When I finally sat up in bed, it felt like I'd slept for days, not hours. The house had a midday calm about it, as though breakfast had been cleared long ago. I got up and dressed quickly. Downstairs, the place was empty and dark. Through an open window, I heard song wafting in on the breeze, and I looked out to see the innkeeper and his wife in the garden.
"Ah, the dead has risen then, wife!" The innkeeper shot a broad grin over his shoulder.
Sheepishly, I made my way to the garden. It was my secret fear that the innkeeper would ask me to assist with the tending of the plants, a task I knew I was not suited to. My thumbs were a deadly black and every plant they'd ever come into contact with knew it.
"Pull up a chair, then, P'fessor." The innkeeper motioned to a broad adirondack positioned invitingly under the shade of a massive oak tree. Had that been there moments ago? I hadn't seen it, if it had. I gladly sank into the chair, feeling my weight cradled in the angled back. The innkeeper's garden was immaculate, both lush and pristine. I loved it at once. Antique rose vines overhung the garden wall and perfumed the shaded alcove where I sat. From the vegetable patch, the innkeeper's song bounced in jolly waves. Though I only caught small snatches here and there, it seemed to me to be a pirate's sea shanty and I was enchanted to distant lands on the rise and fall of its melody.
As the day was warm, presently I began to feel thirsty, though I had done no work, and had exerted myself no further than to prop my feet before me. The longer the innkeeper sang, the more thirsty I became, until my mouth seemed to have turned to sand paper and my legs to lead weights. Finally, he propped his hoe against the fence and settled into a chair beside me. Though it took all my will, for by this time, my eyes too had begun to feel a heavy weight upon them, I turned to beg a drink of my host. To my surprise, he held out to me a tall glass of lemonade. On the table between us sat an enormous pitcher of lemonade and a tray of glasses. Had that been there before? I felt certain it hadn't, but was more than happy to have a drink now. I drank my thirst without speaking, and for some minutes the innkeeper and I sat in silence.
Of course, I was burning to hear more of King Harold, which my host had promised to tell me. When I looked in his direction, however, I thought better of asking him since he seemed to enjoy the undisturbed peace of the afternoon, so resolutely did he study the horizon in unwavering stare. I half thought he might be surveying the corn fields for the highland lassie he'd sung about.
"He never meant no harm. That was the thing you'd got to remember about him."
The conviction with which he spoke struck me forcibly and I offered immediately, "Right." The innkeeper's eyes hadn't moved from the horizon, though I saw nothing there. Even so, I felt as though I had somehow been accused of thinking otherwise, and wanted to lay to rest any notion that I would be among those detractors who thought otherwise than that King Harold had been anything but a just ruler.
It was some time before the innkeeper spoke again, but when he did, he turned and looked me straight in the face and said solemnly, "then I shall tell you the rest of the story.
Once again, the innkeeper's voice transformed and I was instantly spellbound by the tale he wove. I've tried to copy it out here without alteration.
"Ah, the dead has risen then, wife!" The innkeeper shot a broad grin over his shoulder.
Sheepishly, I made my way to the garden. It was my secret fear that the innkeeper would ask me to assist with the tending of the plants, a task I knew I was not suited to. My thumbs were a deadly black and every plant they'd ever come into contact with knew it.
"Pull up a chair, then, P'fessor." The innkeeper motioned to a broad adirondack positioned invitingly under the shade of a massive oak tree. Had that been there moments ago? I hadn't seen it, if it had. I gladly sank into the chair, feeling my weight cradled in the angled back. The innkeeper's garden was immaculate, both lush and pristine. I loved it at once. Antique rose vines overhung the garden wall and perfumed the shaded alcove where I sat. From the vegetable patch, the innkeeper's song bounced in jolly waves. Though I only caught small snatches here and there, it seemed to me to be a pirate's sea shanty and I was enchanted to distant lands on the rise and fall of its melody.
As the day was warm, presently I began to feel thirsty, though I had done no work, and had exerted myself no further than to prop my feet before me. The longer the innkeeper sang, the more thirsty I became, until my mouth seemed to have turned to sand paper and my legs to lead weights. Finally, he propped his hoe against the fence and settled into a chair beside me. Though it took all my will, for by this time, my eyes too had begun to feel a heavy weight upon them, I turned to beg a drink of my host. To my surprise, he held out to me a tall glass of lemonade. On the table between us sat an enormous pitcher of lemonade and a tray of glasses. Had that been there before? I felt certain it hadn't, but was more than happy to have a drink now. I drank my thirst without speaking, and for some minutes the innkeeper and I sat in silence.
Of course, I was burning to hear more of King Harold, which my host had promised to tell me. When I looked in his direction, however, I thought better of asking him since he seemed to enjoy the undisturbed peace of the afternoon, so resolutely did he study the horizon in unwavering stare. I half thought he might be surveying the corn fields for the highland lassie he'd sung about.
