Crown Conspiracy

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Near a blacksmith shed, where a beefy man hammered a glowing rail of metal, two young men sparred with swords in the open yard. Each of them wore helms and carried small heater shields. A third sat with his back to the keep steps. He was using a slate and a bit of chalk to score the fighters’ match. “Shield higher, Fanen!” the taller figure shouted.

  “What about my legs?”

  “I won’t be going after your legs. I don’t want to lower my sword and give you the advantage, but you need to keep the shield high to deflect a down stroke. That’s where you’re vulnerable. If I hit you hard enough and you aren’t ready, I can drive you to your knees. Then what good will your legs be?”

  “I’d listen to him, Fanen,” Alric yelled toward the boy. “Mauvin’s an ass, but he knows his parries.”

  “Alric!” The taller boy threw off his helm and ran to embrace the prince as he dismounted. At the sound of Alric’s name, several of the servants in the courtyard looked up in surprise.

  Mauvin was close to Alric in age but was taller and a good deal broader in the shoulders. He sported a head of wild dark hair and a set of dazzling white teeth, which shone as he grinned at his friend.

  “What are you doing here, and by Mar, what are you dressed up as? You look frightful. Did you ride all night? And your face—did you fall?”

  “I have some bad news. I need to speak to your father immediately.”

  “I’m not sure he’s awake yet, and he is awfully cranky if you wake him early.”

  “This can’t wait.”

  Mauvin stared at the prince and his grin faded. “This is no casual visit then?”

  “No, I only wish it was.”

  Mauvin turned toward his youngest brother and said, “Denek, go wake Father.”

  The boy with the slate shook his head. “I’m not going to be the one.”

  Mauvin started toward his brother. “Do it now!” he shouted, scaring the young boy into running for the keep.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Fanen asked, dropping his own helm and shield on the grass and walking over to embrace Alric as well.

  “Has any word reached you from Medford in the last several days?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mauvin replied, his face showing more concern now.

  “No riders? No dispatches for the count?” Alric asked again.

  “No, Alric, what is it?”

  “My father is dead. He was murdered in the castle by a traitor.”

  “What!” Mauvin gasped, taking a step back. It was a reaction rather than a question.

  “That’s not possible!” Fanen exclaimed. “King Amrath dead? When did this happen?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure how long it has been. The days following his murder have been confusing, and I’ve lost track of the time. If word has yet to reach here, I suspect it hasn’t been more than a few days.”

  All the workers stopped what they were doing and stood around listening intently. The constant ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer ceased and the only sound in the courtyard was the distant mooing of a cow and the quacking of the ducks.

  “What’s this all about?” Count Pickering asked as he stepped out of the castle holding up an arm to shield his squinting eyes from the morning’s bright sun. “The boy came in panting for air and said there was an emergency out here.”

  The count, a slim, middle-aged man with a long, hooked nose and a well-trimmed prematurely gray beard, was dressed in a gold and purple robe pulled over his nightshirt. His wife Belinda came up behind him, pulling on her robe and peering out into the courtyard nervously. Hadrian took advantage of Pickering’s sun-blindness to chance a long look. She was just as lovely as rumor held. The countess was several years younger than her husband, with a slender, stunning figure and long golden hair, which spilled across her shoulders in a way she would never normally show in public. Hadrian now understood why the count guarded her jealously.

  “Oh my,” Myron said to Hadrian as he twisted to get a better view. “I don’t even think of horses when I look at her.”

  Hadrian dismounted and helped Myron off the horse. “I share your feelings, my friend, but trust me, that’s one woman you really don’t want to stare at.”

  “Alric?” the count said. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”

  “Father, King Amrath has been murdered,” Mauvin answered in a shaky voice.

  Shock filled Pickering’s face. He slowly lowered his arm and stared directly at the prince. “Is this true?”

  Alric nodded solemnly. “Several days ago. A traitor stabbed him in the back while he was at prayer.”

  “Traitor? Who?”

  “My uncle, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor—Percy Braga.”

  — 2 —

  Royce, Hadrian, and Myron followed their noses to the kitchen after Alric had left for a private meeting with Count Pickering. There they met Ella, a white-haired cook who was all too happy to provide them with a hearty breakfast in order to have first chance at any gossip. The food at Drondil Fields was far superior to the meal they ate at The Silver Pitcher Inn. Ella brought wave upon wave of eggs, soft powdered pastries, fresh sweet butter, steaks, bacon, biscuits, peppered potatoes, and gravy along with a jug of apple cider, and an apple pie baked with maple syrup for dessert.

