A March of Kings

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Gwen stood on the sandy shore, as ocean waves crashed too close to her feet, huge, fierce waves, hitting her legs with enough strength to make her wobble. She stood there, losing her footing, as she watched the huge ship set sail before her, Thor standing at its helm, waving. On Thor’s shoulder sat Ephistopheles, who stared back with an ominous look that made Gwen’s blood run cold.

Thor was smiling, but as she watched, his sword fell from his waist and plummeted into the ocean. Oddly, he seemed not to notice, still smiling and waving, and she felt terrified for him.

The sea, so calm, suddenly turned rough, its waters turning from a crystal blue to a foaming black; as she watched, their boat was rocked violently, tossed about in the waves. Still Thor stood there, smiling and waving to her as if nothing were happening. She could not understand what was going on. Behind him the skies, clear just a moment before, turned scarlet, the clouds themselves seeming to froth over in rage. Lightning lit up the sky all around, and as she watched, a lightning bolt pierced the sail. In moments, Thor’s ship was aflame. The ship, on fire, gained speed, sailed away, faster and faster, sucked out into the sea on massive currents.

“THOR!” Gwen shrieked.

She shrieked again as the ship went up into a ball of flames and was sucked into the dark red sky, disappearing on the horizon.

She looked down, and a wave crashed before her, up to her chest, knocking her onto her back. She reached out to grab hold of something—but there was nothing. She felt herself getting sucked out into the ocean, faster and faster, the currents consuming her, as another huge wave crashed down, right on her face.

Gwen shrieked.

She opened her eyes to see herself standing in her father’s chamber. It was empty and freezing in here, nighttime, the wall lined with torches—too many torches, all lit up, flickering. In the room stood a sole figure, standing on the window ledge, his back to her. She sensed immediately that it was her father. He wore his royal furs, and, on his head, the crown. It seemed bigger than it had ever been.

“Father?” she asked, as she approached.

Slowly, he turned and looked at her. She was horrified. His face was half-skeleton, eyes bulging from the sockets, flesh decomposed. He looked at her with a look of horror, of desperation, as he reached out one hand.

“Why won’t you avenge me?” he moaned.

Gwen’s breath caught in her chest, horrified as she rushed towards him.

He started to lean back, and she reached out to grab his hand—but it was too late. He fell slowly, backwards, out the window.

Gwen shrieked as she ran forward, and stuck her head out to watch. Her father plummeted down into the blackness, falling and falling. The ground gave way, and he seemed to fall into the bowels of the earth. She never heard him hit.

Gwen heard a rattling noise, and turned and surveyed his empty chamber. There was his crown. It must have fallen off his head, and now it rolled, on its side, across the floor, making a hollow, metallic sound as it did. It rolled in circles, louder and louder, until it finally settled down. It sat there, in the center of the bare stone floor.

From somewhere, his words rang out again:

“Avenge me!”

Gwen woke with a start, sitting upright in bed, breathing hard. She rubbed her eyes and jumped from the mattress, hurrying over to her window, trying to shake herself of the awful nightmare. She took cold water from a small bowl by the window, splashed it on her face several times, and looked out.

It was dawn, and King’s Court was quiet, the light just beginning to break from the first rising sun. It looked like she was the first one to rise. The dream had been awful, more like a vision, and her heart pounded as she replayed it. Thor, dying on that ship. It had felt like a message, more like she was seeing the future than a dream. Her heart broke, as she felt with certainty that he would soon be dead.

And then here was that awful image of her father, the decomposed skeleton. His rebuke to her. The images were all so real, she could not go back to sleep. She paced her chamber and hardly knew what to do with herself.

Without thinking, she crossed her room and began to dress, way earlier than usual. She felt she had to do something. Anything. Whatever she could to find her father’s killer.

*

As he walked down the empty castle corridors in the early morning light, Godfrey was sober and alone—both for the first time in years—and it was an unfamiliar feeling. He could not remember how long it had been since he had gone a full day without a drink, or had spent time alone, not surrounded by his drunken friends. His feelings of loneliness, of gravity, were all new to him, and he realized that this is what everyday people must feel like as they lived their normal lives. It was terrible. Boring. He hated it, and he wanted to run back to the alehouse, to his friends, and make it all go away. Real life was not for him.