"He never meant no harm. That was the thing you'd got to remember about him."
The conviction with which he spoke struck me forcibly and I offered immediately, "Right." The innkeeper's eyes hadn't moved from the horizon, though I saw nothing there. Even so, I felt as though I had somehow been accused of thinking otherwise, and wanted to lay to rest any notion that I would be among those detractors who thought otherwise than that King Harold had been anything but a just ruler.
It was some time before the innkeeper spoke again, but when he did, he turned and looked me straight in the face and said solemnly, "then I shall tell you the rest of the story.
Once again, the innkeeper's voice transformed and I was instantly spellbound by the tale he wove. I've tried to copy it out here without alteration.
The Tale of Warwick
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
The years passed in quick succession, and the boys grew up and apart, as two branches of a tree, until finally upon Harold's coming of age, neither had much to say to the other. Edward was serious and studious and spent his days in closeted chambers of court, weighing matters of state with a steady hand and a clear mind. Harold, however, departed for the highlands of Warwick as soon as he was named Duke. There, he was known to wench and gamble far more than was seemly for any noble. Tales of his exploits were carried to court on the backs of peddler's ponies and on the lips of some of the lowest and scurviest sea dogs ever to be seen. King Edgar did what he could to hide his son's dalliances, but try as he might Harold's wild debauchery became the embarrassment of the court. The King threatened Harold with removing him from his university, and of sending him away on a diplomatic mission to the farthest reaches of the realm, but to no avail. It seemed that no degree of punishment or cajolery would alter Harold's course. Despite his wild exploits, Harold was a favorite among the student body at Warton University. Though he never took a degree or attended so much as a lecture, everyone knew and loved him for his ready smile and his simple wit. His love of wine, women, and song made him a favorite
drinking companion among the intellectuals, and his strong arm and open-hearted love of conquest
made him a ready and able hunting companion among the young hot-blooded nobles. Even the professors found him charming and forgave his ignorance of Greek and geometry in view of his ability to create comraderie and to promote political causes and radical ideas among the youth. Indeed, everyone found in Harold what they were looking for most: acknowledgment and appreciation of their particular interests and abilities. Soon, his closest companions were several young nobles, Richard Chesterfield, Thomas Campion, and Henri Dernier. They used to joke openly about the weakness of Edward's pedantic brand of sophistry and even jested that Harold would make a far better King. It was dangerous talk, to be sure, if word traveled back to Edward, but Harold was a reckless young rake and hardly feared anything that might be said to or about him.
"Deal again, Vaughn." Harold laughed, "and don't look so seriously there, Carpenter. All is well w'ye. We'll see you rich yet. We shall!"
"This game is getting to be too rich for the likes of me, milord," John Carpenter returned, his blond locks trembling in the firelight.
"Nonsense, Carpenter. Another round to feed your heart courage, I say!"
"This game is getting to be too rich for the likes of me, milord," John Carpenter returned, his blond locks trembling in the firelight.
"Nonsense, Carpenter. Another round to feed your heart courage, I say!"
"Such is the wisdom that'll see you crowned monarch, Leo!"
"Aye, and such a lion-hearted King I'll be!" Harold raised his glass and drained it in one draught. "You'll see my wisdom clear enough Carpenter when I knight you for your courage in battle." Harold laughed heartily, "but first you'll have to see this game through!"
"Aye, and such a lion-hearted King I'll be!" Harold raised his glass and drained it in one draught. "You'll see my wisdom clear enough Carpenter when I knight you for your courage in battle." Harold laughed heartily, "but first you'll have to see this game through!"
"In that case, I fold."
"My serious Carpenter, I like you. You shall be Earl, indeed! Natures of such deep gravity we shall much need. You we shall first seize upon."
"Earl, milord?"
"Call me Leo, Lion of Warwick, if you must address me. I say, bar maid, another round here for my serious friend." Harold laughed infectiously, and swatted the bar maid on the bottom. She turned and shot him a temptress's smile.
"Make that two rounds." A man of twenty with curly brown hair motioned the innkeeper away who bowed with humble servility and withdrew quietly.
"Chesterfield, you've made it at last. I say, are you still attending those interminable lectures on Greek art? We've been waiting all the day for you."
"Earl, milord?"
"Call me Leo, Lion of Warwick, if you must address me. I say, bar maid, another round here for my serious friend." Harold laughed infectiously, and swatted the bar maid on the bottom. She turned and shot him a temptress's smile.
"Make that two rounds." A man of twenty with curly brown hair motioned the innkeeper away who bowed with humble servility and withdrew quietly.
