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“Sir Dafydd Llewellyn of Derwen.”
Lew stood slowly, feeling the absence of his sword as a physically painful space. It was far more noticeable than the ache in his leg from barely healed injuries
“It is pronounced ‘Davith’, my good man, not ‘Dafid’, ” he corrected the courtier with all the politeness he could summon. Which, admittedly, was not a great deal but he tried.
“Yes, well, come with me.” The courtier was elderly and clearly irritated with his tasks that morning. “King Aron will see you now.”
Well, Lew thought, that was unexpected. He’d only been in the antechamber for a few minutes. He had anticipated being kept loitering for at least half a day.
“His Majesty is extraordinarily busy right now,” the fussy little courtier explained as he all but trotted down the corridor. “So much to do, so many things to fix. All you need to do is swear your oath and we can move on.”
Easy for you to say, Lew didn’t say. The courtier hadn’t been left for dead by a cowardly king, abandoned for another to pick up like a discarded toy. At that moment, Lew didn’t know if he would be banished to the northern borders to patrol the frosted wasteland, or put over to guarding the new king’s airships in the commandeered steamyards. Who knew where those who had misplaced their loyalty with the previous crown were sent.
It was a long fall from the position of Knight Guard.
He recognised one of the sentries at the main entrance to the throne room and nodded briefly. Such an odd mix of staff, he mused, waiting for the doors to be shoved ponderously open. Many familiar faces working side by side with the invaders from Nordberg. The doors swung open with less effort than usual and he wondered if someone had actually repaired the hinges in the last three weeks.
“Well, come on,” the courtier snapped, pulling Lew out of his head. Stop thinking about doors, he chided himself. Taking a deep breath and schooling his face into a neutral expression, he strode into the throne room behind the little courtier.
“Your Majesty,” the courtier said with a perfunctory bow, stopping in the precise centre of the carved circle in the middle of the room. “May I present Sir Dafydd Llewellyn of Derwen, son of the late Earl Antoine of Derwen, former Knight Guard, Major of the Household Council and Protectorate Captain of the Throne?”
Well. Lew looked askance at the courtier. Someone had been doing his research. And at least his attempt at ‘Dafydd’ was acceptable this time.
“Welcome, Sir Dafydd.” The king on the throne was not Lew’s king, but then, Lew had no king any more. His last one had abandoned him, and this new one would probably do the same. He took a deep breath.
“Thank you, your Majesty,” he said, bowing low. “I am deeply grateful to be able to respond so promptly to your gracious summons.”
“There’s no point keeping you kicking your heels in a side room all day.” King Aron beckoned him forward. “Approach the throne, Sirrah. I have little taste for bellowing the length of the room.”
How novel, Lew thought. He took the dozen strides required to bring him to where Aron sat on an old wooden throne. The original throne, Lew realised, looking at the intricate carving on the arms, the one his last king had pushed aside for a gold painted creation from some western princeling.
When he pulled his attention from the chair to the man sat upon it, Lew was hard pressed to keep his neutral expression.
He had seen Aron Olafsson on the battlefield from afar, and heard reports of the man’s appearance, but nothing had prepared him for looking into the most striking face he had ever seen. Deep blue eyes, cheekbones that could only have been carved by a master stonemason, a head of dark gold curls touched at the temples with a sprinkling of silver - there was no way on the good green earth that this man could be real, Lew marvelled. Even the scar which ran from the corner of his left eye to the point of his jaw didn’t so much detract from his handsome visage as add a highlight.
“How may I be of service, your Majesty?” Lew asked, dropping his gaze before he be accused of staring too long.
“Five years past, you swore an oath to this very throne, did you not?”
“Indeed, sire, I did.”
“Protectorate Captain of the Throne is exactly that, yes? Fealty to the chair and whoever sits in it.”
“It is.” Where was he going with this, Lew wondered. “Fealty to the ruler of Bretland, be that king or queen, crown prince or emperor.”
“Well that ruler is now me.” King Aron stood and Lew bowed again as Aron stepped down from the low dias the throne stood upon. When he straightened up, he found himself looking into the king’s eyes on a level. “So, answer me this, Sir Dafydd Llewellyn of Derwen, does that oath still stand?”
“An oath stands until death,” Lew responded. “Be that the death of the oath maker or the one it is made to.”
“Even one to a wooden chair?”
“And all that chair symbolises.” He drew himself up, fixed his gaze on the carved crown that graced the back of the throne. “I am a sworn protector of Bretland, loyal to the throne, the crown and the country.”
“Therefore, as Bretland is now mine, you are my protector, yes?”
The day just kept getting stranger, and it was barely noon, Lew thought.
“I am, sire.”
Aron held out his hand to one side and a moment later, a page boy hurried forwards bearing a large sword. It took Lew longer than it should have done to recognise his own weapon, which had been taken from him as he had entered the castle.
“Then kneel, Sir Dafydd.”
Unable to do anything but obey, Lew did, eyes fixed on the floor, suppressing a wince as the scar on his thigh protested.
“I return to thee thy sword,” Aron said, the archaic speech of the northern clans rolling off his tongue with ease. “That thou may fulfil the duties of thy position, uphold thine oath to the crown and retake thy rightful place in the court of Bretland as Knight Guard, Major of the Household Council and Protectorate Captain. Dost thou accept these roles?”
“I do, sire.”
He felt his sword rest briefly on each shoulder.
“And wouldst thou swear an oath directly to me? As my liegeman and knight?”
Lew swallowed, thought of all the ways that could go horribly wrong again.
“I would and will. My arm and my life are yours, your Majesty.”
“Then rise, Sir Dafydd. Henceforth, thou shalt be addressed as Sir Knight, answer only to me and thy word is as mine at court.” King Aron held out the sword with both hands, and Lew took it with a nod of thanks. Then the corner of King Aron’s mouth quirked up into what Lew could only call a smile. “And now that concludes the tedious formalities of the morning, I think it’s time for something to eat.” He clapped his hands and looked around the room. “Off you all go and do whatever it is that courtiers do. Marek!”
