Crown Conspiracy

by Michael J. Sullivan

After they stacked the saddles on the porch, the little man led them through an opening into what appeared to be a large ornately framed courtyard. Columns of freestanding stone rose beneath a cloudy sky, and various black silhouetted statues dotted the space. The smoky smell was stronger here, but the only thing burning appeared to be the lantern in the monk’s hand. They reached a small set of stone steps and the monk led the way down a set of two turns into what appeared to be a rough-hewn stone cellar.

  “You can stay here,” the monk told them.

  The three stared at the tiny hovel, which Hadrian thought looked less inviting than the cells below Essendon Castle. Inside, it was very cramped, filled with piles of neatly stacked wood, tied bundles of twigs and heather, two wooden barrels, a chamber pot, a little table, and a single cot. No one said a word for a moment.

  “It’s not much, I know,” the monk offered regretfully, “but at the moment, it’s all I can offer you.”

  “We’ll make do then, thank you,” Hadrian assured him. He was so tired he didn’t care so long as he could lie down and be out of the wind. “Can we perhaps get a few blankets? As you can see we really don’t have any supplies with us.”

  “Blankets?” The monk looked concerned. “Well, there is one here.” He pointed at the cot where a single thin blanket lay neatly folded. “I truly am sorry I can’t offer you anymore. You can keep the lantern if you like. I know my way around without it.” The monk left them without another word, perhaps fearful they would ask for something else.

  “He didn’t even ask us our names,” the prince said.

  “And wasn’t that a pleasant surprise,” Royce pointed out as he moved around the room with the lantern. Hadrian watched him take a thorough inventory of what little was there: a dozen or so bottles of wine hidden in the back, a small sack of potatoes under some straw, and a length of rope.

  “This is intolerable,” Alric said in disgust. “Surely an abbey of this size has better accommodations than this pit.”

  Hadrian found an old pair of burlap shoes that he cleared out before he lay down on the cellar floor. “I actually have to agree with the royal one there. I heard great things about the hospitality of this abbey. We do appear to be getting the dregs.”

  “Question is why?” Royce asked. “Who else is here? It would need to be several groups or a tremendously large party to turn us out to this hovel. Only nobility travel with such large retinues. They might be looking for us. They might be associated with those archers.”

  “I doubt it. If we were in Roe, I think we’d have more reason for concern,” Hadrian said as he stretched and then yawned. “Besides, anyone who is here has turned in for the night and probably not expecting any late arrivals.”

  “Still, I’m going to get up early and look around. We might need to make a hasty departure.”

  “Not before breakfast,” Hadrian said, sitting on the floor and kicking off his boots. “We need to eat and I know abbeys are renowned for their food. If nothing else you can steal some.”

  “Fine, but His Highness should not move about. He needs to keep a low profile.”

  Standing in the middle of the cellar with a sickened look on his face, Alric said, “I can’t believe I am being subjected to this.”

  “Consider it a vacation,” Hadrian suggested. “For at least one day you get to pretend you are nobody, a common peasant, the son of a blacksmith perhaps.”

  “No,” Royce said preparing his own sleeping space, but keeping his boots on. “They might expect him to know things like how to use a hammer. And look at his hands. Anyone could tell he was lying.”

  “Most people have jobs that require the use of their hands, Royce,” Hadrian pointed out. He spread his cloak over himself and turned on his side. “What could a common peasant do that monks wouldn’t know the first thing about and wouldn’t cause calluses?”

  “He could be a thief or a whore.”

  They both looked at the prince, who cringed at his prospects. “I am taking the cot,” Alric said.

  Chapter 4: Windermere

  The morning arrived cold and wet. A solid gray sky cast a steady curtain of rain upon the abbey. The deluge streamed down the stone steps and pooled in the low pocket of the entryway. When the growing puddle reached Hadrian’s feet, he knew it was time to get up. He turned over on his back and wiped his eyes. He had not slept well. He felt stiff and groggy, and the cold morning air chilled him to the bone. He sat up, dragged a large hand down the length of his face, and looked around. The tiny room appeared even more dismal in the drab morning light than the night before. He moved back away from the puddle and looked for his boots. Alric had the benefit of the cot, yet, he did not appear to have fared much better. Despite having a blanket wrapped tightly around him, he lay shivering. Royce was nowhere to be seen.

