Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

  “I could see it in their eyes. In the way that they cocked their heads and listened. Some even nodded. I knew. They shared his sentiment, even though no baron dared give words to his thoughts.”

  Perceval shifted his gaze again to Dawkin. He waited.

  “Why tell me all of this?” the Prince asked.

  “I encourage the truth among all my parishioners. For me nothing is more apt to honor the sacred vows we are obligated to keep with Mar. I preach loyalty to the objective. I encourage the laity to be honest in all their dealings, no matter how it may hurt them. But you... I don’t expect so much.”

  Dawkin’s face grew flushed. No one had ever dared to insult him in such a manner, and certainly never on the holy grounds of Mar’s cathedral.

  “Oh, Your Highness.” The High Bishop, genuinely surprised by Dawkin’s reaction, stepped back. “Please forgive me. I did not mean to blemish your reputation. I speak not against you. I only point to the fact that sovereigns cannot entertain the same values that the rest of us take for granted. For men such as you, honesty is sacred but unattainable, a luxury that for all your wealth you are not able to afford.”

  The blood drained from Dawkin’s visage, replaced with curiosity.

  “You command and rule. The people are supposed to obey and serve you. Yet out of your sight and hearing, such edicts carry no weight. Commoners curse you for every ill and misfortune they experience, as though you are Mar Himself, able to turn the tide or will the rain and sun. Merchants use coins with your image, and will just as soon sell you if it grants them but a penny more.

  “And the barons! The barons are rabid dogs fighting for the last bone – your Crown. They bark and tear into one another. They sacrifice any sanctity they hold, forsaking honor and honesty, valor and compassion. They lie, cheat, steal... and do much worse. No sooner does one claim his supposed rightful place then ten more vie for the honor.

  “You happen to hold the bone - the Crown - at the present, My Lord. All while your kingdom sits back, with every other subject looking on not out of reverence but as a matter of envy. By Mar, I would never want that burden. I would never be at peace.”

  “No one has ever taken such a tone with me before.”

  “I know, and for that, Your Highness, I apologize. I erred in my questioning–”

  “You did no such thing.” A tide swelled from within Dawkin. The High Bishop’s speech reminded him of every pleasantry he had ever witnessed, all the false words of praise he had suffered through with appearances at Court, like some obedient dog with no mind of its own. Since his youth, such displays of pomp had unsettled him. Even Sir Everitt, his most-trusted confidant and friend, would on occasion shield his true thoughts on certain matters from him. Only his kin could be trusted to speak the truth, save for the one who stood right before him. “Your father,” Dawkin started. “What ever became of his heretic musings?”

  Perceval raised his eyes slightly. Now it was Dawkin who had caught him off his guard.

  “He...” Perceval searched his lexicon for the proper phrase. “Relented. His rhetoric died down. As you survived your infancy and it became apparent that the line of Kin Saliswater would go on, he came to terms with his blunder.”

  “You asked why I needed so many horses. I’ll tell you. I require them–”

  “Your Highness,” Perceval begged, hold out the palm of his hand to urge Dawkin to stop. “Please, it is not my place to know.”

  “You asked me for the truth, momentarily disregarding my rank and the burden of my obligations.”

  “I did.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I am humbled.”

  “Tell me. As a young master with a seat to the theater of a baron and all his noble friends, what more did you learn?”

  “I gathered I wanted no part of their games. Hence my current line of duty.”

  “Putting you at odds with your father, as the eldest son of a noble.”

  “I did stand to inherit his title, with all its honor and lands to accompany it.” Perceval slid his fingers under the collar of his frock, to flick the lapel. “This just happened to suit me better.”

  Dawkin managed a grin, as did the High Bishop.

  “Plus,” Perceval went on. “Over the years I still managed to acquire a sizeable herd.”

  “An admirable one. Which is why I came.”

  “I know. You may have as many of them as you need.”

  “I thank you.”

  “Your use of them will put my equines in danger?”

  Dawkin paused in answer to Perceval’s inquiry.