But for the first time in his life, Godfrey refused to give into his impulses. He did not know what was overcoming him, but watching his father being lowered into the earth had done something to him; since his death, something had stirred inside him. He was like a cauldron simmering on a low flame; he felt a sense of discontent, of unease, that he never had before. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin. For the first time he turned a harsh light upon himself, reevaluated who he was, how he had lived his life, and how he might spend the rest of it, and when he looked, honestly, in the mirror, he did not like what he saw.

Godfrey also looked upon his friends with fresh eyes, and could no longer stand the site of their faces. Most of all, his own. For the first time this morning, the taste of ale was rotten to him; for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had a clear head, a presence of mind. He needed to think clearly today, to summon all his wits. Because there was something burning inside him, something he did not fully understand, which was driving him to find his father’s murderer.

Perhaps it was his own guilt that drove him, his unresolved relationship with his father; in some ways, he saw this as his chance to, finally, gain his father’s approval. If he could not have it in life, perhaps he could gain it in death. And if he found his father’s killer, he might also vindicate himself, vindicate what had been thus far of his life.

Godfrey burned, too, with the injustice of it all. He hated the idea of his brother, Gareth, sitting on the throne. Gareth had always been a scheming, manipulative human being, a cold bastard, with no love for anyone but himself. Godfrey had been around shady types all his life, and he could spot one a mile away. He recognized it in Gareth’s eyes, the evil welling up and shining like something from beneath the earth. This was a man who wanted power; who wanted to dominate others. Godfrey knew that Gareth was dirty. And he felt certain that he had something to do with their father’s murder.

Godfrey climbed another flight of steps, turned down a corridor, and felt himself grow cold as he walked down the final corridor leading to his father’s chamber. Walking down it brought back memories, too fresh, of the approach to his father’s chamber; of being summoned by him, chastised by him. He had always hated walking down this final stretch to his chamber.

Yet now, oddly, it brought forth a different sensation: it was like walking the hall of a ghost. He could almost feel his father’s presence lingering here with each step he took.

Godfrey reached the last door, and turned and stood before it. It was a large, arched door, a foot thick, and looked a thousand years old. He wondered how many MacGils had used this door. It was strange to see it here like this, unguarded. Not once in Godfrey’s life had he seen it without guards before it. It was as if, now, no one cared that his father had ever existed.

The door was closed, and Godfrey reached out and grasped its iron handle and pushed it open. It opened within an ancient creak, and he stepped inside.

It was even more eerie in here, in this empty chamber, which still hummed with his father’s vitality. The bed was still made, his father’s clothes still draped across it, his mantle still hung in the far corner, his boots by the fireplace. The window was open, a sudden summer breeze rushed in, and Godfrey felt a chill; he felt his father standing there, right with him. The breeze billowed the linens hanging over the four-poster bed, and he could not but help think it was his father speaking to him. Godfrey felt overwhelmed with sadness.

Gareth walked the room, feeling a chill as he realized this is where his father was murdered. He did not know what he was looking for exactly, but he sensed that here, where it happened, would be the place to start. Perhaps there was some small clue overlooked that could help spark an idea. He assumed that the council had already combed over this room. But he wanted to try. He needed to try, for himself.

But after minutes of scouring, he saw no clues that jumped out at him.

“Godfrey?” came a woman’s voice.

Godfrey spun, caught off guard, not expecting anyone else in here with him. He saw, standing there, his younger sister, Gwendolyn.

“You scared me,” he said, and breathed. “I did not know anyone was in here with me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “The door was open. I did not expect to find you in here, either.”

He narrowed his eyes, studying her. She looked lost, troubled.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same,” she responded. “It’s too early in the day. You must have been driven here. Like myself.”

Godfrey looked in all directions, looking for signs of anyone watching or listening. He realized how paranoid he had become. Slowly, warily, he nodded back.

Godfrey had always cared for Gwen. Of all his siblings, she was the only one that he felt did not judge her. He’d always appreciated how sensitive and compassionate she was. He had always sensed that, of all of his family members, she might be the only one willing to believe in him, to give him a second chance. And he felt he could tell her anything without fear of reprisal.

