Crown Conspiracy

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “You aren’t angry with me?” she asked, pulling away from him with surprise in her voice.

  Alric shook his head. “I owe you my life,” he said hugging her again, “and as for you two—” he began, looking at Royce and Hadrian. “Alric,” Arista interrupted, “it was not their fault. They didn’t kill father, and they didn’t want to kidnap you. It was my doing. I was the one who forced them. They didn’t do anything. I was—”

  “Oh, you are quite wrong there, my dear sister. They did a great deal.” Alric smiled and placed a hand on Hadrian’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “You’re not going to charge us for the tower I hope,” Hadrian said. “But if you are, it was Royce’s fault and should come out of his share.”

  Alric chuckled.

  “My fault?” Royce growled. “Find that little bearded menace and take your payment out of his stubby little hide.”

  “I don’t understand,” Arista replied, looking confused. “You wanted them executed.”

  “You must be mistaken, dear sister. These two fine men are the Royal Protectors of Essendon, and it appears they have done a fine job today.”

  “Your lordship,” Marshal Garret appeared in the hall and approached the count, glancing only briefly at the dead body of Braga. “The castle has been secured and the mercenaries are slain or have fled. It would appear the castle guard is still loyal to the House of Essendon. The nobles are anxious to hear about the state of affairs and are waiting in the court.”

  “Good,” the count replied. “Tell them His Majesty will address them soon. Oh, and send someone to clean this mess up, will you?” The marshal bowed and left.

  Alric and his sister walked hand-in-hand down the corridor toward the others. Hadrian and Royce followed behind them. “Even now it is hard for me to believe him capable of such treachery,” Alric said, looking down at Braga’s body. A large puddle of blood stretched across the floor of the hallway. Arista lifted the hem of her dress as she passed by to avoid staining it.

  “What was all that ranting about us not being human?” Arista asked.

  “He was clearly insane,” Bishop Saldur said, approaching with Archibald Ballentyne in tow. Although he had never met the bishop in person, Hadrian knew who he was. Saldur greeted the prince and princess with a warm smile and fatherly expression. “It is so good to see you, Alric,” he said, placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “And my dear Arista, no one is more pleased than I about your innocence. I must beg your forgiveness, my dear, as I was misled by your uncle. He planted seeds of doubts in my mind. I should have followed my heart and realized you could not possibly have done the things he accused you of.” He gently kissed her on one cheek and then the other.

  The bishop looked down at the blood-soaked body at their feet. “I fear the guilt of killing the king was too much for the poor man, and in the end, he lost his mind completely. Perhaps he was certain you were dead, Alric, and seeing you in the hallway he took you for a ghost or a demon back from the grave to haunt him.”

  “Perhaps,” Alric said skeptically, “well, at least it’s over now.”

  “What about the dwarf?” Arista asked.

  “Dwarf?” Alric replied. “How do you know about the dwarf?”

  “He was the one who set the trap in the tower. He nearly killed Royce and me. Does anyone know where he has gotten to? He was just here.”

  “He’s responsible for far more than that. Mauvin run and tell the marshal to organize a search immediately,” Alric instructed.

  “Right away,” Mauvin nodded and ran off.

  “I, too, am pleased you are all right, Your Highness,” Archibald told the prince. “I was told you were dead.”

  “And were you here to pay your respects to my memory?”

  “I was here by invitation.”

  “Who invited you?” Alric asked and looked at the slain corpse of Braga. “Him? What dealings does an Imperialist earl of Warric and a traitorous archduke have in Melengar?”

  “It was a cordial visit, I assure you.”

  Alric glared at the earl. “Get out of my kingdom before I have you seized as a conspirator.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Archibald returned. “I am a vassal of King Ethelred. Seize me or even treat me roughly and you risk war—a struggle Melengar can ill afford, particularly now with an inexperienced boy at the helm.”

  Alric drew his sword, and Archibald took two steps back. “Escort the earl out before I forget Melengar has a treaty of peace with Warric.”