  “I concluded as much,” Perceval reach over a stall door to beckon a steed forth. The stallion, with its coat a chestnut hue, complied, allowing the High Bishop to pat his mane. “Service to one’s country is not without risk.”

  “I will guard your horses with my life.”

  “No need for dramatics or false promises. I have faith you will care from them.”

  “I will.”

  “When will you gather them?”

  “Tonight. Late.”

  “Of course. The fewer to watch the better.”

  “Your Eminence –”

  “It will be our secret. A sin, for sure. But one for the greater good of Marland.”

  Dawkin bowed his head. The High Bishop offered a nod before shifting his full attention to the stallion once more.

  As the Prince retreated from the stable, those equines he passed whinnied and neighed, as though knowing the jeopardy they would soon face under his guise. Dawkin brushed of their supposed concern, for he had a kingdom of men, not mares, to consider.

  So few I can trust, he pondered. I came here to beg a favor of a man of faith. I even went so far as to concoct lies I thought he would believe. Yet when I saw him, I felt no apprehension. Only relief. Thank Mar. He is not of this world. For he is smart enough to have no desire for the Crown.

  He may be one of the few in this country I can trust.

  Perhaps.

  Chapter 25

  What the bloody hell is he doing here?

  Ely flexed his hand. His grip around the halberd stiffen, much as a noose does around a man’s neck.

  He stands. Right there. I can thrust the point of my halberd straight into his belly. A fatal wound it would be. And an end to the charade he has played.

  If the Grand Duke had any suspicion of the hatred harbored in his presence, he certainly did not show it. Gleefully, he strode from Artus’ side around to his uncle, who himself seemed bemused by his nephew’s cavalier tone.

  How dare he! So casual. So aloof. By what right? In front of my own grandfather, a Saliswater who once wore the Crown, no less.

  As he trailed onward after the royals, passing one lit brazier after another, he struck the butt of his weapon on the tile harder than needed. The clap echoed a tad louder than all the rest. However, none of the other five in Voiceless armor made a motion in response, nor did the Ibian royals nor their armed chaperones. Only Artus, in his wisdom, took notice, responding with a sharp look over his shoulder to mark his ire.

  Fine, Ely conceded as his strides continued in unison with the other guards. I will behave.

  For the moment.

  Xain, in his boastful manner, failed to make that effortless. “My Ki... my apologies, Sire. I am not well-versed in the ranks and titles of your land. We have no appellation for those who once wore the Crown yet do so no longer. What may I call you?”

  Ely could have sworn his teeth, practically gnashing one another, were as loud as swords clashing in the bailey. No one took notice, thankfully.

  Consider what Dawkin would do, Ely reminded himself. Control, damn it. Show some control.

  Artus cracked a smile at Xain, having paid no mind to his slight. “I have returned to my rightful place at the ancestral manor of Kin Saliswater. As such, I have taken the title of my forefathers. Baron Artus, if you will.” He shifted his focus from Xain to Felix. “You would both do me the honor by addressing this old man
as a lord.”

  “The honor is ours, Baron Artus.” Felix inclined his head. “I am glad to see that the Marlish hold their elders with such high regard.”

  “We try our best.”

  “I am afraid I cannot say the same of how you treat your visiting dignitaries.”

  In both anger and panic, blood rushed to every stretch of Ely’s face as each of his pores perspired. The confines of his closed helm – the only barrier that protected his true identity – suddenly threatened to suffocate him. He fought the urge to lift his visor, to breathe and scream.

  Artus, as if sensing the agony of his kin, rubbed his elbow. As he did, he extended two fingers in Ely’s direction, urging him to keep calm and stay silent.

  “Your Majesty,” Artus began. “I extend my apologies for the events that have transpired during your time on our island. No sovereign should ever feel so unnerved, and even at risk, as you have while here in Marland.”

  “Which is why, after this night has passed, we are leaving at first light.”

  No! In anguish, Ely loosened his grip. The shaft of his halberd nearly slipped before he caught it.

  “Well...” Artus crossed his arms behind him. “This is grave.”

