The Crown conspiracy trr-1

by Michael J. Sullivan

  I am king now.

  Dreams of endless days of reckless adventures, exploring the frontier while drinking bad ale, sleeping beneath the open sky, and loving nameless women blew away like smoke in the wind. In its place came visions of stone rooms filled with old men with angry faces. He had only occasionally watched his father hold court, listening while the clergy and the nobles demanded less taxes and more land. One earl had even demanded the execution of a duke and the custody of his lands for the loss of one of his prized cows. His father sat, in what Alric felt must have been dull misery, as the court secretary read the many petitions and grievances on which the king was required to rule. As a child, he had thought being king meant doing whatever he wished. But over the years, he saw what it really meant-compromise and appeasement. A king could not rule without the support of his nobles and the nobles were never happy. They always wanted something and expected the king to deliver.

  I am king now.

  To Alric, being king felt like a prison sentence. The rest of his life would be spent in service to his people, his nobles, and his family, just as his father had done. He wondered if Amrath had felt the same way when his own father had died. It was something he never considered before. Considering Amrath as a man and the dreams he might have sacrificed was a foreign concept to the young prince. He wondered if his father had been happy. Thinking of him now, the image that came to mind was his bushy beard and bright smiling eyes. His father had smiled a great deal. Alric wondered if it was due to his enjoyment of being king or because being with his son gave him a much-needed break from the affairs of state. Alric felt a sudden longing to see his father once more. He wished he had taken time to sit and talk with him, man to man, to ask for his father's council and guidance in preparation for this day. He felt completely alone and uncertain about whether he could live up to the tasks that lay before him. More than anything, he just wished he could disappear.

  – 4 -The shrill ring of clashing metal awakened Hadrian. After Ella's breakfast, he wandered into the courtyard. The weather was turning distinctly colder but he found a place to nap on a soft patch of lawn that caught the full face of the sun. He thought he had only closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again, it was well past noon. Across the yard the Pickering boys were back at sparring.

  "Come at me again, Fanen," Mauvin ordered, his voice muffled by his helm.

  "Why? You're just going to whack me again!"

  "You have to learn."

  "I don't see why," Fanen protested. "It's not like I'm planning a life in the soldiery or the tournaments. I'm the second son. I'll end up at some monastery stacking books."

  "Second sons don't go to abbeys, third sons do." Mauvin lifted his visor to grin at Denek. "Second sons are the spares. You have to be trained and ready in case I die from some rare disease. If I don't, you'll get to roam the lands as a bachelor knight fending for yourself. That means a life as a mercenary or on the tournament circuit. Or if you are lucky, you'll land a post as a sheriff or a marshal or master-at-arms for some earl or duke. These days, it is almost as good as a landed title really. Still, you won't get those jobs, or last long as a merc or swordsman, unless you know how to fight. Now come at me again, and this time pivot, step, and lunge."

  Hadrian walked over to where the boys were fighting and sat on the grass near Denek to watch. Denek, who was only twelve years old, glanced at him curiously. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Hadrian," he replied as he extended his hand. The boy shook it, squeezing harder than was necessary. "You're Denek right? The Pickering's third son? Perhaps you should speak with my friend Myron, seeing as how I hear you are monastery bound."

  "Am not!" he shouted. "Going to the monastery, I mean. I can fight as well as Fanen."

  "I wouldn't be surprised," Hadrian said. "Fanen is flat-footed, and his balance is off. He's not going to improve much either, because Mauvin is teaching him, and Mauvin is favoring his right and rocks back on his left too much."

  Denek grinned at Hadrian and then turned to his brothers. "Hadrian says you both fight like girls!"

  "What's that?" Mauvin said, whacking aside Fanen's loose attack once more.

  "Oh, ah, nothing," Hadrian tried to recant and glared at Denek, who just kept grinning. "Thanks a lot," he told the boy.

  "So, you think you can beat me in a duel?" Mauvin asked.

  "No, it's not that, I was just…explaining I didn't think Denek here would have to go to the monastery."

  "Because we fight like girls," Fanen added.

