Secrets of the Court: Chapter 18
February 12th – Wessport Palace
Seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
How
long had she been standing outside of that door waiting to come in? After the
interrogation, and after Lord Athar himself had been taken away, Maria had not
dared to look at either Christine or Tristan. She had followed them without a
word, her eyes never leaving the floor. They had not spoken either — the four of
them. It wasn't until they reached their apartments that Tristan turned around
and — with that growling voice of his — told her to never show her face again.
Maria
could only stare as the door had been shut right in her face, stare as the
woman she had served for the past few years never even dignified herself to
meet her eyes.
The
corridor — the empty hallway where Lord Linahan had met his demise — was eerily quiet as Maria wrung her hands in frustration. She understood what she had done — that her words had
doomed Athar and exposed Tristan and Christine. Alas, she couldn't bring
herself to accept how much the world around her was changing. Serving the Vega
family was what she'd always done.
Maria
had been part of the staff of their townhouse when Charles Vega had been alive. She had
been a child when she saw Christine for the first time. Maria had stayed with
them after his death when so many other servants had deserted the family. She
had decided to accompany them to their only remaining piece of land in Cadherra—a
sorry excuse for a home. They had been surviving there for a few months until
they were called to the capital—first forced to live outside of the city in
another fallen-down house. But Christine, Amanda, and Maria had made wherever
they lived their home.
Maria
knocked on the door, shaking as she did so. The maid wanted to at least explain
herself. She wanted Christine to look her in the eye, to listen to her before
drawing any conclusions. There was fussing behind the door, a silent stir that
sent her pulse rising. The door slowly opened. Joseph peered at her — thank God! The younger man would no doubt be more understanding
than Tristan could ever be.
"My
lord, please, I only wish to speak with—" but he cut her short, his eyes
harder than she'd expected. There was no gentility in them.
"You
should go, Maria, before Hawthorne throws you out himself," he murmured.
"I
merely wish to speak with her," Maria pleaded silently, stretching her
neck to see if Christine was in the room. "My lady! Please!" she
shouted desperately when she saw Christine's stiff back facing hers. There was
a split second where she knew Christine was deciding. The tension spoke it all
and when Maria saw the unyielding shoulders sink, at last, she breathed
out.
"Let
her in, Joseph," came a defeated murmur. Joseph looked like he was about
to argue with Christine, but he never found the strength for it. What had happened back in the assembly room had drained them all.
He
stepped aside, letting Maria enter, her head low. If she were a dog, her tail
would no doubt be between her legs.
"Sit."
Christine gestured at a small chair in front of her. She never got up herself. Maria
obeyed without question and sat down heavily. The defeat was so evident in her body
that it tired her mind before she'd even spoken. The crackling fire could not
warm her, and the beautiful room could not please her, but the expressive blue eyes
of Christine touched Maria in a way that would stick with her forever. Maria
was about to speak when the blonde put up a hand, silencing her.
"You
will receive your wages and then I want you to leave this cursed city and never
return, Maria." The words were solemn, dry, and held an undertone of
disappointment that Maria had never heard in her mistress before.
"My
lady, I know no words will ever pardon my brash actions earlier today. I know
Wessport well enough, I know I should never have been in that assembly room.
But believe me when I say that I never intended for it to happen! I went to
confession after not being able to handle what I saw, I—"
"I
am not sending you away for that, Maria. I am sending you away because being
here is dangerous for you now. You are a key testimony against one of the most
powerful men in Angloa. His friends and acquaintances will try to get rid of
you. If you stay you endanger your life." An amount of sadness shone
through, revealing Christine's true emotions under her stern posture.
"This is Wessport. You know more than well that we endure what we can, we
hold it in, until it consumes us. Do you believe I tell you everything that is
on my mind? Do you believe, when I went to confession, that I told that friar
anything that would endanger those around me? No." The crackling fire grew
louder as the tension between both women rose. Christine bit back an angry
remark.
"I
will not beg for you to take me back into your service, although you know you
will always be my lady. I came here wanting you to know that I
never betrayed you! I was tricked into speaking before His Majesty! I was
tricked into telling what I saw. Cardinal Thorpe never once said that he—"
"Cardinal
Thorpe was your confessional priest, no? The moment you realized that you
should have run as fast as your feet could carry you. You should have
disappeared, Maria."
"But
I…" she could not stop the sob that escaped her. The sound sent a dagger
through Christine's heart.
"Maybe
it is better that you leave Wessport. Things will get worse now, for there will
be a struggle for power in the palace. I am glad you will not be here then. Go
to your family, wherever they are, and never return. Lord Hawthorne will not be
as benevolent as I have. You better hurry now, before he storms out of his
chambers." Christine nodded towards the closed door to their left. Maria
never felt the tears until the second sob escaped her. She wasn't ashamed to
cry, she was only ashamed of what she'd done against Christine.
She
was resolved to believe that Wessport coaxed out the worst in everyone.
But
one look at Christine's face told her all she needed to know. There was no hate
there, no rancor. The eyes that had held disappointment and sadness now looked
at her reassuringly. Maria then understood—Christine knew she'd not betrayed
her, but she could still not keep her in her services and this hurt Christine as
much as it hurt Maria.