  “I regret not being able to offer better news in what will be our last exchange.”

  “I see.” Artus glanced at Xain. His lip curled slightly. Ely knew what that meant. Though never known for being an expressive soul, Artus did have his own set of mannerisms that - while meager in the eyes of others - could tip off Ely and his brothers as to his mood.

  And the former monarch was angry. And fearful.

  “King Felix, do you recall the first time we met?”

  Felix paused for a moment. “There was a victory banquet. After the Battle of the Fourth Desert, outside the city of Dellucia. You were present, as an honored guest of my father, for it was with the help of your Marlish cavalry that we were able to route the forces of Colinne.”

  “I remember the banquet. It was not our first meeting.”

  The King grinned. He shook his head, amused. “No, no, My Lord. I distinctly remember. My father, King Elan, may Mar rest his soul, took care to introduce us that day. I believe he said something to the effect of ‘I present my son, Prince Felix. Prince Felix, meet King Artus.’ Yes, I recall. I am afraid you’re mistaken.”

  Artus straightened, a sly grin having crept on his visage, Ely noticed. He knows something.

  “My dear King Felix, your Realeza here, they are sworn to protect you?”

  “I believe you know the answer to your own question,” Xain chimed.

  “Nephew, please.” Felix held his hand out, to signal Xain to halt. Not one used to being silenced, Xain bowed his head, though Ely noticed his clenched jaw.

  “You must forgive the manners of my kin,” Felix offered apologetically. “Although a Grand Duke, and nearly a son to me, he still manages to insert himself in situations where he can forget his place. That said, he has the right of your query. You are aware that the Realeza are my personal guards, sworn to protect me, and my kin, at all costs. You have your own, after all.”

  “I do. They, on the other hand, have certain traits that neither your royal guards nor those of any other monarch, do not.”

  “I have heard. For some time, your Crown has had the tendency to adopt the unwanted – the deaf, the mute and lame – and provide them with shelter and care. The strongest of that lot go on to protect your monarchs, perhaps more out of true affection than as an act of service.”

  “Yes, our Voiceless knights are loyal. They have served Arcporte Castle well. And Saliswater Manor. They are the right hand to our Right Captains, the silent swords that stand sentry day and night. In many a campaign they have been at the sides of kings and princes, guaranteeing their safety. You see the coat-of-arms on their breastplate?”

  Felix stared at the one nearest to them – Ely. Suddenly conscious of his proximity, the Prince stood at attention. The Ibian monarch studied him from his fixed position, while Xain stepped up close and leaned in to gather a better look.

  “Tis four robins side-by-side,” Xain stated pointedly. “What is their meaning?”

  “I had the crest changed when I wore the Crown. Before it had been a sea hawk gripping a sword in each set of its talons. I chose a Marlish robin, known on this island as the sweetest songbird that always takes the highest perch, so it is therefore associated with royalty. Each robin represents a royal that the Voiceless saved in the latter part of the Century War. The three Marlish ones were my son, may Mar rest his soul, myself and my father, the late Great Aethelrik. The fourth is you.” Artus set his gaze on Felix.

  “Me?” For the first time – at least in Ely’s presence but perhaps in the King’s life – Felix stood in shock, having lost his stately composure. He even went so far as to step back, an uncharacteristic move for any sovereign, let alone an Ibian one.

  “Uncle!” Xain exclaimed. “I had no idea.”

  “That is because it isn’t true,” Felix replied. He glanced at Artus, ever stern yet also curious. “Explain yourself. If you can.”

  Ely shifted his focus from the King to his grandfather. Felix’s brusque tone would have prompted Artus to return the behavior in kind had it been any other scenario. The former monarch kept his response in check, though.

  “The Battle of the Fourth Desert was preceded by another. A more brutal engagement, one that saw massive casualties on both sides. Do you recall?”

  “My history of that conflict is a bit more... hazy. I was there, me bethinks.”

  “You were. Because it was there that a Voiceless rescued you. Me.”