  They ate their fill in the relative quiet of the kitchen. Hadrian repeated little more than what Alric had already revealed in the courtyard however, he did mention that Myron had lived his life in seclusion at the monastery. Ella seemed fascinated by this and questioned the monk mercilessly on the subject. “So, you never saw a woman before today, love?” Ella asked Myron who was finishing the last of his pie. He was eating heartily and there was a ring of apples and crust around his mouth.

  “You’re the first one I’ve ever spoken to,” Myron replied as if he were boasting a great achievement.

  “Really,” Ella said smiling with a feigned blush. “I am so honored. I haven’t been a man’s first in years.” She laughed but Myron only looked at her puzzled.

  “You have a lovely home,” Myron told her. “It looks very…sturdy.”

  She laughed again. “It’s not mine, ducky, I just work here. It belongs to the nobles, like all the nice places do. Us normal folk, we lives in sheds and shacks and fights over what they throw away. We’re sorta like dogs that way, aren’t we? ’Course, I ain’t complaining. The Pickerings aren’t a bad lot. Not as snooty as some of the other nobles who think the sun rises and falls because it pleases them. The count won’t even have a chambermaid. He won’t let no one help him dress neither. I’ve even seen him fetch water for himself more than once. He’s downright daft that one. His boys take after him too. You can see it in the way they saddle their own horses. That Fanen, why just the other day I seen him swinging a smith’s hammer. He was having Vern show him how to mend a blade. Now I asks you, how many nobles you see trying to learn the blacksmith trade? Can I get anyone another cup of cider?”

  They all shook their heads and took turns yawning.

  “Lenare, now she takes after her mother. They’re a pair, they are. Both are pretty as a rose and smell just as sweet, but they do has their thorns. The temper those two have is frightful. The daughter is worse than the mother. She used to train with her brothers and was beating the stuffing out of Fanen until she discovered she was a lady and that ladies don’t do such things.”

  Myron’s eyes closed, his head drooped, and suddenly the chair toppled as the monk fell over. He woke with a start and struggled to his knees. “Oh, I am terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  Ella was so busy laughing she couldn’t answer and simply waved her hand at him. “You’ve had a long night, dear,” she finally managed to say. “Let me set you up in the back before that chair bucks you off again.”

  Myron hung his head and said quietly, “I have the same problem with horses.”

  — 3 —

  Alric told his story to the Pickerings over breakfast. As soon as he finished,
the count shooed his sons out and called for his staff to begin arranging for a full-scale mobilization of Galilin. While Pickering dispatched orders, Alric left the great hall and began wandering through the halls of the castle. This was the first time he had been alone since his father’s death. So much had happened, he really had not had time to think. He felt as though he was caught up in the current of a river, whisked along by the events unfolding around him. Now it was time to take control of his destiny.

  Alric saw few people in the corridors. Aside from the occasional suit of armor or painting on the wall, there was little to distract his thoughts. Drondil Fields, though smaller than Essendon, felt larger due to its horizontal layout, which sprawled across the better part of the hilltop. Where Castle Essendon had several towers and lofty chambers rising many stories high, Drondil Fields was only four stories at its tallest point. As a fortress, fireproofing was essential so the roof was made of stone rather than wood, requiring thick walls to support their weight. Because the windows were small and deep, they let in little light, which made the interior cavelike.

  He remembered running through these corridors as a child chasing Mauvin and Fanen. They had held mock battles, which the Pickerings always won. He had always trumped them by bringing up that he would be king someday. At the age of twelve, it had been wonderful to be able to taunt a friend who had bested him with, “Sure, but I’ll be king. You will have to bow to me and do as I say.” The thought that in order to become king his father would have to die had never really occurred to him. Nor had he known what being the king really meant.

  I am king now.

  Being king was always something he had imagined to be far, far in the future. His father had been a strong man, not much older than Pickering. Alric had looked forward to many years as prince of the realm. Only a few months ago, at the Summersrule Festival, he and Mauvin had made plans to go on a year-long trip to the four corners of Apeladorn. They had wanted to visit Delgos, Calis, Trent, and even planned to seek the location of the fabled ruined city of Percepliquis. To discover and explore the ancient capital of the Old Novronian Empire was a childhood dream of theirs. They wanted to find fortune and adventure in the lost city. Mauvin hoped to discover the rest of the lost arts of the Teshlor Knights, and Alric was going to find the ancient crown of Novron. While they had mentioned the trip to their fathers, neither one brought up Percepliquis. They knew they would not be allowed to travel there. Walking the fabled halls of Percepliquis was probably the boyhood dream of every youth in Apeladorn. For Alric though, his adolescence was over.

  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.”

&nb
sp; “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.”