“Oh, Your Highness.”
Symon turned to find a kitchen attendant, a young boy no older than twelve, abiding in one of the side doorways. In each of hands he held a pot slightly larger than his head.
“Yes?”
“Forgive me, I was not expecting your presence.” The lad made a motion of respect, something akin to a bow mixed with a curtsy. His confusion amused Symon, who resumed warming himself over the coals.
“You needn’t offer any apology,” Symon replied, grinning. “I came here unannounced.”
“May I get you anything?”
“Pardon?”
“A cup of tea? A loaf of bread? A stool that you may sit?”
“No, no. Don’t bother. I am only here for a moment. Carry on with your business.”
The boy, still thrown off, strode to the other side of the room to a wide table. He set the pots on top before retrieving a pitcher and wooden bowl from an adjacent table.
“Just curious,” Symon began, looking over his shoulder to the guard. “Why is the kitchen under watch? Especially at this hour?”
“Your Right Captain commanded it,” the guard said, his eyes forward, absent of any direct contact with the prince. “He wanted to ensure that no knife went missing, that every blade in the castle was accounted for.”
Smart, Symon thought. “And what are you doing here at this hour?” Symon asked, addressing the lad. “Not even the bakers are awake.”
“Yes, Your Highness, I know. I came down here early to prepare. Well, to practice, really.”
“Practice?”
“Making bread. I’m one of their apprentices. I only started last week. They charged me with the preparation of materials. One was even kind enough to allow me to try and punch the bread before baking.”
Symon laughed, momentarily ignoring the pain in his jaw. “You mean knead the dough?”
“Aye, Sire. They had me kneading. But I must have done it wrong or something, for the bakers yelled at me and cut my supper portion in half last night. So I thought I would come down and practice before they rose for the day.”
“I see.” Symon withdrew from the hearth and sauntered to the lad. “So what are you to do now?”
“I was going to take this pitcher here,” he said lowering it for Symon to see inside. “It’s filled with some water I warmed. Then I added the yest.”
“Yeast.”
“Yes, pardon, My Lord.” He then tipped one of the pots he brought in to reveal the flour within. “Then I was going to pour it into this bowl and add enough flour to make some dough.”
Symon looked from the pot to the bowl to the pitcher. “May I?”
The lad stared at Symon, unsure of how to respond. “Why, yes... Your Highness,” he squeaked.
Symon saw that the guard at the door was equally taken aback. While looking from the guard to the baker’s apprentice, he removed his doublet and draped it over a chair before rolling up his sleeves. He then proceeded to pour some yeast-infused water into the wooden bowl before scooping a few handful of flour in after it.
“Then I just mix it with my finger?” Symon asked.
“Yes, you may. Unless you would care for me...”
“No, I have the gist of it.” Symon dug his fingers into the bowl, stirring the powder into the liquid. The combination soon bonded to create a thick, white paste that clung to his digits.
“It gets a little messy,” the lad warned after the fact.
“I can see that.”
“The bakers then add a pinch of salt and a bit of oil. Then they mix in a little more flour.”
“My, I can see this is beyond my patience.” Symon removed his caked hand from the bowl, admiring it while the apprentice fetched him a cloth.
“I was told it takes a while to master,” the apprentice replied. “Although you did well for your first time.”
Symon threw his head back and laughed. “Did I, now?”
The lad, realizing the fault of his cavalier speech with a superior, bowed. “Forgive my... common words. I was never taught how to address a king.”
Symon, not wanting to embarrass the boy further, composed himself. “I am no king. Not yet. I remain a prince until my coronation.”
“Oh, forgive me...”
“You may stop apologizing,” Symon insisted. “You enjoy this work? In the kitchen?”
“Tis an honest day’s labor.”
“Aye,” Symon responded, sensing his polite demeanor and indirect reply to the question. “Tell me, have you ever seen my father’s guards and soldiers train in the bailey?”
“Have I?!” The lad perked as though given a satchel of gold coins. “I see them every time I fetch water from the well, during the day. They fight hard. I don’t know how they do it.”
Symon leaned in, whispering. “Would you like to find out?”
The apprentice stared at him, puzzled. “Your Highness?”
“Guard!” Symon shouted, straightening.
“Your Highness,” the guard marched to his side and paused at attention.
“Take this young man to the commanding officer on duty at the guardhouse. Tell him that effective immediately, this young man is to be trained as a squire.”
“A squire?” the lad asked.
“Does that meet with your approval?” Symon inquired.
The apprentice shot him a look, curious and bewildered, his mouth agape. Symon caught the faintest hint of hope in his young eyes. He wondered if that was the first time anyone – royal or commoner – had ever thought to question the young man as to his dreams and desires.
“Would you like to train with my men? To become a guard? Perhaps, if the opportunity arises within the standing army, a knight?”
“Why, yes. Your Highness. I would.”
“Very well.” Symon pivoted to the guard. “Escort this newest recruit. Once he is at the guardhouse, return to tell the baker his apprentice has been relieved of his duties. We have a multitude of servants in other parts of the castle. The baker is free to pull another apprentice from any one of those.”
