William watched the insipid guards usher Engle out with a heavy heart. If he could have found a way to pardon him, he would have. For nearly twenty years he had served as the captain of the royal guard. More than that he was a good friend and one of the few men he had implicitly trusted. He had a way about him that instilled a sense of loyalty and could raise a man beyond his limitations. As the doors shut William considered how Engle might cut those boys down in a single blow if he wished. He wondered if there shivering incompetence was a testament to what his army will look like now that Engle no longer commanded it. It was a price he had yet to calculate.
So be it. William had done all he could under the circumstances. Banishment was the only mercy he had to offer, the only one he could afford. Engle’s enemies had crafted their accusations well. William could not protect him without risking everything else. The life of one man could not be weighed against the welfare of an entire kingdom.
He turned his head just enough to settle his eyes on Stephen and Daven, his sons. He was doing this for them. They were his legacy. They stood shoulder to shoulder-strong and tall, both of their jaws set and their eyes locked forward. He wondered if they truly belonged to him.
Stephen was elder by ten years. He understood better than his brother what was at stake. William already knew he could count on his support and allegiance both publicly and privately. Stephen’s complexion was naturally darker than his brother’s. He had hair black as a raven’s feathers and his eyes were a glacial blue, like Isabel’s father. He was steady and the most like his mother in demeanor. William never knew what he was thinking until he told him. Nevertheless, experience taught him that Stephen would always work in accord with whatever he decreed out of loyalty to his throne.
Daven had untamed brown locks that reddened in summer, much the same as his complexion after long hours in the sun. He had his mother’s hazel green eyes and every emotion he felt reflected plainly in their depths. He was an impassioned, idealistic youth. He endured more scrapes and broken bones than Stephen was ever likely to and the white scars across his hands and forehead were the telling of it. He fought harder, rode harder, trained for all the games and hunted game with more zeal than any man in William’s army. While Daven pushed himself to excellence, to Stephen it came effortlessly. William’s heart swelled at the sight of them.
The outer doors rang shut with a tremor that shook the stones at his feet. William’s thoughts were jarred back to the confused looks of his lords. Only two of the four lesser realms of Lisseon stood before him now. Lord Ratheborne of Ogalon, to the west, and Lord Faircastor of Drake to the south. They were the only ones left. There was no one else to stand before him. Both Duessa and Traimiss were without representation. Until this moment, Engle had acted as steward on behalf of both lesser kingdoms while their respective thrones sat empty.
William once tried to crown Engle as king, or Lord of Duessa, but he refused holding on to the hope that the true king would be found. As for Traimiss, Engle stood in place of William’s brother who had rebelled and was considered a traitor. For one thousand years these minor kingdoms had looked to the legacy of William’s family in the role of high king over them all. He could trace his royal line back to Traimiss, at the center of Lisseon.
There was a long silence as Ratheborne and Faircastor looked to one another and then to William. Faircastor’s face was white with either shock or a failing heart. Ratheborne was the first to step forward. He cleared his throat and moved to the center of the room. The corners of his mouth twitched. But before he could speak, Faircastor abruptly shoved him aside.
“I…I would have words with you sire.” He blustered. Red blotches appeared on his neck and spread to his hairline. As the flush spread, his thin white hair seemed to turn pink as the crimson fury capping his skull and started filtering through the thin strands. “I cannot understand the justice of what we have just witnessed.” The old man had been long-time friend of Engle and staunchly supported placing him on Duessa’s throne. Faircastor’s lands were located at the southern tip of Lisseon furthest from Traimiss. It was rumored that several of his men were warriors of Duessite descent.
“He acted without my approval and without legitimate provocation. He over-reached his position and such presumptuousness cannot be tolerated.” William endeavored to be firm but the words left a bitter taste in his mouth and his throat went dry. Of all those left in the room Faircastor’s opinion mattered most. He was more than an under lord. He was a close friend and mentor. Listening to him rage was little enough penance.
“They were Duessites. His people were being slaughtered.”
“They were refugees and no longer the responsibility of this king.” Ratheborne interjected. “The king has spoken.”
The room fell silent as Faircastor could only gape and turn purple.
“Sire, have you no other orders?” asked Father Peter in the awkward silence.
