A player's tale, as it were.
The First Act.
A narrow brook wound its way between the roots of ancient oaks. By the water's edge, a stag stood poised beneath the dappled light that filtered through the canopy. The animal lowered its head to drink and but for the gentle babble, the woodland lay in quiet stillness.
Turstin. Steady now. Draw your bow.
Oswald's fingers fumbled with the string, his grip uncertain. He was slight, his arms weak, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to pull the bowstring taut. His breath came in short, nervous bursts.
Turstin. Relax. Steady your aim. You'll need to calm your heart.
The boy's hands trembled, the bow felt heavier with each passing second. He glanced at his father for reassurance, but Turstin's gaze remained focused on the stag.
Oswald. I—I'm not sure I can.
Turstin. Of course you can, you've drawn before. It's only a matter of focus. Trust the bow, trust yourself.
Oswald took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the effort, and drew the string back. The stag continued to drink, unaware of their presence within the thick swathes of bracken. The wind rustled the leaves around them, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and moss.
Turstin. Let it go. Fire now.
But Oswald hesitated. The bowstring stayed taut, and his breath caught in his throat. His eyes were wide, locked onto the stag, still unaware and peaceful.
Turstin. What are you waiting for?
His lips parted, but no words came out. His hand, stiff and unsure, lowered the bow slowly.
Oswald. I just can't do it. I can't kill him.
The stag lifted its head and, sensing a change in the air, turned its gaze in their direction. Then, with a graceful leap, he vanished into the underbrush and the shadows of the trees.
Oswald. I'm sorry! I'm too afraid.
He met his father's gaze, and Turstin's eyes softened. Slowly, he straightened, his hand resting briefly on Oswald's shoulder.
Turstin. What you showed was mercy. It's not the same as fear, Oz. In fact, it's one of the most important virtues a king can show.
Oswald looked off once more to the empty brook.
Turstin. Let it go. We'll try again another time. One day you will learn to separate that side of you and close your heart to pity. Come, let's rejoin the party.
He turned away and Oswald followed closely behind him, mirroring his father's steps.
A pair of armoured guards approached. "Your Majesty." They bowed their heads in unison and fell into step beside him, through the thicket.
A clearing opened before them where the sky hung low and grey, threatening a drizzle. In the centre stood some long-felled giant of a tree stump where the lords in silks and velvets gathered. Their conversation ceased as the king of England strode into view.
Morton. Your Majesty!
They bowed low as he straightened before them, carrying himself with a natural authority.
Oswald trailed behind, his small hands clutching his cloak against the chill. Taking his place at his father's side, he looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered man. Though still growing into his features, the prince already bore a shadow of the king's sharpness in the line of his nose and the curve of his brow. Beneath his hat, fair hair fell in soft waves to his ears, and his pale gaze darted nervously among the assembled lords.
His older cousin, the Duke of Arundel lingered to the side, sleek in rich embroidery. As he raised his head, Oswald caught the flash of a cynical grin beneath the fine, long strands of hair that fell across his eyes.
King. Why don't we rest here a while? The dogs need watering, and so do we!
The burly Earl of March, his ruddy face splitting into a grin, thumped his meaty fist against his thigh.
March. Ah, now there's a fine decree!
King. You two! Hand out the canary.
At the command, the king's ever-present pair of servants emerged from behind him.
Daub, short and wiry with a sharp nose, carried a stack of goblets clinking softly with each step. Wattle, broader and slower, but with an endless supply of toothy grins, balanced a cask of wine sack on his shoulder.
Wattle. A toast to noble thirst, eh, Daub?
Daub. Not if you spill that cask, you lubber!
Their exchange brought a smile to Oswald's face. The two had a knack for mischief, and their presence was always a welcome reprieve from the formality of the court.
As the servants began pouring wine sack into goblets and distributing them, the king stepped upon the tree stump, raising his voice to gather attention.
King. Now gather round us, noble gentlemen! Indulge this old fool in his weepy sentiment.
Wattle nudged Daub, in a conspiratorial whisper.