The officious elderly courtier who had escorted Lew to the throne room froze, halfway across the room.
“Yes, your Majesty?” he asked, turning with what approximated a smile.
“Send to the kitchens, I want a generous lunch for two brought to the library. Tea, not wine.”
“Of course, sire.” Marek’s smile turned sickly as he looked from Aron to Lew and back. “At once.”
“Thank you.”
Lew focused on belting his sword back in place. He couldn’t ever remember King Brae saying ‘thank you’ for anything.
“Sir Knight, we have much to discuss. Come with me, please.”
Or ‘please’, Lew thought. He followed Aron through the small concealed door at the back of the throne room and down achingly familiar corridors, hung with strange blue and silver banners. The old green and purple ones were nowhere in sight.
Halfway down on the left, Aron pushed the heavy oak door to the library open and motioned Lew in.
“Come and take a seat, Sir Knight.”
“Where would you have me, sire?” he asked, uncertain.
“This is where Brae held his meetings, yes?” Aron dropped into the padded chair behind the wide desk by the window. “Just take your normal spot.”
Suppressing a sigh, Lew closed the door and stood in front of it, hands crossed before him. He had spent countless hours there, but it felt so very different. Not least the way Aron was regarding him with an oddly concerned expression.
“You stand before the door for council meetings?” Aron asked.
“Where else would a knight stand? I am here to visibly protect the crown.”
Aron studied Lew closely for a moment, then nodded.
“As I thought. Please, Llewellyn, sit down. Your last king was an ignorant buffoon who knew not what valuables his realm contained.”
“I beg to differ, your Majesty. King Brae had an intimate knowledge of exactly what was in his coffers.”
“Yes, but there is far more wealth to be found in a kingdom than the gold coin within the castle vault or the bonds in the banker’s chest.” Aron nodded in approval as Lew took the armchair to the side of the desk. “There are very few people from Brae’s court that I felt the need to retain, but you are one them.”
“An abandoned knight?” Lew couldn’t help but say.
“Brae was a coward who tried to save his own skin at the expense of his most loyal men.” Aron leaned back in the chair, steepling his fingers and looking at Lew with those unearthly blue eyes. It was unfair, Lew thought absently, that this new king should be such a beautiful man. Invading enemies were meant to be hideous monsters, easy to hate and to slay. “You are one of the lucky ones, it seems.”
“Permission to speak frankly, sire?” Lew asked.
“Please do. I would welcome it, in fact, when in private.”
Lew nodded, wondering where to start.
“I do not count myself as lucky. I was betrayed and abandoned by my liege, left wounded on the battle field after trying to get him to safety. He fled, leaving us all in the effort to save himself. I should be ashamed that he was killed, that I failed in my sworn duty to protect him, but instead I am hollow with an emotion I have no name for. He betrayed us all, sending your forces to our position in the hope of clearing his own path to the sea.”
“Brae underestimated the size of my army.”
“Aye, and the speed of your airships. A small part of me is thankful he did not make it, as terrible a thing as that is to admit. But I had stood between him and those who hated him for five long years, only to be discarded at a moment’s notice.” Lew sighed. “I feel I am not worthy of the position of Knight Guard, but if I do not have that, I have nothing.”
It felt like Aron had not even blinked during Lew’s confession. Lew wondered what Aron saw, if he accepted the outward traits of black hair, pale skin and grey eyes as those of a born and bred Bretan, or if he had picked up the hints of someone beyond the sea in Lew’s height and broad build and square jaw.
Aron leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wide desk.
“I have had my spies in Brae’s court for the past five years,” he said, surprising Lew. “Since that bitter little man came to power, and so I know exactly how much you tried to keep Bretland functioning. My father spent decades gathering reports of the old king’s activities and those of his son after him, and the stories of corruption and abuses just kept growing. My father’s eventual plan was to annex the northern plains and the spine of hills which borders our lands but the mistreatment of subjects, servants and serfs alike was not to be borne. The final straw was when I received the report of Brae casting his queen aside in favour of a young woman that had been stolen from her family. A man of nearly fifty taking an unwilling bride of less than half his age, refusing to return her to the islands from which she had been practically kidnapped? One of my islands?” Aron snorted, a decidedly un-regal sound which for some reason made Lew want to smile. “That was all the excuse I needed.”
“You staged the whole invasion because of Queen Mielle?”
“Mielle Gudren is the daughter of that island’s clan chief. She was never meant to be a queen of Bretland, but to be chief of her island. Now, hopefully, she will have time to heal and to regain her strength in order to take on her role when the time comes.”
Lew wasn’t sure he could take in much more new information.
“So she is safe?”
“And with her family, yes.” Aron looked to the door at a knock. “Come in.”
Two servants entered with trays of food, and Lew was encouraged to fill his plate as Aron continued to question him. The questions seemed innocuous at first, the kind of social chit chat and small talk he was used to hearing at court, but the trays had been cleared before he realised that Aron had very smoothly found out almost everything there was to know about Lew, his time at court, how things had worked and what needed to change.
“One final question,” Aron asked, as the clock began to strike three. “You are an honourable man. You are intelligent, well read, and actually have a functioning conscience. Why did you stay?”
Lew had asked himself that question many, many times, not least every day whilst lying in the infirmary. But he still had no suitable answer.
“When I returned from my quest east, I found my father had died and our family estate swallowed by the Crown. There was nowhere for me to go, except back to court. My experience made me ideal for the position of Knight Guard and Protectorate Captain. Brae was new to the throne, the old king having lived until he was in his seventies, and Brae felt he had a great number of things to catch up on. He extracted my oath from me with empty promises and bare faced lies.” Lew lifted a shoulder in a resigned shrug. “There was no way out.”
“Many would have left anyway, perhaps returning east or heading south to the sea and the lands beyond.”
“Forgive me my integrity,” Lew murmured, but to his surprise, Aron laughed.