Thus, Maria did the only thing she could do, the only thing that was now expected of her. She left with dignity. Maria got up from the chair and gave a deep curtsy, her knee touching the floor. It was the most formal courtesy one could give in Angloa; the utmost way of showing respect. It was something everyone was taught but rarely used anymore. The days of such gallantry and chivalry had long since died; they were only a distant memory, swept away by the winds of change. Christine inclined her head in response, fighting to keep her expression steady although her eyes burned with unshed tears.
Maria
left the parlor without another word, vowing to herself that she would never be
far from her mistress. She would be there, seen or unseen, and serve her, just
like her family had done for generations.
The
door closed heavily behind her just as another chapter in her life seemed to
take form.
Maria
sighed, the tears never ceasing.
February 13th
There
were only two days left until the duel between Hawthorne and Alistair. Alas,
the event was seemingly overshadowed by Lord Athar's famed detention—suspected
of being the one to have murdered Jonathan Linahan.
It
gave Tristan some room to breathe. Alas, he could not.
There
was a part of his mind that irked, a part of his mind that grew unsettled. He felt like
ants were crawling up and down his spine foreshadowing something.
Tristan
had barely spoken during the morning as they took breakfast in the parlor. A
new servant was waiting upon Christine, sent there by the staff of the palace.
His fiancée looked solemn as she, no doubt, missed Maria. Tristan had heard
every harsh word Christine had spoken in the parlor the previous day, every
sigh and cry as she had asked Maria to leave as politely as she could. Christine
had been harsh, but just.
Tristan
caught himself staring at her during breakfast. She still dressed in mourning,
just as he did. While most of the courtiers had gone back to their colorful
clothes the couple,
together with Joseph, had remained dressed in black. He was disgusted that the
aristocrats of Wessport cared so little for the loss of one of their own.
The
new maid — a petite brunette with freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and
her cheeks — served their tea.
"There
is a servant in this palace, with light red hair," Tristan began distantly,
not really directing his question anywhere. The maid froze as he spoke. She
was, like the rest of them, wary of him. At least Maria hadn't squirmed every
time he spoke. Christine looked up from her uneaten porridge.
"The
one from yesterday?" Christine trailed off. She downed her tea, savoring
the light texture as it slid down her throat. It was warm and comforting. As
comforting as anything could be after having lost a good friend, she supposed. Tristan's
intense blue eyes fixed on the maid who stood like a statue, looking as if she wanted
to sink through the ground.
"Do
you know of whom I speak?" His tone was harsher than it could've been and Christine
sent him a reprimanding glance, arching an eyebrow as the maid looked about
ready to drop to the floor.
"I-I
d-don't know m-m'lord," she stammered. The silver tray in her hands shook
with her.
"How
many redheads could there be in this blasted place," he snapped, his tone
a low growl, making the maid jump. She shut her eyes, sweat protruding from her
temples, despite the chill in the room.
"M-maybe
t-two or three?" she squirmed. Tristan slammed a fist hard down on the
table, the maid might have jumped a few feet in the air.
"Well
then, bring them here," he muttered. She immediately did as he bade,
quickly running away. As the door shut behind her, Christine finished her tea
and looked curiously at Tristan.
"Was
that really necessary?" she tsked. Now that she knew him better, such a display didn't really bother her anymore. To believe that she had once recoiled
at the sight of him. Christine's gaze drifted to his eyes—expressive blues that entangled her. They reminded her of a clear summer sky today. He
leaned back in his chair.
"Yes,"
he muttered again. His curt answer only made her scoff and turn her head away. Tristan
could not help as the side of his lip tugged upward.
"Why
the sudden interest in the redhead?" she asked. "Do you not believe
in her testimony?"
"We
both know that what Maria said was true. But what that other girl said was too
convenient." He stood up and paced around the room, never having liked
sitting down for too long. Christine kept her thoughts to herself. She sighed
and went to her room to change. She had decided to write to her mother. Ever
since arriving in Wessport, she'd completely forgotten about the people she'd
left behind in Cadherra.
Half
an hour passed, half an hour where Tristan stood by the fireplace, transfixed
by the dancing flames of the fire. He removed one glove to warm his frozen
fingers. Joseph was out searching for Fletcher once more. There were more
conspirators to be found. Tristan let his fingers glide along the cool mantle
of the fireplace and sighed as his jaw tensed. A soft knock on the door drew
him back to the present, and he quickly tugged the glove back into place.
"Enter."
A
hesitant hand turned the iron handle. In stepped the brunette, followed by an
ensemble of women. All had their heads bent down, staring at the floor in a
silent wish to get away. Their fearful eyes searched the patterns of the rugs,
taking in the luxury of the room and its furnishings. Most were maids that only
kept to the kitchens or served in the banquet halls. Most were maids that were
never seen by the inhabitants of the castle.
Tristan
could feel his poor muscles stiffen in his back and neck at the sight of the women
entering the room. Anne, the brunette, had kept her word, bringing every
redhead she could find.
The
shy women before him had all some shade of red to their hair. His gaze swept
over them in an instant.
"Are
these all?" Tristan asked in disbelief as he glanced at them up and down.
"Yes,
m'lord," said Anne in her northern accent. "There are no more."
She was careful as she spoke, not wanting to displease the well-known general.
Tristan eyed the women one final time. "They may leave." His voice was a tone rougher, and Anne whisked the young women away as fast as she could. When the heavy oak door closed behind the group, his hand went up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
The
window overlooking Wessport and its skyline showcased a day that slowly turned
gray—mimicking how Tristan felt inside. The clouds grew heavy with snow. Another snowfall was sure to come within a few
hours or during the night. The cold would come with it. It seemed winter was
not ready to leave yet.