Wattle. And 'ere he mounts the pulpit! Have we enough sack to sleep through this?
Daub. Less chatter. Hand a cup to the prince.
With a wink, Wattle approached Oswald, offering a goblet.
Wattle. This'll warm you up nicely, milord!
He accepted the cup with a shy nod of gratitude.
King. Foremost let us celebrate our prince now come to a lusty age, young Oswald here joins us on his first of merry hunts!
The prince's cheeks flushed, feeling their eyes on him. The king gave him a firm pat on the shoulder.
King. In truth, he's yet to find the flair for it, but manliness will come with application. So let us raise a cheer for him! Huzza!
"Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!"
A few of the lords raised their goblets, nodding emphatically as they saluted the boy. Oswald straightened his stance, attempting to mirror his father's posture.
March. Don't be shy, keep going. That's it, fill it right up now.
As Daub scurried off to fetch more sack, the king's jovial expression gave into a sombre sigh.
King. Now, noble lords, we must turn to a more tender matter, one best addressed swiftly, lest our heart unstitch itself. Our most ill-tempered brother, Rolf. He grew weary of the rule of England and, in his discontent, shook the fragile foundations of our house by raising rebellion against us.
Daub. Quickly now. Old Bath looks ready to drop where he stands.
Wattle hurried over, pressing a goblet into the hands of the grey-haired Earl before he could teeter.
King. It was a bleak and bloody winter, until at last we met upon the field. O the curse of Cain does mark us still! Brother against brother, kin against kin. But one of us arose to lift the gaping crown.
Oswald's gaze lingered on his cousin, whose grin seemed strained, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the head of his cane.
Wattle. What d'you make of Arundel's being here?
Daub. A veil, there's malice behind it and more o' his father in him than the king can see.
King. England licked her wounds...wounds we feared too grievous ever to heal. Yet, by grace or fortune, the realm begins to recover. Nothing troubled us more than the thought that our most gentle nephew might never look upon us as his uncle, his father, and his king.
The king regarded the duke with arms outstretched, a genuine warmth towards him.
King. Yet, here he stands today. Lothaire, good Arundel! Lothaire, who with a grace greater than we could hope to possess, and with the wisdom to see his father's folly, attends this hunt with thoughts of peace and fellowship.
He turned to the rest of the lords, who straightened and fixed their attention on him.
King. We honour you! A toast to warm beginnings and hearts unburdened!
The duke stepped forwards and swept into a low, theatrical bow.
Lothaire. Thank you, Your Grace! I do pledge my loyalty. Indeed, a murky cloud behind us lours, yet by God's will, it has been so ordained that I, bereft of one father, find another in thee.
Applause broke out, led by the beaming king until he raised a hand.
King. Not so long ago, we could not have dreamt that such happy days might follow! And yet, here we are, bound together in fraternity. How we do wish our late queen were alive to see this day, she would have been so pleased.
Oswald's fingers instinctively clasped his chest, where, beneath his tunic hung a pendant. A gift from his mother. That small token, along with his memories, was all he had left of her.
Daub. Look, how Morton croons in the ear of Arundel.
Wattle. Saying what, I wonder? Oh, to be a fly perched inside his lughole!
Lothaire's gaze stayed fixed ahead while the Earl of Morton leaned in close, with murmurs meant for no other ears. Whatever he said, it left no mark upon the duke's polished demeanour.
King. And this occasion we so gladly celebrate was devised by none other than our very own Earl of Morton. Is that not so, my lord?
Morton. Indeed it was, my liege!
With immediate coolness, the Earl stepped forwards and bowed even lower than the duke had before him. He was a lean figure with fox-like features and a neatly trimmed beard.
Morton. Marry, and well I wot, a wretched war it was. But it brings me great pleasure to see kin reunited!
As he straightened, his sharp eyes slid towards Oswald, lingering just long enough to send a chill down the boy's spine. He swallowed hard and dropped his gaze as a sudden uproar began behind them. The hounds were breaking into eager howls, their cries echoing through the clearing.