“As I suspected. But for now, you will find your quarters as you left them.” Aron stood and Lew hurried to stand also. “Take the remains of the day to rest, re-familiarise yourself with the castle and the changes within, and to prepare yourself for your duties.” A wry smile. “Whilst I am sure your attire is the best the infirmary could do, it’s not entirely suitable for a knight of the realm.”
Lew glanced down at his clothes. A moderately serviceable ensemble of black felted trousers, white shirt, and a somewhat unfashionable grey peacoat had seen him through the day, but he had to admit, he felt uncomfortable.
“How would you like me to dress, your Majesty?” he asked. For a moment, he thought he had offended Aron somehow, but then the sharp look turning considering.
“Am I to take that question to mean that Brae dictated your attire?”
“Indeed. When in public, the k…” he stopped himself. “Brae insisted on his knights looking like knights.”
“Yes, yes, I heard. Archaic clothing and weaponry, arrayed around the room like sentries, not to speak unless spoken to.” A disdainful roll of the eyes made it very clear what Aron thought of that. “One does not become a knight by being a blunt instrument, Sir Dafydd. To become a knight, one must be of noble birth. Intelligent, diligent in one’s responsibilities and duties, and either an orator, a politician or a diplomat, or even all three. He must also be fearsome and fearless in battle, a skilled warrior and tactician. A knight must be able to teach as well as learn, from others and their mistakes both. And by all accounts, you fit every one of those criteria.”
Lew swallowed, feeling his cheeks grow warm at the praise.
“I am honoured you believe so, sire, but…” He cast around for words but none were to hand. Aron’s smile was understanding, and a small corner of Lew’s mind pointed out how it made fine lines appears at the corners of the fierce blue eyes, softening Aron’s expression and making him even more attractive.
Oh no, Lew thought. That was not the feeling to have for one’s liege. That way lay madness and heartache and certain banishment. He cleared his throat.
“But I thank you for your kind words, sire. Perhaps you would have your new knights dress in the fashion of your own? If we are to work together, might it be best that we dress alike? Some small insignia denoting perhaps the region from which each knight and soldier hails? Rather than bearing only Bretland or Nordberg crests, creating a divisive atmosphere.”
Aron nodded.
“And this, Sir Dafydd, is why I wished to ensure your continued presence at court.” Aron looked him over from head to toe and Lew did his absolute best not to react at the scrutiny. “You are my personal knight from hereon in. To that end, dress to portray your place. Be armed, of course, but let your attire be more nobility than military.”
“Forgive my confusion, sire, but surely a personal knight should be drawn from the ranks of your own trusted guards? I cannot imagine being so readily accepted by the Nordberg nobility.”
“But you will be entirely accepted by the Bretland nobility, yes? You bear three official titles, those of Knight Guard, Major and Captain. But you are also an Earl, remember.” Aron shook his head. “Quite how Brae thought piling more ranks upon you was meant to infer favour is beyond me.”
“It was his way of getting more work out of one person.”
~
In the days that followed, Aron proved himself to be just as capable and intelligent and competent as Lew has suspected. His new king also listened when his advisors spoke, asked questions he actually wanted answers to, and was unfailingly polite to everyone he interacted with.
A little over a week after Lew had been reinstated as Knight Guard, Aron informed him there would be a supper for a number of his most senior ministers and their knights, as well as the two he had retained from the Bretland court.
“And you wish an honour guard?” Lew asked.
Aron frowned.
“Of course not. I require your presence at the table.”
“To - eat?”
“Isn’t that what one normally does at a supper table?” There was that flash of humour that Lew had been seeing even more of every day. It was dangerous, the way it lit Aron’s face and made his blue eyes gleam.
“Nobles and knights eating together? Whatever next.” Lew had also quickly learned that Aron greatly appreciated people who were able to gently tease him back and it was such a breath of fresh air.
“And no weaponry,” Aron added. “It’s dinner, not a diplomatic negotiation.”
Lew raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing visible,” Aron amended.
Around the supper table that evening was a strange alternating circle of knight and noble, with Lew sat directly at Aron’s right hand. It was in stark contrast to Brae’s suppers, Lew thought. He recognised two of the nine other knights, was warmly welcomed by most of the ministers, completely ignored by one and found himself included in conversation as if he had been part of this strange, mingled court for decades.
“You get used to it,” Sir Elrin said to him, once the pudding cups had been removed. Aron had moved around the table to talk quietly to two of his advisors, leaving an empty chair between the two knights. “Honestly, it’s been a whole month and it still baffles me.”
“Is this how court is really supposed to be?” Lew asked. “You’ve been up to Nordberg’s capital, yes?”
“I have. Norderig is a stunning city, and a whole new world compared with Brae’s archaic set up. The Nordbergans used to refer to him as a medieval throwback.” Elrin sipped at his wine. Lew had known him for years and was pleased to find such a reliable, familiar face at the new court. “Apparently knights who are nobles are part of the inner sanctum. Just because one uses a sword does not mean one loses one’s brains.”
“That sounds like a direct quote.”
Elrin nodded towards a portly old man with a rather spectacularly long yellowish grey moustache.
“Baron Lord Phelps there, overseer of the king’s universities and libraries. Real believer in meritocracy.”
Lew snorted.
“That’s a word that’s not been bandied around here in a while. But aren’t we the enemy?”
“No, Brae was. King Aron has no malice towards Bretland or her people. Only the old king.”
“But those who were loyal to him?” Lew picked up his wine glass and sipped at the rich red liquid. Elrin pulled a face.
“Brae was not the kind of king that inspired direct loyalty. Everyone King Aron has retained was loyal to the title, not the man himself. I mean, would you have followed him towards the coast if your oath hadn’t bound you?”
Elrin had a point, Lew thought. When Brae’s party fled the capital, Lew had desperately wanted to stay and protect the castle, but Brae had ordered Lew and his soldiers to accompany him to safety.