“You are right,” he responded. “I do feel driven to be here. In fact, I can think of little else.”

“I feel the same,” she said. “His death was too sudden. And too violent. I find it hard to relax, to enjoy life, until I know we’ve caught his murderer. I had a terrible dream. And it drove me here.”

Godfrey nodded. He understood.

He watched Gwendolyn as she walked about the room, taking it all in. He could see the anguish in her face, and he realized how painful this must be for her, too. After all, she was closest to their father. Closer than any of them.

“I thought that perhaps by coming here I might find something,” Godfrey said, as he walked about the room again himself, looking through every corner, under the bed, through every detail. “But nothing is apparent.”

She surveyed the room herself, walking slowly.

“What of these stains?” she asked.

He turned and hurried over to where she was looking. On the floor, against the dark stone, there was the faintest outline of a stain. They walked towards the window, following the trail, and as they entered the sunlight, he could see it more clearly: a bloodstain. He felt a chill. The stains covered the floors, the walls, and he realized they were his father’s.

“It must have been a violent struggle,” she said, following the trail throughout the room.

“Awful,” he said.

“I don’t know exactly what I was hoping to find here,” she said. “But I think perhaps it was a waste of time. I see nothing.”

“Nor do I,” Godfrey said.

“Perhaps there are better places to look,” she said.

“Where?”

She shrugged. “Wherever it is, it’s not here.”

Godfrey felt another cold breeze, and felt a chill that would not leave him. He was overcome with a desire to leave this room, and he could see in Gwen’s eyes that she felt the same.

As one, they turned and headed for the door.

But as Godfrey was heading towards the door, suddenly something caught his eye that made him stop.

“Wait,” he said. “Look here.”

Gwen turned and looked, following him as he walked several steps across the room, towards the fireplace. He reached up, and fingered a blood stain on the wall.

“This stain, it’s not like the others,” he said. “It’s in a different part of the room. And it’s lighter.”

They exchanged a puzzled look as they both examined the wall more closely.

“It could be from the murder weapon,” he added. “Maybe he tried to hide it in the wall.”

Godfrey touched the stones, feeling for a loose one, but he could not find it. Then Gwen stopped and pointed towards the fireplace.

“There,” she said.

He looked, but did not see anything.

“Beside the fireplace pit. Do you see it? That hole in the wall. It’s a chute. A waste chute.”

“What of it?” he asked.

“Those stains, from the dagger. They surround it. Look at the ceiling of the pit.”

They got down on their knees and looked closely, and he was amazed to realize that she was right. The stains led right to the chute.

“The dagger came this way,” she deduced. “He must have thrown it down the chute.”

They both turned and looked at each other, and knew where they had to go.

“The waste room,” he said.

*

Godfrey and Gwendolyn wound their way down the castle’s narrow stone, spiral staircase, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the castle, deeper in fact than Godfrey had ever been. Just as he was beginning to get dizzy, they reached an iron door. He turned to Gwen.

“This looks like the servants’ quarters,” he said. “I assume the waste room is behind these doors.”

“Try it,” she said.

Godfrey reached up and slammed on the door, and after a wait, he heard footsteps. Finally, the door opened. A long, solemn face stared back blankly.

“Yes?” asked the older man, clearly a lifelong servant.

Godfrey turned to Gwen, and she nodded back.

“Is this the waste room?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man answered. “And also the prep room for the kitchen. What business have you here?”

Before Godfrey could respond, the man narrowed his eyes, looking at them with sudden recognition.

“Wait a moment,” he added. “Are you the king’s children?” His eyes lit up in deference. “You are,” he answered himself. “What are you doing down here?”

“Please,” Gwen said softly, stepping forward and placing a hand on his wrist. “Let us in.”

The man stepped back and opened the door wide, and they hurried inside.

Godfrey was surprised by this room he had never been in, although it was in the structure he had lived in all his life. They were all in the bowels of the castle, in a vast room, dark, lit by sporadic torches, filled with burning fire pits, with wood prep tables, and huge bubbling cauldrons hanging over pits. Clearly this room was mean to hold dozens of servants. But other than this man, it was empty.

“You’ve come at an odd time of day,” the man said. “We have not yet begun the breakfast preparations. The others will arrive shortly.”

