Crown Conspiracy

by Michael J. Sullivan

  The prince stepped forward and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I am already deeply in your debt, and have no right to ask, but I must beg you now to display the same poor judgment once again and save my sister. Please, steal her from Braga’s clutches and you can name whatever price you wish.”

  — 8 —

  “Another last-minute, good-deed job,” Royce grumbled as he stuffed supplies into his saddlebag.

  “True,” Hadrian said, slinging his sword belt over his shoulder, “but this is at least a paying job.”

  “You should have told him the real reason we saved him from Trumbul—because we wouldn’t see the hundred tenents otherwise.”

  “That was your reason. Besides, how often do we get to do royal contracts? If word gets around, we’ll be able to command top salaries.”

  “If word gets around, we’ll be hanged.”

  “Okay, good point. But remember, she did save our skins. If Arista hadn’t helped us out of the dungeon, we’d be ornaments for the Medford Autumn Festival right now.”

  Royce paused and sighed. “I didn’t say we weren’t doing it, did I? Did I say that? No, I didn’t. I told the little prince we’d do it. Just don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

  “I just want to make you feel better about your decision,” Hadrian said. Royce glared at him. “Okay, okay, I’ll see about the horses now.” He grabbed his gear and headed for the courtyard where a light snow was starting to fall.

  Pickering had provided the thieves with two of his swiftest stallions and any supplies they thought they might need. Ella had a late night snack and a sizable travel meal prepared for them. They took heavy woolen cloaks to brace against the cold and dark scarves that they wrapped around the lower half of their faces to keep the chill of the wind off their cheeks.

  “I hope we will meet again soon,” Myron told them as they prepared their mounts. “You two are the most fascinating people I have ever met, although I suppose that isn’t saying a lot is it?”

  “It’s the thought that counts,” Hadrian told him and gave the monk a bear hug, which caught the little man by surprise. As they climbed into their saddles, Myron bowed his head and muttered a soft prayer.

  “There,” Hadrian told Royce, “we’ve got Maribor on our side. Now you can relax.”

  “Actually,” Myron said sheepishly, “I was praying for the horses. But I will pray for you as well,” he added hastily.

  Alric and the Pickerings came out to the courtyard to see them off. Even Lenare joined them, wrapped in a white fur cape. The fluffy muffler was wrapped so high on her shoulders that it hid the lower portion of her face. Only her eyes could be seen.

  “If you can’t get her out,” Pickering said, “try to stall the execution until our forces can arrive. Once they do, however, you’d better have her secured. I am certain Braga will kill her out of desperation. Oh, and one more thing, don’t try to fight Braga. He’s the best swordsman in Melengar. Leave him for me.” The count slapped the elegant rapier he wore at his side. “This time I’ll have my own sword, and the archduke will feel its sting.”

  “I will be leading the attack on Essendon,” Alric informed them. “It is my duty as ruler. So if you do reach my sister and if I should fall before the end of this, let her know I’m sorry for not trusting her. Let her know…” he faltered for a moment, “let her know I loved her and I think she will make a fine queen.”

  “You’ll tell her yourself, Your Majesty,” Hadrian assured him.

  Alric nodded and then added, “And I’m sorry about what I said to you before. You two are the best Royal Protectors I could ever hope for. Now go. Save my sister or I’ll have you both thrown back in my dungeon!”

  They bowed respectfully in their saddles, then turned their horses and urged them into a gallop. They rode out the gate into the cold black of night.

  Chapter 8: Trials

  The morning of Arista Essendon’s trial arrived along with the first snow. Despite not having slept, Percy Braga did not feel the least bit tired. Having set the wheels in motion the previous morning by sending the trial announcements, he had a hundred details demanding his personal attention. He was just rechecking his witness list when there was a knock at the door to his office and a servant entered.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” the man said with a bow. “Bishop Saldur is here. He said you wanted to see him.”

  “Of course, of course, send him in,” the archduke replied.

