"Kurtz, Katherine - Heirs of Saint Camber 02 - King Javan's Year" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

At his somewhat tentative glance at the archbishops, Hubert gave him a forbearing nod, but Javan suspected he had not heard the last from Hubert MacInnis.
“Following Mass, a vigil guard will be mounted through the rest of today and tonight and throughout tomorrow. I should like the funeral to take place at noon on the following day.”
“So soon?” someone murmured in the back of the room.
“For shame!” someone else muttered.
“His father lay in state for a full week,” a surly voice said from the left side of the room.
Javan bit back the sharp retort that almost escaped his lips and took a deep breath instead.
“His father died in February, when heat was not a factor,” he said pointedly to the left side of the room. "Or has everyone forgotten the heat? I have not.”
“But his Highness apparently has forgotten that the day after tomorrow is a Sunday,” Archbishop Oriss said blandly. “Of course, if he truly wishes a funeral to be held on the Lord’s Day, against custom ...”
Javan felt a dull shiver of dismay knot in his gut. He had made his first mistake. Not a serious one, but he knew it would be used to fuel further recalcitrance if he did not defuse it right now.
“I thank your Grace for the correction,” he said quietly, inclining his head in an attitude of apology. “Not having slept last night, I had lost track of the day. Monday, then. Specific arrangements for the funeral itself can be worked out in the next day or two. I shall value your input in that regard, my Lord Archbishop.”
Oriss was too well bred to gloat openly, but others in the room were not. Javan tried to ignore them as he turned his mind to the other topic he must address.
“My second instruction concerns the continuation of government,” he said. “To that end, I desire that an Accession Council be convened immediately after Mass. Earl Tammaron, as Chancellor, if you would be so good as to summon the officers of the late king’s Council, I shall inform those additional persons I wish to attend.”
Tammaron looked worried, but inclined his head in agreement.
“Thank you.” Javan drew a careful breath, still scanning them, and decided it was time to make a tactful retreat. “If you will excuse me, then, my lords, gentlemen. I need a bath and some rest. I have ridden hard and slept not at all this past night, to be at my brother’s bedside. I shall return before noon to escort my brother’s body to the chapel. Should I be needed before then, you may find me in the apartments of my brother Rhys Michael.”
He headed for the door without further ceremony, Charlan leading and Rhys Michael flanking him. His audience parted before him, most of them granting him at least token signs of respect, many simply watching with stony resentment.
The baron who had spoken up in his support gave him an inclination of his head and backed off a few paces as their eyes met. Javan could not recall seeing him at Court before. He looked to be in his late forties, clean-shaven, but with grey threaded through the jet-black hair; a powerful man, still in his prime.
Just beyond him, the constable, Lord Udaut, was moving on into the corridor just ahead of the king and his party, surprising Javan as he turned to sketch a perfunctory bow as Javan came through the door.
“Sire, I shan’t keep you long,” he murmured as Javan looked him up and down. He was known to be a cool-headed professional and a survivor. He had been Constable of Gwynedd since the time of Javan’s father, though other officers of the Crown had come and gone. As constable, he was also in charge of security wherever the royal household lodged-which meant that his loyalty could well make the difference of whether or not Javan survived, regardless of the dozen young knights of Javan’s earlier escort, drawn up as an honor guard in the corridor behind him.
“Lord Udaut,” Javan said cautiously. “What is it you wished to say?”
“Only that I had no part in what went on in there,” Udaut replied, gesturing past Javan with his chin. “You are my rightful sovereign and liege. As your constable, I intend to keep your person and this castle secure against any who would say otherwise.”
Javan allowed himself a faint sigh of relief and offered Udaut his hand. “Thank you, my lord. Your loyalty is more welcome than you can know.”
“My liege,” Udaut murmured as he ducked to kiss the royal hand. Then he was setting his hand on the hilt of his sword with a nod and easing his way through the waiting courtiers and knights in the direction of the great hall.
Charlan had stepped aside with Sir Gavin during Javan’s exchange with his constable and was relaying the new king’s instructions regarding the guard of honor. As Javan moved on into the corridor, Rhys Michael sticking close by his side, he acknowledged the salute of his escort knights with a nod, also summoning Bertrand de Ville to his side with a glance. Two more of the knights accompanied him, slipping quietly but pointedly behind Javan and Rhys Michael to insulate them from the occupants of the anteroom.
“Well, Udaut is with us,” Javan murmured to Bertrand, resisting the impulse to look back over his shoulder. "But tell me, who was the baron who spoke in my behalf?”
“Etienne de Courcy, Sire,” Bertrand replied promptly. “His lands are in the south, near Mooryn.”