As
he sat there, looking at the white rooftops and chimneys puffing out the white
smoke, his thoughts raced. Many variables concerning Linahan's death worried him. So many things did not add up in the end, and he could not let it pass.
Tristan
promptly left the parlor and headed for the corridor. There he went to the side
of the door, where Linahan had drawn his last breath. He stared at the spot
where blood had covered the polished stone. There were still traces of oxidized
blood left in the cracks. No servant had been able to completely clean away the
evidence.
He
thought back to that night. Linahan had been stabbed a total of five times in
the side. One of the stabs had pierced his kidney, and another had grazed a
major vein. There had been slashes across his throat. Someone had tried to
silence him. Tristan hadn't noticed it then, for the urgency of the moment had
overshadowed his rational thought. But as he recalled it with a clear mind, he
understood what a sloppy job it had been. The person who had killed Linahan had
done so out of need. Linahan had most likely found something he shouldn't
have that night. It was information that had cost him his life, information
that he could never share. The cut across the throat suggested they had wanted
to make sure he died on the spot but Linahan must have managed to escape.
Tristan's
eyes widened as he kept going further up the hall where Christine said she'd
heard him come from. He found small traces of blood here and there, sloppily
cleaned.
Linahan
must not have wandered as far as they initially had thought. The struggle must
have happened further up the hall. Athar's personal quarters were a good twenty-minute walk from theirs and it only further added to Tristan's new theory.
Linahan had been stabbed close to their rooms, not in Athar's parlor, as the
redhead had claimed. Furthermore, he could not have been stabbed in Athar's
rooms—he would have bled out before even arriving close to their corridor.
However,
this newfound information did not prove Athar's innocence, it only proved that
Athar had not killed Linahan in his own quarters. As Tristan tracked further up
the corridor — noticing small droplets of blood here and there — he started to
question Athar's guilt. It would be so easy to say it had been Athar. Yet, the
rational part of his mind screamed at him, there was something amiss.
Tristan
came to a stop at the end of the corridor, its eerie quietness and darkness
unsettled him. There were no traces of blood left. This was most likely where
Linahan had been stabbed. Up ahead was an exit that led to a smaller courtyard
and then out a back door, out of the palace.
Tristan
returned, processing the new information he had just obtained.
The
door to his apartments closed heavily behind him as he entered the parlor. What
was he supposed to do now? If Athar had killed Linahan in that corridor, then
why place false evidence suggesting he had done it somewhere else? Someone had
gone through a lot of trouble to make certain that Athar took the blame.
Cardinal Thorpe had been the one to secure the redhead to give false testimony
against Athar. Tristan thought about the implication of someone as prevalent and powerful as Athar disappearing from court. Indeed, Athar being proven
guilty would see the structure of the palace collapse. Investigations would
stop and the real conspirators would be free to do as they pleased.
February 14th
Gray clouds had been pestering the
skies for hours, growing darker and darker. They lay like a thick velvet
blanket over the city and its vicinities. The heavy downfall threatened, and many
rushed inside as quickly as possible.
A
storm was nearing.
It
bubbled under the surface of the palace, threatening to break free and unleash
its havoc. They could all feel it. They had all felt it ever since Athar had
been detained.
James
Fell had kept away from the public eye for the past day. The betrayal from such
a close friend had affected him deeply. The monarch had spiraled down into a melancholy
that no physician could coax him out of. His mood swings had already cost a few
palace servants their jobs. They had been kicked out, and left to wander the
streets, hoping to find a roof over their heads for the coming nights. Some
desperate girls had ended up in the brothel district of the middle circle.
Their first night in Wessport showed its cruel face, and they suffered, much
like the starving people of the lower circle suffered each day.
The
Blue Hall was a mere whisper of what it had been only a few weeks ago. It held
the sturdy throne of Angloa upon which James sat. He had prided himself in
looking regal and threatening as he sat on it, looming over visitors as they entered
his palace, his city, his realm… But what good was a
kingdom to him when every second could be his last? What good was power when he
had to continuously fight to keep it? What good was a crown when it would make
those closest to him turn on him?
He sat on that splendid throne — carved from the trees outside of Wessport, detailed with gold and silver, painted in a myriad of colors. He sat in the darkness of the hall, alone, as the looming storm in the heavens outside the marble walls approached.
James
stared at the golden crown he held in his hands. How many men were willing to
sacrifice so much for such a puny thing? It was all that coursed through his
mind. The piece of metal — shining brightly, with all its rubies embedded into
it — looked lifeless to him. It was only cold metal. It was only gold and
precious gems. Nothing more.
He
sat in that hall which sported the coat-of-arms of Angloa. The gallery lining
the long walk to the throne had dark blue drapes hanging from them. The tall
columns had fabric twisting around them as well.
No
lit candles graced the dark room. James had not allowed it. He had fired the
footman who'd insisted on at least lighting one candle so that the king might
see. But the king didn't wish to see. He had lost a good friend—his world had
turned upside down in the course of a few hours. A man he practically saw as
his father had betrayed him. For James, Thomas Athar was worse than Judas,
worse than all traitors combined in the history of men.
James
had locked Athar away in the most comfortable dungeon the palace offered. Despite
himself, James could not mistreat a man that had been by his side since
childhood.
