“You interviewed both King Aron and the late queen’s voice about her death today, did you not?” He folded the linen sheet down from Annabelle’s face and up from her legs, leaving it laying over the middle of her body, protecting her modesty.
“I did,” Koreen said, her eyes locked on the late queen’s face. “They had their own unique perspectives of course, but their stories matched well. I feel I know what happened as if I were there.”
“Tell me,” Archibald said, “as if I were hearing it for the first time.”
Koreen took a deep breath from her perfume box and then stuffed the trinket in her pocket.
“It was an ordinary knighting ceremony for two young squires.” She said. “The queen performed the rituals and drank wine with them, undoubtedly ingesting the poison then. When she knighted them, one of the boys nearly fell over on her. She died shortly after returning to the throne. The servant who brought the wine, and the cook who prepared it have both been interrogated to no avail.”
“Which detail of that story stands out as the oddest?” Archibald asked. He took one of Annabelle’s cold feet between his hands and began searching up the foot and ankle, inch by inch.
“The fact the servant and cook both knew nothing?” Koreen guessed.
“That may seem odd on the face of things,” Archibald said as his fingers found what they were searching for. “To me, it seems odd that one of the boys nearly fell over while being knighted. You’d think he would have rehearsed the moment to perfection, a thousand times over. I do not think the queen ingested the poison however, and so there is nothing odd about the servants’ lack of suspicion. Look, here.” His thumbs framed the tiny puncture mark he’d found on Annabelle’s ankle. Koreen held the lantern close, and gasped as she spotted the tiny hole.
“What does this mean, father?” She asked, reaching out a tentative finger to touch the dead skin.
“If I am right, it means we are dealing with a much more capable assassin than we first thought, and a much more complex plot. I must confirm my theory first, of course.” He took a short syringe and needle from his waist pouch and jabbed it into the pre-existing puncture mark, drawing out a vial of blood. “Did you learn what happened to our recently knighted squires?”
“It seems they both disappeared in the confusion, and cannot be found.” Koreen said. “Do you think one of them killed the queen?”
“I do,” Archibald said, returning the syringe full of blood to his pouch. “It would have been the work of a moment for one of the squires to jab the queen with a poisoned needle while she knighted them… she’d likely not have even felt it. If there was poison injected into her ankle, I’ll be able to determine what type by analyzing her blood.” He patted his pouch. “Come, daughter, there is no more need to linger here.” He unfolded the sheet, re-covering Annabelle’s body, and led the way back out of the catacombs.
“May I assist you with the analysis of the blood?” Koreen asked as they climbed the long staircase leading back up to the palace. “I am always eager to learn more from you, father.”
“And I adore that about you,” Archibald said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “But I have other tasks for you. The analysis is only for confirmation. We may assume for now that the queen was killed by one of the squires, so I want you to question every lord, lady, and guard you can find who was there. Find out if anyone saw what happened to the squires afterwards. I believe learning their whereabouts will be the next crucial step of this investigation.”
Koreen beamed with pride as they pushed through a great oaken double door and emerged into a lengthy corridor.
“I will, father. At once.” She said, and then scampered off toward the guard barracks. Archibald turned in the opposite direction. He strode down the marble hallway, climbed up another two flights of stairs, and entered the residential wing of the palace where visiting nobles such as himself were given rooms. As he approached the wing’s inner door it was flung open, nearly flattening him against the wall. Abraham Bradbury came out of the wing at full tilt, like a bull chasing a waving cape.
“Cleaver!” The barrel-chested Lord of the West exclaimed. “I was wondering when we might bump into one another. I was informed of your recent arrival.”
“Bradbury,” Archibald said with a smile, extending a hand to clasp the other man’s forearm, “I feel fortunate we did not quite bump into one another, for I fear you would have trampled me.”
Abraham let out a booming laugh and clapped a hand around Archibald’s shoulders, drawing the older man into the residential wing. A finely woven rug stretched the length of the hall, and vases on pedestals interspersed the oil paintings hung on the walls. They came to a public sitting area surrounding a roaring hearth and took padded leather seats facing one another.
“I appreciate your assistance in the investigation,” Abraham said, “it is certain that no one in the realm can rival your knowledge of poisons and elixirs, and it seems clear the queen’s wine was poisoned, although that line of questioning has led us nowhere.”
“I do have another theory,” Archibald said carefully, steepling his fingers, “but it remains a theory and so I shall keep it to myself for now. Entrust me to find the assassin, my lord. Your efforts I feel are best focused on the defence of this great city. The few warriors I brought along are, of course, at your disposal.”
“My thanks for that,” Abraham said with a nod. He looked up from staring into the flame, dark eyes as hard as rocks meeting Archibald’s soft grey ones. “If ever you are accused of having part in this conspiracy, you need only direct the accuser to me.”
“Me?” Archibald said with feigned surprise. “Why would I be accused?”
“Some might find it suspicious,” Abraham said casually, “that the queen was poisoned, and that the realm’s best known master of poisons felt it necessary to conduct the investigation himself. I, of course, know that your motivations are honorable. But others may not be so considerate.”