“That’s OK,” Godfrey answered. “We are here for another reason.”

“Where is the waste pit?” Gwen asked, wasting no time.

The man stared back, baffled.

“The waste pit?” he echoed. “But why would you want to know this?”

“Please, just show it to us,” Godfrey said.

The servant stared back, with his long face and sunken cheeks, then finally turned and led them across the room.

They all stopped before a large, stone pit, inside of which was an immense cauldron, one so large it needed to be hoisted by at least two people, and which looked as if it could contain the waste of the entire castle. It sat beneath a chute, which must have led high above. Godfrey could smell it from here, and he recoiled.

Godfrey stepped forward with Gwen and carefully examined the wall surrounding it. But despite their best efforts, they could see no stains, and nothing out of place.

They looked down into the cauldron, but it was empty.

“You’ll find nothing in there,” the servant said. “It’s emptied every hour. On the hour.”

Godfrey wondered if this was all a waste of time. He sighed, and he and Gwen exchanged a disappointed look.

“Is this about my master?” the attendant finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Your master?” Gwen asked.

“The one who is missing?”

“Missing?” Godfrey asked.

The servant nodded.

“He disappeared one night and never came back to work. There are rumors of a murder.”

Godfrey and Gwen exchanged a look.

“Tell us more,” Gwen prodded.

Before he could respond, a rear door opened, on the far side of the chamber, and in walked a man whose appearance stunned Godfrey. He was short, and wide, and most strikingly, his back was deformed, twisted and hunched over. He walked with a limp, and it was an effort for him to lift his head. He ambled over, their way.

The man finally stood before them, looking back and forth between Godfrey and the servant.

“It is a privilege that you should grace us with your presence, my lords,” the hunchback said with a bow.

“Steffen would know far more about the matter than I,” the other servant added, accusingly. Clearly this servant did not like Steffen.

With that, the servant turned and hurried off, crossing the room and disappearing through a back door. Steffen watched him go.

Godfrey and Gwen exchanged a look.

“Steffen, may we speak with you?” Gwen asked, softly, trying to set him at ease.

Steffen stared back at them with twisting hands, looking very nervous.

“I don’t know what he told you, but that one is full of lies. And gossip,” Steffen said, already defensive. “I have done nothing.”

“We never said you did,” Godfrey said, also trying to reassure him. It was clear that Steffen had something to hide, and he wanted to know what it was. He felt that it had something to do with his father’s death.

“We want to ask you about our father, the king,” Gwen said. “About the night he died. Do you recall anything unusual that night? A weapon falling down the waste chute?”

Steffen squirmed, looking at the floor, not meeting their eyes.

“I know nothing of any dagger,” he said.

“Who said anything of a dagger?” Godfrey prodded.

Steffen looked back up guiltily, and Godfrey knew they had caught him in a lie. This man definitely had something to hide. He felt emboldened.

Steffen said nothing in response, but merely toed the floor, continuing to wring his hands.

“I know nothing,” he repeated. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Godfrey and Gwen exchanged a knowing look. They had found someone important. Yet it was also clear he would give them nothing more. Godfrey felt that he had to do something to get him to talk.

Godfrey stepped forward, reached up, and lay a firm hand on Steffen’s shoulder. Steffen looked up, guiltily, like a schoolboy who had been caught, and Godfrey scowled down, tightening his grip and holding it there.

“We know about what happened to your master,” he said, bluffing. “Now, you can either tell us all we want to know about our father’s murder, or we can have you thrown in the dungeon to never see light again. The choice is yours.”

As he stood there, Godfrey felt the strength of his father overcome him, felt, for the first time, the inherent strength that ran in his own blood, the blood of a long line of kings. For the first time in his life, he felt strong. Confident. Worthy. He felt like a MacGil. And for once, he felt his father’s approval.

Steffen must have sensed it. Because finally, after a very long while, he stopped squirming. He looked up, met Godfrey’s eyes, and nodded in acquiescence.

“I won’t go to jail?” he asked. “If I tell you?”

“You will not,” Godfrey answered. “As long as you had nothing to do with our father’s death. This I promise you.”

Steffen licked his lips, thinking, then finally, after a long while, he nodded.

“OK,” he finally said. “I will tell you everything.”