A March of Kings

CHAPTER FOUR

Gareth paced his chamber, reliving the events of the night, flooded with anxiety. He could hardly believe what had happened at the feast, how it had all gone so wrong. He could hardly comprehend that that stupid boy, that outsider, Thor, had somehow caught onto his poison plot—and even more, had managed to actually intercept the goblet. Gareth thought back to that moment when he saw Thor jump up, knock down the goblet, when he heard the goblet hit the stone, watched the wine spill out on the floor, and saw all his dreams and aspirations spill out with it.

In that moment, he had been ruined. Everything he’d lived for had been crushed. And when that dog lapped up the wine and dropped dead—he knew he was finished. He saw his whole life flash before him, saw himself discovered, sentenced to life in the dungeon for trying to kill his father. Or worse, executed. It was stupid. He should have never gone through with the plan, never visited that witch.

Gareth had, at least, acted quickly, taking a chance and jumping to his feet and being the first to pin the blame on Thor. Looking back, he was proud of himself, at how quickly he had reacted. It had been a moment of inspiration, and to his amazement, it seemed to have worked. They had dragged Thor off, and afterwards, the feast had nearly settled down again. Of course, nothing was the same after that, but at the very least, the suspicion seemed to fall squarely on the boy.

Gareth only prayed that it stayed that way. It had been decades since an assassination attempt on a MacGil, and Gareth feared there would be an inquiry, that they would end up looking more deeply into the deed. Looking back, it had been foolish to try to poison him. His father was invincible. He should have known that. He had over-reached. And now he could not help feel as if it were only a matter of time until the suspicion fell on him. He would have to do whatever he could to prove Thor’s guilt, and have him executed before it was too late.

At least Gareth had somewhat redeemed himself: after that failed attempt, he had called off the assassination. Now, Gareth felt relieved. After watching the plot fail, he had realized that there was a part of him, deep down, that did not want to kill his father after all, that did not want to have his blood on his hands. He would not be King. He might never be king. But after tonight’s events, that was okay with him. At least he would be free. He could never handle the stress of going through all of this again, the secrets, the covering up, the constant anxiety of being found out. It was too much for him.

As he paced and paced, the night growing late, finally, slowly, he began to calm. Just as he was beginning to feel himself, preparing to settle in for the night, there came a sudden crash, and he turned to see his door burst open. In burst Firth, wide-eyed, frantic, rushing into the room as if he were being chased.

“He’s dead!” Firth screamed. “He’s dead! I killed him. He’s dead!”

Firth was hysterical, wailing, and Gareth had no idea what he was talking about. Was he drunk?

Firth ran throughout the room, shrieking, crying, holding up his hands—and it was then that Gareth noticed his palms, covered in blood, his yellow tunic, stained red.

Gareth’s heart skipped a beat. Firth had just killed someone. But who?

“Who is dead?” Gareth demanded. “Who do you speak of?”

But Firth was hysterical, and could not focus. Gareth ran to him, grabbed his shoulders firmly and shook him.

“Answer me!”

Firth opened his eyes and stared, with the eyes of a wild horse.

“Your father! The King. He’s dead! By my hand!”

At his words, Gareth felt as if a knife had been plunged into his own heart.

He stared back, wide-eyed, frozen, feeling his whole body go numb. He released his grip, took a step back, and tried to catch his breath. He could see from all the blood that Firth was genuine. He could not even fathom it. Firth? The stable boy? The most weak-willed of all his friends? Killed his father?

“But…how is that possible?” Gareth gasped. “When?”

“It happened in his chamber,” Firth said. “Just now. I stabbed him.”

The reality of the news began to sink in, and Gareth regained his wits; he noticed his open door, ran to it, and slammed it shut, checking first to make sure no guards had seen. Luckily, the corridor was empty. He pulled the heavy iron bolt across it.

He hurried back across the room. Firth was still hysterical, and he needed to calm him. He needed answers.

He grasped him by the shoulders, spun him, and back-handed him hard enough to make him stop. Finally, Firth focused on him.

“Tell me everything,” Gareth ordered coldly. “Tell me exactly what happened. Why did you do this?”

“What do you mean why?” Firth asked, confused. “You wanted to kill him. Your poison didn’t work. I thought I could help you. I thought that was what you wanted.”

Gareth shook his head. He grabbed Firth by the shirt and shook him, again and again.

“Why did you do this!?” Gareth screamed.

Gareth felt his whole world crumbling. He was shocked to realize that he actually felt remorse for his father. He could not understand it. Just hours ago, he’d wanted more than anything to see him poisoned, dead at the table. Now the idea of his being killed struck him like the death of a best friend. He felt overwhelmed with remorse. A part of him had not wanted him to die after all—especially not this way. Not by Firth’s hand. And not by a blade.

“I don’t understand,” Firth whined. “Just hours ago you tried to kill him yourself. Your goblet plot. I thought you would be grateful!”

To his own surprise, Gareth reached back and smacked Firth across the face.

“I did not tell you to do this!” Gareth spat. “I never told you to do this. Why did you kill him? Look at you. You are covered in blood. Now we are both finished. It is only a matter of time until the guards catch us.”