"Chesterfield, you've made it at last. I say, are you still attending those interminable lectures on Greek art? We've been waiting all the day for you."
"Some of us have to keep up appearances, my dear Leo." Chesterfield laughed merrily, picking up the cards.
"Finally someone who knows how to handle the cards!" Dernier raised his glass to Chesterfield, who shuffled the deck in midair.
"Indeed. I thought as much," Chesterfield countered, "Fancy asking that dolt Vaughn to deal! He's got the arm of a woman and his ale is more sour than pig's piss."
Everyone laughed heartily, their voices ringing merrily through the bar.
"Chesterfield, I say, where have we been all this time without you. Lost indeed."
The bar maid returned with a tray of icy mugs. Chesterfield threw his arm about her and buried his face in her ample bosom as she giggled uproariously. "More pig's piss for'ye mi'lord?" She bubbled girlishly.
"Yes, my dear thing," Chesterfield returned, pinching her on her wide backside.
On her disappearance, Chesterfield became instantly composed. He looked gravely around as he dealt the cards. When he spoke, it was in even, measured tones. "I have a confession, Leo."
"A confession? Which of us here shall play Bishop?" Harold jested, waving his mug in the air.
Dernier tipped his mug and smiled broadly, but no one spoke, and gravity was restored by a single, serious glance from Chesterfield.
"You may jest, Leo, but I haven't only come to play spades and jacks with you today. Word has it that Edward is assembling forces to march on Amicouer. If the conquest goes well, he'll have a clear route to Westsea."
"He can't succeed. The Baron controls the fens with aquatic monsters. His forces are inimitable."
For centuries, Havinia had been a landlocked country, with no route to the sea. Every monarch since King Redwulf had dreamed of securing land passage to the sea to ensure trade with distant lands. So far, no attempts had been successful. Though Applemere, a small barony in the south of Amicouer, had once been a friendly province of Haevinia, relations between Applemere and the other shires had become increasingly strained, until finally separation from the union was all but impossible to avoid. Though no official secession had ever been recognized by any monarch of Haevinia, the ruling families of Applemere had severed all ties with Haevinia and declared themselves a sovereign nation. Still, to anyone in Haevinia the highest lord in Applemere was titled the Baron Aquamarin'e, regardless of what he chose to call himself.
"Prince Edward has been studying the problem. He has called in experts from distant lands. He thinks he can overcome the Baron's forces and recapture Applemere, and restore relations with Amicouer."
"Ah. My noble brother, always the perfect scholar. What will father say when he finds defeat in the bogs of Elderberry like all of his forefathers before him?"
"That's just it, Leo. He's got the King convinced that the plan will succeed. Rumor has it they've brought in alchemists to solve the problem of crossing the bogs. So, I've come with a proposition for you." Chesterfield leaned back in his chair and took a deep draft from his mug.
"A proposition? Sounds serious. What is it?" It was clear Harold's interest was piqued. "Perhaps you think we should seek a pilot to ferry us across the bogs this evening?"
Littleton coughed. "Stop, Leo, you've nearly choked me to death here." He removed a cherry pit from his mouth and dropped it on his plate.
"You're not far wrong, my dear Leo." Chesterfield's eyes glinted merrily in the late afternoon haze. "But those plans shall have to wait, I fear. For this evening, I propose we shall find some festivities."
"Now that sounds like a plan I can get behind!" Harold thumped the table, shaking all of the glasses. "What've ye got in mind, Chesterfield?"
Campion smiled, but looked confused as he waited for Chesterfield's explanation.
"None other than a ball, my friends. Hosted by my Lord Aubergine."
"Do you mean the fellow with five daughters to marry? The one who comes from a mysterious land? What does he call it? Eldermere? Count me out. None will come out of there bachelors." Harold laughed, sending the whole table into an uproar again.
"That's just the idea, Leo," Campion declared with false exuberance. "Think it over. We've got gambling debts to settle. And he's got daughters to settle. Such an even trade, don't you think. It's the perfect conspiracy." Campion shot Chesterfield a withering look. "But I don't see what it's got to do with Applemere!"
"Finally someone who knows how to handle the cards!" Dernier raised his glass to Chesterfield, who shuffled the deck in midair.
"Indeed. I thought as much," Chesterfield countered, "Fancy asking that dolt Vaughn to deal! He's got the arm of a woman and his ale is more sour than pig's piss."
Everyone laughed heartily, their voices ringing merrily through the bar.
"Chesterfield, I say, where have we been all this time without you. Lost indeed."
The bar maid returned with a tray of icy mugs. Chesterfield threw his arm about her and buried his face in her ample bosom as she giggled uproariously. "More pig's piss for'ye mi'lord?" She bubbled girlishly.
"Yes, my dear thing," Chesterfield returned, pinching her on her wide backside.