The
revelation that Athar might have been involved in Linahan’s death and supposed plan to overthrow the palace had been dismissed initially by James. However,
reading through the confiscated documents several times had rendered the
thought a possibility—enough to make the young king question his old mentor. James had frozen before the very real thought that Athar might not have been all
that James believed and he had yet to venture to the depths
of the dungeon and face the old man. James knew that facing Athar would render
his resolve against him weaker—he was already inclined to wish that
Athar was not involved, and he feared such debilitating thoughts would cloud
his judgment. Yet, there were so many questions he had for Athar, so many
things he wanted to say and to be sorted out. Perhaps Athar had a good reason?
Perhaps this was just a big misunderstanding?
Alas,
James knew who should be the one to speak with Athar. He had thought long and
hard about it, coming to the most logical conclusion in his mind.
The
eerie peace of that dark hall was disturbed as the great doors opened. The silhouette of a man stood there, dwarfed by the immense door
that arched high above him. Quick steps sounded as the boots made contact with
the cold marble floor.
Tristan
approached swiftly, his dark mourning attire making him merge into the shadows
that surrounded him. It had taken a lot of coaxing to get him away from his
apartments but he had finally agreed, the guards practically having to
drag him there. That same afternoon they had shown up at his doorstep, twenty-four
hours after Athar’s initial arrest. In the presence of an armed escort and an
ordered audience with the king, Tristan had every reason to suspect and fear
for his own freedom. Why would James wish to speak with him when he
scarcely allowed anyone else at court near him? Christine had insisted that he
not go, she had been afraid then, he had seen it in her eyes. She had told him
to stay with her. And he had tried. But the guards threatened him — fear shone
in their own eyes as they pointed their weapons at him. Tristan saw no other
alternative. He followed them, uncertain, almost afraid of what the king had in
store for him.
He
could not help but frown at the irony of the situation. The Blue Hall had seen
a change from his initial arrival a few months earlier upon his return from the
war. Back then, it had been a bright place, striking awe and respect into those
who entered it. But now it was only a shadow of what it used to be. Wessport Palace
was slowly decaying as the slithering conspirators of the court got closer to
the king and his power became more fragile by the day.
"Who
disturbs me?" James growled, not bothering to look up. His hair was
unkempt. He had thrown aside the leather jerkin and the brocade doublet,
sitting in a wrinkled shirt, untucked and unbuttoned at the top. His feet sprawled
out before him and both his hands gripped the crown firmly.
"Tristan
Hawthorne does, Sire, at your command." Tristan did not like what he saw
but he was more alarmed that James had forgotten that he had summoned him.
Tristan
had been briefed about the documents found in Athar's apartments as he had made
his way to the great hall.
"Get
out," James snapped with such ferocity that it made Tristan halter in his
step. "I said get out! I order you" James got up, standing and pointing
an accusing finger at Tristan as he barked his orders.
"You
ordered me to come here. So which is it?" Tristan answered calmly, finally
coming to a stop a short distance from the throne. Despite the colors of
mourning, Tristan had returned his usually bulky military garb, reminding James
of who he was — General Tristan Hawthorne, the famed Lion of the North.
"Very
well," James muttered after a moment’s recollection, recognition flickered in his eyes as he remembered ordering the summons.
"Thomas
Athar is proven a traitor and a day later you sit here sulking?" Tristan
dared.
"I
did not summon you here to give me such remarks, Hawthorne. You are addressing
your king… I never wish for that name to be mentioned in my presence
again." James's jaw tightened as he leaned forward with a vicious frown on
his face.
"Then
why have you called for me?" Tristan's voice grew harsher.
"I
need someone that I trust to interrogate him. I need to know his motives. You
have shown your loyalty at every moment, I trust you to speak with him without
letting him…cloud your judgment as he might with someone else," James
said, his tone low and slowly getting calmer.
"I
am aware of the plans and lists found in his chambers. Plans that could have
easily been placed there by someone else." The words were bold and
provocative. They managed well in making James glare harshly at Tristan,
fighting hard not to scream profanities as his fist tightened around the crown,
the metal cutting into his skin, drawing blood.
"You
may glare at me however much you like, Sire, but it will not solve any of your
problems."
"Are
you suggesting that he is innocent, despite the overwhelming evidence?" There was a slight hint of desperation in James' voice.
"He
couldn't have followed through with his plans by himself—should they prove to
be his. He must have had help from someone," Tristan stated. James sank
down on the throne in defeat as he rested his head against the back.
"You
mean there are more conspirators in the palace then," he whispered.
"Yes."
A
long silence followed. James eyed Tristan, looking down in contemplation.
Surprisingly, the tension between the two subsided.
"I
am not disgracing myself by being in his presence," James said the words
slowly, to let their full weight sink in. They were hard to utter, for he would
like nothing more than to finally have an excuse to hear what Athar would say.
Tristan
didn’t acknowledge James’s statement nor offer any words of comfort.
"You
go…" James said, staring into the depths of the rubies of the crown. Blood
smudged the polished gold, pure droplets emerged from his wounded hand and
tainted the crown. He was too tired to think. It was easier to have other
people handle everything for him.
Tristan turned to leave.
"Where did I
go wrong?" It wasn't directed at anyone in particular. The sentence was
barely a whisper, probably not meant for Tristan. But despite himself, Tristan
answered. He turned around, looking James straight in the eye.
