile rise up in his throat.
“Brace yourself against the armrest before you raise your arms,” the monk advised again, now behind him, “and bite on this.” A hand thrust something brown and flat in front of his mouth—a thick piece of leather, he realized, as he bit down.
“Now let us all recite a silent Pater Noster,” the other monk said quietly. “And afterward, let each stroke of the little discipline drive your error from you, that you may be sanctified in the mercy of the Lord our God.”
Javan prayed the prayer as he had never prayed it before, arms outstretched and head held steady, focusing on the lettering painted above the suffering Christ’s head—INRI, picked out in a ruddy gold that glowed in the torchlight. He must have prayed it faster than the monks, for it seemed forever before the first stroke snapped across his back, more startling and wet than painful. The second was no worse, but the third stung like nettles, and the fourth began to burn. After a few more, he became increasingly thankful he had the piece of leather to bite on. By the time they reached the halfway point, he only hoped he could hang on.
For the second ten, he could only endure, impaled on his own will not to cry out, his arms trembling as if he hung on a cross in truth, like the man on the Tree before him, though he uttered not a sound. He lost count before they finished, and was only aware that it was over when he heard them putting the whips back into the bucket.
“Well stood, lad,” the short monk murmured beside his left ear. “You can put your arms down now—though I’d advise you to keep a good bite on that bit of leather.”
His arms were trembling so badly, he could not think what the man meant; but when he had been guided to rest his hands on the armrest in front of him, he found out. He gasped as the other monk sponged cold vinegar over his back, the acidic liquid burning in each weal. He wondered whether he was bleeding, though he could not tell with the vinegar running down his back.
The pain abated a little from the treatment, though, and he was able to stop his trembling as the short monk helped him draw his robe back over his shoulders and stand.
“You’re a credit to your house, my prince,” the monk said quietly. “I’ve known grown men to cry out from less than we gave you.”
Javan winced as he straightened his knees, still leaning hard on the prie-dieu, not looking at the man. “I’m surprised you didn’t keep on until I did cry out. Wasn’t that the whole purpose?”
“Only to a certain point,” the man said frankly. “The true purpose was to test your self-control, to bring you right to the brink, but not break you. The penalty should be sharp enough to hurt a great deal, to the very edge of what one can bear, to impress the seriousness of one’s error, but not enough to humiliate or do permanent harm. You’ll remember this lesson, I think—and the fact that you tested yourself beyond what you thought your limits were. That builds character rather than tearing it down.”
“We’ll take you to your squire now, your Highness,” the taller man said. “He’ll help you bathe and dress. His Grace is expecting you in less than an hour.”
Several hours later, long after the final course had been cleared away by silent, obliging monks, Javan remained a reluctant guest at Hubert’s table. He could not have said, afterward, what he had eaten, but it lay in his stomach like lead—a condition not helped by the fact that the room was far too warm. Furthermore, Hubert had seated him closest to the fire—normally an act of solicitude to an honored guest, but one which tonight only made Javan more aware of the state of his back. According to Charlan, some of the weals crisscrossing the royal back probably would show bruising by morning, but the squire assured him that there was no blood. Indeed, he had commended the skill of the monks who carried out the punishment.
“You’re lucky those monks knew exactly what they were doing, your Highness,” Charlan allowed, as he gently bathed the weals, dried them, and then applied a soothing ointment. “I don’t suppose you have much experience with such things—princes don’t get thrashed the way squires do—but this really doesn’t look too bad. If you wouldn’t mind a little friendly advice from someone who’s survived a few thrashings, I’d suggest that you wear soft shirts, sleep on your stomach for the next few nights, and choose stools to sit on rather than chairs.”
The first had already been laid out with the starkly plain black tunic and hose they had decided was politic for the evening; the second was a necessity to be tested later that night; and the third turned out not to be a choice that must be made. Hubert had provided a stool at the place designated at table, but otherwise made no allusion to what had happened earlier in the evening. Javan could not tell whether Secorim knew or not, though the abbot surely must have received reports, both from his men present at the riverside and from the two who had carried out the punishment. While they supped, neither abbot nor archbishop spoke of any but the most inconsequential of subjects, and Javan spoke hardly at all.
