The royal court was a cavernous hall with towering pillars that vanished into shadow beyond the reach of torchlight. The fortress, now a labyrinthine stronghold of dark stone, had been expanded endlessly by order of the king. But for all its lofty grandeur, a looming dread clung to the walls, as though it were forgotten whether its purpose was to keep intruders out or its inhabitants in.
Lothaire sat slouched on the cold, black granite throne, a great fireplace roasted behind him. A crown sat tilted on his head and his cheek rested against his clenched fist. Lines now etched his face, not from age alone, but a decade of navigating the endless mire of court politics and noble demands. Beside him, as ever stood Blitmund, hands rested on the pommel of a broadsword.
Before the throne, the lords had gathered, draped in their finery and pomp. Their voices filled the chamber, one after another, in a choir of grievances and requests.
Craven. Your gracious Majesty! The situation in my lands has grown dire. My peasants have risen in revolt! They blame high taxes, poor harvests, and, most insultingly, my stewardship! They gather in numbers, wielding makeshift arms, and have already stormed three of my manors.
Lothaire stared back at him blankly. The earl hesitated, his lips pressing together.
Craven. My levies are stretched thin. I beg you, Sire, for soldiers to crush this rebellion before it spreads further.
The king leaned back.
Lothaire. You beg me for soldiers? Now that's amusing. I recall you boasting of a well-trained retinue just this winter past. What became of them, I wonder?
Craven. The men I have are not enough, Your Grace. The peasants are emboldened! Many have fled into the forests and fortified their numbers. They've even drawn vassals into their cause with false promises. It's treachery, plain and simple! King Turstin would—
He stiffened, and murmurs rippled through the court.
Lothaire. Yes? What would the dead king do?
He let the question linger for a moment before waving a hand.
Lothaire. Enough. I will consider your request. But mark this: if the crown sends soldiers, they will not simply put down your rebellion. They will stay to oversee your lands, as you have failed to.
Craven paled, but he bowed as low as his back would allow him.
Craven. As Your Majesty commands.
The Earl of March was next to step forwards, his heavy boots echoing on the flagstones.
March. My liege, the borders of my lands are threatened! Those bastard Cambrian lords encroach upon my territory. These old disputes were long settled! But my soldiers–filthy cowards that they are–refuse to fight. I humbly ask for your support to press my righteous claim and restore order.
Lothaire raised an eyebrow and looked over at Blitmund.
Lothaire. The Earl of March, coming to me for help with a border squabble? Tell me, Gerald, do you expect my knights to fight your battles for you? Or my coin to persuade your discontented men?
March flushed with anger, his fists clenched.
March. If my own men fail me, I will find others. But without the crown's backing, I cannot guarantee the borders will hold!
Lothaire. We will discuss this further in council. See to your men, March. Weakness in leadership is more dangerous than weakness in numbers.
The Earl took a step forward, jabbing a finger in the air, only for Blitmund to snap towards him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. March froze mid-motion before a nervous swallow, and stammered retreat.
March. M–my thanks, Your Majesty.
With a stiff bow, he stepped back, his gaze flickering between the king and his warder. Blitmund held his stance for a moment longer before, just as smoothly, returning to his post.
The earls continued their petitions, their voices blending into a ceaseless drone. Lothaire's hand fell to the armrest of his throne, his fingers tapping it in a rhythm of frustration. How tedious it all was...this endless cycle of grievances, demands, and petty squabbles. He had dreamed of glory, of ruling as a king among kings. Instead, he had inherited a kingdom of complaints and compromises, a realm that demanded everything and gave little in return.
Above it all, the sound of the court faded into a dull hum in Lothaire's ears. His gaze drifted to the massive stained-glass window at the end of the hall, where sunlight filtered through, casting fractured colours to the floor. Beyond it lay the endless sprawl of his fortress, its battlements reaching ever outward like the tentacles of a great beast.
Lothaire stood abruptly and the court fell into an uneasy silence. His gaze swept across the assembled lords, their faces etched with discontent or barely veiled disdain. He raised a hand, beckoning towards a side entrance.
Lothaire. How dreary are these crooks! Bring in better company.
The heavy doors creaked open, and a group of courtesans swept into the chamber, their laughter and perfume filling the air. They were dressed in silks and jewels, with bright and practiced smiles. They surrounded the king, their playful chatter quickly drowning out the murmurs of the courtiers.