"You
already know." Tristan's words were loaded, weighing heavily upon the
monarch. A fleeting moment passed where Tristan thought James would not answer—the
harshness in his tone seemed to have affected the king. Suddenly a deep, low
thunder could be heard in the far distance as it tore through the sky. The
storm was upon them, the skies were black as night, angrily staring down at
Wessport as if God himself judged the city.
"No,"
sighed James. His head came to rest in his hand as he cast away the crown, the
source of all his troubles, just as it had been for his father, just as it had
been for his uncle. It tumbled down the throne and rolled on the marble floor
with a loud clatter, coming to a stop at Tristan's feet. The masked man sneered
at it and eventually turned around and left without a word, leaving his king to
wallow in self-pity.
When he reached the far end of the room Tristan turned around to contemplate James. A bright flash of light illuminated the room through the windows as lightning struck somewhere in the far distance. It allowed Tristan a view of a man who was the very picture of defeat. By the time the loud roar of the thunder came again, Tristan was already out of the hall.
He
had never been in the lower part of the palace—the oldest part of the building.
The foundations had belonged to the run-down castle that had stood erected on
the sight long before any plans for the palace came to be. It was dark, humid,
and cold, much like any other dungeon he knew.
Tristan
followed the guard, holding a torch high over their heads as they descended
further into the pit. The way down to the dungeons was a deep and wide hole in
the ground. Spiral stairs along the wall allowed them to descend into the dark
inferno. Along the staircase were some cells — thick iron bars were all that
stood between the prisoner and their freedom.
The
lower down a prisoner was placed, the worse his or her crime. Athar had a cell
at the bottom. It was a bigger cell than most, but the light of day did not
reach it. The murky darkness and humidity turned the place into a freezer for
the entire year. Rats ran through the many holes in the walls, their bites
carrying diseases that could kill a grown man in the course of a week.
"It
seems strange to me that ‘is Majesty would allow ye to speak to this prisoner
'ere," came the raspy voice of the old guard—the keeper of the dungeons.
"He strictly said no one was to speak wi' 'im, see?" The man had seen
many winters. His back was crooked, making him permanently lean forward. His
face bore small scars, slightly deforming his once homely features. A scruffy
and unkempt beard with streaks of silver made him look ancient.
"You
can go and ask him yourself but I suspect it would cost you your
position," Tristan growled. The old guard kept quiet. He was stuck between
a rock and a hard place. He didn't want to infuriate Tristan further, but he
also didn't want to incur the wrath of the king.
"No,
no, m'lord. I trust ye." The guard's back tensed visibly as he felt Tristan's
furious breath down his neck. They quickly descended the steps, and the wails of
the prisoners who were begging for mercy pierced their very souls. Somewhere in
the distance, Tristan could hear the screams of pain as no doubt someone was
being tortured. He heard the flick of a whip, shortly followed by yet another
scream.
As
they reached the bottom, rats scoured when the light of their torches
illuminated the round space. There were three doors. Two led to more cellblocks
while the third led to the torture chamber—a chamber that had been used since
the dawn of the Middle Ages.
"Come
'ere, m'lord, lest ye want to get lost in them tunnels that reach under the
palace," the guard rasped ominously. He chuckled when the thought of Tristan
getting lost in the passageways popped into his mind—aye that would be a
satisfying sight to see.
They
continued down a damp, cold hallway where cells lined the walls. They passed
dark rooms unfit for any human being to live in. At the end of the corridor, Tristan
saw the light of wax candles illuminate the last cell. It did not sport any
iron bars. It was reinforced with a heavy iron door instead, with an opening at
head-level and then at the bottom, to deliver food for the prisoner. The upper
part of the door was open and light streamed from the cell.
"Up
ye go, Lord Traitor! Ye got a visitor!" screamed the guard in his heavy
accent as he fumbled with his keys. Tristan could hear the rustling of a chair
as someone got up. The guard opened the door and gripped Tristan by the arm
before letting him enter.
"Now,
as ye requested, I'll be waitin' by the end of the corridor. Scream when ye
need me," he rasped, letting go of the black doublet and closing the iron
door behind the masked man as he stepped into the cell.
Tristan
took in the surroundings and felt an eyebrow arch in surprise at the sight
before him. It was damp and cold, and a rotting smell expanded in the room, the
stench was unbearable at first but he quickly got used to it.
Hay
was spread on the floor to insulate the room as best as it could. It had an
elevated bed, to keep the prisoner away from the rats that came and went
through the many holes in the walls. It had a table that held some ink and
paper and wax candles. And it even had a chair to go with the table. It was not
at all what Tristan had expected.
By
one corner he saw Athar, just as he had seen him the previous day, just a bit
more unkempt from the night. He dressed in fine silken clothes. His doublet
bore a damask pattern, and he still had his cape around him. The white hairs
were slightly disheveled, probably from the resistance he had put up as the
guards dragged him down the stairs.
"Lord
Hawthorne," Athar said, rather surprised. "I did not expect you would
come—" he was cut short by Tristan who turned around to see that the guard
had kept his promise. True to his word, the old man stood at the end of the
corridor where he could not hear the words they exchanged.
"I
have come here by the request of His Majesty," Tristan said, turning
around to once more face Athar. The old man arched an eyebrow suspiciously as
he placed both hands behind his back.
"I
thought all was said and done," he questioned as he studied Tristan's
reaction.
"No,
we know you were not the only one involved in this coup. There are sure to
be more people who helped you," came the flat tone of Tristan as he
crossed his arms before him.