After supper, however, as Hubert poured strong red wine for all three of them, Javan knew that further avoidance of the afternoon’s events was going to be impossible—and it was becoming equally impossible to ignore his back. Soft as his old shirt was, next to his skin, he could feel the linen sticking to his flesh—from sweat, he was sure, but he kept imagining it was blood. Seeing the bloodred wine in the cup Hubert set before him did not improve his state of mind.
“So,” Hubert said, sitting back with his elbows on the arms of his chair, a fine silver goblet cupped between his two hands. “Why don’t you tell Father Secorim what you know of this Master Revan, and why you feel that the new baptism he preaches does not present a threat to Mother Church.”
Javan cupped his hands around his own goblet, considering very carefully before he spoke. He had barely tasted his wine, for fear of loosening his tongue too much—he knew it was strong. Still, the temptation was great to drain it and ask for more—anything to numb the burning ache of his back.
“It’s—difficult to know where to begin, Father Secorim,” he said after a slight pause. “I like to think I’ve studied a great deal, but I’m not a theologian. Nonetheless, I have always been taught that our God is a loving and merciful God, Who cannot bear to see His children suffer.”
“He is also a just God, your Highness,” Secorim replied, “and He will not suffer the wicked to go unpunished.”
Javan let himself give a nod, thinking quickly. “Of course not. But I was always taught that when a sinner repents—when he turns away from his sins and resolves to amend his life and return to the community of God’s people—God forgives. The Shepherd rejoices at finding His lost sheep and returning it to the fold. The Father welcomes His prodigal son and takes him back into His embrace. Nowhere in the sacred writings can I find a passage that says the Shepherd slaughters His returned sheep, or that the Father slays His son.”
“Ah, but the Scriptures give us numerous examples of the wicked being brought to the fire at the Day of Judgment,” Secorim said. “Surely you do not intend so weak an argument in defense of the Deryni.”
Javan sighed, doing his best to show distaste at the very notion. “I am not defending Deryni, Father. But perhaps there’s another way to bring in these lost sheep besides slaughtering them. If they can be made to turn from their former lives—if, indeed, they no longer have the ability to return to their former lives—is this not better than the slaughter? I don’t know if I can bear to see another helpless man butchered—or, worse, women and children put to death, simply because of what they are.”
“And you believe that this Master Revan offers an alternative, even though he preaches a sacrament contrary to the teachings of Holy Mother Church?”
“I don’t think he means it as a sacrament, Father,” Javan said, thinking fast, “and certainly not a substitute for sacramental baptism. It’s a—a purification, a specific purification for a specific purpose.”
“Ah, so he purports to purify those who come to him,” Secorim said, nodding shrewdly. “And by what authority does he claim to do this? Not by the authority of the Church, I hasten to point out.”
Javan glanced at the cup between his hands, all too aware of the trap Secorim was laying. “Father, he doesn’t just claim to do it,” he said, glossing over the dangerous question of authority. “If what he does were only a token act, with no effect on the recipient, one might charge him with blasphemy, for presuming to offer a grace whose efficacy cannot be proven.
“However, he does purify Deryni. He washes away their past and gives them a new beginning, free of their accursed powers. That’s provable, Father—and far more objectively than most of the ‘official’ sacraments.”
Secorim looked shocked, but Hubert only signalled with his hand for the abbot not to interfere.
“I see I shall have to instruct you further on the nature of true sacraments,” the archbishop murmured, “but, go on. Tell Father Secorim of your ‘proof.’”
Javan chanced a quick glance at Hubert before returning his attention to Secorim, trying to decide just how upset Hubert actually was about the sacramental question. Well, he could sort that out later. He had already denied any claim to be a theologian.
“Very well, your Grace,” he murmured, settling on another approach with Secorim. “Father, today your monks tested two known Deryni with merasha. Neither showed any effect beyond the drowsiness I’m told usually affects humans. Unless you no longer consider merasha a reliable method for detecting Deryni—a thought which I, personally, find quite appalling—we must concede that a change has occurred—the very change for which all of us, I believe, have been praying: that God will strip the Deryni of their powers and turn them back to His paths.”
“I do not pray for a conversion of the Deryni,” Secorim muttered through clenched teeth. “I pray for their destruction!”
