King Javan’s Year by Katherine Kurtz Read Free Book Online Page B

cautious exchange of glances with Charlan, who stationed himself with his back against the edge of the open door, resisting any attempt of Manfred to close it. If the princes called, Charlan and the other knights would come, regardless of what the archbishop wanted.
    Hubert himself had grown more mountainous than ever, in only the month since Javan last had seen him; or perhaps it was the sheer expanse of purple cassock, unbroken by the extra layers of episcopal attire with which the archbishop usually was wont to adorn his ample person. A pudgy left hand fingered the amethyst-set pectoral cross hanging around his fleshy neck. The rosebud mouth was set in petulant disapproval. He started to extend his ring to Javan as their eyes met, then thought better of it and clasped the ringed hand to its mate in a pious but distant pose of self-righteous authority.
    â€œBrother Javan. We had not thought to see you here. Do you not have duties which require your presence at the seminary? To quit the abbey without leave is a grievous fault, which I am certain will earn you a severe penance when you return.”
    From behind him, two Custodes priests moved a little closer, so that for the first time Javan became aware of the candles burning in a far corner of the room, flanking a jewelled altar cross and the veiled silhouette of a ciborium. The presence of the Blessed Sacrament outside the king’s sickroom confirmed that Alroy’s condition was grave indeed.
    Glancing around, Javan chose his words carefully. He thought he could control Hubert if he had to, but not in front of so many—and best if he could deescalate this situation with his wits alone. In addition to Earl Tammaron, whom he occasionally almost liked, and Manfred’s pimply-faced son Iver, whom almost no one liked, Earl Murdoch’s two sons also were present—the randy and devious Sir Richard, who was married to the constable’s daughter, and the burly bully Cashel, but a year older than Javan and the king, who was constantly spoiling for a fight and was good enough to win most of them. They were but a few of the new blood the former regents were attempting to insert into the Council of Gwynedd—and would do so, Javan decided then and there, literally over his dead body.
    â€œI have not come to argue monastic discipline with you, Archbishop,” he said quietly—but forcefully. “I have come at the command of the king. My duty now is here, at his side, so long as he lives; and to take up his crown when he is gone, as is my birthright.”
    As the young lords glanced restively among themselves, and Tammaron looked decidedly uneasy, Hubert drew himself up in his full archepiscopal dignity.
    â€œDo you forsake your vows so easily, then, Brother Javan?” he said. “You made promises to me and to God. You cannot simply set those promises aside as the whim takes you.”
    Javan set his fists on his hips and looked the archbishop up and down.
    â€œI’ll not be drawn into argument, your Grace,” he said evenly, “and certainly not about temporary vows all but forced upon me while I was underage. I’ve come to see my brother, who commands my presence and is dying. If there’s a drop of Christian charity in your body, you’ll stand aside so that I may obey his dying wish.”
    As he headed past Hubert, Rhys Michael stayed well on Javan’s other side, screened from the archbishop’s bulk. The speechless Hubert glanced at his compatriots for support, which was not forthcoming, though gloomy looks abounded. By the time Hubert had wits enough to look back, the princes were already disappearing behind the door to the king’s sickroom, Rhys Michael pushing the door closed behind them.
    Inside, the Healer Oriel rose from his stool at the head of the king’s bed. He had been wringing out yet another cool cloth for the king’s forehead, but now he replaced the cloth in the basin held by a