"I'm
innocent," the old man said stubbornly. A brief pause followed where it
seemed none of them was willing to speak. The air grew pregnant until Tristan's
rich voice finally cut through it.
"Of
Linahan's murder I have no doubt," responded Tristan, walking past Athar
to sit down in the chair. His response made the old man's eyes widen
considerably. The thunder roared outside as the winds picked up more speed.
Even in the deepest parts of the castle, both men could sense the electricity
of the storm.
"It
seems I have friends left in this blasted place, after all." Athar let a
breath of relief escape him as he sat down on the bed.
"Don't
fool yourself, Athar. You had my respect until I found out about your treachery—before
Cardinal Thorpe brought up such incriminating evidence against you." Tristan
twisted in his chair, so he was facing the older man.
"Then
why do you think me innocent of Linahan's death?"
"If
you truly were in your quarters that night then you couldn't possibly have
killed Linahan yourself. The wounds were too severe. He could not have walked
all the way from your wing to our rooms. He would have bled out before reaching
us."
"Good
observation," Athar smirked. "I was in my room that night. I have no
witnesses—I have nothing that proves my innocence. But I assure you, the
testimony of that young redhead is as false as they come." His face
twisted into a frown.
"I
still need to know who else has been cooperating with you in the palace."
"I
am innocent, Hawthorne. Someone has seen it fit to frame me. There are traitors
in this palace, but I am not one of them." Athar's words were truthful, he
seemed convinced of them himself. But Tristan wouldn't have it. The masked man
got up as the thunder roamed outside of the palace walls yet again.
"No,
you are not. Explain Alan Moore to me. Or what about your dealings with the
English?" Tristan snapped. Athar grew confused as he heard the accusations.
"This
is what the king has gathered as evidence against me?" he asked in
disbelief.
"No,
this is information I have found out myself, gradually, since before being
summoned to Wessport." He paced around in the cell, slowly. The rats ran
away from his heavy boots as he didn't pay attention to where he was stepping.
"You
know, I truly believed you to be trustworthy at first. I was even willing to
place all my trust in you but was saved from dooming myself in the nick of
time. To think that Saxton trusted in you," Tristan growled, the words
were sharp as he loomed over Athar. There was a wave of uncontrolled anger
rising slowly in the masked man, and he wouldn't mind letting it loose. But he
fought against his instincts. Despite himself, Tristan still respected the old
man too much to roughen him up.
There
was something that sparked in Athar's eyes as Tristan mentioned Saxton.
Suddenly, the old man regained his calm, as if all would be alright. He let out
a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and sank back down on the hard,
filthy bedding. He was calm as he spoke. As calm as a man could be, knowing
well that his days were over.
"Then
you have been in contact with Saxton?" Athar asked.
"I
have," Tristan admitted without fear of being reprimanded. Athar could do
nothing against him now. "He said you were the only man I could trust in
all of Wessport. Either he was misguided or he is your accomplice," Tristan said darkly. His
response made Athar's lips twitch, trying to conceal a small smile.
"Then
listen to me closely, Hawthorne, for a great mistake has been committed here,
on both our parts, but mostly mine." Athar felt the words weighing heavy upon his shoulders as he came to
realize what his errors had cost him. When Tristan said nothing, Athar
continued.
"You
have been very perceptive, Hawthorne." Another roar of the thunder
sounded, and the sound was so loud that it seemed to shake the very foundations
of the palace. Even the small lights of the wax candles flickered as the air
pushed against the walls. "What else made you think that I was involved in
this?"
"Our
maid, Maria, did not speak falsely yesterday. Linahan's last words were indeed
your name. He mentioned my name as well." Athar's shoulders sank in defeat
at the mention of his friend and his death. But he collected new strength,
drawing breath and preparing to unveil everything to Tristan.
"The
reason Linahan was murdered was most likely my fault—I am being framed, Hawthorne.
However farfetched that may sound to you it is the truth. You see, Saxton was
right, I am the only man you can trust in this palace as far
as I know. But I believe that if Fawkes were informed of what was going on
behind closed doors, he would rally to our side in a heartbeat. The same goes
for Lord Rajac and Lord Durun. The reason I am being framed is due to a message
I wanted to send to you through Linahan," Athar said as he revealed all
the information he knew.
"To
me?" Tristan was taken by surprise.
"Yes,"
he smiled, the wrinkles around the gray eyes crinkled as they lit up,
displaying a youthfulness in the man's face that Tristan had never seen before.
"There are many secrets kept at this court. Secrets that shouldn't be revealed
to just anyone. I do not trust most here. Most of the men I do put my trust in
are outside of the court and they, in turn, have sources that inform me of the traitors
in the palace. Yet, these conspirators are good at hiding their activities. We
have gotten nowhere in the last few years, mostly because of the war. As the war
ended, they started up again, and we were close to unmasking them."
"Who
are we?"
"I
cannot give you all the names, but I suspected you are familiar with one of
them. Henry Saxton told me I could put my trust in a new man arriving at court,
I assumed it to be you. Thus I kept my eye on you. I even sent Linahan to
find out if you were indeed allied with Saxton one day after the lord's
assembly." Tristan remembered with a painful memory how he'd manhandled
Linahan.
"The
way you frightened that poor lad had me doubt myself. I thought that perhaps I
was wrong. But I couldn't be certain. Thus, I wanted to make sure. I had
Linahan deliver you a message that told of a time and place I wished to speak
with you, away from the palace and its prying eyes."