  Felix furrowed his brow. Xain looked to his uncle for answers, only to find silence.

  Seeing that Felix offered no objections nor response, Artus continued. “‘Twas the Battle of the Jagged Hills, as we Marlish have so affably named it, having occurred on that range of serrated rock where the Volkmar and Colinnese lured us to our deadly fate. I relinquished command of that Marlish force to my son, who led beside your father. Though a masterful tactician, King Elan outranked him in both prestige and experience. Plus, he had the sway of his nobles, who outnumbered our own Marlish barons two to one. With so much leverage against him, Audemar had no choice but to concede to your father’s wishes, to ride into battle alongside him and keep the peace of a fragile ally.

  “When I heard of how the Marlish and Ibians were chasing the enemy north, I abandoned my own plans to engage the Tosilians. I rode and broke many a horse in my efforts to reunite with my son. Alas, I was too late. He, along with you and your father, were already fully engaged in that four-day battle at the time.

  “Not wanting to undermine my son’s command, and with it seeming unwise to attract attention to myself, I did take upon my head the helm and visor of the Voiceless. I changed into their garb, bearing their breastplate, gauntlets and other armor as my own. In disguise, I charged into the thick of the conflict, cutting and tearing my way through the fury and carnage. I made it to the top of the eastern ridge, where I finally spotted my son. And you.

  “Audemar had the upper hand of his skirmish, on high ground, yet I could see the Volkmar at the base of the hill, reforming their lines and gathering their strength. The slope between them offered little resistance, so my son’s position was quite precarious.

  “For the threat that loomed over him, though, you managed to find yourself in worse circumstances. The Colinnese, not known for their skills in mountainous terrain, had somehow surrounded your forces, which had diminished considerably by the time you found high ground. Your personal guard, whether Realeza or not, faltered in their protection of you. Meanwhile, every arrow and sword point of the Colinnese managed to find their mark, cutting down your lines even further.

  “Faced with the hardest decision a father should never have to make, I had to push down deep my fear and rationalize, to determine who in that moment required my sword the most.

  “Within minutes, my men and I
had fought our way to your side. By then, you had shrunk to one knee, bloodied and nearly broken, one fell strike away from falling into the crags of the hill, never to rise again. I lashed out at your attacker, a Colinnese of determination and unmatched skill. We clashed and fought, with him eventually withdrawing, as you clung to life.

  “With two other Voiceless, I carried you from those spiked points. Down the half-mile to your encampment, past soldiers from both sides we went, unarmed and exposed. By some miracle of Mar we made it to your father’s pavilion. There, to gather a better sense of your condition, I removed my helm. Thus, though you had lost much blood and were dazed, we met.”

  Felix studied Artus. His eyes fixated on the old monarch’s face, taking in every crease and stretch of skin, each whisker and strand of hair. His stare was not merely outward, yet an exercise of considering the recesses of his own mind, where somewhere a relic of something resembling a memory remained.

  Felix’s hand gravitated towards his neck. To the scar. Halfway to its mark, he hesitated before dropping his hand to his side.

  “I suppose it is possible,” Felix surmised. “A man, whether you or like you, is said to have dropped me off in my father’s tent. I can gather a rough outline of the knight who did the deed. But no more than that. If indeed the events of that day happened as you said they did, then I thank you, from one sovereign to another.”

  Artus bowed. Ely fumed.

  Are you mad?! Of course it happened as he said it did. He remembers. You do not. His word is gold.

  “And as a sovereign, who by your own admission has known conflict, you undoubtedly have an appreciation for the safety of a kingdom and its king. Which is why, though I am swayed by your revelation, we must leave.”

  “Your Majesty...”

  “My sincerest apologies for interrupting, My Lord. However, I am quite insistent on this point: We must leave. One monarch... has already fallen by both poison and then the blade. The culprit or culprits remain at large, in spite of the inquiries and other efforts your knights and men-at-arms have made. I stayed as long as I have out of respect for your son, to attend his burial. Now I must leave, especially if the reports I hear of your northern visitors are true.”