“And I pray for deliverance from their influence!” Javan retorted, knowing he must defuse that line of hatred immediately, or all was lost. “I pray for deliverance, and today my prayer was answered.”
Secorim snorted derisively. “How, answered?”
Trembling with the strain, his back afire with the pain of his scourging, Javan made himself push his cup away and clasp his hands on the table before him.
“Father, I am not greatly learned in theology, but I know what I saw and experienced, and what my conscience tells me,” he said softly. “I don’t know the source of Master Revan’s authority to preach what he does, but I can tell you that something happened out there today. I went down there wanting to believe him, but prepared to resist him with all my might, if his words seemed false.
“But they weren’t false,” he went on, looking Secorim in the eyes and daring to extend his fledgling powers just a little. “If I’d hoped this might be a way to stop the wanton killing when I went down there, I knew it was right when I spoke to him face to face.
“Father, my family has been touched by the Deryni more than anyone else. But when I went down to Master Revan, and he led me into the water, I could feel the taint melting away. When he immersed me, it was like—like being wrapped in sunlight that swirled all around me, into every part of me, and washed away all the years of pollution.” He cocked his head at Secorim. “They can’t harm me anymore, Father. For the first time in my life, I’m free of them. But I don’t wish them any harm. On the contrary, if Master Revan can save them from themselves—why, what a blessing! Isn’t that what the Church wants? To bring her lost sheep back to the fold?”
Secorim snorted, breaking the faint spell Javan had been weaving by taking a large gulp of wine. “Hubert, I’m amazed,” he muttered, after he had swallowed. “You really want to make a priest out of this?”
As Javan bristled, only barely holding his anger in check at the insult, Hubert cocked a wry smile and put his own goblet down. “Peace, Secorim. Prince Javan is young and sometimes does not realize the full implications of what he says. In one respect, however, I am inclined to agree. Putting the purely theological arguments aside for a moment, let us talk about expediency. If, as we have always maintained, the Deryni are evil and must be destroyed, then a means must be found to accomplish this. We have stopped short of wholesale slaughter, at least in part, because of the public outcry it causes, when women and children are killed along with their menfolk.
“But if the destruction of the Deryni can be brought about in a manner not offensive to those who abhor physical slaughter, by the Deryni themselves—then, is not the same end accomplished? As Prince Javan himself pointed out, before taking matters into his own hands at the Willimite camp, God desires the return of all His sheep to their proper folds. Perhaps later, some of the folds will be found to be slaughter-pens—but that is for the future.”
Secorim chuckled unpleasantly at that, lifting his cup to Hubert in enlightened assent, and Javan felt his stomach churn, though he kept his eyes carefully averted and his hands clasped between his knees. His Deryni allies had considered the danger that Hubert outlined. Javan had hoped it would not occur to Hubert—at least not so soon. For the cold facts were that anyone known to have been Deryni before would be as helpless as any mere human, if taken after being blocked—more helpless, if the Church decided that only fire, and not water, could totally expiate a Deryni’s guilt.
But given a few years to disperse and relocate, with no way for new associates to prove that a person once had been Deyrni, many of that race would find their way to places of safety. It was a risk that Joram and Evaine and the others were prepared to take—and to take on behalf of others of their race—if only Revan’s mission could find acceptance, even for a few months or years.
Much of that acceptance depended upon Javan’s performance, however; and knowing that, he put on the sort of face he knew Secorim and Hubert must see.
“You are too quick for me, your Grace,” he murmured. “These are aspects I hadn’t considered. But for now, why not wait and see what this Revan does, since he is eliminating Deryni? Watch him, by all means. Retest him, if you still believe he’s some kind of new Deryni, or if his message changes in ways you don’t like. You can always bring him in, later on.”
“The notion is tempting,” Hubert agreed.
“I see,” Secorim said. “Just let him continue this charade of illicit baptism, possibly endangering the souls of those who are not Deryni?”
Hubert made a thoughtful noise as he sipped at his wine. “Hmmm, I doubt there’s any immediate danger, my dear Secorim. Javan has already pointed out in an earlier discussion that if what Revan does is ineffectual, no harm is done. And meanwhile, it soothes public sensibilities—which will be all the more outraged, if eventually he is found to be a fraud.”