"Does
the note implicate me?" Tristan suddenly became tense.
"No,
do not worry. I never put any names—they will never know whom the note was
destined for. But be certain that they will search the palace for my accomplice now."
They
remained silent for a while. Tristan considered if it was wise to reveal all
his cards to Athar. He still didn't trust in him fully but the more Athar
revealed to him, the more it all made sense.
"This
all still doesn't explain John Fletcher," snapped Tristan. The name made
Athar's eyes widen as he recognized it. "During the last battle against
the English, a spy sent them information about our troops that nearly cost us
the war. The spy was Alan Moore—sent to the front by Captain John Fletcher.
After the war was over and I received my title and went to Cadherra, Moore was
in the group that traveled with me. It was thanks to some very perceptive people in
my ranks that I unmasked him and coaxed Fletcher's name out of him. When I
returned to Wessport, I had a man guard Fletcher's every move, to find out who
he reported to. It was you he kept seeing." Tristan went
silent, waiting for Athar to explain himself.
The
old man let out a deep breath and stared at his shoes in defeat.
"My
actions were the ones that doomed me, in the end." Athar looked up, frustrated
by the situation though the extent of his frustration was not entirely revealed.
"I am not surrounded by as many trusted people, thus I had to gather a lot
of the information myself. I knew that Fletcher was in contact with men who
wanted to overthrow His Majesty. I found him and bribed him frequently
for the information he was giving the conspirators. I am certain your man saw
me with him, for Fletcher only contacts his superiors by other messengers that I
have yet to find," Athar said wearily. He sounded defeated and in the
vague light of the candles, both men contemplated where the twist of fate had
led them. They realized that because of an unfortunate misunderstanding, one of
them was about to lose his life while the other might watch helplessly as a
dynasty fell.
Tristan
kept processing all the information. The pieces of the puzzle
were slowly fitting into their positions. John Fletcher, Linahan's death,
Athar's supposed treason—Tristan had been misguided in all of it, or so Athar
wanted him to believe. Tristan sneaked a glance at Athar, expecting he would be
angry at him, but instead, he found a lighthearted smile.
"I
see you finally are starting to consider my words," said Athar, his voice a bit lighter. Tristan sat down and leaned
forward in his chair. Wessport had outwitted them both, played them against
each other. Both had been too paranoid and cautious to contact the other
directly, and the final result was a catastrophe.
"These
true traitors will still infiltrate the palace and take down His Majesty,"
Tristan muttered after a while.
"They
will do it soon too," Athar agreed. "I can't do anything. It is up to
you now."
"But
why would they want to overthrow the king, especially when they have no one
else to put on the throne? Surely a mere nobleman could not have so many
supporters for no reason?" Tristan asked as he gritted his teeth.
"Saxton said that there was a secret guarded by this court, does it have
to do with this rebellion?"
Athar
looked at him for a long while — as if measuring the man before him and
weighing his options. He was judging Tristan, deciding or not if he should
fully trust him. When the old duke had decided, he finally spoke. His
expression grew serious and his words grave as he underlined the importance of
what he was about to say. He rose from the bed and walked to the door to be
certain that no one was listening to them.
"What
I am about to say cannot leave this room. It is a burden I have carried for decades,
a secret that could very well ignite a war if it were ever made public. It is a
secret that men have given their lives for." He turned around and waited
for Tristan to say something. Tristan was stricken by the conviction in Athar's
countenance.
"You have my word."
Athar leaned against the door, every cell in his body fighting against
revealing such information. He had kept it to himself for so long that it was
strange to be revealing it now—in a damp, murky cell, to a masked man he barely
knew. Yet, a small part of him — his instinct — told him that he was doing the
right thing, he was trusting the right man. Thus, Athar let go of his fears for
the first time in over twenty years, jumping into the abyss, revealing what he
thought should never be revealed. He did it for his king and his country, he
did it because he thought it was right.
"Good.
Then I give you what I believe is the reason for this whole conspiracy and
treason." Athar's heart sped up while he locked eyes with Tristan Hawthorne,
watching them grow curious as they took in the change in Athar. Tristan saw
Athar hesitate before speaking. It was just a slight moment, a moment where he
thought that the old duke would turn back on his word and take the secret to
his own grave as well. But then, there, in the depths of his gray eyes, hope
and determination shone through. Athar saw something in Tristan, something he
could not entirely place. It was greater than respect, it was greater than a
sense of kinship.
It
was raw trust.
"These
courtiers — for I know that the conspirators are indeed courtiers — are conspiring
to dethrone the king and place someone else of royal blood on the throne,"
he said. It was something he'd been insinuating before, but he repeated it now
to clear up any misunderstandings.
"They
plan to use one of the princesses here?" Tristan asked in disbelief.
"No,"
Athar chuckled, despite himself. He walked over to stand by the table, looking
down at ink and paper. He never remembered why he had asked for it in the first
place, he had no one left to write to. "Someone else," he
underlined the last word, almost wanting Tristan to figure it out himself.
"But
there isn't anyone else. Magnus Fell only had one child before he died," Tristan
could not believe what Athar was implying.