King. Ho! The dogs are restless! Well, let us tarry no longer and press on!
The lords parted, joined by their attendants.
Wattle. Milord, have you had quite enough?
March. More sack! More sack you wretched slave!
Morton. Don't leave him dry, now.
March. You hear him? Listen to this wise Athenian!
Oswald's gaze lingered on Lothaire, who stood apart. By his side loomed an imposing figure, his bodyguard known as Blitmund. The mute was a constant presence, seldom seen far from the duke and clad entirely in black, save for an iron masque that concealed his face.
Wattle. Does the black warder partake? I've never seen him without that mask.
Daub. Nor I. Offer him a cup and see.
Filling a goblet, Wattle extended it towards Blitmund who only stared back at it blankly.
Wattle. He doesn't.
Oswald, still watching them, found his thoughts interrupted by a sudden weight on his shoulder. Startled, he turned to find the Earl of Morton smiling down at him.
Morton. A pretty thing, that pendant that you wear.
Oswald's hand flew instinctively to his chest, his brow furrowed—he thought it had been concealed.
Morton. Fear not, my lord. I am no filcher, at least not today. I understand it was a gift from your mother, a wonderful woman she was. She had a rare gift, seeing the best in everyone, even scoundrels like me. Keep it well.
Oswald. I will, sir.
The Earl's keen eyes lingered a moment longer before he turned away, his cloak swishing through the leaves.
As the group began to move deeper into the forest, Oswald lingered for a moment, his fingers brushing the pendant.
Then, he heard his name. "Oswald!"
He turned, and his heart began to race. Beneath the sprawling arms of an old yew, was Lady Joan. She was a little older than him, dark brown hair loosely braided over one shoulder, her fingers idly twirling the end of it. A smirk played at her mouth and her eyes were glinting with mischief.
Oswald. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with the ladies?
She rolled her eyes and scoffed.
Joan. And miss all the fun? You'd have to tie me to a tree first. My father made me come, but he won't let me do anything. It's sooo boring.
Oswald. I think he's right, it's too dangerous for you.
Joan narrowed her eyes and folded her arms.
Joan. Oh yeah? Well I could hunt better than you anyway!
Oswald. I—I didn't mean it like that!
He lower his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. She held her glare for a moment longer, then smirked, satisfied that she'd flustered him. "Mm-hmm," she hummed.
Joan. What were you thinking about? When I called you?
He shrugged.
Oswald. I was...just thinking.
She arched an eyebrow.
Joan. About what?
He hesitated, then blurted out...
Oswald. Do you think I'll make a good king?
The smirk on her face faded. She studied him for a moment.
Joan. That depends. Will you let me sneak away from the boring feasts?
Oswald. Of course! I'll come too.
Joan. Then yes, you'll be a fine king. Haha!
She stepped closer.
Joan. But I think you'll have to learn how to scowl more. Kings are supposed to look serious.
Oswald furrowed his brows in a mock attempt at a scowl and she giggled. He felt his smile widen. A horn sounded in the distance. The hunt was moving ahead, he made to leave.
Oswald. I should go find my father.
Joan. Hurry then. And...Oswald?
He turned back.
Joan. I think you'll be a great king, I really do.
Oswald felt warmth spread through his chest, they smiled at each other for a lingering moment.
Then, with a burst, he hurried forwards to find his father.
Daub. Steady, my lord!
The two servants trudged along, lugging the empty cask between them.
Wattle. By my count, the grand old Earl of March has all but emptied the castle cellars.
Daub. Indeed, I should imagine he'll be spraying Spanish wine 'til next spring.
They shared a snicker until the Earl of Morton stepped suddenly into their path, his sharp eyes glinting beneath the low brim of his hat. They came to an abrupt halt.
Morton. Hold a moment, you two. I need a word.
He leaned in closer, his tone dropping to a murmur.
Morton. I want you to stay close behind the king. I fear treachery is afoot...a plot against his life.
Wattle. A plot? From who, milord?
Morton's lips pressed together thinly, his gaze flickering briefly to the forest.
Morton. That's what I intend to uncover. Will you do as I ask?