On her disappearance, Chesterfield became instantly composed. He looked gravely around as he dealt the cards. When he spoke, it was in even, measured tones. "I have a confession, Leo."
"A confession? Which of us here shall play Bishop?" Harold jested, waving his mug in the air.
Dernier tipped his mug and smiled broadly, but no one spoke, and gravity was restored by a single, serious glance from Chesterfield.
"You may jest, Leo, but I haven't only come to play spades and jacks with you today. Word has it that Edward is assembling forces to march on Amicouer. If the conquest goes well, he'll have a clear route to Westsea."
"He can't succeed. The Baron controls the fens with aquatic monsters. His forces are inimitable."
For centuries, Havinia had been a landlocked country, with no route to the sea. Every monarch since King Redwulf had dreamed of securing land passage to the sea to ensure trade with distant lands. So far, no attempts had been successful. Though Applemere, a small barony in the south of Amicouer, had once been a friendly province of Haevinia, relations between Applemere and the other shires had become increasingly strained, until finally separation from the union was all but impossible to avoid. Though no official secession had ever been recognized by any monarch of Haevinia, the ruling families of Applemere had severed all ties with Haevinia and declared themselves a sovereign nation. Still, to anyone in Haevinia the highest lord in Applemere was titled the Baron Aquamarin'e, regardless of what he chose to call himself.
"Prince Edward has been studying the problem. He has called in experts from distant lands. He thinks he can overcome the Baron's forces and recapture Applemere, and restore relations with Amicouer."
"Ah. My noble brother, always the perfect scholar. What will father say when he finds defeat in the bogs of Elderberry like all of his forefathers before him?"
"That's just it, Leo. He's got the King convinced that the plan will succeed. Rumor has it they've brought in alchemists to solve the problem of crossing the bogs. So, I've come with a proposition for you." Chesterfield leaned back in his chair and took a deep draft from his mug.
"A proposition? Sounds serious. What is it?" It was clear Harold's interest was piqued. "Perhaps you think we should seek a pilot to ferry us across the bogs this evening?"
Littleton coughed. "Stop, Leo, you've nearly choked me to death here." He removed a cherry pit from his mouth and dropped it on his plate.
"You're not far wrong, my dear Leo." Chesterfield's eyes glinted merrily in the late afternoon haze. "But those plans shall have to wait, I fear. For this evening, I propose we shall find some festivities."
"Now that sounds like a plan I can get behind!" Harold thumped the table, shaking all of the glasses. "What've ye got in mind, Chesterfield?"
Campion smiled, but looked confused as he waited for Chesterfield's explanation.
"None other than a ball, my friends. Hosted by my Lord Aubergine."
"Do you mean the fellow with five daughters to marry? The one who comes from a mysterious land? What does he call it? Eldermere? Count me out. None will come out of there bachelors." Harold laughed, sending the whole table into an uproar again.
"That's just the idea, Leo," Campion declared with false exuberance. "Think it over. We've got gambling debts to settle. And he's got daughters to settle. Such an even trade, don't you think. It's the perfect conspiracy." Campion shot Chesterfield a withering look. "But I don't see what it's got to do with Applemere!"
"Conspiracy? Whatever do you mean?" Harold shook his head almost imperceptibly, a rakish grin overspreading his face in the candlelight.
Chesterfield looked at Campion as if to say, "Trust me on this one," before continuing in the same confidential tone. "Your father has cut you off, hasn't he?"
Though Chesterfield was speaking directly to Harold, everyone at the table nodded. Carpenter, who hadn't spoken or taken his eyes off his cards for the entire duration of the conversation, looked like he was only just holding back tears.
"What's your point, Chester?" Campion countered evenly, a cold precision in his voice.
"Your brother has no heir, right?"
"None that I'm aware of. Though there was that shepherdess in the valley." Harold smirked, knowing his virtuous brother had never so much as looked askance at a peasant woman.
"Waiting still, for the point to emerge." Campion scowled.
"Indubitably, your lordship," Chesterfield quipped, ducking Campion's half-hearted swipe. "My point is simple. Leopold, should you father a son, you'd be a step ahead of brother dearest. And with Aubergine's money, your debts would be paid."
"That would have to make your father happy," Campion added wryly. "But, my dear Chesterfield, I fail to see what any of this has to do with Applemere."
"Not the least of which is the scandal," Harold mused.
"Then it's settled. You shall have one of them. Which it matters little."
"Which is the wittiest?"
"Applemere? What does it have to do with Applemere?" It was clear that Campion would not give this line of reasoning up.
"Or the prettiest?"
"If you must know, Campion, I've discovered a connection between our dear Lord Aubergine and the inimitable Baron."
"Or the sweetest?" Harold swung arms with Carpenter and sang.