  “Times are changing, Your Highness,” Archibald called to the prince as guards led him away. “The New Empire is coming, and there is no place for an archaic monarchy in the new order.”

  “Is there no way I can throw him in the dungeon, even for a few days?” Alric asked Pickering. “Can I try him as a spy perhaps?”

  Before Pickering could reply, the Bishop Saldur spoke. “The earl is quite right, Your Highness, any hostile act made against Ballentyne would be considered by King Ethelred to be an act of war against Chadwick. Just consider how you would respond if Count Pickering here were hanged in Aquesta. You wouldn’t stand for it anymore than he would. Besides, the earl is all bluster. He is young and merely trying to sound important. Forgive him his youth. Have you not made errors in judgment as well?”

  “Perhaps,” Alric muttered. “Still, I can’t help but suspect that snake is up to no good. I just wish there was some way I could teach him a lesson.”

  “Your Highness?” Hadrian said, stopping him. “If you don’t mind, Royce and I have friends in the city we’d like to check on.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, go right ahead,” Alric responded. “But there is the matter of payment. You’ve done me a great service,” he said, looking fondly at his sister. “I intend to honor my word. You can name your price.”

  “If it is all right, we’ll get back to you on that,” Royce said.

  “I understand,” the prince said, revealing a hint of concern, “But I do hope you will be reasonable in your request and not bankrupt the kingdom.”

  “You should address the court,” Pickering told Alric.

  Alric nodded and he, Arista, and Mauvin disappeared down the stairs. Pickering lingered behind with the two thieves.

  “I think there’s a chance that boy will actually make a decent king,” he mentioned once the prince was too far away to hear. “I had my doubts in the past, but he seems to have changed. He is more serious, more confident.”

  “So, the sword is magic after all.” Hadrian motioned toward the rapier.

  “Hmm?” Pickering looked down at the sword he wore at his side and grinned. “Oh, well, let’s just say it gives me an edge in a battle. That reminds me, why were you letting Braga beat you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you fighting when we first came up. Your stance was defensive, your strokes all parries and blocks. You never once attacked.”

  “I was frightened,” Hadrian lied. “Braga won so many awards and tournament competitions, and I haven’t won any.”

  Pickering looked puzzled. “But not being noble born, you aren’t allowed to enter a tournament.”

  Hadrian pursed his lips and nodded. “Now that you mention it, I suppose you’re right. You’d best see to your wounds, your lordship. You’re bleeding on your nice tunic.”

  Pickering glanced down and looked surprised to see the slice Braga gave him across the chest. “Oh, yes, well, it doesn’t matter. The tunic is ruined from the cut anyway, and the bleeding seems to have stopped.”

  Mauvin returned and trotted over to them. He stood next to his father, his arm around his waist. “I have soldiers looking for the dwarf, but so far no luck.” Despite the bad news, Mauvin was smiling broadly.

  “What are you grinning at?” his father asked.

  “I knew you could best him. I did doubt it for a time, but deep down, I knew.”

  The count nodded and a thoughtful expression came over his face. He looked at Hadrian. “Aft
er so many years of doubt, it was fortuitous I had the opportunity and good fortune to defeat Braga, particularly with my sons watching.”

  Hadrian nodded and smiled. “That’s true.”

  There was a pause as Pickering studied his face and then he placed a hand on Hadrian’s shoulder. “To be quite honest, I for one am very pleased you’re not noble Mr. Hadrian Blackwater, quite pleased indeed.”

  “Are you coming, your lordship?” Sir Ecton called, and the count and his sons headed off.

  “You didn’t really hold back on Braga so Pickering could kill him, did you?” Royce asked after the two were left alone in the hallway.

  “Of course not. I held him off because it’s death for a commoner to kill a noble.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Royce sounded relieved. “For a minute, I thought you’d gone from jumping on the good-deed wagon to leading the whole wagon train.”