Daub . If it please you, milord. But...we're no soldiers. If trouble finds us, we've little to stop an assault.
Morton. Keep your eyes sharp. If you spy any hint of foul play, call out and holler loud enough to wake the dead. Whatever happens, know this: you two are key to what comes next.
He turned swiftly on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he disappeared into the trees, leaving Wattle and Daub standing in uneasy silence.
Wattle. I don't like this. Why's he asking us?
Daub. Those black clouds yonder, I like even less. Come on. Let's find the king.
Without another word, they hurried off into the crooked woodland. The gnarled branches closed in around them as the first low rumble of thunder rolled in the distance.
The king surged forward, his boots thudding against the wet earth as he dashed between the trees, weaving in pursuit of the boar. "Tally-ho!" he called, his voice cutting through the wind and the heavy thrum of distant thunder. "This way!" His hand gripped the hilt of his hunting spear, ready for the final blow.
Behind him, a lone guard struggled to keep pace, huffing as his feet slipped in the mud. The world above, swirling with ominous clouds, crackled with powerful tension. Gusts of wind rushed through the forest, making the branches creak and groan.
Young Oswald, barely able to keep up, stumbled through the underbrush. His cheeks flushed with exertion, his breath shallow, and his legs burning from the relentless pace. His eyes flicked nervously to the sky, dark and turbulent, as a fierce crack of thunder rattled the trees above them. It was a sound like the earth itself had split in two, and Oswald froze, instinctively clinging to the nearest tree trunk for support.
Oswald. Father! I think we should turn back.
He cried, his voice strained and weak.
Oswald. Can we not return home?
The king glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowed in concentration, eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt.
King. Home? She's nigh run to ground! We can't let her slip us now!
His was voice hard with determination, though his gaze shifted briefly to the horizon, where the storm was fast approaching. But his focus was unwavering—the boar was near, its scent still fresh in the air, and the chase was all that mattered.
A blinding white streak of lightning split the sky, Oswald gasped, his heart jumping into his throat as he recoiled from the sight.
Oswald. The storm is drawing near! Let us retreat to where it is safe!
His small hands tightened on the tree, but the king paid him no mind, lost in the frenzy of the hunt.
King. Ha! The blood is in the chase! But where to? Where is everyone?
He scanned the area, noticing that their party had scattered. His lips pressed together. "Did they lose heart or their way?" A guard, panting heavily as he caught up, looked around in confusion.
Guard. Our party is scattered, Your Majesty! I think we've outrun them!
The wind and the rain picked up, and the groaning trees protested the downpour. The sky grew darker still, with the thunder growing louder and the lightning flashing ever more violently.
Oswald. Father, please!
Behind them, three figures approached, all dark and drenched like black dogs.
Morton. I warrant those two are out cold. Look ahead, it's the king! Now falls the stroke, my lord.
From beneath his cloak, Morton produced a rusty knife and pressed it into the duke's waiting hand.
Morton. Take this one, make it ugly. Upon the next crack of thunder.
Lothaire's slender fingers curled around the hilt. His lips twisted into a cruel smile as his piercing eyes fixed on the figure of the king in the distance.
Lothaire. I have waited long for this. Blitmund, make ready.
The silent warder at his side gave a curt nod. Rain dripped down the blank expression of his iron masque as he unsheathed a dagger from his belt, its blade gleamed wickedly in the stormlight. Without a word, the three figures advanced, their steps muffled by the god-hurled elements. The howling of the wind cloaked their movement as they closed in on their prey.
Ahead, the king paused, turning slightly as if sensing something amiss. Oswald clung to his tree, wide-eyed and trembling, his chest heaving from exertion and fear.
The king's guard had no such premonition. The black-clad figure of Blitmund reached him first, striking with brutal efficiency. The dagger drove deep into his neck, the wet sound of steel parting flesh swallowed by the roar of the storm. The guard's eyes went wide as his hands flew up to his throat, his gurgled breaths drowning in his own blood. He fell to his knees, lifeless, before crumpling to the forest floor.