Lothaire grinned, feeling the lords look on in silence and disdain.
The Duchess of Kendal stood apart from the rest, her fan fluttering in her gloved hand, her gaze fixed on the king with a hawklike intensity.
The murmurs of the court grew louder as the Duchess stepped forwards at last with her dress sweeping across the floor. She curtsied deeply, ignoring the paramours and their laughter.
Kendal. Your Majesty, if I may steal your attention? Dreary crook that I am.
With a smirk to the girl at his ear, he nodded in the direction of Kendal.
Kendal. It has been ten years since your ascension to the throne and it has been ten years since you promised marriage to me. The realm looks to its king for stability...for a legacy. Might I be so bold as to ask when you intend to take me as your queen?
Lothaire's jaw tightened, and for a moment, the room fell utterly silent. He straightened in his seat, his fingers gripping the armrests of his throne.
Lothaire. I wasn't aware my personal affairs had become a matter of state, Lady Joan.
Kendal. Duchess, Your Grace. The crown's affairs are the realm's affairs! And the duchies wish to see the royal line continue. I only hope to ease such concerns...with your favour.
Lothaire's gaze hardened, but returned his attention to the courtesans beside him.
Lothaire. The realm has endured a decade without my heir. It can endure a little longer, as can you. You have my leave to depart, Duchess.
Her smile faltered, and she curtsied once more striding pass the earls and out through the doors.
The throne room buzzed faintly with murmured conversations and shuffling feet though fell quiet as the Earl of Morton stepped forwards to address the king.
Morton. I remember when you said you wanted to change this country for the better, my lord. Not merely to take the throne, but to make something of it. Have you forgotten?
Lothaire, seated high above the assembly, rested his cheek again on his fist, his expression bored, his gaze flitting lazily over the room before finally settling on Morton.
Lothaire. And I remember when you knew the time to hold your tongue.
Morton continued, undeterred.
Morton. My tongue will hold when I see growth, my lord. But we are only dying. Look across the channel, to the continent. They build, they think, they create. Their rulers patronise the humanities. Their universities brim with students debating philosophy, poetry, and the histories of great men. Their halls resound with oratory that sways nations.
He gestured broadly, his voice rising.
Morton. And what have we here? Halls of learning that gather dust, silent tombs for old parchment. We have become a kingdom of archives, not progress.
There was a faint shifting among the gathered lords and courtesans. A few exchanged glances and stiffened uncomfortably. Morton's voice dropped to a sharp, intimate tone.
Morton. You know what it took to put you in that chair.
His words hung heavy, laced with meaning. Lothaire's hand dropped from his cheek, his expression hardening. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and unspoken words passed between them.
Morton. You've ignored my counsel. Forgotten your friends and made the wrong enemies.
Lothaire. That's enough.
His voice cut through the air, low and dangerous.
Lothaire. Enough, I said!
He raised a hand, waving Morton off like a gadfly. The earl stood frozen for a moment, his eyes cold, before he took a step back. His retreat was slow and deliberate, his gaze was fixed on the king, who slumped back into the throne.
The room remained silent as Morton reached the edge of the gathering, the faintest curl of a bitter smile playing at his lips. He turned his back to the king, muttering just loudly enough for himself.
Morton. A kingdom of light, you once told me. And here you sit in the darkness.
He disappeared into the crowd, his shadow slipping away into the quiet of the hall. The murmurs resumed, timid and subdued, as courtiers and lords shifted uncomfortably in the wake of his words.
One of the courtesans leaned close, whispering something that made Lothaire chuckle for the first time that day. In truth, he cared little for these whores, but he relished the irritation they stirred in the court.
The lords murmured to each other in disbelief.
Bath. It pains me to say that His Majesty's father would be rolling in his grave to see him act in such a manner.
Lothaire. Who said that?!
The laughter stopped. The courtesans exchanged uneasy glances, their mirth fading as they stepped back. Lothaire froze, his hand gripping the armrest of his throne until his knuckles turned white. Slowly, he rose, his gaze locking onto Bath with intensity.
Lothaire. Get out.
The lords hesitated, looking to one another.
Bath. Your Majesty–
Lothaire. I said, get out! All of you!
The lords filed out in a hasty, awkward silence. The courtesans lingered briefly, one of them daring to touch Lothaire's arm in reassurance, but he shook her off with a glare. They, too, fled the chamber. The heavy doors slammed shut, leaving the king almost alone.
