“It was unfortunately also my duty to caution him that the princess’ first son would inherit the rich estates of his Saxon father and would likely not return to Calei, where he would be a stranger, to ascend to his grandfather’s throne. Three times more I traversed the mountain passes in the depths of winter to deliver the news of additional sons the princess bore her husband, but I refrained from spoiling my brother’s joy by sharing the queen’s vision. With the births of each of the older sons, Queen Alyssa tempered my happiness by sharing with me that none of her daughter’s older sons would be the one to return to Calei and keep the queen’s promise to her humble servant to restore the blood of the true king to the throne. But when the princess gave her husband twins, a boy and a girl, and our queen shared the joyous news with me, she revealed her vision to me. I will never forget that morning or her words when she proclaimed, ‘He is the one, Amele. He is the one who will return to Calei and restore the blood of the true king to the throne.’ From the first time I held him in my arms as a babe, he has been my king. While he lives, I will kneel before no other, nor call another man king.”
When he finished speaking Amele turned away from the awed, astonished crowd and removed his sword from the belt at his side. Kneeling before Michel, he offered the blade hilt first. “Your Highness, my sword and my life are yours to command.”
Before Michel could bend to assist his closest friend to his feet, Gabriel stepped forward and knelt at his brother’s side. “My sword and my life are yours to command, my king.”
The rest of the king’s guard followed their captain’s lead and as one knelt and bowed their heads in Michel’s direction, offering their pledge of loyalty to defend his life at the sacrifice of their own.
The gathering followed suit. All knelt before the new king and offered Michel their pledge of loyalty. All but one. Baron Raulf screamed his outrage, as he grabbed at the kneeling barons, urging them to rise. “Get up. Get up. You kneel before this stranger? These outsiders? What do they know of Calei? What do they have to do with it? Get up. I tell you. It is blasphemy!”
Raulf was panting with exertion and his face was flushed with furious outrage. With a gesture, Michel signaled for his new subjects to rise and observed in a calm voice. “Surely it is the bishop’s place to instruct the church’s faithful followers as to what constitutes an act of blasphemy.”
Raulf turned an accusing eye in the bishop’s direction as did the entire assemblage. It was a calculated risk Michel took, but one he felt confident in. The young bishop turned and nodded in Michel’s direction. “It is not blasphemy for the loyal subjects of a king to give him the respect he is due. Did not our lord himself instruct his faithful followers to render unto to Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s?”
“This man is neither Caesar nor God, but an imposter who seeks to steal the throne from a true Caleinian.” Raulf was so incensed, he drew his sword. Gabriel immediately stepped in front of Michel and drew his own as did Amele and the entire member of the king’s guard represented in the hall.
“Stand down my friends,” Michel commanded them softly. “Let us put an end to this dissension here and now.” Reluctantly the guard lowered their swords. Michel stepped through their protective line. “You challenge my right to ascend to the throne of my grandfather?”
“Yes. I challenge you in the name of all loyal to the honor of Calei. You are a usurper, a stranger among us who seeks to rob us of our rich treasury and return to the land of your birth with the wealth purchased on the backs of ordinary Caleinians.”
Michel’s lips curved in a derisive smile. He doubted Raulf had ever given a moment’s thought to the burdens of true Caleinians. “How do you propose we settle your challenge?”
Raulf met his mild gaze with an almost rabid one of his own. “The way such things have been settled from the beginning of time. I will fight you here and now.”
“Here and now?” Michel echoed mildly. “You and me?”
“Yes, unless you are afraid to face me. It is better for the people to learn now that their new king is a coward.”
His insult had Gabriel stepping forward to stand next to Michel, his sword ready to retaliate on his king’s behalf. Michel placed a restraining hand on his arm and turned back to Raulf. “And if you lose?”
“I will not lose, boy,” His disdain evident, Raulf nearly spat his answer into the space separating the two men.
Satisfaction surged through Michel at Raulf’s words. So he was to fight for his birthright after all. “Well then, let us not waste any more time debating the matter.” He turned and passed his cloak to Amele, who cautioned him with a single glance. Ignoring it, Michel nodded his impatient acknowledgment. He was restless for a fight. It did not sit well with him his long years of training would be for naught. Though Raulf was not the man who murdered his grandfather, Michel had no issue with making do with the obnoxious baron as a substitute.
“Be careful my young prince. His mouth and temper may lead you to conclude otherwise, but he is skilled with a blade and thinks to take in a moment of violence what he was unable to win by treachery.”
“Who are you?” Michel silently wondered of the warning voice in his head, even as the rest of him continued preparing for the coming confrontation.
An answering chuckle whispered through his thoughts, “Let us just say that I am a friend of the family.”
Shaking off the strange, imaginary encounter, Michel turned his attention to his challenger. The incensed baron was a large man, and there was strength in his broad shoulders and in the hand that gripped his heavy broadsword. Michel preferred a lighter blade, but he comprehended that if Raulf was able to connect with even a sweeping blow from the thick, finely honed sword, the wound it inflicted would likely prove fatal. A large circle formed around the two contenders and Michel stepped boldly into it. Raulf brandished his heavy weapon while eyeing Michel’s own with derisive laughter.
