To Be King

  To Be King

  A Chivalric Romance

  by

  Lara Blunte

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  THE PHOENIX ROUSANT

  FATHER AND SON

  THE COCKATRICE

  FATHER AND DAUGHTER

  THE STATEROOM

  AN OATH

  WHITE MEADOW

  ON THE STEPS

  LATHIA

  THE CUSTOM

  A LAST CHANCE

  GIFTS

  THE WEDDING

  THE NIGHT AHEAD

  THE WEDDING BED

  LONG LIVE THE KING

  THE COUNCIL

  SISTERS

  THE CROWNING

  A JOUSTING MATCH

  HONOR

  THE MASTER-AT-ARMS

  A POTION

  THE OLD RAMPARTS

  SPYING

  HUSBAND AND WIFE

  THE MORNING AFTER

  SORCERY

  MOONLIGHT

  ISOLT

  THE GOOD EARTH

  A HAPPINESS THAT WAS TOO GREAT

  THE SCENT OF REBELLION

  MICHAELMAS

  A MESSAGE

  THE FIELDS OF WAR

  HELLCAT

  A FLIMSY CASTLE

  A BALANCE IN THINGS

  HARRY'S PLEA

  DAWN

  EPILOGUE. AGNETTA'S CHRISTMAS

  Copyright © 2015 by Lara Blunte

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I have always loved chivalric romances, tales of passionate love and great friendship in mythical times and places. When I was a teenager I read all the stories about King Arthur as well as Roland, Tristan and Tirant Lo Blanc, among many others.

  This book is not full of knightly exploits, it rather concentrates on a young man whose destiny is to be king in spite of himself.

  You will find certain aspects of the High Middle Ages in the story, because it is a time of chivalry and romance, but I am not faithfully following any era or depicting any real place.

  There are no fantasy elements either, unless you decide to interpret something that young Princess Agnetta does as magic.

  Finally, you will find no one saying “’Tis” and “’Twas” because I think that attempted medieval-speak can get very tiresome, unless it is in actual medieval literature.

  All my characters tend to need your forbearance for a while, as I always think that people’s flaws are what create a story. I hope that by the end of the journey they have learned something.

  And I hope you enjoy it.

  See the Pinterest board for this novel as a visual guide to the story. www.pinterest.com/larablunte/to-be-king/

  PROLOGUE

  It was a dark time.

  The old remembered nothing but war, the young prepared for nothing but war, children looked forward to nothing but war.

  Most people went hungry because no crop was safe. Between planting and harvesting, an army would march through the fields and destroy everything. Rivers of blood soaked the earth and corpses rotted in it, but nothing would grow, as if the land itself knew that another army would soon come.

  Duke fought against duke, earl against earl, baron against baron. Knights were felled by enemy swords as soon as they rose. Death was a way of life.

  The ruins of castles and fortifications, built to last a thousand years, were strewn over vast stretches of countryside: they had become blackened stone, burnt wood and not much more.

  Women cried for fathers, husbands, sons, lovers. Or they languished, their youth passing quickly as the ground beneath their feet rumbled with the charge of some cavalry not far off. Often they remembered a violence done against them, and bitterly wished for revenge. At other times they worked and died, untouched.

  It was Duke Tibold who changed all this. From his southern stronghold in Lathia, he started to push back the greedy warlords who wanted his rich land and the famed ease of life of his people, until the lands of the defeated were joined into a single realm.

  He crowned himself king, vanquished nearly all his foes, and had the wisdom to keep them satisfied by giving a few of them better lands than they had had before, and allowing the many to feel the benefits of peace.

  Suddenly men who had known only war looked forward to building castles in light stone, to erecting churches, to buying fine linen, furs and velvet for their wives and mistresses, to eating well instead of munching on cold horse meat, to good wine, music and even to dancing.

  Tibold's rule was strong, but it was fair and shrewd, and the other lords gave him his due.

  The king chose the phoenix rising, or rousant, its wings displayed and elevated, for his coat of arms; his motto was Cras es noster, the future is ours. For the first time the lands from the unruly oceans of the west to the calm warm seas of the south and east belonged to the same kingdom.

  Now there have been four years of peace: savages remain across the sea to the northeast and a last lord must still swear fealty to Tibold: Benedikt in the northern duchy of Stonemount. His people had been bred to the sword even before the endless wars started.

  Duke Benedikt is the only leader who will dare face Tibold's might, since his warriors are fierce, skilled and fearless. Their armors, shields and swords are of better quality than any others, their horses swift, their women hardy.

  However, Tibold knows that Benedikt is honorable, clever, and, most of all, tired of war. Tibold also knows what enticement must be offered to the duke, so that Stonemount joins the new kingdom that he has created.

  Don't look for this story in history books, don't look for these names: it may all have happened, or it may just have been the imagination of a princess called Agnetta.

  THE PHOENIX ROUSANT

  "The king is angry," Sir Jochim whispered to Lord Jollan as the two men met outside the royal antechamber.

  "Let me hazard a guess," Lord Jollan replied in his rather high but cultivated voice. "He is asking for the prince?"

  "Indeed."