“Your protection is appreciated, my lord.” Archibald said, inclining his head slightly. “Fortunately, I and my daughter have not been harassed since our arrival in the capital. Those who suspect us have held their tongues, I suppose.”
“Your eldest daughter?” Bradbury said with a raised brow. “What was her name? She must be of age by now.”
“Koreen.” Cleaver said with a smile. “Yes, we recently celebrated her eighteenth birthday. She is a smart girl, and becoming more clever every day. I brought her along both for her assistance, and her continued education.”
“Do you have a husband in mind for her?” Abraham asked, stroking his stubbled chin. “Having a noble wife such as her would certainly cement my Aron’s claim to the crown.”
“That is… an intriguing idea, most certainly.” Archibald said. “I did not bring Koreen with me to find her a husband… but no, no other worthy suitor has come forward. Of course, I would never arrange a marriage that would make my daughter unhappy. Perhaps the two should meet, and see if any fancy springs up between them.”
“A fine idea,” Bradbury grinned, “I will advise Aron to seek her out.” The bull of a man stood up, and Archibald joined him. They clasped forearms again. “I must be off, there is much to inspect… but do speak to your daughter of my Aron, and I shall do the same with him.”
“I shall,” Archibald smiled, and watched Bradbury stride off down the hall. He hummed a little tune and patted the pouch on his waist. He wanted to hasten to his chambers and analyze the queen’s blood, but he was a patient man, and the fire in the hearth was warm and meditative. Wedding Koreen to Aron was a good idea; such a good idea in fact he could scarcely believe that Bradbury had come up with it. Despite their power and wealth, the Cleavers would have little claim to the gilded crown beside that of the other great houses. But if Koreen married Aron before he was crowned, at least a Cleaver would still sit the throne. And as Annabelle had proven, not even monarchs were immune to sudden, violent death.
Chapter 9
> Abraham Bradbury strode through the halls of the palace, spine straight as a ship’s mast and sharp eyes roving. Following his conversation with Archibald Cleaver, he felt as though he’d placed the Lord of the South neatly in his pocket. Whether his son would marry the Cleaver girl was hardly written in stone… but so long as Archibald thought that they were betrothed, he’d be more likely to support Aron’s claim to the crown.
Fiona Fowler, the Lady of the East, had already offered her support in writing, and in the form of the hundred fighters and engineers she’d sent to help defend the city. That left only one of the great houses that needed to be persuaded, and they would prove the most difficult. Fortunately, Abraham knew he would not need to treat with the Clemingtons in the North. Some of the more distant cousins resided in the capital, and their power and wealth would be enough to help push Aron onto the throne.
Abraham’s path carried him down several flights of stairs, onto the main basement level of the palace. The subterranean floor was used for housing servants as well as storage. No draperies festooned the walls there, and no vases full of fresh flowers decorated the halls. There was less bustle, although Abraham did pass a few servants who bowed or curtsied as they passed. Eventually he wound his way to the door he was looking for. It was not like the other plain oaken doors that lined the hall, but instead carved mahogany, the engravings showing dragons in flight. He considered the silver knob, and then lifted a mighty fist and rapped thrice on the door.
Slow footsteps sounded on the other side, and then the door opened a crack.
“May I help you?” An owlish, elderly man in Clemington livery asked. He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Abraham, blinking rapidly.
“I should like to speak with your lord,” Abraham said, resting a wide palm on the open door. “Is Algernon awake?”
“He is,” The servant said tersely, “but my lord is dreadfully distracted with important matters.”
“I have been charged with protection of the city, and the realm.” Abraham pointed out gently. He pulled the door open further. “Surely he can spare me a few minutes.”
The servant sighed, and then stepped back to let Abraham enter. The Lord of the West found himself standing in a small antechamber lit by lanterns in wall sconces.
“Please be seated, Lord Bradbury,” the servant said, indicating a foursome of padded leather chairs surrounding a low table. Abraham opted to stand instead, and watched the aged man disappear through a curtained doorway at the far end of the room. A few minutes passed, and then a familiar face emerged from behind the curtain.
Algernon Clemington’s little remaining hair had gone almost perfectly silver, a small fringe that surrounded the bald top of his head. He moved like a rickety wagon, but his brown eyes still seemed as sharp as ever. Abraham had never crossed blades with Algernon, for the older man was far more likely to wield a quill than a sword. When Annabelle had taken the crown, he’d moved into the palace as one of his niece’s chief researchers. Judging by the ink stains on the cuff of his fine shirt, he had continued his work following the late queen’s death.
“Abraham,” the aged Clemington said with a small smile. He moved slowly to the table and chairs and sat somewhat unsteadily, as though his legs were unused to bearing his weight. “Please, join me.” He indicated the seat opposite his. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I will be straight to the point,” Abraham said, returning the older man’s smile. “You are a man of facts, Algernon, and I have always admired that about you. I’m sure you have heard of my son Aron’s intent to claim the gilded crown.”
Algernon nodded, stroking his wispy grey beard.