“De Courcy,” Javan repeated. The name stirred a memory somewhere, but he could not quite pin it down. “What’s his function?”
“Chancellor’s staff, I think, sir. Something to do with the law. I only know his son.” Bertrand paused. “Do you want me to bring him over? “
“No, not now. I really do need to get some rest.” Charlan was finishing with Gavin, starting to look as if he were ready to move out, and Rhys Michael had drifted farther into the corridor. “There’s something you can do for me, though,” he said, setting himself to Truth-Read the younger man’s response. “I’d like you to keep it as quiet as possible.”
Bertrand gave him an eager nod. “You know you can rely on me, Sire.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve asked Master Oriel to come to me as soon as he can break away from here, probably in an hour or so. I’d prefer that Hubert and the others don’t know, but I need to see him. My-foot needs some attention,” he lied. “I’m afraid I may have overdone a bit, riding here in such haste.”
Bertrand gave only a cursory glance at the foot with its special boot as he said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Sire. I’ll bring him as soon as I can.”
With a nod, Javan returned his attention to Charlan, who now was calling several more of the escort knights to fall in as he turned to lead Javan back along the cloister corridor, heading for the royal apartments.
The exchange had not gone unnoticed. As the king and his party disappeared down the corridor and young Bertrand began working his way into the anteroom, a man already there made it his business to edge closer to the younger man. The door into the room where the king had died was open now. Inside, Etienne de Courcy could see the royal physicians remonstrating with Earl Manfred and the two archbishops. Bertrand seemed very interested in what was going on in there, and glanced up attentively as Etienne touched his forearm, but saw no threat from the hook-nosed older baron who had come to the new king’s defense in the matter of the succession.
“Trouble?” Etienne murmured, so that only Bertrand could hear him.
The young knight pretended casual interest in the rest of the room, but answered readily enough. “Not exactly. The king’s asked me to take care of something for him-confidentially.”
“Ah, I see,” Etienne replied, not adding that he saw far more than Bertrand supposed. “Well, I’d best go see if Guiscard has arrived yet. I’m sure he’ll want to take a turn on the rota for the vigil tonight. I know I do.”
“Aye, most everyone will want a turn, I expect,” Bertrand agreed. “You might speak to Sir Gavin before you go.”
“I’ll do that,” Etienne said.
When he had done so, Etienne de Courcy threaded his way free of the hangers-on still lingering outside the king’s sickroom and made his way back to the castle’s great hall. Guiscard and word of the king’s death had already arrived. As Etienne spotted him, the muffled bell of Saint Hilary’s began to toll, once for each year of the king’s life, and dragged at his spirits as he wove his way among the knots of sober men and sad-faced women. As the tolling ceased, the booming voice of Great George took up the knell, down in the cathedral.
Sir Guiscard de Courcy was waiting by an open panel of one of the wide window embrasures, trying to catch a breath of cooler air. The dark hair and eyes of both men, and the matching hook noses, made it clear the two were related, even if they had not borne the same surname.
The younger man wore dust-streaked riding leathers of a dark, ox-blood hue, his once-white shirt open at the throat. The matched sword and dagger at his hip were serviceable rather than decorative, the weapons of a seasoned fighting man, but inkstains on the first two fingers of his right hand proclaimed him a man of letters, as well. He glanced around surreptitiously as his father stepped up into the embrasure and they moved deeper into it, both of them feigning interest in the gardens below.
“It’s over, then,” Guiscard said.
The elder de Courcy gave him a weary nod. “Not that the bells leave any room for doubt. It happened about half an hour ago.”
Guiscard sighed and gave critical regard to a smear of dust caked with horse-sweat on the inner leg of one of his boots. “We started getting rumors fairly quickly, then. Any trouble over the succession?”
Etienne almost smiled. “Nothing like what I feared. His presence made all the difference-totally unexpected until Rhys Michael sent for him late last night. Whether he can hold on to it remains to be seen. The first test comes this afternoon. He’s asked for a Requiem Mass at noon at Saint Hilary’s, where Alroy will lie in state for the next three days, with the Accession Council to follow immediately after. That’s going to make it almost impossible for you to pass the word and be back by then.”
“Can’t be done,” Guiscard said, shaking his head. “I’ll have to go later tonight. Why Saint Hilary’s?”
“Javan wanted it. There was no way to advise him otherwise. There’s to be a vigil there throughout the night-though at least that gives us an excuse to be there. I’ve put us on the rota. For this afternoon, however, he’s going to have to make it through that Accession Council more or less on his own.”
“Can he?” Guiscard said quietly, casting a sidelong glance at his father.
“Good question,” Etienne replied. “If he can, then he’s worth fighting for. If not, this all may be academic by nightfall.”