  "No, no, nothing like that."

  "Give him your sword," Mauvin told Fanen.

  Fanen threw his sword at Hadrian. It dove point down in the sod not more than a foot before his feet. The hilt swayed back and forth like a rocking horse.

  "You're one of the thieves Alric told us about, aren't you?" Mauvin swiped his sword deftly through the air in a skillful manner that he had not used in his mock battles with his brother. "Despite this great adventure you all have been on, I don't recall Alric mentioning your great prowess with a blade."

  "Well, he probably just forgot," Hadrian joked.

  "Are you aware of the legend of the Pickerings?"

  "Your family is known to be skillful with swords."

  "So, you have heard? My father is the second best swordsman in Avryn."

  "He's the best," Denek snapped. "He would have beaten the archduke if he had his sword, but he had to use a substitute, which was too heavy and awkward."

  "Denek, how many times do I have to tell you, when speaking of one's reputation, it does not boost your position to make excuses when you lose a contest. The archduke won the match. You need to face that fact," Mauvin admonished. Turning his attention back to Hadrian he said, "Speaking of contests, why don't you pick up that blade, and I will demonstrate the Tek'chin for you."

  Hadrian picked up the sword and stepped into the dirt ring where the boys had been fighting. He made a feint followed by a stab, which Mauvin easily deflected.

  "Try again," Mauvin encouraged.

  Hadrian tried a slightly more sophisticated move. This time he swung right and then pivoted left and cut upward toward Mauvin's thigh. Mauvin moved with keen precision. He anticipated the feint and knocked the blade away once more.

  "You fight like a street thug," Mauvin assessed.

  "Because that's what he is," Royce assured them as he approached from the direction of the keep, "a big, dumb street thug. I once saw an old woman batter him senseless with a butter churn." He shifted his attention to Hadrian. "Now what have you gotten yourself into? Looks like this kid will hand you a beating."

  Mauvin stiffened and glared at Royce. "I would remind you I am a count's son, and as such, you will address me as lord, or at least master, but not kid."

  "Better watch out, Royce, or he'll be after you next," Hadrian said, moving around the circle, looking for an opening. He tried another attack but that, too, was blocked.

  Mauvin moved in now with a rapid step. He caught Hadrian's sword hilt-to-hilt, placed a leg behind the fighter, and threw him to the ground.

  "You're too good for me," Hadrian conceded as Mauvin held out a hand to help him to his feet.

  "Try him again," Royce shouted.

  Hadrian gave him an irritated look and then noticed a young woman entering the courtyard. It was Lenare. She wore a long gown of soft gold, which nearly matched her hair. She was as lovely as her mother, and walked over to join the group.

  "Who is this?" she asked, motioning at Hadrian.

  "Hadrian Blackwater," he said with a bow.

  "Well, Mister Blackwater, it appears my brother has beaten you."

  "It would appear so," Hadrian acknowledged, still dusting himself off.

  "It is nothing to be ashamed of. My brother is a very accomplished swordsman-too accomplished, in fact. He has a nasty tendency to chase away any would-be suitors."

  "They are not worthy of you, Lenare," Mauvin said.

  "Try him again," Royce
repeated. There was a perceptible note of mischief in his voice.

  "Shall we?" Mauvin asked politely with a bow.

  "Oh, please do," Lenare bade him, clapping her hands in delight. "Don't be afraid. He won't kill you. Father doesn't like them to actually hurt anyone."

  With an evil smirk directed toward Royce, Hadrian turned to face Mauvin. This time he made no attempt to defend himself. He stood perfectly still holding his blade low. His gaze was cool and he stared directly into Mauvin's eyes.

  "Put up a guard you fool," Mauvin told him. "At least try to defend yourself."

  Hadrian raised his sword slowly, more in response to Mauvin's request than as a move to defend. Mauvin stepped in with a quick flick of his blade designed to set Hadrian off his footing. He then pivoted around behind the larger man and sought to trip him up once more. Hadrian, however, also pivoted and, swinging a leg, caught Mauvin behind the knees, dropping him to the dirt.