  The elderly cleric entered, wearing his dress robes of black and red. Braga crossed the room and kissed his ring as he bowed. “Thank you for seeing me so early, your grace. Are you hungry?” May I arrange for some breakfast to be brought for you?”

  “No, thank you, I’ve already eaten. At my age, one tends to wake early whether one wants to or not. What exactly did you want to see me about?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have any questions about your testimony today. We could go over it now if you do. I’ve scheduled some time.”

  “Ah, I see,” the bishop replied, nodding slowly. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I have a clear understanding of what is required.”

  “Wonderful, then I think everything is in order.”

  “Excellent,” the bishop said and glanced toward the decanter. “Is that brandy I see?”

  “Yes, would you like some?”

  “Normally I wouldn’t indulge so early, but this is a special occasion.”

  “Absolutely, your grace.”

  The bishop took a seat near the fire as Braga poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to the bishop. “To the new Melengar regime,” the archduke proposed. The crystal rang clear like a bell as their glasses touched. Then each took a deep drink.

  “There’s just something about a bit of brandy on a snowy day,” Saldur remarked with a tone of satisfaction in his voice. The cleric had white hair and gentle looking eyes. Sitting in the glow of the fire, casually cupping the glass in his wrinkled hand, he appeared the quintessential kindhearted grandfather. Braga knew better. He could not have risen to his present position without being ruthless. As bishop, Saldur was one of the chief officers of the Nyphron Church and the ranking clergy in the kingdom of Melengar. He worked and resided in the great Mares Cathedral, an edifice just as imposing, and certainly more beloved, than Castle Essendon. As far as influence was concerned, Braga estimated that of the nineteen bishops who comprised the leadership of the faithful, Saldur must be in the top three.

  “How long before the trial?” Saldur asked.

  “We’ll begin in about an hour or so.”

  “I must say you’ve handled this very well, Percy.” Saldur smiled at him. “The Church is quite pleased. Our investment in you was substantial, but it would appear we made a wise choice. When dealing with timetables as long as we are, it’s difficult to be sure we’ve put the right people in place. Each of these annexations needs to be handled delicately. We don’t want anyone suspecting us of stacking the deck the way we are. When the time comes, it has to appear as if all the monarchies voluntarily accept the formation of the New Empire. I must admit, I had some doubts about you.”

  Braga raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

  “Well, you didn’t look as though you had the makings of a king when we arranged your marriage to Amrath’s sister. You were a scrawny, pretentious, little—”

  “That was nearly twenty years ago,” Braga protested.

  “True enough. However, at the time, all I noticed about you was your skill with a sword and your staunch Imperialist view. I was afraid, being so young you might—well, who knew if you’d stay loyal, but you proved me wrong. You’ve grown into an able administrator, and your ability to adapt in the face of unexpected events, like this sudden timetable shift Arista caused, proves your capability to manage problems effectively.”

  “Well, I’ll admit it hasn’t gone exactly as I planned. Alric’s escape was unexpected. I clearly underestimated the
princess, but at least she was good enough to provide me a convenient means to implicate her.”

  “So, exactly what are you planning to do about Arista’s little brother? Do you know where he is?”

  “Yes, he is at Drondil Fields. I have several reports of the mustering of Galilin. Troops are converging at Pickering’s castle.”

  “And you’re not concerned about that?”

  “Let’s just say I wished I could have caught the little brat before he reached Pickering. But I’ll be turning my attentions to him as soon as I conclude with his sister. I hope to take care of him before he can bolster too much support. He’s been quite elusive. He slipped through my fingers at the Wicend Ford. Not only did he escape, but he also took horses from my men. I thought he would be easy to find, and I had scores of troops watching every road, valley and village, but for several days he just vanished.”

  “And that’s when he got through to Pickering?”

  “Oh, no,” Braga said. “I actually managed to catch him. A patrol picked him up at The Silver Pitcher Inn.”

  “Then I don’t understand. Why isn’t he here?”