Blitmund, looming like a gargoyle, had not moved a muscle, Lothaire turned to him, sagging his shoulders with a weary bitterness.
Lothaire. They're vultures, every one of them. Circling, waiting for me to falter so they can pick me apart.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls of the chamber. The king sat hunched in his chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
Lothaire. I hate it.
Blitmund, of course, said nothing. Lothaire chuckled dryly.
"I only did it to impress him, you know? Father."
His fingers curled into fists.
"That's all I ever wanted...to earn his respect. Even after all these years, that's all I want. But why?"
He leaned back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.
"These old fools are always telling me how great he was. Rolf, the great Duke of Arundel! So strong, so noble!"
His lips curled in disgust.
"But all I remember is a bully. You know, of course. A man who never let a mistake go unpunished, who never had a kind word for his own son."
The fire popped. A gust of wind rattled the heavy drapes covering the windows. Lothaire swallowed hard, lowering his voice. "Perhaps that's him," he said, glancing around as if the shadows were listening. "Haunting me. Do you hear them in the night? The moans and whispers? I wake up to see furniture shudder across my chambers…"
Through his mask, Blitmund watched him motionlessly. Lothaire let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "I thought if I expanded the castle, made it grander, it would silence the whispers. But now...I'm running out of room to escape them."
The doors creaked open again, and a messenger entered, bowing low.
Messenger. Your Majesty, I bring reports from the west country.
Lothaire. Speak.
Messenger. There have been...rumours, my lord, from a small village named Barrow Gurney. There's a nunnery nearby, on the hill. Locals claim to have seen what looked like the late King Turstin...as he was in his youth. A young man, alive and well.
Lothaire's ears pricked up and in a sudden, fluid motion, he pushed himself to his feet.
Lothaire. Say that again.
Messenger. The villagers claim to have seen—
He strode down the dais and stopped inches from the messenger, locking onto the man's face.
Lothaire. You're certain?
Messenger. The reports are vague, my lord, but—
Lothaire. Send Grey with a garrison. Scour the whole village from top to bottom. I want every corner searched. Arrest every young man and bring them to me so I might see for myself.
The Messenger bowed deeply, then turned and all but fled the chamber. The room was silent again, save for the crackling of the hearth. Lothaire exhaled through his nose and turned to Blitmund.
Lothaire. He won't escape us twice.
Blitmund tilted his head a fraction and Lothaire let out a dry chuckle, rubbing his temple.
"I know, I hate being king. But if this whelp reveals himself, then we're both losing our heads… Come, I want to speak to a bishop."
With that, he turned, and Blitmund swiftly followed, the heavy doors creaking closed behind them.
A faint rustle broke the stillness, and from the shadows the Earl of Morton stepped forwards, his sharp eyes swept across the empty hall. The faint glow of a guttering torch caught the silver strands in his hair, now streaked with grey from a decade of discontent. So, the prince is rumoured to reside in the hills to the west.
"Lothaire's rule has bled the life from this land," he muttered. Worse than under old Turstin's reign...a king whose flaws, at least, were tempered with strength.
He began to pace, his steps echoing against the cold stone floor.
"He too will have to go," he said, with a shrug. "I thought he would make a fine blade, but he has dulled with misuse and outlived his purpose."
Morton halted before the empty throne, his fingers brushing the armrest as a slow, grim smile tugged at his lips. "I'll find the boy and mould his tender mind...not as the Earl of Morton, of course, but a humble yeoman, still faithful to his father, the great and noble king." His fingers tapped idly against the throne's armrest before he turned away.
"This time, he won't slip through my fingers. I'll whip him into a fierce and loyal hound." His eyes darkened. "And when he is ready, I'll set him loose upon this court of pigeons!"
Turning sharply, Morton strode to one of the narrow lancet windows, his silhouette cutting a dark figure against the dying light. His eyes swept over the distant land, the vast sprawl of England, his for the shaping, and rose his voice.
"England, be my tapestry! The prince, my thread—to weave my will upon that fertile spread!"
He let out a low chuckle, stepping back into the shadows. "Well then, Gurney, it is. I look forward to our reunion...Your Majesty."
The great hall swallowed him whole, leaving only the restless flicker of torchlight and the wind's hollow moan through the fortress walls.