“Oh?”
“The price of goods – wheat, whale oil, potatoes, wine – has surged. I inquired with one of the shopkeepers about the fluctuation, and he responded that it was due to the Ibians.”
“Well, that is to be expected. In fact, King Audemar, may Mar bless his soul, anticipated this very thing. Your Highness, I will see to it that my men ride into the city to ensure that price gouging is put to rest.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Wystan interjected. “But the increase of which I speak is much higher than any that can be attributed to a visiting Court, even one as grand as that brought in by the Armada.”
“What are you saying, Wystan?” Symon inquired.
“The Ibians are purchasing supplies in bulk, Your Highness. As though they are readying for a long voyage.”
“They mean to return to Arinn,” Symon realized.
“Your Highness,” Everitt said urgently. “With your word, I can enforce a decree, suspending the sale of large quantities of goods...”
“No, nothing of the sort.” Symon paused, considering the implications of it all. Damn it, he cursed to himself. If only Dawkin had known of this concealment. He would have been able to provide wise counsel. I will need to descend to brief the others. But not before securing things here, above, lest something happen in my absence.
“Time. We require more time.” Symon looked to Wystan. “When did you intend to make my father presentable?”
“For his viewing, why, I had told High Bishop Perceval that the King would be at Mar-by-the-Sea by the morning after next.”
“Delay, but not too long. Say til that night.”
“The church will have been locked to the public by nightfall, with the King not available for viewing until the next morning.”
“Yes. That will set aside some more time for us without raising eyebrows.” Symon turned to Everitt. “That will be enough time for you to gather every soldier and reservist of Manor Saliswater to our steps. Many will see it as a show of respect, putting aside the fact that we are bolstering our numbers.”
“That will leave your ancestral home undefended,” Everitt stated.
“Aye, I am aware. Still, it is necessary. In the meantime, I will have a word with King Felix, to secure his attendance at the services. The initial viewing, the wake, the funeral and the burial. Undoubtedly he will attend all. Still, if we make a great enough show of it, he will not leave until the whole of the services have ended, as a show of respect.” Symon nodded to Wystan. “Mage, I believe you have some work to do.”
“Indeed, Sire. Right away.” Wystan hurried down the steps. Everitt closed the door behind him.
“I’ll have the guards return to stand watch before I leave,” he confirmed.
“See that you do. What with everything that has happened, I would not put it past the assassin, or assassins, to assail my father’s body just to spite Kin Saliswater.”
“Yes, Your Highness. And what about you? Will you need accompaniment to King Felix’s quarters?”
Symon tapped the hilt of his sword. “I will manage.”
“As you wish.”
Everitt made his way to the adjacent corridor.
“Everitt.”
The knight stopped to face Symon.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, James,” Everitt said. He nodded, then disappeared into the hall.
The Northwest Tower had never been a favorite of Symon’s. Situated on a perch of rock, it was second only to the tower that housed the King’s Chambers, and held views of the harbor and the Red Meadows and the Whiterange Hills. Its position was far from desirable, though, as it stood in the path of the sea winds that swept in on the Meadows. The gusts – a breeze at the best of times and a gale during squalls and storms – invaded every door, window and crack of the tower. For all the efforts to cover the walls with tapestries and warm the rooms with roaring fires, Symon always sensed a chill. Unlike those he experienced on hunts and during missions, the air in the Northwest set upon him a sense of unease, as though the tower was not meant to stand on this part of the grounds.
Such a feeling stewed in his gut as he ascended the heights of the structure. The staircases offered no direct route to the top, so Symon was forced to climb one set of stairs, then cross an expanse to another, and repeat his effort on the next floor. With each traverse, he found the numbers of his sentries dwindling, replaced by the growing presence of the Realeza, the personal guards to the King and Ibian royal family. Adorned in cedar-green scaled armor and draped with golden capes, each Realeza guard stood with a halberd in hand and a sword at his side. Pound for pound and inch for inch, Symon suspected they could match his own sentries, a troubling consideration when he thought of their possible numbers within the castle and in the ships of the harbor. He climbed the last two floors without seeing any of his own men, a fact that further put the prince on edge.