  “Because my patrol never came back. An advance rider brought the news Alric was captured, but the rest of them disappeared. I investigated and heard some amazing rumors. According to my reports, two men traveling with the prince organized the locals and staged an ambush on the men bringing Alric in.”

  “Do you know who these two men were who came to Alric’s aid?”

  “I have no names, but the prince called them his Royal Protectors. I’m certain, however, they’re the same two thieves I setup to take the blame for Amrath’s death. Somehow, the prince has managed to retain their services. He must have offered them riches, perhaps even land and title. The boy is more clever than I thought. But no matter, I have made adequate arrangements for him and his friends. I’ve been bolstering the ranks of the Melengar army for the last several weeks with mercenaries loyal to my money. Amrath never knew. One of the perks of being the Lord Chancellor is not having to get the royal seal on all orders.”

  There was another knock at the door, and the servant once again entered. “The Earl of Chadwick is here to see you, my lord.”

  “Archibald Ballentyne? What is he doing here? Get rid of him.”

  “No, wait,” the bishop intervened. “I asked the earl to come. Please send him in.” The servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

  “I wished you had discussed this with me,” Braga said. “Forgive me, your grace, but I have too much going on today to entertain a visit from a neighboring noble.”

  “Yes, yes. I know you are quite busy, but the Church has its own matters to attend to. As you well know, you’re not the only kingdom we administer to. The Earl of Chadwick possesses a certain interest to us. He is young, ambitious, and easily impressed by success. It will do him good to see firsthand just what kinds of things are possible with the right friends. Besides, having an ally on your southern border has benefits for you as well.”

  “Are you suggesting I try and sway him away from King Ethelred?”

  “Ethelred is a good Imperialist, I admit, but there can be only one Emperor. There’s no reason it couldn’t be you, assuming you continue to prove yourself worthy. Ballentyne has many assets that could help in that endeavor.”

  “I’m not even king yet and you’re talking Emperor?”

  “The Church hasn’t lasted for three thousand years by not thinking ahead. Ah, here he is. Come in, come in, Archibald.” Archibald Ballentyne entered, brushing the snow from his cloak and stomping his feet. “Toss your cloak aside and come to the fire. Warm up, lad. The carriage ride must have been a cold one.”

  Archibald crossed the room and kissed the ring of the still seated bishop, “Good morning, your grace,” he said, then turned and bowed graciously to the archduke. “My lord.”

  He swept off his cloak and shook it out carefully. Perplexed, he looked around. “Your servant left before taking my cloak.”

  “Just throw it anywhere,” Braga instructed.

  The earl looked at him aghast. “This is imported damask with gold thread embroideries.” Just then, the servant reentered with a large comfortable chair. “Ah, there you are. Here take this, and, for Maribor’s sake, don’t hang it from a peg.” He passed his cloak to the servant, who bowed and left.

  “Brandy?” Braga asked.

  “Oh, good lord, yes,” Archibald replied. Braga handed him a glass, the bottom of which was filled with a smoky amber liquid.

  “I appreciate your coming, Archibald,” the bishop said. “I’m afraid we won’t have much time to talk just now, there is quite a bit of turmoil in Melengar today. But as I was telling Braga, I thought it might be beneficial for the three of us to have a quick chat.”

  “I’m always at your service, of course, your grace. I appreciate any opportunity to meet with you and the new King of Melengar,” Archibald said nonchalantly. Saldur and Braga exchanged looks. “Oh, come now, it can hardly be a secret. You are the archduke and Lord Chancellor. With King Amrath and the prince dead, if you execute Arista, you’ll wear the crown. It’s really rather nicely done. I commend you. Murder in broad daylight, right before the nobles—they’ll cheer you on as you steal their crown.”

  Braga stiffened. “Are you accusing me of—”

  “Of course not,” the earl stopped him. “I accuse no one. What care do I have for the affairs of Melengar? My liege is Ethelred of Warric. What happens in your kingdom is none of my affair. I was merely offering my sincere congratulations,” he raised his glass and nodded at the bishop, “to both of you.”

