Prologue
Christofur
England
May 1870
"My lord, a messenger from Raultshire," Carlisle, next in line to be the earl of Haluria and my oldest friend, says, coming into my rooms. I am currently studying at Oxford, and no one ever writes to me, so this is surprising.
"A messenger? Whatever for?" He hands me the message. I tear through the seal to read it. "My father is dead. As are my brothers," I say without emotion.
"Coughing sickness?" Carlisle asks.
"That’s what Giles says.” I suppose I should be upset, but I find that I am not. The three of them made my life a living hell, so much so that I jumped at the chance to study in England, far from the shores of Raultshire.
“Your Majesty?” Carlisle says, startling me. Never in my lifetime did I think that title would be addressed to me.
“Yes?”
“We should leave at once. Your people will need you now.”
“You are right, of course, you are right.” When I look up, he is kneeling in front of me. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“My king, I swear this solemn oath of allegiance to ye. I vow to protect king and crown from this day until my last day. My sword is your sword. Your fight is my fight, forevermore.”
“I am honored and humbled by such loyalty,” I reply awkwardly. I am not even sure if that was the right response, but Carlisle smiles and stands.
“I will have the stewards pack; we should just be on our way.”
The journey home takes ten days altogether. When I arrive, I am greeted by my father’s chief minister, Ronin. I hate this man, but do I really want to rock the boat as soon as I arrive home?
“Lord Christofur,” Ronin says.
“That is Your Majesty,” Carlisle says, interjecting.
“Of course, forgive me, Your Majesty,” he says with a sneer.
“Where is the protocol officer?” I ask, wanting to be done with this man.
“I am here, Your Majesty,” an older man says, coming forward.
“I am sorry I do not know your name.”
“No apologies necessary. I am Gavin Leedon.”
“Gavin, please join me in the study; there is much to discuss. You may go, Ronin,” I say dismissively.
“But…”
“That will be all. I will let you know when and if I need you.” I do not give him a chance to answer.
“What can I help you with, Your Majesty?” Gavin asks as soon as we are in the throne room.
“How do I get rid of my father’s men?” He pales. “Not you. I do not know you, which is working in your favor, trust me.”
“Very well. You ask them to leave. You do not owe them anything; if anything, with a regime change, other changes are expected. I would advise meeting with the heads of the military branches. They could assist if anyone should choose not to heed your dismissals.”
“Very well. Gather them for me.” He nods.
“Sir, we held off on the funerals. They are lying in wait in the main hall. We should not wait longer than three more days for your coronation. I took the liberty of setting everything up in anticipation of your wishes.”
“Today. We will do it today. We should not hold up the business of the country.”
“Excellent, sire. You should be seen in the great hall, though. I do not presume to direct you in that manner, though. I heard a great many rumors about you and your family.”
“I shall. Do not worry, Gavin. I will provide the very essence of propriety. I will ready myself, and we can get a move on it. I should be king before kicking people out of the castle, correct?”
“Excellent, your majesty,” he says, bowing. He turns to leave, then turns around and drops to his knees in front of me. “My king, I swear this solemn oath of allegiance to ye. I vow to protect king and crown from this day until my last day. My sword is your sword. Your fight is my fight, forevermore.”
“I am honored and humbled by such loyalty,” I reply. It’s getting less awkward. I have a feeling this won’t be the last time I do this today. The great thing about Raultshire, though, is that we are an absolute monarch. I do not answer to anyone, and that is a great responsibility to have on my shoulders. I am only twenty years old, and I never learned how to be king.
This should be interesting.
After a bath, I dress and make my way down to the great hall. Three coffins are lined up in front of the fireplace. Walking over to them, my mind flashes back to a harsher time in my life, unbidden.
“Fat boy?” Craigson had called in a singsong voice before kicking me square in the pants. He knocked me into the corner table, which sent everything on it and me crashing to the floor. My mother, who died giving birth to me, collected glass figurines of animals that were on the table. They shattered into a million pieces. Before I could get up off of the floor, my brothers were on me, punching and kicking me. That was nothing to the beating I received from my father. He tanned my hide with a leather strap and sent me to my room for damn near a week with no food. If the chambermaid who cleaned my room hadn’t said something to the housekeeper, I am sure I would have been forgotten about. The black eyes and bruised ribs lasted much longer than the punishment did, though. The next punishment for something Clarke did was much worse. I slept in the barn for two weeks because “pigs do not belong indoors.” It was December in the middle of a blizzard, but I survived. I was twelve years old. The following year, I started at Eton and never went home for the holidays. I was doing my damndest to forget about this place.