“At once.” The guard clipped his heels and extended his hand to the doorway. The apprentice, still in shock at the turn of events, strode to the door and left with the guard.
Symon glimpsed at the viscous paste in the wooden bowl. He grinned. At least one in this castle will have a good day, he mused.
He made the rounds through the castle once more. By the time he came upon the main bailey again, the grounds were starting to show signs of life. The darkness that had provided him companionship through the early hours receded, giving way to a dim gray that allowed all a better view of the storms that threatened to unleash from above.
“Your Highness!”
From the arched corridor Sir Everitt emerged. His gait was brisk and by the sweat that peppered his brow Symon judged that he had just returned from a hard ride.
“Everitt.”
“You’re unaccompanied.”
“I insisted. I needed a moment alone.”
“You cannot afford such a luxury at the moment, my Prince.”
He sighed. “I suppose not,” Symon said, going along with his Right Captain’s penchant for caution.
“Tis for the best, though. I need a word with you, Your Highness.”
“And I with you. But not here.” Symon looked around him. Servants and attendants crossed the bailey, offering a respectful glance their way and a bow whenever they came close enough to garner Symon’s attention. None appeared to linger or stall long enough to pick up on any conversation of length. Still, Symon remained suspicious of all, especially as Everitt had news reserved strictly for him.
Everitt nodded to the nearest hall. Symon shook his head.
“My father was assaulted not once but twice, the latter taking his life. We need a more secure venue to speak.”
“I can round up some mounts, have them ready within minutes.”
“No,” Symon replied. “I have a better option.”
Wi
th no outward haste, he led Everitt to Wystan’s chambers.
Only two guards stood at attention outside of the mage’s quarters. Symon granted them leave from their duty, leaving Everitt and Symon alone with Wystan and the late King Audemar.
Descending the stairs to the cellar, the two discovered the mage applying a thick salve to the open wounds on Audemar’s chest. The monarch, stretched out on a long table, laid bare except for a folded cloth that covered him from the waist down.
So concentrated was Wystan that he did not notice their approach until a creak on one of the stairs startled him from his task.
“Prince Jameson!” he exclaimed, as though saying the royal’s name for the first time.
“Mage,” Symon stated solemnly, his eyes never leaving his father’s corpse.
“I must apologize for the current state of your father. Had I known you were to visit today, I would have made him more presentable.”
Symon raised his hand in a gesture of assurance. “Tis fine, Mage Wystan,” he said as he rounded the table where Audemar rested.
“The Prince requires a moment alone with his father,” Everitt added. “Mage, would you be so kind as to leave us? I will stay to keep guard, of course.”
“By all means, take all the time you need.” Wystan bowed as he backed away from the table, pulling a towel from a nearby hook to wipe the salve from his hands. He ascended the stairs and shut the door behind him as he left, leaving the two alone.
“Look at him, Everitt.” Symon gazed at the whole of his father. The color had drained from his body, leaving a pale canvas across the expanse of his skin, even on those areas that were once tan from years of hunting and battle-marching. Symon put his hand over his father, gliding his fingers and palm above the wounds of his torso. He recalled how as a small boy, he would lay across his father’s chest, which heaved up and down with every breath the king took, his heart thumping beneath layers of bone and flesh.
His chest will rise not. Nor his heart beat, Symon told himself. Never again.
“Your Highness, you have my condolences.”
Symon looked up to find Everitt, his head bowed slightly. Just enough to convey respect, though not so much that Symon could not see the tears coalesced in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Everitt,” Symon offered. He had overlooked the early years of their friendship, when Everitt was placed as a charge of Audemar, in the waning years of the Century War. Back then, an agent of Kin Foleppi had attacked Furde Manor, claiming the Kin’s eldest son and Everitt’s brother, Adequin. In response, Baron Ralf had begged the King to take in and protect his last boy. Audemar had done so without hesitation. “I didn’t consider how difficult this would be for you as well.”
“Tis fine, Your Highness,” Everitt replied, raising his voice to feign boldness through his sadness. “I should be here to see him, with you. Tis right.”
“Thank you.”
Everitt sighed. Then, taking a deep breath, he set his hands on the lip of the table, as if to compose himself. His focus and clarity of mind returning, he stared at Symon. “You need to listen, Your Highness. I have news.”
“Go on.”
“Do you recall how you, well... how you suggested that I bring in men of certain repute into Court, to listen and flesh out conversations. In particular, you had me charge those men with...”
“Spying. Yes, I remember.” In truth, he did not. He did, however, listen to Ely recall such an edict, which he issued without the consent of his brothers. Following his truth session, Ely had fervently argued his position, claiming that the Ibians were not to be trusted and that they needed all the information on them that they could gather, no matter the source. In hindsight, his brother had the right of it.
“I met with those men.”
“And?”
“Their news is dour.”
Symon glanced at his father’s corpse. “Undoubtedly.”
“What I mean to say is, it is not what I had hoped.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“The men spoke of Grand Duke Xain, and how he was infuriated after you challenged his honor and courage in the dungeon.”