  "Well," Lord Jollan raised an eyebrow. "We do know where he is..."

  "Indeed."

  "One of us must fetch him…"

  The two men looked at each other, neither relishing the task, and Lord Jollan closed his eyes briefly as shouting and roaring drifted to them from inside the chamber. Something was thrown and landed with a metal clang on the stone floor.

  "That distemper ─ we know where it comes from," Sir Jochim said.

  It was Lord Jollan's turn to say, "Indeed. We do."

  "The wounded lion roaring ... Or the phoenix, in his case. But the phoenix can rise from its ashes, which was the purpose of that rather obvious coat of arms; the king cannot. The prince will soon be king or we will be plunged into chaos again."

  "My head hurts just thinking about it," Lord Jollan sighed.

  "My dear friend," Sir Jochim said, tapping his fat fingers on his chain of office. He was Chancellor of the Exchequer, and money was his business. "We must remember that no one gets wealthy through war anymore, all wealth is in peace. There is nothing to sack; I believe most of anything that ever existed is in our coffers. Besides, there is so much appetite now for pretty things, it makes peace a more pleasant and profitable occupation."

  Lord Jollan tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his black tunic and said smoothly, "You need hardly tell me what I already know in such detail. The king is out of temper and out of
time, and we need the prince to play his part."

  "Precisely. And the prince, as we know, doesn't tend to oblige.”

  Another roar came from inside the chamber, "Where...is...my...SON?"

  "One of us will have to go get him," Lord Jollan said. "Sending the guard won't do. We must summon him with such respect and delicacy that he won't want to lop off our heads or banish us to Silvermarsh, or the frozen northeast, as soon as he takes his father's chair."

  "Of course," said Sir Jochim bending with some effort to grab straw from the ground. "Though at the moment I can't help being worried about the more immediate lash from The Tongue. Shall we draw?"

  Sir Jochim held up two straws, offering them to Lord Jollan.

  A while later Lord Jollan and two guards crossed the capital on foot, leaving the castle gates, walking down a hundred steps, turning right and down more steps, past churches and houses, past squares and narrow streets.

  He noticed once again as he went that the city ─ since it was a city now, not a town ─ smelled better, that the constant sound of steel on anvil had been replaced by hammer on wood, and chisel on stone. He passed women who looked prettier than they had four years ago: their skins glowed with the diet of fresh food and some displayed a bright ribbon on their hair, embroidered velvet sleeves or coquettish high heels.

  Then, on the bridge above the river, he saw the merchants still plying their wares: they were doing brisk trade, though it was seven o'clock in the evening.

  Further on there was noise and laughter in the taverns, as people seemed more disposed to order fat legs of mutton, and less disposed to kill each other over a mere brawl; life seemed less cheap. Men still exhibited scars from battle: some were missing an arm, a leg or an ear, but there was a decidedly more convivial atmosphere in Lathia than he had ever seen in his forty-odd years.

  The people knew that they had King Tibold to thank for their renewed prosperity: he had beaten the invaders, taken their lands and brought even more coin back from the wars. He had also shared some of his wealth with them and, for the moment, they were in love with their monarch.

  They hardly knew, Lord Jollan reflected as he walked towards his thankless task, that their well being was hanging by a thread: the king was sick, and his son, who ought to succeed him if they were not to break into warring duchies, earldoms and fiefs again ─ his son was a wastrel.

  Lord Jollan walked, and drew a deep breath thinking again that he didn't relish this meeting with The Tongue, Prince Tameas' sobriquet because of the sharp wit he used to demolish his opponents. The prince could run those keen narrowed eyes of his over someone and find the slightest weakness to amuse himself, and others, for a while.

  He had need of his wit because his other sobriquets ─ Tameas the Tame, or the Tipsy or (said with a world of disdain by men and with sighs by girls) the Pretty ─ were not names that any prince ought to cherish.

  And now that Lord Jollan was approaching a certain widow's large stone house, he drew another deep breath. He had no idea if Tameas would come along, or if he would just taunt him and send him back alone with the guards, but he did want to lead the evening's important business to a close. So much depended on how Prince Tameas was going to take what his father had to tell him tonight…

  At the widow's door he motioned for a guard to knock, which the man did, resoundingly.

  Lord Jollan and the guards were immediately recognized by the servant who opened the door. She let them in and rushed to announce them. A lute was being plucked inside, voices were raised in song and talk, and there was the sound of metal tankards being put down to laughter. Oh, God, let him not be too drunk, he prayed.

  There was silence when the servant entered, and almost immediately there was another burst of laughter and jeering. The servant came back to get the illustrious visitor, who left the guards behind and entered the large lavish room where the prince was lying with his head on the widow's lap. Lord Jollan saw Sir Donnet, sitting with a woman, and two other friends of the prince with more girls.

  Lord Jollan inclined his head first to the prince, then to the widow, Mistress Alyon, then to Donnet, the champion of Lathia, and Tameas’ closest friend.

  "Lord Jollan!" Donnet cried. "What brings you to this humble abode?"