King. What? Murder! Treachery! No, no!
The king's cries rang out, but the thunder drowned his voice, the wind whipping it away in collusion with the assailants. Lothaire stepped forwards, his devilish grin alight in the flash of lightning.
King. Rolf? Is that you? My brother, undead?
He recoiled, his face twisting with both fury and disbelief, but there was no time to react. Lothaire leapt upon him with the swiftness of a striking adder, driving him to the sodden earth. With a clang, the king's spear fell uselessly from his grasp. His arms were pinned beneath the duke's surprising strength.
Lothaire. This…is for my father!
He raised the rusty blade high, the jagged edge catching the light of the next flash of lightning. With a savage cry, Lothaire brought it down, driving it into the king's chest with ferocious force.
The king gasped, his body jolting with the impact, but Lothaire's rage was unrelenting. Again and again, the blade plunged into the king's chest, each strike sending fresh sprays of blood to mingle with the rain-soaked earth.
The duke's face was a mask of grim satisfaction.
Oswald. Father!!
The boy screamed until his throat was raw. His small hands clutched at the rough bark, his knuckles white as his world crumbled before him.
The sound caught Morton's ear, and he turned his head sharply with cold intent. Slowly, he stepped forwards, his boots sinking into the mud with each deliberate step.
Morton. And now, for you, my little lordling.
The earl's voice was low, almost coaxing, as he approached. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead. He reached into his cloak, drawing out another peasant's blade.
Oswald stumbled back, his legs trembling as panic took hold. Behind Morton, Lothaire rose, wiping his bloody hands on the king's cloak as Blitmund rose in a shadow.
Morton lunged to grab Oswald, but the boy ducked out of reach with a panicked burst of speed.
Morton. Bastard! Get back here!
Morton darted forward, his blade flashing through the air. Oswald cried out as the edge slashed across his leg, pain shooting up to his thigh. He stumbled but willed himself forwards, feeling the warm slick of blood trickling down his calf. Each step was agony, but desperation drove him to the dense treeline ahead.
Morton. I slashed him—he won't get far. Go after him!
Blitmund darted into the thicket without a word. In his heavy armour, he moved with an unnatural speed. Oswald glanced over his shoulder, terror gripping him as he saw the relentless pursuer closing in. He knew he couldn't outrun him for long.
He scanned the undergrowth frantically until he noticed a sturdy oak nearby. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain in his leg, he scrambled up the trunk, clutching at slick bark and gnarled branches. Rain streamed down his face as he pulled himself higher, with ragged and shallow breaths.
The heavy footfalls drew closer, then stopped. Blitmund stood at the base of the tree, his blank mask tilting slightly upwards, scanning the dark woods. In his hand was a red hat, it must have slipped off! Oswald froze, clutching the branch tightly and daring not to breathe.
As quietly as he could, he began edging along a thick branch that extended around the far side of the tree. He dared a glance below and saw Blitmund's head swiveling from side to side, the masked figure studying every shadow.
Then, without warning, he launched forwards, his black cloak disappearing into the trees ahead.
Oswald sagged against the branch with relief. But he didn't dare descend yet. Instead, he climbed higher, towards the crown of the tree, the branches creaking beneath his weight. Reaching an extending limb that afforded a better view, he clung tightly to it and peered through the rain-dappled leaves.
Below, he could see Lothaire and Morton, still in the clearing where the king had fallen. Oswald's heart clenched, but he stayed silent, watching them from his precarious perch.
The storm had now passed, leaving behind a heavy, brooding silence.
Lothaire gazed down at the king's lifeless body, seemingly in contemplation.
Morton. What's the matter?
Lothaire. 'Rolf.' He called me by my father's name. He looked upon me and saw his brother's face, as though I wore it like a mask.
Morton strode towards him, his boots squelching, and snatched the blade from Lothaire's hand.
Morton. Well, isn't that fascinating? Now pull yourself together!
He leaned in close, his face inches from Lothaire's, his voice low and cutting.