“No one saw,” Firth pleaded. “I slipped between the shifts. No one spotted me.”

“And where is the weapon?”

“I did not leave it,” Firth said proudly. “I’m not stupid. I disposed of it.”

“And what blade did you use?” Gareth asked, his mind spinning with the implications. He went from remorse to worry; his mind raced with every detail of the trail that this bumbling fool might have left, every detail that might lead to him.

“I used one that could not be traced,” Firth said, proud of himself. “It was a dull, anonymous blade. I found it in the stables. There were four others just like it. It could not be traced,” he repeated.

Gareth felt his heart drop.

“Was it a short knife, with a red handle and a curved blade? Mounted on the wall beside my horse?”

Firth nodded back, looking doubtful.

Gareth glowered.

“You fool. Of course that blade is traceable!”

“But there were no markings on it!” Firth protested, sounding scared, his voice trembling.

“There are no markings on the blade—but there is a mark on the hilt!” Gareth yelled. “Underneath! You did not check carefully. You fool,” Gareth said, stepping forward, reddening. “The emblem of my horse is carved underneath it. Anyone who knows the royal family well can trace that blade back to me.”

He stared at Firth, who seemed stumped. He wanted to kill him.

“What did you do with it?” Gareth pressed. “Tell me you have it on you. Tell me that you brought it back with you. Please.”

Firth swallowed.

“I disposed of it carefully. No one will ever find it.”

Gareth grimaced.

“Where, exactly?”

“I threw it down the stone chute, into the castle’s chamber pot. They dump the pot every hour, into the river. Do not worry, my lord. It’s deep in the river by now.”

The castle bells suddenly tolled, and Gareth turned and ran to the open window, his heart flooded with panic. He looked out and saw all the chaos and commotion below, mobs surrounding the castle. Those bells tolling could only mean one thing: Firth was not lying. He had killed his father. He could scarcely believe it.

Gareth felt his body grow icy cold. He could not conceive that he had set in motion such a great evil. And that Firth, of all people, had executed it.

There came a sudden pounding at his door, and as it burst open, several royal guards rushed in. For a moment, Gareth was sure they would arrest him.

But to his surprise, they stopped and stood at attention.

“My Lord, your father has been stabbed. There may be an assassin on the loose. Be sure to stay safe in your room. He is gravely injured.”

The hair rose on the back of Gareth’s neck at that last word.

“Injured?” Gareth echoed, the word nearly sticking in his throat. “Is he still alive then?”

“He is, my lord. And god be with him, he will survive, and tell us who did this heinous act.”

With a short bow the guard hurried from the room, slamming closed the door.

A rage overwhelmed Gareth and he grabbed Firth by his shoulders, drove him across the room and slammed him into a stone wall.

Firth stared back, wide-eyed, looking horrified, speechless.

“What have you done?” Gareth screamed. “Now we are both finished!”

“But…but….” Firth stumbled, “…I was sure he was dead!”

“You are sure of a lot of things,” Gareth said, “and they are all wrong!”

A thought occurred to Gareth.

“That dagger,” he said. “We have to retrieve it, before it’s too late.”

“But I threw it away, my lord,” Firth said. “It is washed away in the river!”

“You threw it into a chamber pot. That does not mean it is yet in the river.”

“But it most likely is!” Firth said.

Gareth could stand this idiot’s bumbling no longer. He burst past him, running out the door, Firth on his heels.

“I will go with you. I will show you exactly where I threw it,” Firth said.

Gareth stopped in the corridor, turned and stared at Firth. He was covered in blood, and Gareth was amazed the guards had not spotted it. It was lucky. He was more of a liability than ever.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Gareth growled. “Get back to my room at once, change your clothes, and burn them. Get rid of any traces of blood. Then disappear from this castle. Stay away from me on this night. Do you understand me?”

Gareth shoved him back, then turned and ran. He sprinted down the corridor, ran down the spiral stone staircase, going down level after level, towards the servant’s quarters.

Finally, he burst into the basement, to the turned heads of several servants. They had been in the midst of scrubbing enormous pots and boiling pails of water. Huge fires roared amidst brick kilns, and the servants, wearing stained aprons, were drenched in sweat.

On the far side of the room Gareth spotted an enormous chamber pot, filth hailing down from a chute and splashing in it every minute.

Gareth ran up to the closest servant and grabbed his arm desperately.

“When was the last pot emptied?” Gareth asked.

“It was taken to the river just minutes ago, my lord.”

Gareth turned and raced out the room, sprinting down the castle corridors, back up the spiral staircase, and bursting out into the cool night air.

He ran across the grass field, breathless as he sprinted for the river.

As he neared it, he found a place to hide, behind a large tree, close to the shore. He watched two servants raise the huge iron pot and tilt it into the rushing current of the river.

He watched until it was upside down, all of its contents emptied, until they turned back with the pot and trekked back towards the castle.

Finally, Gareth was satisfied. No one had spotted any blade. Wherever it was, it was now in the river’s tides, being washed away into anonymity. If his father should die on this night, there would be no evidence left to trace the murderer.

Or would there?