  The abode was anything but humble, as Alyon's husband had been a very wealthy merchant, but Lord Jollan thought he should get to the point and addressed the prince, "Your Highness…" The new title, established by Tibold for his children, still sounded strange, but Lord Jollan imbued it with as much respect as he could and went on, "the king, your father─"

  He was interrupted by Donnet, "Lord Jollan! I have been wondering all day: why is it that the court has been calling Tameas 'The Tongue' ?"

  The prince's handsome dark head raised itself from the widow's lap as he addressed Donnet lazily, "Perhaps you should ask Mistress Alyon!"

  Bawdy laughter exploded in the room, and Lord Jollan closed his eyes, thankful that the banging of tankards on the wooden table would stop any other sallies for a moment. He stood patiently until Tameas motioned, asking for silence and looked at him inquiringly, "To what do we owe your wonderful forbearance, Lord Jollan?"

  "Your Highness, the king your father begs the pleasure of your presence."

  There was more laughing and applause. "The king begs?" asked Tameas, looking around and feigning surprise. "And will have pleasure in my presence?"

  He stood in one swift and graceful motion, throwing the lute to Donnet, who caught it.

  "Mistress Alyon, I implore your forgiveness! There is not more pleasure in anyone's company than in yours, but there is more astonishment at my father's pleasure in mine. I must go to him forthwith!"

  He kissed her hand, then her lips.

  "Will you return and tell us what was so urgent, sweet Tom?" Donnet asked.

  "You will not leave me in such expectation?" Alyon added with a seductive smile.

  There was laughter again as Tameas inspected his doublet and played with some knots on his sleeve. "Sweet Don, I might not. Sweetest Alyon, as you know, I hardly ever leave my father's company with the capacity for love."

  "You do often leave it in the mood for drinking..." she said, her eyes twinkling, "And the wine here is better than at the castle."

  "Ah, you know all my weaknesses. Or are they my strengths?" He looked at his father's emissary. "Though by Lord Jollan's beard, which honors your home today, I could swear that I won't like what I hear!"

  He kissed Alyon, tugged at Donnet's hair and, turning to Jollan, asked, "Lead on, Lord Jollan, and try not to make it look as though the guards have come to arrest me. I care about what the common folk think!"

  FATHER AND SON

  Tameas found his father in his antechamber, a large bare room where he received his council and dealt with matters that didn't require the majesty of the throne room.

  Fat Sir Jochim was with him, as well as pages dressed in livery on either side of his throne-like chair, and there were guards at both doors. Tall, lean and austere, Lord Jollan walked in with the prince.

  Tameas bowed elegantly before the king.

  "Your Highness graces me with his presence," Tibold told his son wryly.

  "All grace belongs to you," Tameas replied suavely. "Welcome back, Sire."

  His father scowled at him, and turned to the pages.

  "Out everyone," Tibold said in a flat voice. "You, you. And you two." He motioned towards Jochim and Jollan as well.

  The counselors looked at each other.

  "I said out!" the king snarled.

  The pages rushed to the door with Sir Jochim sailing behind them, and Lord Jollan followed with as much dignity as he could muster. The guards also walked outside and closed the doors. King Tibold was alone with his son.

  Tameas thought his father looked tired, and seemed to shiver in the cold. No wonder, he was returning from battle, and from negotiations with the enemy. And yet, should he express any concern, he knew that Tibold would only get ang
ry. The king hated to be coddled, or asked if he needed any help.

  Tibold looked at his son closely, his jaw working, one hand opening and closing as if to get rid of some bad feeling in it, before he said, "You will be king."

  "I hope not for a long time," said Tameas raising his eyebrows.

  "What do we know about the time we have?"

  "Are you ill, father?"

  Tibold made a motion as if swatting the subject and said instead, "Look out." He pointed to the large window behind his son. "What do you see? A city, boy! A city rising before your eyes. We will be the first city to rival the great old ones. I have managed to make a kingdom out of nothing."

  Tameas put his head down and stared at the toe of his boot. He didn't especially enjoy being lectured about things he already knew.

  "Do you still think it's only ambition that drives me?" his father continued. "It's a vision, a vision of living like people and not dying like animals. I have almost achieved this and there is that great blackness coming for me, taking me away before I finish my work and leaving you in my place. My only son."

  There was silence again, a silence that Tameas didn't break. If the king wanted to say something, he could do it without his prompting; he knew he couldn't ask about his father's health again.

  "As you know I have not vanquished Duke Benedikt," Tibold went on, "but I will tell you a truth I haven't told anybody: I could have done."

  Tameas looked sharply at his father, and Tibold rose from his seat, descending the three steps between himself and the prince. They were tall men of the same height. The king had a deep chest and a massive head, while his son was slender and perfectly proportioned. Both were dark haired, as people of the south generally were, but Tameas had inherited his mother's green eyes.

  "If I had no mercy, if I had been ready to raze his army to the ground, I would have done it. I had six times the number of men." Tibold said, standing by Tameas for a moment. "But I couldn't. They had so much heart! It would have been a shame for me to win against such people. Do you understand me?" He looked closely at Tameas, and his eyes seemed moist. "No...No. How can you understand? You haven't ever seen war."