In Defence of the Crown (The Aielund Saga Book 2)

by Stephen L. Nowland

  “Of course not,” the princess whispered back, “but when you have access to the greatest living actress, you’re allowed to use a little ‘artistic license.’”

  “Thy burdens will be great, dear wife,” Wesley continued, “but pale in comparison aside the white of all history resting upon mine own shoulders.”

  “Weight, Wesley, the weight of all history!” Rodney barked in irritation.

  “Sorry, old chap,” the actor replied, “your writing is a little hard to read at times.”

  “Okay fine, just continue,” Rodney sighed. Isande, waiting patiently, nodded and then continued reading, hardly even looking at her script.

  “I cannot stand in thy stead, Alaric, for I am a poor substitute for thy commanding presence. Do not ask this, I beg of thee.”

  “Kingdoms rise and Kingdoms fail… I’m sorry, let me try that again,” Wesley interrupted himself. “Kingdoms rise and Kingdoms fall, Gwenwyfar, and for Aielund to become strong, but if thou dost truly love thee… I’m sorry, that should be ‘me’. Dash it all, this Olde Aielish is a mouthful!”

  “You missed an entire line Wesley! And you are an actor, sir - it is your job to be able to recite such language.”

  “Come now, did they even speak this way?” Wesley pressed.

  “My mother met King Alaric, and I assure you, the language is accurate,” Isande politely informed him.

  “Even if that is so, I mean, honestly Rodney no-one talks like this now, so why force the audience to listen to this drivel?”

  “That ‘drivel’ is historically accurate!” Rodney snapped, smacking his fistful of papers into the chair before him. “If you are unwilling to play the part, I’m sure I can find someone else to fill your shoes.”

  “Hear now, there’s no need to get bent out of shape, old chap,” Wesley replied, backing down. “I was just offering some creative advice.”

  “Wesley, for God’s sake, just read the line,” Rodney cried. The actor cleared his throat and flipped through his script for a moment before continuing. Aiden glanced at Criosa, who was looking less than impressed with the performance her money had paid for.

  “The burdens thou face are but a fraction of mine own, but the mantle of this task must be taken up, lest the fate of previous Kingdoms befall Aielund. But know this - wherever mine path may lead, thine exquisite countenance and gentle memories will be in my thoughts, sometimes.”

  “Shouldn’t that be ‘always’?” Isande pointed out.

  “Well, it would seem to me that if the King was off chasing legends and trying to save the Kingdom,” Wesley explained, “he wouldn’t always be thinking of his wife. I mean, come on, let’s be realistic here.”

  “Are you the playwright?” Rodney asked, his voice dripping with ire. “Do you understand romance? Have you ever felt the kind of love that shapes a nation? And do you understand the gravity of what Alaric is undertaking, leaving his home behind to live a dangerous life of adventure? No! You are the son of a noble, too busy having your backside wiped by servants to know what dangers lay outside these walls!”

  He paused to draw breath, and slowly calmed down. “Forgive my outburst, ladies and gentlemen, for this play has been weighing upon me for some time now in a very personal way. Let’s take a short break and try it again.”

  “Oh thank God,” Criosa muttered under her breath.

  “At least I’m not the only one who found that painful,” Aiden remarked. “The performance, that is, not the writing,” he added quickly when Rodney turned a baleful eye toward him. His anger quickly diminished and was replaced with a curious intensity.

  “Say there, you’re a hero, having been through a battle and what-not,” he said to Aiden.

  “Well, something like that I suppose,” Aiden replied humbly. “I wouldn’t consider it to be a profession, mind you.”

  “Of course, of course,” Rodney agreed. “Wesley’s childhood was a bit sheltered, as I mentioned. He lacks the worldly experience sorely needed for this role, so perhaps you could give him some advice?”

  “Me? Advice?”

  “Absolutely,” Rodney beamed. “Don’t sell yourself short there, my young friend, I believe you could offer him some very useful pointers. What say you?”

  “I’m not really in the mood for this just now,” Aiden refused, still disturbed by his unexplained memory loss.