  “Sure the gentry appear all nice and friendly, but if I’d killed him, even though they wanted him dead anyway, you can be sure they wouldn’t be patting me on the back saying good job. No, it’s best to avoid killing nobles.”

  “At least not where there are witnesses,” Royce said with a grin.

  As they headed out of the castle, they heard Alric’s voice echoing “…was a traitor to the crown and responsible for the murder of my father. He attempted to murder me and to execute my sister. Yet, due to the wisdom of the princess and the heroism of others, I am standing here before you.”

  This was followed by a roar of applause and cheers.

  Chapter 10: Coronation Day

  Sixty-eight people had died, and over two hundred bore wounds from what became known as the Battle of Medford. The timely attack by the citizenry at the gate precipitated the prince’s entrance into the city, and arguably saved his life. Once news spread through the city of Alric’s return, all resistance ended. This restored peace but not order. For several hours after the battle, roving gangs took the opportunity to loot shops and storehouses, mostly along the riverfront. A shoemaker died defending his cobbler shop, and a weaver was badly beaten. In addition to the general thieving, the sheriff, his two deputies, and a moneylender were murdered. Many believed there were those who took advantage of the chaos to settle old scores. The killers were never identified, and no one bothered to look for the looters. In the end, no one was even arrested; it was enough that the violence was over.

  Most of the snow that had fallen the day of the battle had melted over the next few days, leaving only dirty patches hiding in the shadows. Still for the most part, the weather remained decidedly cold. Autumn was officially finished, and winter had arrived. In the freezing winds, a silent crowd stood outside the royal crypt for hours as they removed Amrath’s body for the official state funeral. Many others were buried that same day. The funerals provided a cleansing of the entire city’s grief, followed by a weeklong period of mourning.

  Among the dead was Wylin, the master-at-arms of Castle Essendon. He fell while directing the defenses at the castle gate. It was never determined if Wylin had been a traitor or had merely been deceived by the archduke’s lies. Alric gave him the benefit of the doubt and granted him burial with full honors. Although Mason Grumon died, Dixon Taft, manager of The Rose and Thorn, survived the battle with only the loss of his left arm just above the elbow. He might have died, along with many others, except for the efforts of Gwen DeLancy and her girls. Prostitutes, it turned out, made excellent nurses. The maimed and wounded who lacked family to care for them filled Medford House for weeks. When word of this reached the castle, food, supplies, and linens were sent.

  News spread throughout Melengar of Alric’s heroic charge on the fortified gates. How he survived the hail of arrows, only to bravely fling off his helm and dare them a second time—it made for great barroom stories. Few thought much of the son of Amrath prior to the battle, but now he became a hero in the eyes of many. A somewhat lesser known tale gained popularity a few days later as it, too, circulated through the city’s taverns. This outlandish yarn described how two criminals, falsely accused of the king’s murder, had escaped a tortuous death by abducting the prince. The story grew with each telling, and soon these same thieves were said to have gone on a rollicking trip through the countryside with the prince, returning just in time to save the princess from the tower seconds before it collapsed. Some even claimed to have helped save the prince from a roadside execution while others insisted they personally saw the princess and one of the criminals dangling from the side of the castle after the collapse of the tower.

  Despite extensive searches, the dwarf whose hand actually killed the king escaped. Alric posted a reward notice offering one hundred gold tenents on every crossroad sign and on the door of every tavern and church in the realm. Patrols rode the length of every road searching barns, storehouses, mills, and even under the spans of bridges, yet he was not found.

  Following the week of mourning, work began on repairing the castle. Crews cleared away the debris, and architects estimated at least a year to rebuild the lost tower. Though the falcon flag flew above the castle, the city saw little of Prince Alric. He remained sequestered within the halls of power buried under hundreds of obligations. Count Pickering, acting as a counselor, remained in the castle along with his sons. He assisted the young prince in his efforts to assume his father’s role.