  Alric opened one eye and squinted at Hadrian as he pulled his big boots on.

  “Good morning, Your Highness,” he said in a mocking tone. “Have a pleasant sleep?”

  “That was the worst night I have ever endured,” Alric snarled through clenched teeth. “I have never felt such misery as this damp, freezing hole. Every muscle aches; my head is throbbing, and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. I’m going home today. Kill me if you must, but nothing short of my death will stop me. A grave is certain to be better than this misery.”

  “So that would be a no?” Hadrian jested, rubbing his arms briskly. He got to his feet and looked out at the rain.

  “Why don’t you do something constructive and build a fire before we die of the cold,” the prince grumbled, pulling the thin blanket over his head and peering out as if it were a hood.

  “I don’t think we should build a fire in this cellar. Why don’t we just run over to the refectory? That way we can warm up and get food at the same time. I am sure they have a nice roaring fire. These monks get up early, probably been laboring for hours making fresh bread, gathering eggs, and churning butter just for the likes of us. I know Royce wants you to stay hidden, but I don’t think he expected winter would arrive so soon, or so wet. I think if you keep your hood raised, we should be fine.”

  The prince sat up with an eager look. “Even a room with a door would be better than this.”

  “That may be,” they heard Royce say from somewhere outside, “but you won’t find it here.”

  The thief appeared a moment later, his hood up and his cloak slick with rain. Once he ducked in out of the downpour, he snapped it like a dog shaking his fur. This sent a spray of water at Hadrian and Alric. They flinched and with a grimace the prince opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped short. Royce was not alone. Behind him followed the monk from the night before. He was soaked. His wool frock sagged with the weight of the water, and his hair laid plastered flat on his head. His skin was pale, his purple lips quivered, and his fingers were wrinkled as if he had been swimming too long.

  “I found him sleeping outside,” Royce said as he quickly grabbed an armful of the stacked wood. “Myron, take off that robe. We need to get you dry.”

  “Myron?” Hadrian said with an inquisitive look. “Myron Lanaklin?” Hadrian thought the monk nodded in reply, but he was shivering so hard it was difficult to tell.

  “You know each other?” Alric asked.

  “No, but we are familiar with his family,” Royce said. “Give him the blanket.”

  Alric looked shocked and held tightly to his covering.

  “Give it to him,” Royce insisted. “It’s his blanket. This fool gave us his home to stay in last night while he huddled in a wind-lashed corner of the cloister and froze.”

  “I don’t understand,” Alric said, reluctantly pulling the blanket off his shoulders. “Why would you sleep outside in the rain when—”

  “The abbey burned down,” Royce told them. “Anything that wasn’t stone is gone. We weren’t walking through a courtyard last night—that was the abbey. The ceiling is missing. The outer buildings are nothing but piles of ash. The whole place is a gutted ruin.”
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  The monk slipped out off his robe, and Alric handed the blanket to him. Myron hurriedly pulled it around his shoulders, and sitting down drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping them in the folds as well.

  “What about the other monks?” Hadrian asked. “Where are they?”

  “I…I bu-buried them. In the garden mostly,” Myron said through chattering teeth. “The gr-ground is softer there. I don’t th-think they will mind. We all lo-loved the garden.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Night before last,” Myron replied.

  Shocked by the news, Hadrian did not want to press the monk further and a silence fell over the room. Royce continued building a fire using various pieces of wood and kindling from inside the hovel. He used some oil from the lantern and quickly built a fire near the entrance. Despite the storm’s wind lashing the flames violently, the fire grew strong. As it did, the heat reflected off the stone walls, and soon the room began to warm.