“Naturally, I have, and I could not dispute his claim. He made an excellent match for Annabelle during her reign, and he has the love of the people. With your support here in the capital, his ascension seems all but inevitable.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” Abraham brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his shoulder. “But as you know better than I, it is customary for a ruler to have support from all four of the great houses before claiming the crown. I wondered if you would lend the weight of your good name to the cause.”
“I suppose you don’t fancy your chances at getting my nephew Jasper to support you?” Algernon chuckled. “I heard all about your battle with him at the gates. It is a good thing you held the city. Jasper rules the North well enough, but he could never manage an entire kingdom. Yes, in the interest of realm and people, I will support your son’s claim to the crown. But do not expect that to dissuade my relatives from their plans of attack. You know what they say about us Clemingtons. Fiery to the last.” He snapped his fingers, conjuring a small spark, but no flame appeared. He chuckled again. “I never did develop the knack for wielding fire like the others. Perhaps that’s part of the reason I needed to move South. I don’t believe my brethren ever truly accepted me as one of their own.”
“Well your skills and services are more than welcome in the capital,” Abraham said.” The burly man stood and gave the Clemington a stiff nod. “I trust I will see you at my son’s coronation?”
“I would never miss such an historic event.” Algernon returned the nod and settled back into his chair.
Bradbury made his way back to the palace’s main level and immediately set to making preparations. He sent a number of servants off with messages; to his son, to the voice, and a number of other officials who would need to help orchestrate the coronation. Now that he had the support of all four great houses, little could stand in his way, and yet there was still much to do; a hundred little hoops that needed to be jumped through.
With his messengers dispatched, Abraham decided to take a short stroll outside, to get some fresh air and to inspect the newly constructed main gate. He strode out into the sunlight, squinting his dark eyes at the brilliance as all around him guardsmen saluted his passing. People made way for him as he traversed the streets of the capital, winding his way toward the outer wall. The new iron-bound gate looked all but impenetrable, thicker than its predecessor and not nearly so vulnerable to fire. The gate stood open, as it often did during the day, allowing common folk in and out of the palace grounds. Allowing people to flow freely was necessary, and yet it raised the hackles on Abraham’s neck. How easy would it be for another assassin to slip into the capital, one who might target his son Aron? Whoever had orchestrated Annabelle’s death had already demonstrated the ability to kill those well protected in public places.
Aron’s guard would be doubled, no, tripled, and his food and drink would all be pre-tasted by servants. There was no other way to ensure his safety. Abraham heaved a long sigh and gazed up at the fluffy white clouds drifting through the light blue sky. At times, he wished he could be a bird, flitting freely on the breeze without a care in the world.
But he was not a bird; he was a bull, and he bore the responsibility of his great house. Nothing was more important than ensuring that his family continued to rule the West, and saw expansion in their domain and influence. Like his father before him, he would leave his son with a better realm than that which he had been born into.
Expelling the fresh air from his lungs, Abraham hastened back into the palace. There were many more preparations to make, especially since he intended to see Aron crowned within the week. Algernon had been right; it would be a historic event, for never had the gilded crown been passed so quickly from one monarch to the next. Ordinarily, it took much longer for the houses to rally support to a single leader. But this was no ordinary circumstance, and Abraham was no ordinary man. In his mind’s eye, he could already see Aron sitting the great throne, wearing the gilded crown.
Chapter 10
“It does my heart well to see so many Clemingtons seated together, co-operating around the same table.” Jasper’s voice carried through the great hall from his seat of honor. His cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews, were seated all around the hall. There was more than a score of them in tot
al, ranging from ages of sixteen to sixty. “I cannot recall the last time so many of us sat together.
“I called you together because we must produce a show of strength. Strength in the North, and strength in our family. Annabelle was assassinated, and from that we know not only that one of the other houses means to usurp us… we know also that the gilded crown will not be held without bloodshed. Our enemies fear us in battle because of our command over fire, so they have consigned the war to the shadows. But rest assured… we are at war. The trumpets were sounded the day my sister died.”
A female voice scoffed. “You only wish to take our soldiers South so you may repair your pride. We all heard how Abraham Bradbury repelled your assault on the capital. I’ll not lose my men to your foolhardy notions, Jasper Clemington.”
The Lord of the North scowled down at his elderly aunt, but he shoved his anger down to smoulder and grow. It would be of use to him later. For now, he needed to gain the support of all his family. Without them, he could never raise an army large enough to hope to take the capital.
“My dear aunt,” Jasper said with a false smile, “yes, we were repelled by greater forces at the gates to the capital. Had more of you lent your troops to my cause, we would have won that battle, and we could be sharing this meal at my coronation. But I am not angry with you for withholding your men. I ask only now that you see the importance of a swift and decisive strike. Bradbury’s presence in the capital would seem to indicate that he means for his son to claim the crown, and I’ve had a letter from Algernon confirming as much. Once a Bradbury wears the gilded crown, it will be three times as difficult to take it from them. But if we can take the great city before his coronation… our possibilities are endless.”
The Burning Age (Fight For The Crown Book 1) Page 5