"No,
not Magnus Fell, but Philip Fell did," Athar smirked. He
was satisfied as he saw the masked man's expressive eyes widen until they
looked about ready to fall out from their sockets. It was an expression he had
never seen in those eyes before. It made Tristan stare at him even longer,
processing what the other was saying. "And no, I have not gone mad. His
second wife, Leonore Valois, had a child in secret. She was only three months
pregnant when Philip passed away."
"To
insinuate that a man at such an advanced age could still sire a child is quite
farfetched," Tristan said, but he didn't sound so certain anymore.
"It
is farfetched but entirely true. We whisked the child away from the dangers of
court and from the biggest danger of them all—Magnus Fell and his wife. There
are many in Angloa who in secret might have speculated over this knowledge,
but it has never openly been stated, but I know it to be true. Magnus usurped
the throne from his brother Philip. He never died peacefully in his sleep as
many believe. I am certain Philip would have lived to be a hundred, for he was
fit as a fiddle until the last few weeks of his life. No, Lord Hawthorne, he
was poisoned by his own brother...or his sister-in-law," Athar said as his
jaw tensed. Retelling a story he knew by heart and that he'd kept for so long
to himself was harder than he thought. Philip Fell had been a good friend of
his and not just his king. It had been quite difficult to acknowledge Magnus as
sovereign of Angloa since Athar never would be able to prove that the younger
brother had poisoned his older brother.
"I
could do nothing until it was too late. I whisked away his young bride and hid
her in a secluded estate in the south of the country. She had her child and
raised it up as best as she could. They constantly moved from one of my estates
to the other, to keep away from Magnus' men. When a few years passed,
Magnus found them. I thought he had killed the child until recently. I know who
the conspirators want on the throne; someone they — the noblemen — can control.
Meanwhile, this child has a legit claim for it is the rightful heir to the
throne, especially since James's father Magnus usurped his own brother. If this
information were to get out in the open, it could bode disaster for the
kingdom."
"And
now this child seeks to be king by any means necessary," Tristan said as
he stared pensively into the hay-covered floor. He thought all cards had been
laid on the table, but Athar had yet another revelation.
"I
never said the child was male." Athar looked enigmatically at Tristan as
if savoring the moment.
"A
girl?" The new turn of events had Tristan's mind spinning. "But if a
woman had the right to the throne, then surely Victoria Fell would be first in
line," he continued, trying to make sense of it all.
"The
mother of both Miriam and Victoria Fell was only a countess, married off to
Philip for political purposes at the beginning of his reign. Their marriage
secured his hold of the northern regions. She died after giving birth to the
younger child, Miriam. Philip remarried when he was much older to a princess,
the sister of the current king of France. We all thought their marriage was
barren until the queen confided in me. If that child chooses, she could have
the backing of France in an eventual war of succession, and then we are all
doomed," Athar sighed.
"But
I do not understand," Tristan said slowly. "You helped keep this
child safe, you agree that she has the right to the throne of Angloa, yet you
do not want her to overthrow James?"
"She
is misguided, Hawthorne. The lords that support her only seek to benefit from
this rebellion themselves. She would be a puppet queen and Angloa would fall
into the hands of vicious and greedy men." Athar drew a deep breath and
continued. "They will strike soon. James' insistence on having the lords
of the realm give up their armies was in hopes of quelling whatever uprising they were planning, but it seems instead that it was the last straw. These men, these traitors, want
to go back to the way it used to be, they want to rule again.
Any day could be the day they strike."
"I
have an idea when that might be," Tristan said through gritted teeth. The
cell grew void of any more words as he processed the information. There was a steady buildup of guilt growing on his already
burdened shoulders as he stared emptily in front of himself.
"I
cannot save you," Tristan whispered. A wave of helplessness washed over
him. Tristan realized that even though all of this was going on behind closed
doors, Athar was still charged with high treason, most likely to be executed. Tristan could not even look into the eyes of the man that would lose his life because he had failed to act.
"No, you cannot save me. But I think I have put up with this blasted palace life for a long while now." Gray eyes stared into the distance as Athar rose from the bed. "My hour has come and I accept it." Athar's tone was light, void of regret. The old man did not blame Tristan. "It is up to you now, Hawthorne. I have told you all I know, I cannot give you more, only my support and my blessing. You have to carry this burden alone, you have to stop these traitors from overtaking the throne and James' crown."
He stepped over and placed a heavy hand on the tense shoulder. Tristan's head was bent down in defeat as Athar stood over him. The older man kneeled before the younger one.
"That is why you must win against Alistair tomorrow at dawn," Athar said as Tristan's heavy head finally rose to meet the kind, gray eyes. Tristan had forgotten about the duel and sighed. He rose from the chair and his height towered over the other. The roar of thunder sounded in the distance, much weaker this time. The storm had passed, and the tension in the air with it.
Tristan took Athar's hand in his, grabbing Athar's forearm with his hand in the old traditional handshake in a show of respect. He accepted the mantle that was being passed onto him. In turn, Athar gripped Tristan's forearm as well.
Tristan
banged on the iron door, hearing the eager footsteps of the guard, who no
doubt wanted to get the masked man out of there so he himself could go to sleep
and let another guard take his place.
Athar
stared at the broad silhouette that left the cell and felt how his heart grew
lighter. He didn't need to worry anymore, something told him that he had
trusted the right man in the end. Tristan's eyes had confirmed as much to him.
Athar stalked to his bed, suddenly growing weary. The worry was still with him, but his fatigue outwon, and as
soon as his head hit the hard pillow, he fell into a deep and peaceful slumber.
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