And then he’d left them as bait for the pursuers.
“Shouldn’t we be plotting to overthrow the invaders?” Lew asked with a wry smile.
“I don’t see much invading going on, do you?” Elrin waved a hand in the direction of the others around the table. “Whilst you’ve been in the infirmary, there has been a bit of a reshuffle at the very top of things. Absolutely nothing else has changed in Bretland. We still have our army and our cavalry - which, incidentally, is benefitting from some new horses and a couple of fierce sergeant majors who are actually teaching our riders how to fight in the saddle. Nordberg’s finest engineers are overhauling our slow, sad airships. The principalities are unchanged. The currency, the businesses, the trading ports - nothing has been altered. All that His Majesty has done is refocus the nobility.”
“I have excised the rot at the heart of a great tree,” Aron said, coming back to his seat and obviously catching the end of their conversation. “Bretland will be stronger for it, and continue to flourish.” He dropped into his chair and reached for the wine, filling his own glass and then topping up both Lew’s and Elrin’s.
Lew was pretty sure he’d never seen Brae even pick up a bottle to pour his own drink, let alone someone else’s.
“Start to flourish, perhaps,” the minister on the other side of Lew said. “So much neglect, in so many parts of the country.” He shook his head sadly and Lew felt a little like he was being blamed for it, personally. He had to stop himself protesting that it wasn’t all that bad, surely, and instead, took a moment to recall who and what this particular minster was. Whitte, in charge of roads and bridges.
“Brae was never fond of spending money on such mean things as roads,” Lew admitted. “Especially the ones furthest from the capital. To his mind, it was more important to pave the way from the bigger towns and cities.”
“Even though, in the end, it proved a fatal mistake?”
“I admit, there is a certain irony in being caught because your escape was hindered by the state of the very roads you neglected to maintain, yes.”
~
Lew now had a peculiar sort of freedom, one he’d never experienced before. Aron travelled frequently between his two courts, and whilst he was in Nordberg, Lew found himself the most senior Bretan noble in Bretland.
No longer relegated to the sidelines, having to stand by and watch as decisions were made - or not made - he was suddenly able to make changes that he’d longed to see.
“Just do it,” Aron told him one rainy afternoon in the library. Spread over the big desk were dozens of folders, each one a project which Lew had unearthed from the appalling mess of one of the records rooms. He’d tried to put them in some order of importance, but there were so many things that needed fixing, he had brought them all to the library.
“Which one?” he asked.
“All of them. Whichever you want.” Aron reached over and snagged the closest file. “Hmm. ‘Harbour wall repairs at Hirmouth.’ Why do the people of Hirmouth have to petition for repairs? Surely a harbour wall is an essential part of any fishing town?”
“Brae’s priorities were, well…”
“Non existent.” Aron dropped the file. “I have said, Sir Knight, that you have free rein, whilst I am not here, to do what you wish.”
Lew scrubbed his hands over his face but before he could say anything, Aron laughed.
“Speak freely, Sir Dafydd.”
“Most people call me Lew,” Lew said. Why on earth would he say that, he wondered, but decided to plough on. “But, that aside, these projects are all small, simple things that should never have been brought to the monarch’s attention. Brae was so tight fisted, though, that he insisted on having his advisors look over each and every tiny project to decided if it was absolutely necessary and if the money could be hoarded for his own use instead. It’s not just a case of saying ‘just do it’. It’s a case of rewriting the rule book, changing laws and giving the local mayors and regional ministers the power to say yes without having to queue for royal assent.”
There was a long pause.
“You really are a one man revolution, aren’t you, Lew?” Aron’s smile was warm, though, and Lew tried to pretend it didn’t also make him feel warm. “As I have said repeatedly over the past three months, these are your decisions to make, so make them.”
“I am changing things at the base level. That is not for one man to do,” Lew protested. “They should go before a parliament or committee, be debated and amended and approved.”
“Brae changed all these things.”
“Exactly! And look at the mess he made of it all.”
Aron leaned forward.
“I trust you,” he said, softly, and the last of Lew’s walls crumbled to dust. “Approve as many of these as you wish. The coffers of Bretland are embarrassingly large. Later, when the snows come, we can sit and debate the minutiae of laws and statutes, but for now, your role is to help the people. And I can think of no one better for the job.”
Lew gazed at Aron helplessly. In that moment he knew he would follow his new liege into the jaws of hell itself, and it was at once terrifying and exhilarating. To be seen and trusted and known for who he was and what he could do was such a novelty. Maybe he was setting himself up to be betrayed again, but it was a chance he was willing to take.
“Cat got your tongue?” Aron asked with a sly smile.
“I…” Lew blinked, realised he’d been staring. “I’m not good with compliments.”
And if he could make Aron laugh like that every day, Lew thought, he would grab that chance with both hands.
~
The morning of the first frosts found Lew in the library, instructing a group of Aron’s lieutenants in the art of Bretan engagement and warfare in the narrow valleys which reached up into the southern mountains from the sea. Anyone wishing to attack the capital without coming overland - as Aron had done, and as the first to have tried it, he had succeeded - must come by sea and then up through the valleys. As defenders, the Bretans had always had the upper hand and the high ground, and there was a method to their deployment which the lieutenants rapidly grasped and were thoroughly appreciative of.
“Good job we didn’t come up from the south then,” one of them said as Lew finished his talk.
“To be entirely honest, Ruan, I do not think it would have made much difference.” Lew shuffled his papers back into their folder and began to stack the books. “Over the past twenty years or so, Bretland’s forces have been neglected to the point where it is probably a good thing that King Aron decided to step in. Any other invader would quite likely have wiped out a good chunk of our army in the first battle.”
“General Shoki ordered us not to kill if it wasn’t necessary,” another lieutenant offered. “We were instructed to go for the highest ranking officers on the field and once they were no longer in charge, to accept the surrender of all other troops.”
“A remarkably gentle way of waging war.”
