The Crown Conspiracy

“I wish you could spend the whole night with me, my lord,” Tillie babbled at him as he pulled his nightshirt over his head.

“Then you should be grateful I dozed as long as I did.” With his toes he felt along the floor for his slippers and, finding them, he slid his feet into the warm fleece lining.

“I am, my lord.”

“Good night, Tillie,” Alric said as he reached the door and stepped outside.

“Good—” Alric closed the door before she finished.

Tillie usually slept with the other maids, in a dorm near the kitchens. Alric brought her to the little vacant bedroom on the third floor of the castle for privacy. He did not like taking girls to his room—his father’s bedroom was right next door. The vacant room was on the north side of the castle, and because it received less sunlight, it was always cooler than the royal chambers. He pulled his nightshirt tight and shuffled down the corridor toward the stairs.

“I’ve checked all the upper floors, Captain, he’s not there,” Alric heard someone say from just up the steps. By his curt tone, he guessed the speaker to be a sentry. He spoke to them rarely, but when he did, they were always abrupt as if words were a commodity in short supply.

“Continue the search, down to the prisons if necessary. I want every room examined, each pantry, cabinet, and wardrobe. Do you understand?”

Alric knew that voice well, it was Wylin, the master-at-arms.

“Yes, sir, right away!”

Alric heard the sentry trotting down the steps, and he saw the soldier stop abruptly the moment he met Alric’s gaze. “I found him, sir!” he shouted with a hint of relief.

“What’s going on, Captain?” Alric called out even as Wylin and three other castle guards rushed down the steps.

“Your Royal Highness!” the captain knelt briefly, bowing his head, and then rose abruptly. “Benton!” he snapped at the solider. “I want five more men here protecting the prince right now. Move!”

“Yes, sir!” the soldier snapped a salute and ran back up the stairs.

“Protecting me?” Alric said. “What’s going on?”

“Your father’s been murdered.”

“My father? What?”

“His Majesty, the king…we found him in the royal chapel stabbed in the back. Two intruders are in custody. The dwarf Magnus confirmed it. He saw them murder your father, but he was powerless to stop them.”

Alric heard Wylin’s voice, but he could not understand the words. They did not make sense. My father is dead? He had just spoken with him before he went to Tillie’s room not more than a few hours ago. How could he be dead?

I must insist that you remain here, Your Highness, under heavy guard until I finish sweeping the castle. They may not be alone. I am presently conducting a—”

“Insist what you like, Wylin, but get out of my way. I want to see my father!” Alric demanded, pushing past him.

“King Amrath’s body has been taken to his bedroom, Your Highness.”

His body!

Alric did not want to hear any more. He ran up the steps, his slippers flying off his feet.

“Stay with the prince!” Wylin shouted after him.

Alric reached the royal wing. There was a crowd in the corridor that moved aside at his approach. As he reached the chapel, its door lay open with several of the chief ministers gathered inside.

“My prince!” he heard his Uncle Percy call to him from inside, but he did not stop. He was determined to reach his father.

He couldn’t be dead!

He rounded the corner, passed his own room, and rushed into the royal suite. Here the double doors were open as well. Several ladies in nightgowns and robes stood just outside weeping loudly. Inside, a pair of older women busied themselves wringing out pink-stained linens in a washbasin.

To the side of the bed stood his sister Arista, dressed in a burgundy and gold gown. Her arms wrapped around the bedpost, which she gripped so tightly that her fingers were white. She stared at the figure on the mattress with eyes that were dry but wide with horror.

On the pale white sheets of the royal bed lay King Amrath Essendon. He still wore the same clothes Alric had seen him in before he retired for the night. His face was pale, his eyes were closed, and near the corner of his lips, there was a tiny tear of dried blood.

“My prince—I mean, Your Royal Majesty,” his uncle corrected himself as he followed him into the bedchamber. His Uncle Percy always looked older than his father did—his hair was very gray, his face wrinkled and drooping; however, he possessed the trim elegant build of a swordsman. He was still in the process of tying up his robe as he entered. “Thank Maribor you are safe. We thought you might have met a similar fate.”

Alric was at a loss for words. He just stood staring at the still body of his father.

“Your Majesty, do not worry. I will take care of everything. I know how hard this must be. You’re still a young man and—”

“What are you talking about?” Alric looked at him. “Take care of what? What are you taking care of?”