"A connection? What sort of connection?" Campion shouted over the singing.
"The Baron, it seems, is my dear Lord Aubergine's bastard."
At this revelation, the revelry ceased and a hushed calm fell over the table at once.
"You know this for a certainty?" Campion eyed Chesterfield severely in the silence.
"I do."
"How?"
"As I've said, you'll have to trust me. My sources are confidential, but quite accurate."
"And does the Baron know his father?"
"He does. The Baron knows Amicouer is the key to Haevinia's future. He has been working to become legitimated so that he may inherit my Lord Aubergine's exapansive lands."
Harold laughed heartily, breaking the silence.
"But Aubergine has a son." Harold countered laying down a royal flush, "and from what I've seen very little interest in combining the future of Amicouer with Haevinia. My father has already tried to forge a match with his realm many times over. It is out of the question."
"An infant son. An excellent viceroy to your Majesty ... once you are crowned, milord."
"Careful Chesterfield. Treasonous talk." Harold gestured affably toward him, raising his glass.
"Perhaps. But I hardly see how Aubergine can resist one so ... knowledgeable ... as you milord."
"So you mean you want me to persuade his lordship ..."
"I think, my dearest lord, you will find my lord Aubergine to be very moveable once you make him aware of how he may avoid scandal."
The logic went round the table faster than lightning, before returning to Chesterfield's conclusion, "Yes, that is exactly what I mean. You must see that you protect his lordship from the inconvenient Baron."
Silence fell again, as Harold's gaze bored into Chesterfield's brow.
"It's brilliant!" he finally shouted, sending everyone into gales of laughter once more.
"But I do not see how this forestalls the problem of the impassable bogs."
"Oh, Thomas, my dear man. You worry overmuch," Harold slapped him on the back. "One step at a time, dear friend. One step at a time!"
The innkeeper paused and refilled his pipe. The light over the corn field had grown long and I realized I had spent the better part of the day in the adirondack chair. I wasn't sure if I could feel my legs any more. And a sudden desire to get up and move about came over me. I ventured a question, against my better judgment. "So he married one of the Aubergine maids?"
"He did."
"And which did he marry?" I asked, stretching my legs on the lawn. They were stiff and wobbly. I couldn't feel my left foot at all.
"The oldest."
"I mean, did he marry the wittiest, the prettiest, or the sweetest?"
"None of the above. He married the oldest, as I told you."
Later, in front of the fireplace, the innkeeper resumed his tale.
Within months, Harold wed Lady Anne, against his father's wishes, of course, but given his plan to usurp his brother's throne, that hardly mattered. His marriage was at once the scandal and the hope of the nation, depending upon who you asked. Unifying the realms of Haevinia and Amicouer had been the lasting hope of every monarch for many generations. However, none had found the way to do it. The mystery of how Harold had succeeded where his intellectual brother had failed was a lingering question on everyone's mind. Everyone had an opinion, that much was certain. To say it was divisive is an understatement. It was revolutionary. Edward's own match had been providential in securing the throne, but, of course, no one knew of the connection to the Baron Aquamarin'e. That was a closely guarded secret.
Soon after the night of the ball, Edward's forces invaded Applemere. It was in high summer, the dry season of the year. Even so, the bogs proved to be no match for his cavalry. The horses were mired quickly, and the soft sticky mud was too thick for even a flat bottom boat to navigate. Edward's alchemists worked tirelessly to thwart the rain clouds the Baron sent to wet the sticky mud pits, but to little avail. Two years were spent in trying to navigate the eighty leagues from Hampshire Court to the Baron's stronghold and many good men were lost to the swarms of bog flies and mud snakes that infested that infernal land. The Baron sent flocks of carrion birds across the fen to feast upon the remains of Edward's forces. Only a fraction of the dead ever returned home to be buried among their kin. It was a horrible war without so much as a single, real battle. To say that it was a colossal failure is to speak too highly of its success.
Well, after that no one ever quite believed in Edward as they once did. It is not going too far to say here that the defeat was the end of wise King Edgar. Shortly after the news reached Hampshire Court, King Edgar was taken violently ill with a dangerous fever. After his death, Harold and Anne became court favorites, much to Edward's frustration. While Edward was closeted with his closest advisers, working to solve the problem of the rogue Baron, Harold spent his time forging alliances with new men presented at court. Never one to worry about decorum, Harold made a name for himself in the taverns and inns of the land, gambling and carousing. At court, he became known for his daring escapades and his fearlessness on the jousting field. Everyone loved the company of Harold and Anne, who were young and carefree, quite unlike the serious King Edward and his staid, quiet wife, the Queen Margaret. Harold and Anne were frequently seen in progress across the land, hunting, or their caravan taken through the streets of Hampshire en route to the theaters. The spectacle of the young Archduke with his gay wife in scarlet inspired the love of the common people who loved the gaiety and youth of the pair.