“His Majesty has no quarrel with the people of Bretland.” Ruan said. “As lieutenants, we found it very odd to be instructed so, but there was but one target in our campaign.”
“Brae.” Lew nodded slowly. “The more I hear, the more I have to agree with King Aron’s priorities.”
“Forgive the impertinence, Sir Knight, but were you not at Brae’s right hand for at least the past five years?”
Lew had wondered when someone would bring the topic up, and he was just grateful that it was a small group of fellow military men.
“It is complicated, but yes, I was. However Brae was never one to confide in his knights. We were there simply to guard him, to handle the minutiae of courtly matters and deal with the things he could not be bothered with. He also liked to play us off against one another.” He had only just learned of this, after talking with Elrin and a number of the other guards from Brae’s court. The last king had often told his knights different things, suspicious of spies and mutiny behind his back. Another irony in that the spying had actually been done by Brae’s favourite musician. “Remember our oaths were to the throne and the crown, not the man himself. On reflection, mayhap that was deliberate, to prevent us questioning our loyalties when we discovered some of Brae’s more unsavoury actions.” He wondered if the last king had had the brains to do it that way. “If my oath had been to Brae, I would have questioned things a lot sooner.”
The most senior lieutenant in the room, a grizzled veteran by the name of Jarle, tapped a finger on the table top.
“Loyalty is important,” he said. “But so is being true to yourself. Integrity, Sir Knight, that is what you have, and why our liege has chosen you to be his right hand here.”
A murmur of agreement went around the table.
“No matter how that day went, it seems you made a good escape.” Jarle nodded.
Oddly, Lew felt both better and worse at that.
“Thank you,” he said, because he appreciated the sentiment behind the words. The tiny clock on the mantlepiece began to strike two. “Oh. If you will excuse me, gentleman, I promised the shipmaster I would see him at two to discuss the new bunkhouse for the apprentices.”
~
“You do not have to do everything.”
Lew looked up from where he was scribbling notes to himself. He wanted to get all the detail down from his meeting about the bunkhouses before he forgot a vital detail and so had gone straight to the library from the steam yard and written everything out. He felt like he spent half his life in the library these days.
“I am not doing everything, as that would be impossible, sire,” Lew said. “However, there is a great deal to do, so I am doing as much as I can.”
“Bretland was not broken in a week,” Aron said, coming into the library and carefully closing the door behind him. “It will take even someone as driven as you a great deal longer to fix it.”
“Driven?” Lew put his pen down and flexed his fingers.
Aron rested his backside on the edge of the desk, far closer to Lew than was entirely appropriate. Lew felt his breath catch and willed away the ridiculous reaction. It didn’t help that Aron’s thigh was within inches of Lew’s right hand, finely tailored black wool over solid muscle.
“I know I said to do that which needed doing, but you appear to feel the need to take responsibility for every single thing, instead of delegating.” Aron picked up the pen and studied the nib. “Why is that?”
“I know Bretland, sire. I have lived here for all thirty six years of my life, give or take the odd quest or adventure.” Lew waved a hand at the papers everywhere. “I know my country and I know what is wrong with her, and I am the most senior Bretan noble left. I may be just one man, but change starts with a single person. You have seen fit to give me free rein to make these decisions, and if I do what I can, it may also help others step up to do what they can.”
“I see. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the crushing guilt you feel for the ridiculous notion that you were somehow responsible for Brae’s shortcomings?”
If Aron had produced a cricket bat and cracked Lew across the back of the head with it, he honestly couldn’t have been more stunned.
“I… I beg your pardon?” Lew stared at him in total shock.
Carefully replacing the pen on the desk, Aron stood. Before Lew could stand too, Aron reached out and curled a hand around the back of Lew’s neck, thumb just brushing the skin above the line of his collar.
“You do not have to make amends for something you did not do,” Aron told him softly, looking intently into Lew’s eyes from less than two foot away. Lew sat frozen, lest any move he make betray his true emotions. “Don’t ever think you are blamed for Brae’s actions, Lew.”
Speechless, Lew watched Aron stroll out of the library, as if he hadn’t just completely upended Lew’s entire life. Yet again.
He shivered, the ghost of Aron’s touch still tingling on his skin. Come back, he wanted to say.
~
“You put too much trust in him.”
Lew paused, his hand on the library door. The voice was vaguely familiar, but the tone was angry. Not wanting to walk into the middle of an argument, he lifted his hand to knock.
“Sir Dafydd is entirely trustworthy,” Aron said in a mild tone.
Lew froze.
“He was at the right hand of the arrogant arse who you deposed! What on this good green earth compels you to allow him to get so close to you? How do we know that he won’t take the opportunity to run a poniard through your ribs in revenge for his king’s death?”
“Minister Gechen, I suggest you moderate your tone with me.”
There was a strangled silence, then the minister coughed.
“My apologies, your Majesty, I forget myself and my place. Do forgive me. I am just concerned for your safety.”
Gechen, Lew thought, the minister who had blanked him entirely at that first meal. The grovelling tone set Lew’s teeth on edge.
“And I very much appreciate your concern, minister.”
Lew didn’t stay to hear anymore. He spun on his heel and strode down the corridor, away from the heart of the castle towards the stairs which led down and out into the central courtyard. A churning nausea burned in his chest.
Uppermost was the thought that maybe this might mean that Aron wouldn’t trust him any more. What if he listened to his minister of several years, rather than the foreign knight he had only know for a few months?
The idea of Aron losing the trust he had in Lew was crushing, but what made it worse was the next thought that if he did, would he then banish Lew from the castle?
Lew wasn’t sure what he would do if he was banished. He couldn’t even return home as Derwen was still Crown property. A wandering knight, he thought, homeless, without cause or liege.
“Sir Knight.”
The sharp voice from behind jolted Lew out of his momentary self pity, and he turned to see Marek in the doorway.
“His Majesty has requested your presence in the library,” Marek snapped. “You were supposed to be there some five minutes ago.”