Morton. I hope you're ready to play your part. You've been assaulted, remember? Though at a glance, I'd say you don't look nearly dishevelled enough for it.
Before Lothaire could protest, Morton raised the butt of the knife and delivered a sharp blow to the back of his head.
Lothaire. Oh! You idiot! Was that truly necessary?
He rubbed the growing bump fiercely, wincing.
Morton. No. Now, lie down and keep still. I'll be back with the party.
Lothaire glowered at him but complied, lowering himself to the damp ground with a reluctant sigh. Morton held both rusty knives out before him, then let them fall near the king's bloodied body. Turning away, he vanished into the shadow of the trees.
Lothaire. Miserable wretch. What little say I had in this dwindles with each minute.
He shifted uncomfortably on the ground, water soaking through his fine clothes, he looked towards the distant treeline, where Morton had disappeared.
Lothaire. And what's been left unsaid? I took in this business to be king, not merely a pawn.
He lay back against the earth, his eyes flitting skyward as cool drops of rain fell upon his face. A grin once more curled at the corner of his lips. "I did it father, did I not say I would?"
Oswald was shivering, frozen to the branch above. His burning gaze was fixed on Lothaire. He wanted to leap down from his perch, to rush at the duke and strangle him right there on the ground. But fear gripped him…he was too small, too weak. All he could do was watch as the man who had murdered his father lay in the mud, smiling. The frustration knotted in his gut, but he remained still, his body trembling against the tree's rough bark. At the sound of rustling leaves, Oswald's head snapped to the side as Wattle and Daub stumbled out of the trees, rubbing their heads and blinking in confusion.
Wattle. Out like a light! Were we assailed? Or did we break into the sack ourselves? Ow, me sorry skull! Ringin' like it were for mass! I've been struck by somethin', be it bludgeon or sherry. What d'you see, Daub?
Daub. Only stars. Now, what's this? O mercy! We're too late.
They both froze as began to comprehend the grisly scene before them.
Wattle. It's the king, slain! And the duke!
He frowned and bent down to pick up the knives from the ground, turning them over in his hand.
Wattle. Hang on a minute, this knife is mine, ain't this one yours?
Daub. It is...this isn't good.
"Over here!" Lanterns bobbed in the gloom, voices rang out through the trees, and figures began to emerge.
Daub. Now we're in a stew. Put the knives down!
He hastily tossed his blade to the ground, Wattle followed suit, his hands trembling.
The lords had arrived, led by the Earl of Morton. Their faces turned as pale as they surveyed the grisly scene: the bodies, the blood, and the two hapless servants standing over them.
Bath. What happened here? Is that...the king? No!
Morton. O wicked deed! What villainy?
Wattle. We can explain—
Daub. My lords! We've only now stumbled upon this gruesome scene, having been attacked ourselves but a moment ago—
Wattle. We may be very drunk!
The Earl of March, swaying, clenched his fists. His bloodshot eyes burned as his face twisted into a mask of rage.
March. You wretched slaves!!
In a fit of drunken fury, he unsheathed his greatsword with a rasp of steel. He staggered forwards, brushing aside half-hearted attempts by the others to restrain him.
Morton. Peace, my lord! Stay your hand!
But March was beyond reason. He closed the distance with terrifying speed, his heavy boots thundering towards them. Raising his sword high, he swung down with all his might at Daub.
The blade struck true, biting deep into the servant's shoulder and cutting through flesh and bone. Daub's body crumpled to the ground with a wet thud, blood pooling around him.
Wattle. Daub! No! Please! Mercy!
Before Wattle could even scramble away, March knocked him flat with a brutal kick. The drunken earl loomed over him, his face red with fury, his breaths heaving. The tip of the greatsword hovered above Wattle's chest.
Bath. Hold there, Gerald! Enough!
His voice rang out, but it was no use. March, his expression twisted into a grotesque snarl, paid no heed. With a guttural roar, he drove the blade downwards, the weight of the strike cutting deep into Wattle's chest and silencing him.