Dawkin. Damn him. And here I believed Ely was the foolish one.
“The Grand Duke kept his mouth shut on the subject at first. Or, at least around his uncle. But whispers of his dishonor escaped his lips here and there so that by the night of, of our King’s treacherous demise, many in the Ibian Court were aware of the slight made upon their royal family.”
“Did he plan anything?”
“No, Sire. He had no solid plans. Only ill will.”
“So the barons of his Court knew. They were enraged. Insulted. But were they so much so that they would dare to commit regicide? And so soon after finding out?”
“I expressed those same doubts, so I pressed the men further.”
“And?”
Everitt sighed again. And hesitated.
“Out with it!” Symon commanded, gesturing to his father. “We have no time for manners.”
“Kin Foleppi are not the only ones with foxes. Marland has several, all our own.”
Their conversation went on for another hour. Everitt offered up all that he had learned. Symon questioned him unceasingly, wanting him to elaborate on every detail, to the best of his ability. He would have queried him further, but a knock on the door of the workshop interrupted them.
“Your Highness,” Wystan said from the other side. “Are you well?”
“I’m quite fine,” Symon insisted. “Give us another moment.”
“As you wish.”
Symon lowered his head in frustration.
“Prince, if you would care to continue this conversation...”
“No. I have the jest of it. You have named enough suspected Kins.”
“I am sorry, Your Highness.”
“No, no need for that. The doubts of our barons are many. And they are grounded.”
“Grounded? Your Highness, you can’t possibly think there reason for others to believe...”
“What choice do they have? Their King is dead.” Symon stared at his father. “Sir Lijart died trying to protect my father. Whomever did the deed looked like me. He saw my face. He pointed to me. He accused me.”
“Yes, but only we heard him.”
“Aye, but this castle has as many ears as it does stones.”
“Without Lijart to live to breathe his words again, any mention of your involvement would be rumor, that’s all.”
“True. But that is hardly cause to celebrate. There may still be those who think or are made to believe that I orchestrated my father’s assassination, so that I may take the throne for myself. After all, I have no... brothers... to stand in my way. I am an only child, the sole heir to the Crown. Several would-be barons have wished their lingering fathers ill will, that they may proceed to inherit their lands by birthright. Why would any baron, bishop or commoner in the land expect any less ambition of a prince?
“But then say no one thought I did it. Let us consider that every Marlish man and woman believed my hands were clean in this affair. What then? Even in such a scenario, I am not without blame. I remain the prince who allowed his father to be struck not once but twice, the latter a fatal blow to our monarch. The whisper of the name ‘Prince Fool’ will turn into a roar that the nobility of this land will not be able to deny. The Conclave of Barons will have no choice but to remove me. I will be banished to my manor, my title stripped. The legacy of Kin Saliswater will be tarnished. And all that my family, my father, has worked for through the generations – the alliance with the Ibians, the peace that followed the Century War – will be lost.”
Symon pounded his fist on the table. It struck the wood with a thud, his hand landing beside his father’s.
Everitt looked upon his Prince, speechless. Symon, after a moment, lifted his head.
“Say something, Everitt. Anything.”
“Your...”
“No. Do not address me as a Prince. N
ot now. Not after I’ve lost so much.”
“Very well, James.” Everitt rounded the table to stand beside Symon. He set his gaze back on Audemar. “What would he do?”
“Father?”
“Yes. Our King.”
“Hell, what wouldn’t he do? I remember tales of all he did when he discovered that Kin Foleppi, those damn Tosilians, had infiltrated Marland.”
“So do I. He returned from the Afarian Front to lead the vetting process. My father says he spent nearly every day and night for almost two years on his horse, riding from this manor to that one, then back, over and again. He personally chased down every lead, every mention of a fox. He sent agents and spies and soldiers into fields and hamlets. He demanded every bloodhound from every manor be delivered to him, that he may hunt down the Foleppi.”
“Aye. So many wild chases. Through caves. Over streams. Into forests. Sometimes the Tosilians would kill mercilessly anyone who bore witness to them, or set afire the woods in their wake, that the hounds may lose their scents and turn cowards. Still, my father always managed to find them.”
“And so will you, James. Be they from Marland, Ibia or Tosily. We will find our enemies. We will uproot them. Kin Saliswater will live on.”
Everitt clapped his hand on Symon’s shoulder. Symon gazed upon his father.
Another knock came upon the door. “Prince Jameson?” Wystan ventured.
“Yes, Mage, we’ll be right there.” Symon took one last look at his father before turning to Everitt. He extended his hand to the stairs, urging Everitt to go first.
The two reached the top of the staircase and opened the door to find Wystan waiting patiently on the other side.
“Prince Jameson...”
“My apologies, Mage. I only wanted time to pray over my father. I regret keeping you from your work.”
“Tis fine, Your Highness. However, my dedication to my work is not why I knocked. While you were within, I took to the streets beyond the castle, to gather my thoughts and rally my focus. What I found was most peculiar.”
“Oh?”
Kinghood Page 24