“My apologies, Marek,” Lew said, coming back across the courtyard. “I felt the need for some fresh air.”
Marek stared pointedly at the heavy grey cloud over head.
“Completely understandable,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Oddly, Lew liked him. “However, do not keep his Majesty waiting, hm?”
“I am on my way,” he promised. “Thank you, Marek.”
Slightly mollified, the elderly courtier nodded and let Lew pass him.
“Ah, there you are, Sir Knight,” Aron said as Lew opened the door to the library. It had taken him a while to get used to not knocking, but as Aron had pointed out, the library was a public space and as such, private meetings should not be held there. “I wondered where you had got to.”
“I am sorry, sire, I needed to step outside for a moment.” He saw Gechen was still there, sat by the fireplace with another minister. Both of them glanced at him, then looked away.
Ah, he thought. So was this the moment he was banished?
“Well, you’re here now. I have something for you.” Aron moved to the big desk by the window and took a small paper envelope from the drawer. “I found this.” Aron held out the envelope and, curious, Lew took it.
Sliding his finger under the flap, he tipped the small, heavy object out onto his palm.
It was a key.
The words ‘what is this for’ were on the tip of his tongue, but before he could take a breath to voice them, they were stolen from his lungs entirely. It wasn’t just any key. It was the ornate key to the front door of his father’s old manor house, still bearing a scrap of black and silver ribbon.
“But…” His hands weren’t shaking, they absolutely weren’t.
“You told me your lands were taken by the Crown. I had minister Gechen go through the records, and whilst Brae did indeed take possession of everything, that is all he did, and only on paper. Your farms remain tenanted, though the farmers pay their tithe to the Royal coffers. The house is still standing, lived in by a few of the servants who tended your father before his death. Waiting, it seems, for you to return home.”
Home, Lew thought. He’d almost forgotten what that meant.
“Your Majesty…” Words failed him, but when he looked up at Aron, he was met with a smile.
“I think it is time for you to go home, Sir Knight,” Aron said. “See what’s left of your estate, and what needs doing there.”
“There is so much still to do here.” Lew stared at the key, the fragment of silver and black ribbon bringing back a hundred memories.
“Aye, and, I will still need your help. But I do not believe you have left the castle for more than an hour or so since you were released from the infirmary, all those months ago. You cannot be expected to devote every single waking minute of your life to court.”
Lew gently rubbed the ribbon between his fingers, his mind a million miles away.
“That is all I have had, for over five years.”
“I know. But I checked the maps, Derwen is a vast estate. There is probably a great deal that needs your attention.” Aron slipped a sheaf of papers into the top drawer of the desk and closed it carefully. “This evening I am taking a ship back to Nordberg, and I will be gone at least three weeks. Whilst I am not at court, you should take the opportunity to walk your fields. Maybe find a wife, start to make a life of your own.”
“But if you are not here, then sure I should be?” Lew asked, ignoring the ‘find a wife’ part of Aron’s instructions. “My oath is to the throne, remember, I cannot simply leave the castle unattended.”
“It is never unattended. It is always full of courtiers and servants and those who seem to make work where there is none.” Aron’s smile made Lew feel warm from the inside out. “Brae used to leave for weeks on end, to go hunting up in the mountains and the castle fared perfectly fine in his absence. The rest of the country just keeps running, no matter what happens here in the capital.” He came around the desk and grasped Lew’s shoulder. “Return to Derwen, my friend, and I will go to Norderig, and I will summon you in three weeks, when we shall reconvene here to share what news we have.”
Thus dismissed, Lew bowed, bid the two ministers farewell - to be simply nodded at - and left the library.
It was only much later, once he had packed his things for the trip to Derwen that Lew realised that he had been quite neatly removed from both the castle and Aron’s side.
~
The manor house at Derwen sat at the end of a long, curving driveway, lined with oaks so old that no one could remember who had planted them. The driveway swooped up and round, between two weathered stone gateposts and into a wide, gravelled yard before the house.
Lew stopped the steamcart before the main doors and climbed out. He could have continued along the driveway, past the house and down to the stables, workshops and church, but the key weighed heavily in his pocket.
The lock was a little stiff, but for a door which hadn’t been opened in five years, it swung readily enough inwards on silent hinges. There, waiting in the hallway were two elderly women and a man in his early forties.
“Well,” Lew said with a smile. “Some things never change, do they?”
“Oh, master Dafydd!” The older of the two women hurried forward and, abandoning all decorum, threw both stout arms around him. “Oh, we have missed you something terrible,” she said, hugging him tightly. “We be ever so pleased to see you.”
“And I am very happy to see you too, Gwennie.” He hugged her in return, the closest thing to a mother he had had. “And Alice, come here, you are looking so well.”
Gwennie’s sister hugged him just as hard, and then he was treated to an awkward half bow, half cap doff from the man.
“Please don’t stand on ceremony, Dewi,” Lew told Gwennie’s son. “I still remember the prank you pulled on me when I was seven.”
“You must have some stories to tell,” Dewi said. He came forward and shook Lew’s hand properly. “The messenger arrived yesterday to tell us you were coming, and Mam’s been running around like a headless chicken trying to sort the place out.”
“So much dust,” Gwennie said. “Honestly, master Dafydd, we’ve had most of the house shut up and covered in sheets since the old Earl died and I really don’t know where to start.”
“The kitchen,” Lew told her. “Start with some tea and you can fill me in on what’s been happening around here. And yes, Dewi, I have a great many stories for you all.”
He spent most of his first fortnight at Derwen poking his nose into every room and corner and building he could find. In some ways, it was oddly like what he’d done to Bretland after Aron had put him to fix things, except on a slightly smaller scale. So many jobs that needed doing or organising, things to be repaired. His Nordbergan-built steam cart drew an inordinate amount of attention, but it enabled him to cover a lot more of the estate in a shorter period of time, and he visited all of his tenant farmers. Every last one of them was glad to see him again, especially when he informed them that their tithes would be ploughed straight back into such things as dry stone wall repairs, roof tiles and a new water mill for grinding wheat.