“A boy’s blade for a boy challenger. Let us put an end to this idiocy now.”
Michel sidestepped the older man’s first reckless charge, and used his blade to nick his opponent’s sword arm as Raulf brought his blade down in a broad sweep to where Michel no longer stood. “First blood to me, I think,” he remarked in a coolly amused voice.
In fresh rage Raulf swung around, “When you lay dying, your blood staining the floor of the hall you will never rule over, may your last thoughts be of me sitting on the throne you thought to steal, presiding over the citizens that will never call you king and with the woman you desire serving my pleasure.”
Michel was too canny a fighter to be drawn in by the other man’s insults, but he could be grateful to his opponent for reminding him what was at stake. At the other man’s reference to Elena, Michel’s blood froze and his expression took on a new seriousness as he responded in kind to the challenge the other issued, “When you lay dying with your blood staining my floor, still dreaming of the throne you sought to steal and the woman who preferred death rather than subject herself to your vile lust, may your last memory be of the rightful king standing over you with his sword at your throat and his curse sending you to hell.”
Raulf charged again at Michel’s dark promise and Michel skillfully deflected the killing blow to his chest before deftly spinning around and sliding his blade down the other’s sword arm. The wound was not deep but it bled profusely, and Michel knew it would make it more difficult for his opponent to keep a firm grip on his blade. Again Raulf used a wide-sweeping motion in attempt to inflict a single fatal wound that would demonstrate his superiority in combat and impress their observers with the ease with which he dismissed the insignificant challenge Michel presented, to both the throne of Calei, and to his fighting skills.
When that failed, Raulf seemed to gain control over his rage and the two combatants settled into the serious matter of a battle to the death. For both men understood only one of them would survive the deadly contest being waged between them. There would be no co
mpromise, no reconciliation. Before the end of this day one of them would stand before their maker giving an account of his life and the gifts He bestowed upon him. The other would still have his remaining days or years on earth to prepare himself for such an eventuality.
For long minutes the only sounds that could be heard in the hall were grunts of exertion from both combatants, gasps of pain when a blow landed, and their heavy breathing as the contest took its toll on their reserves. To those watching, the two seemed surprisingly evenly matched. Raulf’s advantage of greater bulk and years of experience were equalized by the young prince’s speed and agility. For all his youth it was obvious to those watching the young contender to the throne was no stranger to hand-to-hand engagement, and as the fight drew longer than anyone expected, it became clear that Raulf’s greater bulk and his luxurious life-style were proving to be a disadvantage.
Michel had spent his entire life training for this chance, recognizing only now how much harder Amele had pushed him than he had his older brothers, how many more trials he faced and the great odds his mentor deliberately stacked against him time after time. In his youth, Michel had cursed the unfairness of it all and supposed Amele favored his older brothers over him. Only now did he understand his friend’s true gift. Today was the first time he had heard of his grandmother’s prophecy that he would be the one to return to challenge for his grandfather’s throne. There was no need for Michel to continue to be burdened by the guilt of being the sole surviving male member of his family. Seemingly it had been his fate to face this challenge and to rise above it.
He understood the contest with Raulf was only the initial challenge he would face to take his place as his grandfather’s successor, and it was proving more difficult than he expected, but he called now on the reserves of strength and endurance he’d built over the years of a warrior’s singular focus to train and to better his skills. He comprehended Raulf had not been awarded a similar gift. He’d had estates to see to, alliances to make, a young and popular king to dispense with and his lovely young niece to kidnap in order to force himself upon. The ice in Michel’s veins melted quickly beneath his outrage at the sins of this man. Maybe God was the only rightful judge of a man’s offenses against His holy will, but Michel had been given the opportunity this day to stand in His place and execute His wrathful judgment in the name of the innocent. He wasn’t about to waste it.
Michel was aware of the slowing of the other man’s steps and the way his sword slipped in his bloody hand. He sensed the lessening of his opponent’s focus as his assumption of the quick triumph he expected over his youthful and presumably inexperienced adversary began to slip away beneath the fierceness of the struggle he was engaged in. Michel risked his chance before Raulf could regroup and re-focus his concentration. He parried a half-hearted thrust of his opponent, and then drove in swiftly before Raulf could recover. Michel buried his sword up to the hilt through the other man’s broad chest. While blood blossomed on his opponent’s tunic and stunned shock, followed quickly by hideous pain bloomed across his harsh features, Michel notched his blade upward widening and deepening the damage before Raulf could lower his sword and dispatch his blade, or worse, sever his arm. Michel managed to free his sword only moments before Raulf attempted to fulfill his bloody expectation and Michel couldn’t help but be impressed by the ease with which the man dismissed an injury that would have brought a lesser opponent to his knees.