  “Please, Aiden?” Criosa asked sweetly. “I’ve invested a not inconsiderable sum of money into this play, and I would hate to see it turned into a mockery.” There was something about pretty women asking things of Aiden that he couldn’t say no to, and he idly wondered if the rest of the male population had similar problems.

  “Alright, I’ll do what I can,” he sighed, rising from his chair.

  “Excellent,” Rodney beamed. “I advise you to be subtle, where possible, for Wesley already thinks of himself as an accomplished actor.”

  “I’ll try to be discreet,” Aiden assured him, and then walked down to the stage, taking the steps to one side of the platform all the while trying to think of some helpful advice from his several hours of experience. Isande seemed to be musing upon some deep thoughts, and Wesley was still astride the centre of the stage, reading through the script with a few other actors in the costumes of guardsmen and knights. He noticed Aiden’s approach and raised a hand to stop him.

  “Excuse me, but I am in the middle of rehearsal, sir,” he said to Aiden in an unnecessarily dramatic voice. “I will provide you with my autograph afterward, if you like.”

  “Rodney asked me to come down and give you a few pointers from my experience,” Aiden replied hesitantly, momentarily taken aback by his presumption.

  “Yes, the Hero of Culdeny as I understand it,” Wesley remarked, tossing aside his script. “Though I do not doubt your valour, I question what advice you could provide to me, an accomplished actor.”

  “Don’t be rude, Mister Bartlett,” Isande admonished him. “You never know where inspiration will come from.”

  “And where do you find inspiration, my lady?” Wesley asked, his voice sculpted to sound as ingratiating as possible, but the result was almost like being covered in treacle - sickeningly sweet, combined with the need to shower as soon as possible.

  “The muse Aoipe speaks to me in moments of peaceful reflection, though one may cultivate ideas from almost anywhere, if one simply listens for a time.” Wesley didn’t seem altogether taken with the idea, but his obstinate manner evaporated under the serene gaze of the elven actress.

  “Very well Mister Wainwright, I will hear your words and learn what I may,” Wesley declared.

  “Alright,” Aiden nodded hesitantly, wondering where to start. “Firstly, I just want to point out that I found your voice to be a little quiet from my place in the middle row. I suspect that anyone sitting right at the back would have trouble making out your words.”

  “Ah, it is as I thought,” he nodded, “I told Rodney that a King needs to be loud, but he disagreed. Do you think this is loud enough?” He added in a thundering voice that drew attention from all present.

  “It’s certainly loud enough from four feet away,” Aiden observed dryly, but his wry humour was lost on the actor.

  “I say, this really is how a King should speak! With a commanding presence and booming voice, all can hear the words of the monarch! Although now my throat is sore… perhaps I will save that for the performance,” Wesley conceded, apparently oblivious to the unpleasant looks from the nearby actors.

  “Yes… quite. So, while I don’t presume to tell you your business,” Aiden continued, “Maybe a little more realism wouldn’t hurt?”

  “Realism? In a play? Perhaps you should talk to Rodney about that, for an actor is only as good as the material he is given,” Wesley barked. “What exactly are you referring to?”

  “From what I’ve read from history books, King Alaric was reluctant to leave the Kingdom,” Aiden attempted to explain, “whereas you seem to be conveying the idea that he thought of h
is wife as holding him back from his destiny. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “You were supposed to be offering advice from your adventuresome lifestyle, not giving me history lessons,” Wesley bristled. “My father sent me to the finest teachers in the city, so I will brook no insults as to my skill or talent.”

  “It wasn’t my intention to insult you,” Aiden apologized, noticing a certain arrogance about the man before him that reminded him of Ronald Bartlett. “I’m sure your father did right by you, and having met him briefly, I can see he’s made a lasting impression upon you.”

  “You met father?” Wesley inquired. “When was this?”

  “Oh, a couple of weeks ago,” Aiden said dismissively, wishing he hadn’t mentioned it.

  “That was just before the Battle of Culdeny, wasn’t it?”

  “Before it, yes,” Aiden said, trying to figure out a way to leave without causing any trouble. He didn’t know if Wesley knew of his father’s death, but wasn’t inclined to wait around to find out what would happen if the actor knew of Aiden’s involvement.