  Mauvin looked curiously at Hadrian as he helped him to his feet. "Our street thug has some surprises, I see," Mauvin muttered with a smile.

  This time, Mauvin struck at Hadrian in a fast set of sweeping attacks, most of which never caught anything but air as Hadrian avoided the strokes. Mauvin moved in a flurry, his blade traveling faster than the eye could follow. The steel rang now as Hadrian caught the strokes with his blade, parrying them aside.

  "Mauvin, be careful!" Lenare shouted.

  The battle rapidly escalated from friendly sparring to serious combat. The strokes moved faster, harder, and closer. The shrill ring of the blades began to echo off the courtyard walls. The grunts and curses of the fighters became grimmer. The match went on for some time, the two fighting toe to toe. Suddenly Mauvin executed a brilliant maneuver. Feinting left, he swung right, following through the stroke and spinning fully around exposing his back to Hadrian. Seeing his opponent vulnerable, Hadrian made the obvious riposte, but Mauvin miraculously caught his blade instinctively without seeing it. Pivoting again, Mauvin brought his own sword to Hadrian's undefended side. Before he could finish the blow however, Hadrian closed the distance between them and Mauvin's swing ran behind the larger man's back. Hadrian trapped the boy's sword arm under his own and raised his sword to the boy's throat. There was a gasp from Mauvin's siblings. Royce simply chuckled with sinister relish. Releasing his grip, Hadrian set Mauvin free.

  "How did you do that?" Mauvin asked. "If performed correctly, which it was, the Vi'shin Flurry has no defense!"

  Hadrian shrugged. "It does now." He threw the sword back toward Fanen. It landed point first between the boy's feet. Unlike the previous time, it dove in edge first so the hilt did not swing.

  With his eyes on Hadrian and an expression of awe on his face, Denek turned to Royce and said, "That must have been an awfully wicked old lady and a big butter churn."

  – 5 -"Alric?"

  The prince had wandered into one of the castle storerooms and was sitting in the thick nave of a barrel-vaulted window looking out at the western hills. The sound of his friend's voice roused him from deep thoughts, and it was not until then that he realized he was crying.

  "I don't want to disturb," Mauvin said, "but father's been looking for you. The local nobles have started to arrive, and I think he wants you to talk to them."

  "It's okay," Alric said, wiping his cheeks and glancing once more longingly out the window at the setting sun. "I've been here longer than I thought. I guess I lost track of the time."

  "It's easy to do in here." He walked around the room and took a bottle of wine out of a crate. "Remember the night we snuck down here and drank three of these?"

  Alric nodded. "I was really sick."

  "So was I, and yet, we still managed to make the stag hunt the next day."

  "We couldn't let anyone know we were drinking."

  "I thought I was going to die, and when we got back, it turned out Arista, Lenare, and Fanen had already turned us in the night before."

  "I remember."

  Mauvin studied his friend carefully. "You'll make a good king, Alric. And I'm sure your father would be proud."

  Alric did not say anything for a moment. He picked up a bottle from the crate and felt its weight in his hand. "I'd better get back. I have responsibilities now. I can't hide down here drinking wine like the old days."

  "I suppose we could if you really wanted to," Mauvin grinned devilishly.

  Alric smiled and threw his arms around him. "You're a good friend. I'm sorry we'll never get to Percepliquis now."

  "It's all right; besides, you never know. We might get there someday."

  As they left the storeroom, Alric dusted dirt off his hands that he picked up from Mauvin's back during their embrace. "Is Fanen getting so good now that he was able to put you in the dirt?"

  "No, it was the thief you brought with you, the big one. Where did you find him? His skill at sword fighting is unlike anything I've ever seen. It's actually rather remarkable."

  "Really? Coming from a Pickering, that is high praise indeed."

  "I'm afraid the Pickering legend won't last long at this rate: father loses to Percy Braga, and now I get thrown in the dirt by a common ruffian. How long will it be before we are being challenged for our land and title by the other nobles without fear?"

  "If your father had his sword that day…" Alric paused. "Why didn't your father have his sword?"