The possibility of exactly that eventuality haunted Javan for the rest of the conversation, numbing him to much further participation. He hoped Hubert would take it for fatigue and the pain of his back. Later, after Secorim had left them to return to his own quarters, Javan realized abruptly that Hubert was pondering what to do about his suddenly independent young prince.
“If I had any sense at all, I’d lock you away on bread and water for a week or two, just to be certain my message of earlier this evening got through,” he said, studying Javan shrewdly. “You’re beginning to think for yourself—which can be dangerous in an extra prince.”
Chilled, Javan slipped to his knees before the archbishop, wondering if he dared use his powers to ease the situation. He had never tried it before with Hubert fully conscious.
“If—if you think I should go into retreat, I’ll do it, and gladly, your Grace,” he whispered. “You have given me much to think upon—and I truly deserved your discipline.”
As he sank back on his heels, pretending to sniffle back tears and bending to bring the hem of Hubert’s cassock to his lips, he could sense the archbishop preening and relaxing a little. Now, if Hubert would only do what he usually did …
“There, there, dear boy, you need not abase yourself before me,” Hubert murmured, letting his hand drop to rest negligently on Javan’s bowed head. “I am your spiritual father, and I do what I do only for your welfare.”
Then, sleep—for my welfare, Javan commanded silently, reaching out with his mind to caress the controls that would make Hubert obey. Sleep, and remember nothing of this …
Within seconds, the ringed hand slipped from his head—and was as quickly grasped, to maintain the physical contact—and Hubert was snoring softly, his head tipped against the high back of his chair. Easing himself back to his knees, watching Hubert carefully all the while, Javan enclosed the hand in both of his, then bowed his head to lay his cheek slowly against the wrist—so that anyone entering unexpectedly would see nothing amiss at first glance. Then, more stealthily than he had ever done before, he eased into the fringes of Hubert’s mind.
He could not bear to maintain the contact for long. Brushing Hubert’s mind was like skimming scum from a midden. The shadows he glimpsed churning just below the edge of consciousness were ugly and often frightening—but with little bearing on his immediate aim.
So. Perhaps Prince Javan is coming around at last, he set in Hubert’s mind. For a while, I feared it might take forever, but I believe we may finally have weaned him from any remaining softness he once had for the Deryni—and this odd Revan person is at least partially to blame. Disturbingly unorthodox, this Revan—and I probably ought to get rid of him before he gets out of hand—but he does seem to be playing into our hands for now.
So I think I’ll let him operate for a while longer, just to see what he’ll do—and keep a very close watch on him. Time enough, later on, to crush him if he becomes inconvenient.
In the meantime, there’s my puzzling little prince. I feel certain Javan will be ours entirely, one day, but for now—yes, patience is the best policy. He will come to accept the religious life, if I do not press him. A royal bishop could be a powerful tool, indeed.
Javan was nearly retching from the prolonged close contact, by the time he had finished, but he made himself linger yet a while longer to set certain other compulsions and tidy the few remaining loose ends, making certain Hubert would have no inkling that the doctored thoughts were not entirely his own. As he let Hubert regain consciousness, he allowed himself the luxury of sinking back to the floor, still clutching Hubert’s hand, weeping with relief rather than the despair he seemed to display.
“Oh, how can you bear to have me nearby, your Grace?” he sobbed. “I repaid your trust with defiance. I was ungrateful and willful.”
“There, there, my son, do not weep. I know what a difficult day this has been for you,” Hubert murmured, never thinking to wonder how his hand had gotten from Javan’s head into his grasp. “Indeed, it has been altogether too long and difficult—and perhaps I was overharsh. You are still but a boy—yet, you withstood your penance like a man. I am proud.”
Trembling, for his back hurt abominably from the strain of bending the way he was, Javan made a visible show of trying to get himself under better control.
“I beg you, your Grace, do not send me away in disgrace like some errant schoolboy. I—I have so much to learn—and I would learn it at your feet. Give me leave to stay here and study in Valoret, I pray you.”
“To study in Valoret, eh?” Hubert murmured. “Why, do I detect a desire to taste the religious life more fully?”