Hardly a year had passed after the succession of King Edward before a grave illness fell upon the land of Haevinia. Every day worse reports of disease and famine were carried into court. Though every precaution was taken to ensure the safety of the royal household, it was clear that no place was entirely safe from the pestilence. Edward called upon sorcerers and healers from neighboring lands to the south to cast protective spells over the royal castles. All gates in and out of the royal city were locked, and every village in the shire was quarantined. The country had come to a total standstill. Harold realized this was an opportunity, and not one to be taken lightly. If he did not act upon this chance fate had thrown his way, he could never complain about his not becoming monarch. Even through the worst of the pestilence, Harold and Anne could be seen frolicking as before, as though no evil could befall them. Some questioned whether they had upon them the blessing of providence, while others mused that they enjoyed the accursed protection of the Evil One. Still, while everyone seemed to fall sick, Harold and Anne showed no signs of changing their free lifestyle.
Rumor had it that the plague was brought on the south winds, carried from Southsea, where Edward had recently forged an alliance, in an attempt to secure a passage to the shore. According to this theory, Edward's healers would never be successful in stopping it, for they were, in fact, the harbingers and the promoters of the plague. Edward never questioned his allies in Southsea, though no one there suffered the agony of the illness that swept Haevinia by force. Harold knew that it was time to call upon the Baron's assistance, once and for all. He secured passage for Campion and Dernier in a gypsy caravan headed into Applemere, which would eventually reach the highlands of Amicouer. From there, Campion and Dernier were to seek out Lord Aubergine to carry word to him that plague had broken out in Haevinia, and to ask the Duke to recognize Harold as the King of Haevinia and Amicouer, should King Edward die. It was a gamble, and Harold knew it.
The plague continued to rage mercilessly within the city walls just outside the royal court of Hampshire. The plague was a horrific death, whisking anyone in its path into the crypt within days of contact, in an ecstasy of pain and delirium. Though everyone in the royal family followed the healers' daily health regimens strictly, there was no way to stop the plague from infiltrating the royal city. Harold, always suspicious of the healers' secrecy and elitist mannerisms, refused to partake of the healers' advice. At his insistence, his family removed to Warwick and relative safety, at least in Harold's estimation. Though everyone openly mocked Harold's refusal to follow the healers' scheduled system of baths, bloodlettings, and herbal teas, Harold's health spoke for itself, unlike those of nearly everyone around him. When finally Edward and Margaret began to show signs of delirium and fever, Harold realized his succession to Haevinia was imminent.
Upon Edward's death, there were none to oppose Harold's succession. In the month following, Harold was pronounced King of Haevinia, and within the next year, word came from Amicouer that Lord Aubergine, would recognize any heir produced as the rightful sovereign of Amicouer and Haevinia. It wasn't long before an heir, William, was produced, and in a trice of time, Haevinia was renamed Warwick.
The innkeeper set his pipe on the mantle. For some moments, neither of us spoke. Finally, I broke the silence.
"So, I guess that does answer my question, then."
"Your question?"
"Of how Haevinia became Warwick."
"Right. It does."
"But. ...." I was at a loss for words, and really wasn't sure how to continue.
"I suppose you'll be wantin' ta know more."
"Is there more?" I had fairly forgotten about the conference, I must admit. I was hoping he would agree to tell me what happened after Harold became King.
"Of course there's more. What do you want to know?"
"You said King Harold was a King of the People. And you said he was a good man, but--" I paused, to gather strength for the next words that had to be spoken, "but, well, I'd like to know how he actually ruled. If his people were happy."
I could see that I had offended my host. I hadn't meant to, but those things needed to be said.
"I'll give you two weeks, Traveller. And at the end of that time, if you don't see the way of King Harold being a good man, a King of the People, you're on yer way to the conference, hear?"
It seemed a reasonable deal to me. By way of agreement, I stood, yawned and trudged toward the stairs. Sleep came before I could welcome it.
Chesterfield looked at Campion as if to say, "Trust me on this one," before continuing in the same confidential tone. "Your father has cut you off, hasn't he?"
Though Chesterfield was speaking directly to Harold, everyone at the table nodded. Carpenter, who hadn't spoken or taken his eyes off his cards for the entire duration of the conversation, looked like he was only just holding back tears.
"What's your point, Chester?" Campion countered evenly, a cold precision in his voice.
"Your brother has no heir, right?"
"None that I'm aware of. Though there was that shepherdess in the valley." Harold smirked, knowing his virtuous brother had never so much as looked askance at a peasant woman.
"Waiting still, for the point to emerge." Campion scowled.