  No one said anything for a long time. Royce prodded the fire with a stick, churning the glowing coals so that they sparked and spit. They each sat watching the flames, listening to the fire pop and crackle while outside the wind howled and the rain lashed the hilltop. Without looking at the monk, Royce said in a somber voice, “You were all locked in the church when it was burned weren’t you, Myron?”

  The monk did not reply. His gaze remained focused on the fire.

  “I saw the blackened chain and lock in the ash. It was still closed.”

  Myron, his arms hugging his knees, began to rock slowly.

  “What happened?” Alric asked.

  Still Myron said nothing. Several minutes passed. At last, the monk looked away from the fire. He did not look at them, but instead, he stared at some distant point outside in the rain. “They came and accused us of treason,” he said with a soft voice. “There were maybe twenty of them, knights with helms covering their faces. They rounded us up and pushed us into the church. They closed the big doors behind us. Then the fire started.

  “Smoke filled the church so quickly. I could hear my brothers coughing, struggling to breath. The abbot led us in prayer until he collapsed. It burned very quickly. I never knew it contained so much dry wood. It always seemed to be so strong. The coughing got quieter and less frequent. Eventually, I couldn’t see anymore. My eyes filled with tears, and then I passed out. I woke up to rain. The men and their horses were gone and so was everything else. I was under a marble lectern in the lowest nave, and all my brothers were around me. I looked for other survivors, but there were none.”

  “Who did this?” Alric demanded.

  “I don’t know their names, or who sent them, but they were dressed in tunics with a scepter and crown,” Myron said.

  “Imperialists,” Alric concluded. “But why would they attack an abbey?”

  Myron did not reply. He merely stared out the window at the rain. A long time passed; finally Hadrian asked in a comforting voice. “Myron, you said they charged you with treason. What did they accuse you of doing?”

  The monk said nothing. He just sat huddled in his blanket and stared. Alric finally broke the silence. “I don’t understand. I gave no orders to have this abbey destroyed, and I can’t believe my father did either. Why would one of my nobles carry out such an act, especially without my knowledge?”

  Royce cast a harsh and anxious look at the prince.

  “What?” Alric asked.

  “I thought we discussed the importance of keeping a low profile.”

  “Oh, please.” The prince waved a hand at the thief. “I don’t think it will get me killed if the monk here knows I’m the king. Look at him. I’ve seen drowned rats more formidable.”

  “King?” Myron muttered.

  Alric ignored the monk. “Besides, who is he going to tell? I’m heading back to Medford this morning anyway. Not only do I have a traitorous sister to deal with, but apparently, there also are things going on in my kingdom that I know nothing about. Such things can’t be ignored.”

  “It might not have been one of your nobles,” Royce said. “There are Imperialists in every kingdom in Apeladorn. I wonder. Myron, did it have anything to do with Degan Gaunt?”

  Myron shifted nervously in his seat as an anxious look came over his face. “I need to string a clothesline to dry my robe,” he said, getting up.

  “Degan Gaunt?” Alric inquired. “That deranged revolutionary? Why do you bring him up?”

  “He’s one of the leaders of the Nationalist Movement, and he’s been seen around this area,” Hadrian confirmed.

  “The Nationalist Movement—ha! A grandiose name for that rabble,” Alric sneered, “more like the peasant party. Those radicals who want the commoners to have a say in how they are ruled.”

  “So perhaps Degan Gaunt was using the abbey for more than a romantic rendezvous,” Royce speculated. “Maybe he was meeting here with Nationalist sympathizers as well. That’s why the Imperialists attacked. Perhaps it was your father, or at least had something to do with his death.”

  “I’m going to gather some water to make us some breakfast. I’m sure you are all hungry,” Myron said as he finished hanging his robe and began collecting various pots to set out in the rain.

  Alric took no notice of the monk as he focused on Royce. “My father would never have ordered such a heinous attack! He would be angrier at the Imperialists attack on the abbey than the Nationalist revolutionaries using it for meetings. My family has always been steadfast Royalists. We aren’t waiting for any fictitious heir to return and reunite the Old Empire nor are we about to turn the reins of power over to a bunch of undeserving thugs.”