  “My family received word of his demise during the earlier fighting in the nearby town of Lachburne,” Wesley said, confirming Aiden’s suspicions. “Have you ever been there?”

  “Not recently,” Aiden lied, attempting to appear casual.

  “Odd that you would say that,” Wesley shrugged, “considering the princess was being held there, and it is known you personally rescued her from the clutches of the mercenaries holding her captive.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I did,” Aiden replied, realizing that he’d just been outmanoeuvred by a third-rate actor.

  “You suppose?” Wesley shouted in his ‘kingly’ voice. “You were there, sir, and your lie speaks volumes as to your feelings for the man. Tell me - did you do all you could to protect him from the villains who sought to usurp the King’s Law, or did you throw him to the wolves in the process of becoming a hero?”

  “It was a chaotic situation,” Aiden answered in measured tones, “and we were greatly outnumbered. I can honestly tell you that we did everything we could to bring him back to town alive.”

  “As well you should have,” Wesley replied at a more reasonable volume, “for he was a giant, a titan of industry and we are all diminished by his loss.”

  “Yes, Ronald Bartlett was an ambitious man,” Aiden spoke through gritted teeth.

  “I tell you this truly, Aiden,” Wesley confided in dark tones, waxing poetic. “If I find the man who killed my father, I will not rest until justice has been done. My blade will sup of his blood, and come to rest ‘twixt his shoulders. The people will know that when a loyal subject of the King is murdered, the perpetrator does not go unpunished.”

  Aiden could have just nodded and walked away at this, but inside, something snapped. Maybe it was Wesley’s sneering arrogance, or perhaps his ignorance as to the true nature of his own father. Or maybe it was the countless people who had died due to Ronald Bartlett’s schemes that needed to be spoken for.

  “You’re right, Mister Bartlett, I was in Lachburne at the time of your father’s death,” he began. “But he was working with the mercenaries who kidnapped Princess Criosa, at the behest of unknown conspirators here in Fairloch. Your father was a traitor to the King, and I took some pleasure in seeing his body mauled by a wolf while running away from the scene like a coward.” In the corner of Aiden’s eye, he could see Isande slowly backing away from the two men as Wesley’s face turned a bright red colour.

  ‘Infamous!” he snarled. “To insult my father’s memory is to insult my entire family. Damn you, sir, and your ill-mannered words. I demand satisfaction!”

  “What?” Aiden asked, unsure of his intent.

  “If you are truly the courageous hero you purport to be, then you will duel me, here and now, and let our skill with the sword determine right from wrong.” Wesley nodded at one of the other actors, who scurried to the other end of the stage to fetch a fancy-looking sword from a weapon stand. Aiden could scarcely believe what he was seeing as the actor unsheathed a long rapier and swung it back and forth to test its balance.

  “I don’t want to fight you, Wesley,” Aiden said calmly, “there is too much going on in this city for me to waste my time with this.”

  “Then you are a coward as well as a liar, sir!” Wesley barked. “Retract your words and beg my forgiveness, else prepare to feel the sting of my blade. Rodney, you may act as witness to the duel, so none may say it was fought unfairly.” Aiden glanced helplessly out to where Criosa was staring - mouth agape - at the events as they continued to unfold.

  “I will stand witness, if Aiden accepts the duel,” Rodney replied cautiously, giving Aiden a meaningful look. He suspected Wesley had been well-trained with the rapier. Still doubting his own abilities with a blade, Aiden knew if it came to blows, he could be in serious trouble.

  “Let me rephrase my last statement,” he stated delicately, trying a different approach. “You don’t want to fight me Wesley, because I will kill you. I’m not called the Hero of Culdeny because I brought all the soldiers tea and crumpets - I carry a sword and know how to use it. Although Culdeny was under assault from a full company of mercenaries, the city still stands today as a testament to my power. I burned a swath of destruction through the ranks of akoran savages the likes of which you can barely imagine.” Aiden raised a fist and invoked a light upon it, startling the actor with this minor display of sorcery.