At the top floor, Symon found a line of Realeza, four across, standing at attention. Before them, an attendant sat at a desk, musing over some papers with a quill in hand and an inkwell within reach. The prince strode forward, deliberately allowing the sheaths of his dirk and sword to slap his legs. The noise did nothing to detract the attendant from his duties, as he did not bother to raise his head, even as Symon came right up to him.
Seeing that he was being ignored, Symon cleared his throat.
“Yes?” the attendant asked, raising his eyes yet not his head.
“I have come here to have a word. With the King.”
“Name?” The attendant inquired, dipping his quill into the ink.
Symon paused, incredulous. The attendant raised his eyes to him once more.
“Name?”
“You know it.”
“Prince Jameson!”
Symon lifted his gaze to find Grand Duke Xain emerging from Felix’s quarters. He closed the door behind him as the line of Realeza parted to let him pass.
“Grand Duke.”
Xain addressed the attendant. “Master Seapetra, I believe it has been a while since you’ve had a break. You may take your leave.”
The attendant rose and bowed his head to Xain. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He then rounded his desk and strode down the hall, never once looking to the Prince.
“May I be of some assistance, Your Highness?” Xain inquired of Symon.
“I certainly hope you are of more help than your attendants.”
“Please forgive Master Seapetra. As far as servants go, he is an acquired taste.”
“Perhaps. But I didn’t come here to talk of servitude. I came to have a word with your uncle.”
“Oh, well, I’m afraid he is indisposed at the moment.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he unwell?”
“He is, how do you say in your tongue? Grieving. Your father’s death was most untimely.”
“I regret that the loss of a Saliswater has inconvenienced His Majesty.”
“Your Highness, pardon my poor choice of words. I do not mean to belittle your own grief. It is just that my uncle was beginning to form a bond with your father. While Marland and Ibia at times stood on opposite lines during the Century War, King Felix always had great admiration for the late King Audemar, Mar bless his soul. That admiration matured into respect and camaraderie as your father and my uncle began the correspondences that led to our historic diplomatic mission. I assure you, Prince Jameson, that I do not overstate nor embellish when I say that my family will genuinely miss your father.”
“I am moved by your tribute, Grand Duke. In that same spirit, I must insist on a word with the King.”
Symon stepped to his side to move around, yet found the Grand Duke to persist as an obstacle.
“And I regret to inform you that I cannot allow that.”
At that pronouncement, the Realeza clipped their heels and pounded the base of their halberds on the floor. An impressive show of force, to be sure. Yet one that did nothing to impress Symon.
“
How long before the King regains his composure?” Symon inquired, visibly perturbed.
“Who is to say? With your father’s funeral only days away, King Felix may find himself too unfit in his mourning to entertain the notion of seeing any visitors. Even ones as regal as yourself.”
“I see. In that case, if your uncle should be able to marshal his anguish and rouse himself from his quarters, please send word to me immediately so that I may speak to him. From the funeral to the alliance to other matters, he and I have much to discuss.”
“I will be sure to have the attendant make a note of it when he returns.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Not wanting to look at the Duke any longer, Symon offered him a curt nod before pivoting and heading back to the stairs.
“Aye, Your Highness.”
Symon halted. He knew that was a slight. From where? With Gerry? Dawkin? He could not be certain. That rotten bastard, Symon thought, half-tempted to march up to him.
No. Let it go. It is not worth it.
Symon resumed his stride, his steps striking the tiles beneath his feet more than necessary. With the marked effort, the ache in his right jaw returned, throbbing as though anew.
He made his way down the stairs to the floor below. He crossed to the set on the opposite side. He descended. He marched. He descended.