"Indubitably, your lordship," Chesterfield quipped, ducking Campion's half-hearted swipe. "My point is simple. Leopold, should you father a son, you'd be a step ahead of brother dearest. And with Aubergine's money, your debts would be paid."
"That would have to make your father happy," Campion added wryly. "But, my dear Chesterfield, I fail to see what any of this has to do with Applemere."
"Not the least of which is the scandal," Harold mused.
"Then it's settled. You shall have one of them. Which it matters little."
"Which is the wittiest?"
"Applemere? What does it have to do with Applemere?" It was clear that Campion would not give this line of reasoning up.
"Or the prettiest?"
"If you must know, Campion, I've discovered a connection between our dear Lord Aubergine and the inimitable Baron."
"Or the sweetest?" Harold swung arms with Carpenter and sang.
"A connection? What sort of connection?" Campion shouted over the singing.
"The Baron, it seems, is my dear Lord Aubergine's bastard."
At this revelation, the revelry ceased and a hushed calm fell over the table at once.
"You know this for a certainty?" Campion eyed Chesterfield severely in the silence.
"I do."
"How?"
"As I've said, you'll have to trust me. My sources are confidential, but quite accurate."
"And does the Baron know his father?"
"He does. The Baron knows Amicouer is the key to Haevinia's future. He has been working to become legitimated so that he may inherit my Lord Aubergine's exapansive lands."
Harold laughed heartily, breaking the silence.
"But Aubergine has a son." Harold countered laying down a royal flush, "and from what I've seen very little interest in combining the future of Amicouer with Haevinia. My father has already tried to forge a match with his realm many times over. It is out of the question."
"An infant son. An excellent viceroy to your Majesty ... once you are crowned, milord."
"Careful Chesterfield. Treasonous talk." Harold gestured affably toward him, raising his glass.
"Perhaps. But I hardly see how Aubergine can resist one so ... knowledgeable ... as you milord."
"So you mean you want me to persuade his lordship ..."
"I think, my dearest lord, you will find my lord Aubergine to be very moveable once you make him aware of how he may avoid scandal."
The logic went round the table faster than lightning, before returning to Chesterfield's conclusion, "Yes, that is exactly what I mean. You must see that you protect his lordship from the inconvenient Baron."
Silence fell again, as Harold's gaze bored into Chesterfield's brow.
"It's brilliant!" he finally shouted, sending everyone into gales of laughter once more.
"But I do not see how this forestalls the problem of the impassable bogs."
"Oh, Thomas, my dear man. You worry overmuch," Harold slapped him on the back. "One step at a time, dear friend. One step at a time!"
The innkeeper paused and refilled his pipe. The light over the corn field had grown long and I realized I had spent the better part of the day in the adirondack chair. I wasn't sure if I could feel my legs any more. And a sudden desire to get up and move about came over me. I ventured a question, against my better judgment. "So he married one of the Aubergine maids?"
"He did."
"And which did he marry?" I asked, stretching my legs on the lawn. They were stiff and wobbly. I couldn't feel my left foot at all.
"The oldest."
"I mean, did he marry the wittiest, the prettiest, or the sweetest?"
"None of the above. He married the oldest, as I told you."
Later, in front of the fireplace, the innkeeper resumed his tale.
Within months, Harold wed Lady Anne, against his father's wishes, of course, but given his plan to usurp his brother's throne, that hardly mattered. His marriage was at once the scandal and the hope of the nation, depending upon who you asked. Unifying the realms of Haevinia and Amicouer had been the lasting hope of every monarch for many generations. However, none had found the way to do it. The mystery of how Harold had succeeded where his intellectual brother had failed was a lingering question on everyone's mind. Everyone had an opinion, that much was certain. To say it was divisive is an understatement. It was revolutionary. Edward's own match had been providential in securing the throne, but, of course, no one knew of the connection to the Baron Aquamarin'e. That was a closely guarded secret.
Soon after the night of the ball, Edward's forces invaded Applemere. It was in high summer, the dry season of the year. Even so, the bogs proved to be no match for his cavalry. The horses were mired quickly, and the soft sticky mud was too thick for even a flat bottom boat to navigate. Edward's alchemists worked tirelessly to thwart the rain clouds the Baron sent to wet the sticky mud pits, but to little avail. Two years were spent in trying to navigate the eighty leagues from Hampshire Court to the Baron's stronghold and many good men were lost to the swarms of bog flies and mud snakes that infested that infernal land. The Baron sent flocks of carrion birds across the fen to feast upon the remains of Edward's forces. Only a fraction of the dead ever returned home to be buried among their kin. It was a horrible war without so much as a single, real battle. To say that it was a colossal failure is to speak too highly of its success.