  “Do you have a name for this game, Ballentyne?” Braga asked tentatively as both he and Saldur watched the young earl closely.

  Archibald smiled again. “My dear gentlemen, I am playing no game. I’m being truthful when I say I am simply in awe. All the more because of my own recent failure. You see, I tried a gamble myself, to increase my station, only it was less than successful.”

  Braga became quite amused with this primly dressed earl. He understood what the bishop saw in him and he was curious now. “I’m very sorry to hear you suffered difficulties. Exactly what were you attempting?”

  “Well, I acquired some letters and tried to blackmail the Marquis of Glouston into marrying his daughter to me so I could obtain his Rilan Valley. I had the messages locked in my safe in my private tower and was prepared to present them to Victor in person. Everything was perfect, but…poof.” Archibald made an exploding gesture with his fingers. “The letters vanished. Like a magic trick.”

  “What happened to them?” Saldur asked.

  “They were stolen. Thieves sawed a hole in the roof of my tower and, in just a matter of minutes, slipped in and snatched them from underneath my very nose.”

  “Impressive,” Saldur judged.

  “Depressing is what it was. They made me look like a fool.”

  “Did you catch the thieves?” Braga asked.

  Archibald shook his head. “Sadly no, but I finally figured out who they are. It took me days to reason it out. I did not tell anyone I possessed those letters. So, the only ones who could have taken them are the same thieves which I hired in the first place. Cunning devils. They call themselves Riyria. I’m not sure why they stole them, perhaps they planned to charge me twice. I won’t give them the satisfaction of course. I’ll hire someone else to intercept the next set from the Winds Abbey.”

  “So, the letters you had were correspondences between the Marquis of Glouston and the Nationalists?” Saldur asked.

  Archibald looked at the bishop surprised. “That’s an amazing guess, your grace. You are very close. No, they were love letters between his daughter and her Nationalist lover Gaunt. I planned to have Alenda marry me instead to spare Victor the embarrassment of his daughter being involved with a commoner.”

  Saldur chuckled.

  “Have I said something funny?”

  “You had more in your hands than you
knew,” Saldur informed him. “Those weren’t love letters. Those were coded messages from Victor Lanaklin carried by Alenda to Gaunt. The Marquis of Glouston is a traitor to his kingdom and the Imperial cause. With that treasure you could have had all of Glouston and Victor’s head as a wedding gift.”

  Archibald stood silent and then swallowed the rest of his brandy in one mouthful.

  “But you won’t be able to obtain additional letters. There will be no more meetings at the Winds Abbey. Regrettably, I was forced to ask the archduke here to teach the monks a lesson for hosting such meetings. The abbey was burned along with the monks.”

  “You killed your fellow shepherds of Maribor’s flock?” Archibald asked Saldur.

  “When Maribor sent Novron to us it was as a warrior to destroy our enemies. Our god is not squeamish at the sight of spilled blood, and it is often necessary to prune weak branches to keep the tree strong. Killing the monks was a necessity, but I did spare one, the son of Lanaklin so he could return home and let his father know the deaths were on his hands. We can’t have Monarchists and Nationalists allying themselves can we?” Saldur smiled at him. The elderly cleric took another sip of his drink, the moment passed and once more Braga observed the persona of the saintly grandfather returned.

  “So, you were after Glouston, Archibald?” Braga said, refilling the earl’s glass. “Perhaps I misjudged you. Tell me, my dear earl, were you more upset you lost the land or Alenda?”

  Archibald waved his hand in the air as if he was shooing a fly. “She was merely an added benefit. It’s the land I wanted.”

  “I see.” Braga glanced at Saldur, who smiled and nodded. “You may still get it.” Braga resumed speaking to the earl. “With me on the throne of Melengar, I will want a strong Imperialist ally guarding my southern border with Warric.”

  “King Ethelred would call that treason.”

  “And what would you call it?”

  Archibald smiled and drummed his fingernails on the beautiful cut-crystal of the royal brandy glass, making it ring with a pleasant song. “Opportunity.”