A deeper silence hung over their audience, laced now with the expectation of seeing Raulf succumb to his wounds, and a new admiration for the young prince who appeared on the brink of claiming the throne out from under Raulf’s long reach. Still the two men engaged each other. Michel did not lessen his focus, even when victory appeared assured. He’d been trained too well to lower his sword or slow his attack until his opponent had dropped his sword and was completely defenseless. So he continued to press his advantage, the silence between the two men broken only by the clash of metal upon metal and Raulf’s crude insults thrown in his direction and the painful gasps he was unable to completely suppress when Michel’s quicker blade pierced his flesh. For his part, after inflicting the wound to the baron’s chest, Michel allowed his challenger to exhaust himself chasing his quicker feet around the circle and allowed the loss of blood and his enemy’s fierce rage to do its own damage. Finally Raulf stood, breathing heavily and lowered his sword, eyeing Michel with an intense hatred that dared him to take advantage of the opportunity he was affording him.
Michel would not allow himself to be drawn in by the other’s ploy. Raulf was wounded yes and likely mortally so, if the wound to his chest was not soon tended to, but Michel was quite certain he retained enough strength to deal him a killing blow if he followed the other’s example and allowed his emotions to take precedence over his warrior’s training.
“Afraid, boy?” Raulf taunted and then held his arms out to his sides. “Finish it if you dare.”
Michel stood a safe distance away, enjoying the show and wondering if the man was truly the fool he appeared to be, or if he really believed Michel would allow himself to be goaded into closing the distance between them. “I do not need to finish it. If your wounds are not soon tended you will bleed to death, baron. If you wish to live, I suggest you concede your challenge and kneel before me and offer your pledge of loyalty to the true king.”
Michel’s amused comment wiped the mocking smile from the baron’s lips, as Michel knew it would. Holding his sword in both hands Raulf charged again, like a bull, swinging his blade wildly, and with such fierce intent, the spectators to the contest backed away several steps to avoid becoming collateral damage of the struggle they observed. Michel stood his ground until the last possible moment, and then stepped left while at the same time slipping his sword beneath the baron’s upraised arms and burying it deeply in the baron’s chest. The heavy broadsword dropped to the tiled floor and Raulf crumbled to his knees, his eyes still spewing hatred and his lips still cursing Michel and his ancestry.
Michel pushed the fallen man onto his back with his boot and held his sword to the baron’s throat. “Do you concede?”
An evil curse passed through Raulf’s grimacing lips. Michel applied pressure to the point of the blade and drew blood.
“You poisoned your king. You kidnapped Lady Elena.”
Bleeding in his arms and legs, his blood soaking the tile from the mortal wound in his chest, his enemy still swore up at him. He swiped at Michel’s arm holding the sword to his throat, his booted foot on his chest, and earned only more cuts on his hands for his trouble.
He cursed again and Michel pushed harder on the point of the blade. “Why?”
The dying man spit at him. “I don’t answer to you, boy. Nor will I ever bend my knee to you.”
Michel arched an imperious brow over his stunning blue gaze. “That is hardly necessary as you are flat on your back with my boot on your chest. You could hardly be in a more submissive posture than you are now.”
Raulf further diminished his waning strength in an attempt to buck Michel’s boot from his chest. Michel remained firmly planted.
“He denied my petition for the girl and refused to name me his heir. I who kept the peace. I, who kept the mountain passes open so trade could resume in Calei. He said it was his hope that the true king’s heirs would one day return. The true king? Barnabas ruled this land for twenty years. What did your grandfather last? A few insignificant years? Who even remembers now? His rule was irrelevant. It’s ridiculous any true Caleinian would kneel before you.”
Astonished gasps echoed around the room at his confession and Raulf recognized whatever chance he had of gaining the loyalty of the other noblemen was lost to him now. “A curse on all of you. Enjoy your time as king, boy. Do you plan to live as a monk under your own roof the way your predecessor did? My death does not abolish the curse awaiting you and your sons. Enjoy your whore for the time granted you. We will meet again in hell.”
His outrage was cut short
when Michel increased the pressure on the sword in his hand effectively silencing the baron’s dying curse. He withdrew his blade and wiped the other man’s blood from it with Raulf’s own cloak.
“Well done, my young protégé’. I believe your sister underestimates you.”
The voice was back. Michel wished there was time to engage the strange apparition in conversation, but there were more pressing matters demanding his attention at the moment.
“Does anyone else wish to challenge my right to rule?” He demanded as he stepped away from the dead man and allowed his gaze to sweep the room.
“No, Your Highness.”
“No, Your Highness.”
Michel’s inquiry was met with quick denials from the other barons and then a shout was heard from the back of the room. “Long live, King Michel!”
“Hear! Hear!”
“Hear! Hear! Long live King Michel!”
Michel’s eyes met Amele’s admiring glance across the distance separating them. His lips curved at the glimmer of tears in his friend’s eyes, tears belied by the sound of his deep voice echoing his loud agreement with the proclamation.
As the noise diminished one after another of the assembled noblemen approached Michel to both introduce themselves and offer their services to ease in the transition of power. Gabriel ordered two of his men to remove Raulf’s bloodied corpse from the room, and turned to cross the room and throw open the wide double doors at the end of the hall. A loud cheer greeted his action and Michel found himself half led and half carried by the celebratory crowd in the direction of the room revealed behind them. They paused on the threshold to give Michel a chance to take in the significance of the room he was being led into.
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