“But how are you still at court?” Dewi asked one evening after supper. Lew had eschewed eating alone in the grand dining room, instead choosing to take his meals with Gwennie, Alice and Dewi, plus whoever else was around, in the big kitchen. Gathering around the vast scrubbed oak table, he had slowly begun to find out what ‘home’ was. “I mean, you were one of King Brae’s men, but now you’re one of this new king’s knights instead?”
All the thoughts about what Gechen had said and Aron’s convenient discovery of the key to Derwen came crashing forward from where Lew had shoved them, but he mustered a smile.
“My oath was never to Brae himself, Dewi,” Lew said. “I have always been Knight Guard of the throne of Bretland. Which means I guard whichever king sits on it. Once Brae had been killed and the throne taken by King Aron, it didn’t change my oath or duties.”
“I don’t know, master Dafydd, I mean, we never liked the old king much, he was a bit greedy, but this newcomer, he’s from the north.” Gwennie pulled a face as she topped up their glasses with fresh apple juice from the orchards. “They say you can’t trust ‘em, those from the other side of the mountains.”
“What’s he like?” Dewi asked before Gwennie could get into her stride.
“King Aron? He’s ten times the king that Brae was.” Lew swirled the cloudy apple juice in his glass, smelling a bright fresh autumn day in its scent. “He is my height, with the blue eyes and blond hair of the Nordbergans. He is as lean as Brae was fat, an excellent horseman and enjoys driving steam carts and shocking his minsters and the castle servants by doing things for himself.” Lew couldn’t help his smile. “He is maybe ten years older than I am, perhaps a little less but no older. And a more trustworthy man you could not wish to meet.”
Gwennie rolled her eyes.
“You sound enamoured, master Dafydd. But he killed our king.”
Enamoured, Lew thought. There was a very good chance she was right, but maybe the truth should be told.
“Aye, Gwennie, he did indeed have our king killed, but let me tell you how he did it, how it was almost entirely Brae’s own fault, and how many other people King Aron did not kill when waging war from the cold, northern lands.”
~
‘Delayed’, read the telegram. ‘Will summon on my return. A’
“A?” Alice asked. “That’s a very strange way of signing a telegram.” She handed it to Gwennie. “It doesn’t even say who it’s to, so how we are supposed to figure out who it’s from, I’ll never know.”
“Who is delayed?” Gwennie mused. “Or what?”
Lew put his teacup down so fast that it rattled in his saucer.
“Let me see that,” he said, holding out his hand. “Please,” he added.
“It says no more than I said,” Alice told him, but handed it over.
“Summon,” he said, staring at the thin paper. He fought down a ridiculous urge to grin. “It is from the King.”
“You what?” Gwennie sounded scandalised. “Master Dafydd, the king wouldn’t send a simple telegram like that. He’d send an official messenger.”
Tapping his fingers on the table, Lew quickly counted the days off.
“It’s three weeks tomorrow since I returned,” he said. “And the king said he would summon me once he was back at court. So he has been delayed.”
“Are you telling me that A stands for Aron?” Gwennie shared a worried glance with Alice. “That’s just not proper, master Dafydd.”
“His Majesty has a habit of doing things slightly differently to what we are used to.” Lew thought about that first dinner, Aron topping up his own glass, then Lew’s and Elrin’s. “At first I thought it was done deliberately to keep everyone on their toes, but I have discovered it is simply because the man has no pretensions.”
Lew left Gwennie and Alice muttering in shocked tones to each other and made his way to the boot room. It was only when he went to pull his coat on that he realised he still clutched the telegram.
Idiot, he chided himself. Opening it back up, he read it again.
“Will summon,” he murmured, but then an entirely new meaning occurred to him and he found himself sitting heavily on the old wooden bench as all the strength went out of his legs. What if Aron had no intention of summoning Lew, and this telegram was just to keep him waiting? Don’t go back to court because he had been delayed, but then what if he neglected to inform Lew when he did return?
He briefly considered the idea that one of the ministers had sent it, but immediately dismissed the idea. They wouldn’t dare to imitate the king in such a manner, so this telegram really must be from Aron.
Slowly, Lew pulled his long boots on and finished donning his coat. How easy, he mused, to go from delight to dispair with just seven short words.
Cramming a wide brimmed hat on his head, he let himself out into the damp and the rain to where the steam cart was waiting for his next visit. He had done such a good job of keeping the king out of his thoughts, but now, there was nothing but Aron in his head.
Fool, he told himself.
~
“There’s another steam cart coming down the drive,” Dewi informed them all at breakfast the next morning. Lew had not slept well, snatches of dreams haunting his sleep, thoughts of being banished from the castle plaguing his waking moments.
“Maybe a neighbour?” Lew asked.
“There be no one with a cart round here, master Dafydd. Folks still prefer a good horse to one of those contraptions,” Gwennie informed him.
“Doesn’t Lord Cerdded own an airship though?” Alice asked. “They say he flew to the capital just last month.”
“You listen to too much gossip, Alice,” Gwennie told her. “Lord Cerdded spends most of his money on the dice.”
“Either way,” Dewi interrupted his mother. “Do you want me to go greet whoever it is?”
Lew stood suddenly.
“No, no, I will do it,” he said. It was a stupid, faint hope, but the only steam carts he’d seen in a long while had been at the capital. His head filled with a thousand ‘what ifs’ and he gulped the last mouthful of tea. “Dewi, help your ma with the sheets and the dust in the drawing room today, please.”
“Aye sir,” Dewi said with a shrug. Nothing fazed Dewi and for that, Lew was suddenly very grateful.
He made a beeline for the front door, buttoning his workmanlike woollen jacket. Even if the steam cart didn’t carry a message from the capital, it would be someone of note because, as Gwennie had said, no one in the locality owned one. He tried not to imagine what a missive carried by such a cart would say.