Well, after that no one ever quite believed in Edward as they once did. It is not going too far to say here that the defeat was the end of wise King Edgar. Shortly after the news reached Hampshire Court, King Edgar was taken violently ill with a dangerous fever. After his death, Harold and Anne became court favorites, much to Edward's frustration. While Edward was closeted with his closest advisers, working to solve the problem of the rogue Baron, Harold spent his time forging alliances with new men presented at court. Never one to worry about decorum, Harold made a name for himself in the taverns and inns of the land, gambling and carousing. At court, he became known for his daring escapades and his fearlessness on the jousting field. Everyone loved the company of Harold and Anne, who were young and carefree, quite unlike the serious King Edward and his staid, quiet wife, the Queen Margaret. Harold and Anne were frequently seen in progress across the land, hunting, or their caravan taken through the streets of Hampshire en route to the theaters. The spectacle of the young Archduke with his gay wife in scarlet inspired the love of the common people who loved the gaiety and youth of the pair.
Hardly a year had passed after the succession of King Edward before a grave illness fell upon the land of Haevinia. Every day worse reports of disease and famine were carried into court. Though every precaution was taken to ensure the safety of the royal household, it was clear that no place was entirely safe from the pestilence. Edward called upon sorcerers and healers from neighboring lands to the south to cast protective spells over the royal castles. All gates in and out of the royal city were locked, and every village in the shire was quarantined. The country had come to a total standstill. Harold realized this was an opportunity, and not one to be taken lightly. If he did not act upon this chance fate had thrown his way, he could never complain about his not becoming monarch. Even through the worst of the pestilence, Harold and Anne could be seen frolicking as before, as though no evil could befall them. Some questioned whether they had upon them the blessing of providence, while others mused that they enjoyed the accursed protection of the Evil One. Still, while everyone seemed to fall sick, Harold and Anne showed no signs of changing their free lifestyle.
Rumor had it that the plague was brought on the south winds, carried from Southsea, where Edward had recently forged an alliance, in an attempt to secure a passage to the shore. According to this theory, Edward's healers would never be successful in stopping it, for they were, in fact, the harbingers and the promoters of the plague. Edward never questioned his allies in Southsea, though no one there suffered the agony of the illness that swept Haevinia by force. Harold knew that it was time to call upon the Baron's assistance, once and for all. He secured passage for Campion and Dernier in a gypsy caravan headed into Applemere, which would eventually reach the highlands of Amicouer. From there, Campion and Dernier were to seek out Lord Aubergine to carry word to him that plague had broken out in Haevinia, and to ask the Duke to recognize Harold as the King of Haevinia and Amicouer, should King Edward die. It was a gamble, and Harold knew it.
The plague continued to rage mercilessly within the city walls just outside the royal court of Hampshire. The plague was a horrific death, whisking anyone in its path into the crypt within days of contact, in an ecstasy of pain and delirium. Though everyone in the royal family followed the healers' daily health regimens strictly, there was no way to stop the plague from infiltrating the royal city. Harold, always suspicious of the healers' secrecy and elitist mannerisms, refused to partake of the healers' advice. At his insistence, his family removed to Warwick and relative safety, at least in Harold's estimation. Though everyone openly mocked Harold's refusal to follow the healers' scheduled system of baths, bloodlettings, and herbal teas, Harold's health spoke for itself, unlike those of nearly everyone around him. When finally Edward and Margaret began to show signs of delirium and fever, Harold realized his succession to Haevinia was imminent.
Upon Edward's death, there were none to oppose Harold's succession. In the month following, Harold was pronounced King of Haevinia, and within the next year, word came from Amicouer that Lord Aubergine, would recognize any heir produced as the rightful sovereign of Amicouer and Haevinia. It wasn't long before an heir, William, was produced, and in a trice of time, Haevinia was renamed Warwick.
The innkeeper set his pipe on the mantle. For some moments, neither of us spoke. Finally, I broke the silence.
"So, I guess that does answer my question, then."
"Your question?"
"Of how Haevinia became Warwick."
"Right. It does."
"But. ...." I was at a loss for words, and really wasn't sure how to continue.
"I suppose you'll be wantin' ta know more."
"Is there more?" I had fairly forgotten about the conference, I must admit. I was hoping he would agree to tell me what happened after Harold became King.
"Of course there's more. What do you want to know?"
"You said King Harold was a King of the People. And you said he was a good man, but--" I paused, to gather strength for the next words that had to be spoken, "but, well, I'd like to know how he actually ruled. If his people were happy."
I could see that I had offended my host. I hadn't meant to, but those things needed to be said.
"I'll give you two weeks, Traveller. And at the end of that time, if you don't see the way of King Harold being a good man, a King of the People, you're on yer way to the conference, hear?"
It seemed a reasonable deal to me. By way of agreement, I stood, yawned and trudged toward the stairs. Sleep came before I could welcome it.