Upon the highest reaches of Castle Arundel, the wind howled like banshees against the battlements, clawing through arrow slits and rattling iron-bound shutters. Within, a lone fire flickered. The chamber was a cold vault of stone, shadows pooled in the corners, harbouring the terrible secrets of the castle walls. A vast table dominated the room, its surface scarred from years of councils and quarrels, flanked by high-backed chairs that stood empty save for one. King Lothaire slumped in his seat, the black granite throne dragged here from the great hall for this private audience, its sharp edges digging into his back. Before him stood Bishop Bubwith, his robes were a stark slash of crimson against the drab stone, his hands clasped piously over a silver cross that dangled from his neck. At the chamber's edge, Blitmund loomed like a phantom, his mask catching the flickering light, hands resting on the pommel of his broadsword.
Lothaire. They're everywhere, Your Holiness. Two ghosts, spirits, whatever name you might give to such horrible things.
The jagged rasp of his voice cut through the silence, torn from a throat scourged by sleepless nights.
Lothaire. They hound me without falter, night after night. Their chatter, their laughter, the torment never ends! Doors swing open, unbidden by any hand. Tables shudder beneath my touch, as if the wood itself recoils from me. Candles flare and gutter, I turn a corner, and whispers seep from the very walls. I close my eyes, and their voices coil through the darkness like serpents. I am cursed, cursed beyond all doubt!
The bishop's weathered face remained serene, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. He stepped closer, the hem of his robe brushing the cold floor, and raised a hand.
Bubwith. Your Majesty, the restless dead are oft stirred by unrest in the living world. I've heard such tales before…spirits bound by grievance or unfinished purpose. Perhaps a grand gesture might appease them. Commission a cathedral, sire, its spires piercing the heavens to sing God's praise. The Church will always welcome gold, silk for draping altars, gems for encrusting reliquaries. Such acts could ease their wrath and cleanse the air of their presence.
The king's lip curled, a bitter snort escaping him.
Lothaire. Cathedrals? Gold? You think I can buy them off with stone and trinkets? These are phantoms, father, not priests. I've built this fortress high enough to scrape the clouds, walls thick as dragonhide, and still they find me. No, this is nt some beggar's curse to be paid off with alms.
Bubwith's expression faltered, his fingers tightening around the cross. He hesitated, then pressed on, his voice dropping to a measured murmur.
Bubwith. Then perhaps, Your Majesty, the remedy lies not in works but within. The Church teaches that spirits linger where guilt festers…sins unresolved, burdens unconfessed. Could it be that these shades are tethered to, forgive me, some… darker deed of your own making?
Lothaire's hand ceased its restless motion on the armrest, his fingers tightening until the knuckles gleamed pale, his gaze fixing the bishop with a fiery stare. Silence stretched taut, broken only by the soft crackle of torches and the distant wail of wind threading through the castle's battlements. Blitmund shifted slightly, the creak of his armor a low growl in the quiet.
Lothaire. Guilt? Such a bold word, Bubwith, and one you wield with reckless presumption. Do you think to school me in my own soul's ledger? I am king, not some penitent grovelling for your absolution. Take your pious insinuations and depart…my rule is boundless, but my patience is not.
The bishop bowed stiffly, his robes rustling as he retreated.
Bubwith. As you will, sire. May our lord grant you clarity.
The heavy door groaned shut behind him. Lothaire sank back and dragged a hand across his face, fingers tremoring as he stared into the fireplace. When it came, the king's voice was almost a whisper.
"I know it's him," he said, his eyes gaunt. "It has to be. That day haunts me still, Blitmund. I cannot sleep of late because I see his twisted visage in the dark, the horror." He paused, "Do you see him too, Morton? No…I don't think you do. I think you sleep soundly."
Blitmund remained silent. Lothaire pushed himself to his feet, the throne scraping against stone with a harsh screech. He paced to the narrow window, its leaded panes rattling in the wind.
"No more running," he muttered. "I go to Savernake where he lies, entombed with our blood. I must make peace there somehow. Let it end…this awful curse." He turned, trembling faintly with weariness. "Please join me, old friend."
The chamber fell silent as their footfall faded down the corridor. The torches flickered weakly. For a moment, the room held its breath, then a shimmer stirred the air. Two wisps of light coalesced near the throne, taking form with a soft, eerie hum. Wattle and Daub hovered there, translucent and pale, wavering like troubled water.
Wattle. Adieu, my liege! Ha ha ha… Oh, it ain't the same no more.
Daub. A day hard run, and none the wiser for it. Ten years we've been at this.
Wattle. Ten bleedin' years of dancing shadows across his bedchamber.
Daub. And for what?
Wattle. Naught but a king afeard o' his nightstand!
Daub. Yet he still believes it to be old King Turstin's doing.
Wattle. Rotten sod…All this time rattlin' his chains and we're still beneath his notice!
Daub. Worse still, we're no closer to shaking off this purgatory coil. Our purpose eludes us yet.
Wattle. We'd be better off scaring crows from a turnip patch!
Daub. Did you mark his words to the Earl of Morton just now? That greasy eel was in on it!
Wattle. You should have known he were up to no good!
Daub. And what could I have done, pray? Who would take our word against his?
Wattle. No one born with a silver spoon in their mouth, that's for certain.
Daub. Look, if we're going to make a difference, we're barking up the wrong tree.
Wattle. Where else should we be barking?
Daub. The prince—young Oswald—the rightful king! They say he's out in the West Country.
Wattle. In hiding. Who's to say he even wants to be king?
Daub. Methinks he'll have little choice before long. It's be king or be killed.
Wattle. But hows are we s'pose to help him?
Daub. In little ways he'll hardly notice. Turning a few screws here and there.
Wattle. Well, I've got sod-all else to do.
Daub. Then it's settled. We'll soar on a sunbeam overhead until we find him!
Wattle. It's high time we did summat worth a damn!
Daub. Come, let's be off. This castle's gloom has overstayed its welcome.
Their laughter rang out, dancing through the castle's hollow halls. Their pale forms flickered and faded from sight, leaving only the whisper of their mirth to linger in the air.
End of Act I.