  “You prefer things exactly the way they are,” Royce observed, “but being the king, that doesn’t seem terribly surprising.”

  “You are no doubt a staunch Nationalist, in favor of common rule and the dissolution and redistribution of all noble lands,” Alric told Royce. “That would solve all the problems of the world, wouldn’t it? And that would certainly be in your favor.”

  “Actually,” Royce said, “I don’t have any political leanings. They get in the way of my job. Noble or commoner, people all lie, cheat, and pay me to do their dirty work. Regardless of who is on the throne, the sun still shines, the seasons still change, and people still conspire. If one needs to place labels on attitudes, I prefer to think of myself as an Individualist.”

  Alric sighed and shook his head in resignation. He stood up and held his hands out to the fire. “So how long before breakfast is ready, Myron? I’m starving.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you.” Myron said. He set up a small, elevated grate over the fire. “I have a few potatoes in a bag in the corner.”

  “That’s all you have, isn’t it?” Royce asked.

  “I am very sorry,” Myron replied, looking sincerely pained.

  “No, I mean those potatoes are all the food you have. If we eat them, you’ll be left with nothing.”

  “Oh, well,” he shrugged off the comment. “I’ll manage somehow. Don’t worry about me,” he said optimistically.

  Hadrian retrieved the bag, looked in, and then handed it to the monk. “There are only eight potatoes in here. How long were you planning to stay?”

  Myron did not answer for awhile until at last he said to no one in particular, “I’m not going anywhere. I have to stay. I have to fix it.”

  “Fix what, the abbey? That’s an awfully big job for one man.”

  He shook his head. “The library, the books, that’s what I was working on last night when you arrived.”

  “The library is gone, Myron,” Royce reminded him. “The books were all burned. They’re ash now.”

  “I know. I know,” he said brushing his wet hair back from his eyes. “That’s why I have to replace them.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Alric asked with a smirk. “Rewrite all the books from memory?”

  Myron nodded. “I was working on page fifty-three of The History of Apelad
orn by Antun Bulard when you came.” Myron went over to a makeshift desk and brought out a small box. Inside were about twenty pages of parchment and several curled sheets of thin bark. “I ran out of parchment. Not much survived the fire, but the bark works all right.”

  Royce, Hadrian, and Alric shuffled through them. Myron wrote with small meticulous lettering, which extended to the edge of the page in every direction. No space was wasted. The text was complete, including page numbers not placed at the end of the parchments, but where the pages would have ended in the original document.

  Staring at the magnificently rendered text, Hadrian asked, “How could you remember all of this?”

  Myron shrugged. “I remember all the books I read.”

  “And did you read all the books in the library here?”

  Myron nodded. “I had a lot of time to myself.”

  “How many books were in the library?”

  “Three hundred eighty-two books, five hundred twenty-four scrolls, and one thousand two hundred thirteen individual parchments.”

  “And you remember every one?”

  Myron nodded once more.

  They all sat back staring at the monk in awe.

  “I was the librarian,” Myron said as if that would explain it all.

  “Myron,” Royce suddenly said, “in all those books did you ever read anything about a place called Gutaria Prison or a prisoner called Esra…haddon?”

  Myron shook his head.

  “I suppose it is unlikely anyone would write anything down concerning a secret prison,” Royce said, looking disappointed.

  “But, it was mentioned a few times in a scroll and once in a parchment. On the parchment, however, the name Esrahaddon was altered to prisoner and Gutaria was listed as Imperial Prison.”

  “Maribor’s beard!” Hadrian exclaimed looking at the monk in awe. “You really did memorize the whole library, didn’t you?”

  “Why Imperial Prison?” Royce asked. “Arista said it was an ecclesiastical prison.”

  Myron shrugged. “I supposed because in imperial times the Church of Nyphron and the Empire were linked. Nyphron is the ancient term for Emperor derived from the name of the first Emperor, Novron. So, the Church of Nyphron is the worshipers of the Emperor and anything associated with the Empire could also be considered part of the Church.”