From his perch in the tree, Oswald clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his scream. His stomach churned as he watched the scene unfold, horror clawing at his insides. The clearing was filled with an oppressive silence, broken only by the sound of March's laboured breathing as he leaned heavily on his bloodied sword.
Bath. Foolish man. Now we know not their intent. Are you so blind in your drunkenness?
March, chest heaving, pointed a wavering finger past Bath, his eyes wild but focused.
March. Yet sober enough to see...the duke still lives!
The lords turned sharply, their collective gasp echoing through the clearing. There, amidst the carnage, Lothaire began to stir. The duke was slumped against the ground, rubbing at the back of his head with an expression of weary indignation. Blood streaked his face, mingling with the rainwater dripping down his chin.
Morton. Fetch him medicine, immediately!
The Earl of Craven, always eager to ingratiate himself, dashed forwards to assist.
Craven. Thank God, my lord! What happened? Here, take my hand.
Craven reached down, but Lothaire waved him off, groaning as he steadied himself and pointed at the grisly remains of Wattle and Daub.
Lothaire. We were set upon by this pair of base and foul servants.
March. They've been dealt with, my lord! Most thoroughly!
Lothaire cast a dispassionate glance at the fallen men, the corner of his mouth twitching as if in faint amusement.
Lothaire. Before I knew it, I was struck. All went dark.
The Earl Rivers bent low over the bodies and raised his lantern. Its light threw sharp shadows, illuminating the crude weapons and bloodied clothes.
Rivers. But for what purpose? I cannot understand it. Their own base instincts, perhaps? Or were they put up to this by some nefarious gentleman?
Morton. I note that the Earl of Lichfield is not present this day. There are many who would see the duke and the king remain at odds.
The lords exchanged uneasy glances.
Bath. You don't accuse him outright, do you, Morton?
Morton. I merely suggest it warrants investigation.
Rivers straightened, his face pale as he looked over the clearing.
Rivers. But the prince? Where is the crown prince? And Arundel's ward? Surely they must be accounted for!
As if summoned by his words, a figure emerged from the trees, moving with an unhurried, spectral grace. It was Blitmund, Lothaire's masked warder, his iron visage gleaming dully in the faint light. His presence sent a shiver racing down Oswald's spine. Hidden above, the boy clung tighter to his perch, scarcely daring to breathe.
He seemed like an apparition from a tale told to frighten children—the reaper himself come to carry away the dead.
Lothaire. Blitmund! My loyal friend, you escaped with the prince, did you not?
Blitmund gave a slow nod, his blank expression revealing nothing. The lords leaned in.
Bath. And where is the boy? Speak, man!
In answer, Blitmund reached behind him and heaved a heavy carcass into the clearing. It hit the ground with a wet thud. A boar, its belly cruelly slashed open, entrails spilling out. Gasps rose from the lords, but Blitmund was not finished. Slowly, deliberately, he raised something small and red in the air. The lords froze, their expressions ranging from horror to despair.
Oswald's eyes widened. He recognised the object immediately as his own hat, the one he'd lost during his frantic flight.
Bath. No!
Morton. The prince? Eaten? God blind me!
Lothaire stepped forwards, his features grim but his voice was almost soothing.
Lothaire. Young Oswald was slashed in the attack. If it's any comfort to you, my lords, I believe he did not live to suffer such indignity.
The lords bowed their heads with solemn reverence as the king's lifeless body was gently raised and carried away by the attendants. No one spoke at first, the forest itself was silent in mourning for the loss of its sovereign.
Breaking the silence, the Earl of Craven with his voice trembling, raised his arms to Lothaire, as though to usher in a new dawn.
Craven. With the king and crown prince deceased, bless their souls, being the king's nephew and next in line, I do believe the crown falls to you, my lord. Nay...Your Majesty!
There was a murmur of agreement, hesitant at first but growing in strength.
Bath. That is so. Hail the King of England!
"Long live the King!" As one, the gathered lords and servants lowered themselves to their knees. Their heads bowed, they offered their allegiance to Lothaire, who stood above them, his back turned to the crowd. For a moment, he did not respond. When he finally turned to face them, his expression was a perfect mask of reluctant duty.