Upon arriving at the ground floor, a stab of pain shot through the right side of his jaw. Had there been a servant in his proximity, he would have lashed out, demanding a stein of ale to soothe his aches. But there was no sort to answer his company. He had decided to stride the long hall without attendants, one sparsely guarded, that he may be left to his thoughts.
Is this what I have to look forward to as monarch? Aches? Wounds?
Or worse. Disappointment. Frustration. Rage.
No, Symon told himself. This life is not for me alone. For this is what we have to look forward to as king.
Symon caressed the right side of his face. That was enough to send a surge of agony through his head. In response, his chin drooped. His shoulders sagged.
He shook his head in disgust of it all.
“Heavy are the heads that wear the Crown.”
Chapter 20
“Are you ready, Prince Jameson?”
No, Dawkin thought. “Yes,” he answered.
The coachman gave the reins a quick snap, ushering the four horses forward. They clopped their way over the cobblestones of the main bailey, with the funeral carriage in tow.
The back end of his father’s open casket shuddered. The body within, of a fallen king adorned with garlands and flowers, laid undisturbed. At peace.
Willelm nudged his nose into Dawkin’s back. Dawkin looked over his shoulder to find his father’s prized stallion outfitted with an assortment of open trappings, all in the royal Saliswater colors of gold and blue: decorative breeching, breast collar, bridles and reins. Beneath it all, through gaps in the bards, Willelm’s coat shone as healthy sheen, as the attendants had washed and groomed him only hours before.
“Father would shit himself to see you decorated like a maiden’s doll.”
The stallion pursed his lips before shaking his head and snorting.
“Very well. Let us say our good-byes.”
Dawkin took Willelm by the reins to trudge on after his father. The steady beat of four hooves was soon joined by set upon set of others, as Everitt and a parade of knights, both Marlish and Ibian, followed.
The caravan went through the castle with little more sound than those of their horses. From the windows, galleries and balconies above, members of Court watched. The soldiers and veterans clenched their right hands into fists and crossed them over their hearts, in tribute to the warrior they had known. Some bowed their heads as the funeral carriage passed. Most just looked on at the procession.
Including Taresa.
The Princess and her family were to attend the march after the military line had crossed the barbican and left the castle grounds. Dawkin had spotted their Ibian coach earlier that morning, as it was being polished and oiled for the ceremony. The same carriage had been used to ferry the Ibian royals to every service held for the late Audemar. King Felix had attended the private funeral service within the castle chapel but not the public one at Mar-by-the-Sea Cathedral. Nor had he shown at the initial church viewing nor the wake that preceded the funerals, sending instead his nephew to the former and his wife to the latter in his stead. Princess Ermesinda had attended one of the ceremonies as had Princess Nataliya, although which ones Dawkin could not say. However, he did recall seeing Princess Taresa at each and every one of the gatherings.
As Dawkin approached the gate, he glanced up to his left to spot Taresa, her face framed by lengths of gold lace that extended down to her blue dress, in memory of the loss that Saliswater had endured. Others in the Ibian Court displayed their own touches in honor of the Marlish tradition. Dawkin saw a gold shoulder sash here, a blue doublet there. Yet none had gone through as much care and detail as Taresa. At every service she attended, her outfit varied. At the viewing, her garb had been a light blue dress with trim of handspun gold thread. Her outfit at the wake was of gold silk while at the funeral services, both of which she visited, she wore a simple long shirt and skirt with a shawl, all dark blue.
Taresa had not spoken a word to Dawkin at any of the ceremonies. In fact, Dawkin had not seen her speak to anyone. On a few occasions, her mother offered her a word, at which point she tilted her head and listened, then nodded. Her silence persisted though, as was customary in Ibia for seven days and seven nights following the death of a dear relative or close friend.