The cart was a small one, but it was of Nordbergan styling. Lew strode down the main steps as the visitor pulled up a few yards away. There was a single driver, well swaddled in thick grey scarves and a heavy fleece cap, who was engulfed in a cloud of steam as he pulled the stop.
“Welcome to Derwen,” Lew said as the hissing dissipated. “How may I help you?”
The driver tugged his cap off, revealing a mass of golden curls and Lew felt his heart hiccup.
“Tea would be a good place to start,” said Aron.
“What the hell…” Lew stopped himself as his manners kicked in and he bowed. “Sire, what on the good green earth are you doing here?”
Aron laughed and jumped down from the cart.
“That, my friend, is a very long story, and one I would rather not hold out here in the open.”
“Of course, of course.” Lew stepped back, trying his best not to grin from ear to ear. “Please, come inside. The house is still a work in progress, and my housekeeper is probably going to murder me on the spot when I introduce you, but you are always most welcome.”
Gwennie, predictably, was crosser than an old goose with Lew but, once she’d gotten over her speechlessness as being introduced to the current king of Bretland and Nordberg, threw herself into making a whole new breakfast spread for their unexpected guest.
By the time Lew managed to extract Aron, he had the feeling that neither of them would want to eat for the rest of the day.
“I see the famous Bretan hospitality is still alive and well in the countryside,” Aron said with a laugh.
“Sire,” Lew said, pausing in the great hall of the house. “As delighted as I am to see you, I must ask, what are you doing out here? Without a guard, either.”
“Lew, no one knows who I am here.” Aron’s laughter softened into a smile. “I am clearly not a local but not a soul this side of the capital could reliably recognise me as the king. I do not need a retinue of guards, especially not when my intended destination was Derwen.”
“But… why?”
“Did I not say we would meet again in three weeks?”
“Yes, but I thought that was simply a ploy to remove me from the castle.”
The smile died on Aron’s face, and Lew was faced with a fierce, stony expression he’d never seen before. He replayed the last words he’d said and winced.
“I beg your pardon?” Aron asked, voice dangerously soft.
There was nothing for it but to explain what he had seen and heard on his last day in the castle. Whilst he was talking, he led Aron into the small estate office which overlooked the driveway and the still steaming cart.
“So, you honestly thought I would use such underhanded means to rid myself of you?”
If Lew didn’t know better, he’d say Aron looked hurt.
“No, no, I didn’t, but I had no idea what else Gechen had said because I walked away. It’s why Marek found me in the courtyard. I was… collecting my thoughts.”
“If you had stayed, you would have heard me assure him that you were the most trustworthy of any of my knights, at either court.” Aron stood with his arms crossed, looking at Lew with that blue eyed stare that made Lew feel like Aron could see into his soul. “My question to you should really be, do you trust me, Sir Knight?”
That was a loaded question, Lew thought, but he chose to answer it as truthfully as he could.
“There was a time when I thought I would never trust anyone again, sire. But now, I can honestly say I trust you with my whole heart.”
“Even after all you have been through? You are an extraordinary man,” Aron said, and a rush of warmth went through Lew.
“No, sire, just an ordinary one, elevated by proximity to a great king.” He watched a number of expressions flicker over Aron’s face before he realised he was staring.
“If I am great, it is only due to the people around me. A king is nothing without his subjects, is he?”
“You inspire those subjects.”
Aron’s eyes never left Lew’s face.
“Do I inspire you, Lew?”
“More than you can ever know, sire.”
“I think, when it is just the two of us in the room, I would like you to call me Aron.” A whimsical smile tugged at the corner of Aron’s mouth. “So few people use my given name like that now.”
Lew nodded. He wanted to kiss that lopsided little smile and Aron had just made it even harder to keep those feelings shoved down.
“Then I would be honoured to. Aron.”
“Thank you. I do have another question, however.”
“Which is?”
Aron stepped closer, eyes never leaving Lew’s.
“How long do you think we will continue to dance around one another like this?”
Lew’s breath caught.
“Exactly,” Aron said with a nod.
“I suppose,” Lew managed. “It all depends on who is brave enough to take that first step.”
“I was hoping it would be you.” A diffident shrug. “You have enough bravery for the whole court, Lew.”
“I don’t know. I think you turning up here out of the blue classes as brave.” A bubble of hope lodged itself behind his ribs.
“I am your king, your commander. I should not abuse your trust by asking for something that you might not want to give, in case you feel you are obliged to.”
“Then, I must be the one to ask.” Spurred on by the bubble of hope and the bravery it engendered, Lew stepped closer, until their faces were inches apart. “I want whatever you want, but right now, what I desire most is a kiss. If you bestow such lowly things,” he added.
The tension was broken by Aron’s startled huff of a laugh, and Lew chose that moment to lean in, press his lips to Aron’s and kiss the wry smile he’d been enamoured with for months.
It was worth the wait. Aron returned his kiss with fervour, tinged with more than a little relief and Lew had to wrap both arms around him to ground himself.
“I have wanted you since you knelt before me,” Aron murmured, breaking the kiss to draw breath. “But my conscience says I should not do this.” Those blue eyes flickered across Lew’s face, focused on his lips.
“I have been in love with you since the day in the library that you told me you trusted me.” Lew had to lean in and kiss him again. “Only I didn’t realise then what the emotion was. But each day after, I fell further and harder, until one morning I awoke and finally understood what it was that buoyed my every step when I walked next to you.”
“So will you come back to court with me?”
“I will follow you anywhere. And not just because I swore to,” he added, as Aron opened his mouth to object. “Oath or no oath, I am bound to you.”
Aron nodded thoughtfully, then kissed Lew again, soft and slow and sweet.
“You haven’t seen Norderig yet, have you?” he asked, lifting a hand to brush a stray lock of black hair off Lew’s forehead.
“Not yet, no.”
“Maybe it’s time my Knight Guard got to know my other court. Chances are, you’ll be seeing a lot of it in the future.”
“I’d be delighted.”