  “I walked the streets of the perilous city of Ferrumgaard, lost to the ages, and destroyed the monsters that lay within its rotting walls. The secrets of both sorcerers and wizards lie at my fingertips, and even dragons note my passage through the land. You want to duel me, Wesley? I will hold nothing back. I will bring down a torrent of eldritch power upon you leaving naught but the charred remains of your corpse for your family to grieve over.”

  The effect of his speech was profound. Wesley’s sword hand was shaking as he lowered the tip toward the ground, and he swallowed loudly as he took a step backwards.

  “I withdraw my challenge,” the actor hedged, finally sheathing his blade before he turned and left the stage in a hurry. Isande, standing nearby, gave Aiden an appraising look before a smile made its way across her full lips.

  “A riveting performance, Mister Wainwright,” she said with a curtsey. Aiden let out a deep breath and smiled, relieved that his little bluff had paid off. He nodded at the actress and then walked off the stage, collecting a speechless Criosa en route to the exit as Rodney applauded him.

  “That was fun,” Aiden told Criosa under his breath as he ushered her out of the playhouse, “let’s do it again sometime.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Criosa was rather vocal during their passage back to the castle, for the princess had only been free of those high walls for little more than an hour. She eventually complied with his request to return, for he had no more patience with acting as bodyguard when there was more important work to be done. And despite his best efforts, he couldn’t recall anything that happened in his life before the day he fell into the cave, and it was disturbing him greatly.

  After ensuring Criosa’s safe passage back to the castle gates, Aiden returned to the Fair Maiden Inn to try and relax while awaiting word from Perry. Pacian was lounging at one of the tables, clearly nursing a terrible hangover but otherwise conscious. He spied Aiden making his way across the common room and greeted him with a bleary gaze.

  “Where have you been?” Pacian asked, his body undecided as to whether or not it wanted to sit or sprawl on the table.

  “Didn’t Sayana tell you?”

  “No, she went upstairs as soon as we got back here.”

  “Well, I’ve had an interesting afternoon,” Aiden explained, taking the time to detail his ‘kidnapping’ by Criosa, and the duel he almost fought with the son of one of their slain enemies. Pacian burst out laughing when Aiden described the manner in which he handled Wesley, essentially defeating the actor witho
ut even drawing his sword.

  “I would have refused to fight him,” Pacian confided, “and as soon as his back was turned, I would have -”

  “Stabbed him in the back and taken all of his money,” Aiden finished.

  “You know me too well, old friend,” Pacian grunted, then clutched his head in pain.

  “Pace, do you remember what it was like when we were kids?” Aiden asked, changing the subject.

  “I don’t even remember what day it is.”

  “I’m serious,” Aiden continued, leaning forward on the table. “Tell me about some of the things we did together.” Pacian scratched his head and seemed to think about it for a moment before speaking.

  “Oh, there was that time when your Dad was servicing a wagon out the front of the shop, and you climbed up in it and managed to pull the brake lever,” he chuckled. “It went rolling down the hill and you were stuck on the driver’s seat, screaming for help. That was hilarious to watch!”

  “Was I injured?” Aiden asked, feeling as if this were a story being told about another person’s life.

  “Nah, the wagon went off the road and gradually came to a stop,” Pacian grinned. “Missus Granger was running after you in her nightie trying to get you down, which was a whole other kind of funny. Your Dad wasn’t even mad at the end of it, either.”

  “I don’t remember it,” Aiden remarked sadly.

  “What about the time you covered for me after I got caught breaking into the mill?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “That’s a shame, you did a really good job of convincing the miller that I was with you the whole time,” Pacian sighed. “Ah, what a team we were. I’d steal things, and you’d watch me steal things.”

  “Not a single thing that happened before the fall in the cave is known to me,” Aiden stated grimly.

  “Hey, I’m the one with a hangover,” Pacian complained, “I should be the one missing large chunks of my memory.” Aiden levelled a gaze at him that spoke volumes, causing Pacian’s grin to fade. “Well, maybe you hit your head once time too many of late. I mean, you did get hit in the head with an axe, and that can’t be good for you. I don’t know if you died or not, but maybe that’s got something to do with it.”