  "Misplaced it," Mauvin said. "He was certain it was in his room, but the next morning, it was gone. A steward found it later the same day laying somewhere strange."

  "Well, sword or no, I can tell you, Mauvin, I think your father is still the best swordsman in the kingdom."

  – 6 -Royce, Hadrian, and Myron continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Pickerings with a hearty lunch as well as supper served to them in the warm comfort of Ella's kitchen. They spent most of the day napping, recovering lost sleep from the previous days. By nightfall, they were beginning to feel like themselves again.

  Hadrian had a newfound shadow as Denek followed him wherever he went. After supper, he asked the three to come watch the marshalling of the troops from one of his favorite spots. The boy led them to the parapet above the main gate. From there, they could see both the grounds outside the castle and inside the courtyard without being underfoot.

  Around early evening people began to arrive. Small groups of knights, barons, squires, soldiers, and village officials trickled in and formed camps outside the castle. Tall poles bearing the banners of various noble houses stood in the courtyard, signaling their presence in accordance with their sworn duty. By moonrise, eight standards and about three hundred men gathered in camps around bonfires. Their tents littered the hillside and extended throughout the orchards.

  Vern, along with five other blacksmiths from various villages, worked late sharing his forge and anvil. They were hammering out last minute requests. The rest of the courtyard was equally active with every lamp lit, and each shop busy. Leather workers adjusted saddle stirrups and helms. Fletchers fashioned bundles of arrows, which they stacked like cord wood against the stable wall. Wood-cutters created large rectangular archer shields. Even the butchers and bakers worked hard preparing sack meals from smoked meats, breads, onions, and turnips.

  "The green one with the hammer on it is Lord Jerl's banner," Denek told them. The weather had turned sharply cold again, and his breath created a frosty fog. "I spent a summer at their estate two years ago. It is right on the edge of the Lankster Forest, and they love to hunt. They must have two dozen of the realm's best hounds. It's where I learned to shoot a bow. I bet you know how to shoot a bow real well, don't you, Hadrian?"

  "I've been known to hit the forest from the field on occasion."

  "I bet you could outshoot any of Jerl's sons. He's got six, and they all think they are the best marksmen in the province. My father never taught us archery. He said it didn't make sense because we would never be fighting in ranks. He taught us to concentrate on the sword. Although I don't know what good it will do me if
I'm sent to a monastery. I'll be stuck doing nothing but reading all day."

  "Actually there is a great deal more than that to do in an abbey," Myron explained, pulling the blanket around his shoulders tighter. "In spring, most of your time will be spent gardening, and in autumn, there is the harvest, preserving, and brewing. Even in winter, there is the mending and cleaning. Of course the bulk of your time is spent in prayer, either communal in the chapel or silently in the cloister. Then there is-"

  "I think I'd rather be a foot soldier," Denek sighed with a grimace. "Or maybe I could join you two and become a thief! It must be a wonderfully exciting life running all over the world, accomplishing dangerous missions for king and country."

  "You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Hadrian muttered softly.

  Below them, a single rider rode up quickly to the front gate.

  "Isn't that the banner of Essendon?" Royce asked, pointing to the falcon flag the rider carried.

  "Yeah," Denek said surprised, "it's the king's standard. He's a messenger from Medford."

  They looked at each other puzzled as the messenger entered the castle and did not re-emerge. They went on talking with Myron, who was trying in vain to convince Denek life in the monastery was not bad at all, when Fanen came running up the catwalk.

  "There you are!" He shouted at them. "Father has half the castle turned out looking for you."

  "Us?" Hadrian asked.

  "Yes," Fanen nodded. "He wants to see the two thieves in his chambers right away."

  "You didn't steal the silver or anything did you, Royce?" Hadrian asked.

  "I would bet it has more to do with your flirting with Lenare this afternoon and threatening Mauvin just to show off," Royce retorted.

  "That was your fault," Hadrian said, jabbing his finger at him.

  "It's nothing like that," Fanen interrupted them. "The Princess Arista is going to be executed for treason tomorrow morning!"