  One month to the day after the burial of King Amrath, the prince’s coronation took place. By that time, the snows returned and the city was white once more. Everyone came to the ceremony, yet, only a fraction could fit inside the expansive Mares Cathedral where the coronation took place. The majority only caught a brief glimpse of their new monarch when he rode in an open carriage back to the castle or as he stood on the open balcony while trumpets blared.

  It was a full day of celebration with minstrels and street performers hired to entertain the citizenry. The castle even provided free ale and rows upon rows of tables filled with all manner of food. In the evening, which came sooner with the shortening of the days, people crammed into the local taverns and inns that were full of out of town visitors. The locals retold the stories of the Battle of Medford and the now famous legend of Prince Alric and the Thieves. These stories were still popular and showed no sign of going out of fashion. The day was long and eventually even the lights in the public houses winked out.

  One of the few buildings still burning a candle was in the Artisan Quarter. It was originally a haberdashery, but the previous owner, Lester Furl, had died in the battle the month before. Some said the plumed hat he wore that day caught the attention of an axe. Since then, the wooden sign of the ornate cavalier hat still hung above the door, but no hats were for sale in the window. Even late into the night, the light was always on; however, no one was ever seen entering or exiting the shop. A small man in a simple robe greeted those nosy enough to knock. Behind him, visitors saw a room filled with the dried, hairless skins of animals. Most soaked in tubs or were stretched out on frames. There were pumice stones, needles and thread, and folded sheets of vellum piled neatly along the walls. The room also contained three desks with upright tops over which large sheets of parchment lay with carefully written text. Bottles of ink rested on shelves and in open drawers. The man was always polite, and when asked what he sold in his shop, he would reply, “Nothing.” He simply wrote books. Because few people could read, most inquiries ended there.

  The fact was, there were very few books in the shop.

  Myron Lanaklin sat alone in the store. He had written half a page of Grigoles Treatise on Imperial Common Law and then just stopped. The room was cold and silent. He stood up, walked to the shop window, and looked out at the dark, snowy street. In a city with more people than he saw in his lifetime, he felt utterly alone. A month had passed, but he had only finished half of his first book. He found himself spending most of his time just sitting. In the silence, he imagined he could hear the sound of his brothers speaking the evening vespers.

  He avoided sl
eep because of the nightmares. They had started the third night he slept in the shop. They were terrible. Visions of flames and sounds of pleading coming from his own mouth as the voices of his family died in the inferno. Every night they died again, and every day he awoke on the cold floor of the tiny room in a world more silent and isolated than the abbey had ever been. He missed his home and the mornings he spent with Renian.

  Alric made good on his promise. The new king of Melengar provided him the shop rent-free and all the materials needed for making his books. Never was there a mention of cost. Alric endeavored to support the literary sciences in his realm starting with Myron as his little pet project. Myron should have been happy, but he felt more lost each day. Although he had more food than ever before, and no abbot to restrict his diet, he ate little. His appetite dwindled along with his desire to write.

  When he had first arrived at the shop, he felt obligated to replace the books, but as the days slipped by, he sat alone and confused. How could he replace the books? They were not missing. No shelf lay bare, no library stood wanting. What would he do if he ever completed the project? What would he do with the books? What would become of them? What would become of him? They had no home, and neither did he.

  Myron sat down on the wooden floor in the corner, pulling his legs to his chest and rested his head against the wall. “Why did I have to be the one who lived?” he muttered to the empty room. “Why did I have to be left behind? Why is it I’m cursed with an indelible memory, so that I can recall every face, every scream, every cry?”

  As usual, Myron wept. There was no one to see, so he let the tears run unchecked down his cheeks. He cried there on the floor in the flickering candlelight and soon fell asleep.

  The knock on the door startled him. He stood up. It was still night. He could not have been asleep long; the candle still burned. Myron moved to the door and opening it a crack, peered out. On the stoop outside, two men in heavy winter cloaks stood waiting.