Dawkin considered no one in the visiting Court to be either, as the lot of them observed no vows of silence, save during prayers. They continued on with their dialogues and banter, the trajectories of their thoughts unaffected by grief, to the chagrin of many Marlish. Among the aristocratic sheep of Ibia, Taresa stood apart as dignified and respectful.
Willelm nudged Dawkin again. Dawkin set his sights ahead once more, his gander at the Princess too brief to judge her state. He could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes, despite the distance between them, yet he could not say for certain. Perhaps she had not shed any at all, and it had been a vision prompted by Dawkin’s own grief, transposed onto another.
From the long shadow of the guardhouse, Dawkin emerged, squinting as the afternoon sun found him again. Ahead, through the gate of the barbican, he saw the expanse of common folk that lined the sides of the road. At such a sight, his gait slowed.
By Mar, I do not want to do this. I should be alone with my father right now, not on display with his corpse for all to see.
Willelm, unperturbed by the audience, kept up his pace to pull Dawkin forward.
“You always knew when to trot ahead, even when we Saliswaters hesitated,” Dawkin admitted to the stallion, albeit softly so no one else could hear. “You served my father well in war and in peace. I will never forget that.”
The horse nodded once, sending a fly that had landed on his nose buzzing away. Dawkin, though, went on to think that nod was an affirmation of his words. He tightened his grip on Willelm’s reins - as if doing so gave him the support he needed.
The Prince looked ahead for the majority of the processional route. He knew to not bow his head low for too long, for doing so would reflect a tad too much melancholy, an attribute that in the past due to Ely’s behavior had earned Prince Jameson the moniker of Prince Fool. Yet, he also realized that lifting his head too high would show too much bravado and may be construed as disrespect for the dead. So many manners, so much etiquette to consider, Dawkin contemplated. As a prince I lived with but a fraction of these disciplines. As a king, I will have to practice them all. Daily. For the remainder of my life.
The funeral carriage clunked over a pothole in the road. The casket lifted from the bed of the wagon before plopping down, the king within unsettled.
You are free now, Father. From all of this. Uncerem
oniously, at the hands of an assassin. Yet, still, you are free.
The road ahead narrowed and bent slightly to the right, away from the Curved Wharf. Dawkin glanced up to the street that snaked through Merchants Row, past the monastery to the hill that overlooked the city, where Mar-by-the-Sea kept watch over its parishioners.
Alas, we meet again, Dawkin thought with a sigh. He could never understand why royals such as his father had to endure not one but two trips to the Cathedral. He understood the need for the public viewing, along with the vigil during the wake and the public funeral. To cart his father’s body back to the castle though for a private service? Yes, it was more intimate, away from the eyes and scrutiny of the kingdom. No doubt, it had allowed his father a moment of privacy and peace when their mother had died. Perhaps, for all its inconvenience, it was worth it. In the last procession, though, Dawkin felt it was not.
The funeral carriage creaked as the road inclined to twist this way and that up the hill. Despite the slope, the crowd on both sides had not thinned. In fact, due to the narrowing of the street, it appeared to thicken, almost grow, as they ascended. The faces seemed more solemn too, even though the onlookers came from a more suitable part of the city. Dawkin spotted small hints of refinement among the throng. A sweater of fine-spun wool on a child. A velvet cape draped around the shoulders of a merchant’s wife. A silver ring on a maiden’s finger, perhaps a token from a suitor, no doubt imported from the continent. For all their material comforts, the assembly looked heartbroken, as if they truly mourned for their monarch. So sincere was their grief that Dawkin began to doubt his own visage.
Did any know him? Doubtful. Perchance a few met him, having petitioned for justice while he held court. That would not explain their grief, their steadfast allegiance even now.
What tales they must have heard of him?! The stories. The legends of him in battle. When he was away, the four of us would revel in such anecdotes. That made for the bulk of what we knew of him. It proved to be the cornerstone of our relationship. Even when absent, because of such stories, we loved him. So why should I be surprised that the masses adored and worshiped him for the same reasons?
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 25