“Have I not said enough?” William recognized his desire to declare his presence but refused to acknowledge his office by attending any of his services. Peter had joined the royal court a little more than a year ago and acted as envoy to Gulistan, the monastery north of Traimiss perched on the rocks overlooking Great Road. William had rejected the church after they accepted the oath of his brother in holy orders. Gilchrist was a traitor and his conversion a ploy to avoid execution. He took refuge at Gulistan. He managed to buy his appointment as bishop using the gold and silver he stole from Lisseon treasury. Gulistan was turned over to him.
“I think only of milady. These past weeks have exacted a toll,” Father Peter gestured to the queen, “perhaps she might welcome a few days repose with the sisters at Ancantha. The abbess is most anxious to see her.”
“She has expressed no fatigue to me. Do you, presume to know better than a husband what his wife needs or wishes?”
“No, Sire.” He replied. “I only empathize with her over a trying circumstance.”
“This is not your church. I have no need for your sermons.” William knew that sequester at Ancatha could insinuate other things. Leaving would be tantamount to an admission of guilt and she could never return.
“I do not believe any of what I am hearing!” Lord Faircastor threw up his arms.
Father Peter puffed his chest and turned toward him. One look at the Faircastor’s face deflated him back into his pious round-shouldered posture. It suited to his diminutive stature.
“Sire,” Ratheborne began, pushing passed the other two. “I think we need not forget how difficult this day has been. I applaud your mercy but respectfully remind all present that Engle is by no means an innocent man. His crimes alone are at issue no matter how much we sympathize with his motives.”
“His crimes?” Faircastor replied turning toward him. “I applaud his crimes, if they be such. And if a full inquiry had not been forbidden on the matter, I think we should find that he was acting in Lisseon’s best interest. He saved the lives of hundreds of Duessites. The Duessite people are still Lissonian subjects, are they not?”
“Even if it had been a settlement of Ogalian refugees I encountered, I should appeal to my King before crossing the border and taking the lives of any Weldinian soldiers. He engaged in an act of war against a neighbor with whom we have enjoyed seven hundred years of peaceful coexistence. King Mainwaring has been more than patient awaiting justice for this outrage.” Ratheborne’s eyes narrowed. He took a calculated breath and added. “Is it that you are too old or too naïve to think the crimes of such a man end there?”
Faircastor launched himself at Ratheborne, wrapping his fingers around his neck with surprising swiftness and dexterity. Prince Stephen leapt forward and tried to get himself between them. Daven tried to follow after his brother but William caught hold of his arm and prevented him from joining the fray. He instantly regretted it as he saw the hurt and shame spread in the blush across his cheek. Daven was seventeen, matched his with brother in everyway physically. William could not break the habit of seeing him as a little boy.
“Enough!” William stood, releasing Daven. “Stand aside.”
Faircastor immediately let go of Ratheborne, allowing Stephen and the guards to pull him back several paces while Daven stepped forward and took hold of Ratheborne. The mark of Faircastor’s grip brightened Ratheborne’s neck.
“I am your king, am I not? Have I made a declaration of war I am unaware of? Or do you think I have forgotten who my subjects are?”
The men moved even further apart, grumbling “Aye milord, No milord and no milord,” to each of his demands.
“All our enemies need is for us to tear each other apart. As for you Lord Ratheborne, King Mainwaring does well to remember that he needs to please me as much as Lisseon should ever please him. Weldon has as much to fear from our displeasure as we may fear from him.”
“With all due respect, Sire.” Ratheborne said hoarsely. “He possesses power to stop up our harbors. We cannot make the claim the same.”
“We should not have been so eager to see Engle go.” Faircastor raised his voice over Ratheborne’s. “Perhaps what really bothers you is that Engle could reopen the harbors of Duessa and the passage east. Your Ogalian merchants might find their ship stores empty and their trade routes obsolete.”
“One more word out of either of you and you may both join Lord Engle in his exile.” William checked his anger by lowering his voice and added: “Let me be explicit. I do not care about Weldon. I will hear no more of Engle’s merits or his vices. Mainwaring may be able to stop up the harbors of Ogalon but he shall never occupy our lands, nor shall he exact from us any tribute by such a threat.”
William offered his arm to Isabel. Her hands were cold. She knew. Doubt is a powerful weapon. Part of him wanted nothing more than to draw her near to him. Yet the touch of her skin and the very smell of her-dusky roses and lavender-filled him with disgust. He hated her for the things he imagined even as he argued her innocence. There were only two things he knew for certain: Stephen was born too early and Daven too late.
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