Lothaire. O it stings to even consider such matters at this time! Very well then, if only to preserve order amidst the storm. I accept this burden with a heavy heart.
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the kneeling figures before him. For all his outward composure, there was something in his eyes...a glint of triumph, perhaps.
Lothaire. Come, let us part from this dreadful scene. The day is not yet done, and there is much still to do.
The lords rose to their feet as Lothaire strode ahead and the party began their procession.
High above in the tree, Oswald remained still, his body trembling with the effort of holding his breath. He waited until the last figure had disappeared into the misty distance, and even then, he dared not move. Only when the forest was silent once more did he begin his cautious descent.
Reaching the ground, Oswald hesitated. His eyes were drawn to the spot where his father's blood had stained the earth, the dark crimson seeping into the soil. The weight of everything he had seen and heard crashed down upon him, and he finally let his turmoil loose.
He dropped to his knees, his hands covering his face as a torrent of tears overcame him. He wept until his chest ached, his sobs echoing softly in the stillness. His father was gone. His home was gone. The killer now wore the crown, and his cousin's treachery hung over the kingdom like a black cloud.
For a moment, he considered finding the good lords and telling them the truth. But the thought of Blitmund's shadowy figure creeping up behind him stayed his resolve. He could see it clearly in his mind: the cold glint of the blade, the iron mask looming over him. No, the lords would never have the chance to hear his words, let alone act on them.
He wiped his face with trembling hands and looked into the forest beyond. There was no time for mourning now. He had to survive.
Oswald. I'll...I'll have to hide.
Swallowing hard, he turned his back on the path taken by the new king and his party. With one last glance at where his father had been, he tightened his jaw and hurried into the unknown, the mist swallowing him whole.
Some minutes passed and birdsong finally returned to this lonely part of the forest. The mutilated bodies of Wattle and Daub lay untouched, sprawled in grotesque positions on the forest floor. Blood pooled beneath them, glistening darkly in the muted light. Above, crows began to circle and cry. One by one, they descended, hopping closer to the corpses with greedy, beady eyes. The first brave bird pecked at Wattle's motionless hand, testing the flesh, before plunging its beak in with a vicious twist.
As the carrion feast began, a faint glow shimmered in the air above the bodies, like the first blush of dawn, and it coalesced into two distinct shapes. They flickered, pale and translucent. Then, as if stepping indoors from a blizzard outside, the two pale wisps of Wattle and Daub approached each other from out of nowhere.
Wattle. That you, Daub? Knocked out again! Could be worse, I thought we'd been killed.
Daub. So did I. But where is everyone?
Wattle. You not feeling well, Daub? You could do with a bit more sunlight, I think.
Daub. Was it all a dream? The king's missing—Wattle…
Wattle. What's got you quivering? Oh! Who are they, killed on the floor?
Daub. Wattle, we've passed on.
Wattle. Passed on to what?
Daub. The afterlife! That's us! We're ghosts!
Wattle. No...it can't be! So, what do we do now? How do we pass on…further?
Daub. To heaven?
Wattle. Well, we'll try that first.
Daub. I believe it's said a soul is kept in purgatory until they've completed their purpose.
Wattle. Wonderful! I don't have one of those...anything else?
Daub. No...Oh, I pity the king, he was a kind man.
Wattle. Ay, for all the jests and jabs we gave him, he was just.
Daub. He didn't deserve to die so horribly, nor his gentle son.
Wattle. The boy couldn't tell a bowstring from a bootlace. But he was a good lad, that one.
Daub. You know, the Duke of Arundel, he's behind all of this.
Wattle. No doubt about that. A curse on his blood!
Daub. He killed the king and the prince, leaving himself next in line for the throne.
Wattle. If I have any purpose, it's not resting until that cur is deposed the way he did the king.
Daub. And the true king, Oswald, restored to his rightful place!
Wattle. Ha! We cannot sleep, Lothaire! And so neither shall you!
With that, they vanished, leaving only a faint echo of laughter that sent the crows scattering.