“Well, I—I should like to explore that possibility, your Grace. But I’m not ready to make any vows yet—”
“Not permanent ones, no. Of course not. You’re far too young. But perhaps you would like to live here as a lay brother for a year or two. Oh, not as an ordinary serving brother, but as a—ah—a ‘preseminarian.’ I shall supervise your studies myself. I would wish you to take temporary vows, however. It’s customary among the lay brethren, even at your age—well, at fourteen, though we shan’t quibble about less than a year. In any case, temporary vows can easily be dispensed, if—if you should be needed at the capital.”
Javan swallowed, chilled by the thought of taking vows—even temporary ones—but aware that this was one concession he probably would have to make. He tried not to think about being needed at the capital, for that would mean that his brother the king was dead.
“Would—would I still be able to go back to Rhemuth to see my brothers?” he asked—a far more important question, at this point, if he was to keep himself informed of Alroy’s welfare, in particular. “We’ve never been apart for very long, and I fear I should miss them very much.”
“Of course you would, my son,” Hubert murmured, lifting his hand to stroke Javan’s head benignly. “And of course you may go back, as often as you like—provided you give me ample notice. Let us say, a month.”
“A month?”
“Why, Javan, a month is not a long time in an abbey. If you truly wish to try the religious life, even on this limited basis, then you must conform to the rule that all the other brethren follow. That rule does not allow for whims, though it can bend in the face of advance planning. Besides, we would not wish to interrupt your formal course of study, now would we?”
“N-no, your Grace.” At least the formal education would always stand him in good stead.
“Good, then. I’ll make the arrangements. I shall need to consult with the other regents, of course, but I don’t think they should object. Oh, and you do understand that we’ll have to postpone your actual vows until Lammastide, when the ban is lifted on ordinations and the like, but that’s only for a few weeks. I shouldn’t want anything to be construed as irregular about your vocation, later on—if it transpires that you are, indeed, called as you begin to think you are,” the archbishop added with a self-righteous smile. “You can certainly begin your studies and informal observance of the Rule before then—from tomorrow, if you like.”
Thanking God for the temporary reprieve from the vows, at least, Javan bowed his head in acceptance. “Thank you, your Grace. May I have a few days in solitary retreat, to meditate on it?”
“Of course you may, my boy!”
Hubert insisted that they pray together in his oratory after that. It was only for a few minutes, but it seemed like hours. All the time they knelt there, Javan had to fight the urge to dart onto the Portal and flee—anywhere, so long as it was away from Hubert. And he had just condemned himself to possibly years in Hubert’s daily company, putting on a pious charade, playing a very, very dangerous game.
But it was for a very high purpose, and he knew it. His Deryni allies could no longer gain access to the regents; Javan could. True, his access would be to only one of the regents, but Hubert would be challenge enough for the next few years. The very notion of trying to influence Murdoch or Rhun was unthinkable, this early in the game. Tempering the archbishop’s religious fanaticism, even a little, would not be easy, and must be done with a subtlety and wit that Javan dared not dream he had yet, but after tonight he was convinced that it was at least within the realm of possibility, and could make a major difference in whether Deryni survived at all in the next few years.
He must also spend these next few years learning everything he could about the cold, soulless world of politics in which he would have to move, if he ever became king. He had decided he could do that best from the safety of the cloister. Joram and Evaine would be furious when they found out what he had done, for taking even temporary vows placed him that much closer to the day when Hubert might just lock him away in some distant monastery against his will—one more inconvenient prince eliminated, just as they might eliminate poor Alroy, though Alroy might only escape through death.
Still, it was something he had to try. Just as he had needed to try with Revan, to give their plan the best possible chance of succeeding. It had been worth the pain and humiliation of the “little discipline,” if it had won Revan a little more time—which it appeared to have done.
Every muscle in Javan’s body ached by the time Hubert at last released him, and he nearly wept with the pain when Charlan peeled the linen of his shirt away from his back and bade him lie on his stomach so his weals could be dressed. The ointment the squire used this time was different, and cooled and soothed as it lulled Javan to the very edge of sleep. He became aware, just before he drifted into drugged unconsciousness, that someone besides Charlan had been ministering to his back.
The brush of the other’s mind was like a mother’s caress, accepting and reassuring, and he felt tears of relief stinging his eyes as he surrendered to that other’s touch.