The Prince Read online

  “No!” Malcolm grunted. “Myrredith. … Think about Myrredith! You’ve got to rescue her.”

  A tiny rivulet of blood ran from the point of the dagger as it pierced Hugh’s skin. Malcolm looked into his friend’s eyes. In them, he saw no anger or fear, only his own reflection.

  Without warning, Hugh’s strength gave out. Malcolm jerked away with the dagger and fell back on his rear. Hugh laid on the tiny cot, staring at the ceiling. Malcolm sheathed his weapon and sat down across from him in the dim room. He rested and waited until Hugh fell asleep.

  Malcolm got up to find some food and hide his weapons out of Hugh’s reach. “She really does need you, my friend,” he told the sleeping warrior. “You’re the only one in the kingdom who can save her.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Condemned

  Lady Myrredith paced the length of her narrow cell. She looked through the tall embrasure at every turn. With each hour that passed, her footsteps had grown heavier until they sounded like marching. She tried to sit and calm herself, but within seconds she was back on her feet, pacing with more vigor and venom than before.

  Myrredith stopped once more beside the slender window. At the end of her taut arms, both hands balled into crushing fists, pointed towards the floor. Since her husband’s death, she had worn mourning colors, which accentuated her long, fiery hair. Because she had no access to maid or mirror, she now wore her hair in a simple, thick braid that fell straight down her back.

  As she stared out the window, a tear found its way to her cheek. It waited there, unattended, before falling to the grey stones of the floor. She closed her tired eyes, trying to blot out the image she had seen. For two days, new columns of smoke rose up through the trees as the conquering Gwythian army laid waste to Dyven.

  At that moment, the door to Lady Myrredith’s cell opened and Prince Hereweald strutted in. He seemed content to look at the lonely, dark figure by the window.

  “Don’t cry for Dyven, Madam. Their punishment is just, as will be yours.”

  Lady Myrredith spun around and faced him.

  *

  Her green eyes bore down on him with such fierceness that he froze. Prince Hereweald was an expert at reading faces and master of his own; skills he had learned from his dispassionate father. Lady Myrredith’s ability to affect him so readily caught him by surprise. The prince examined the details of her face and saw that her hateful glare was not just for anger, but an attempt of pride to hide frailty. Her puffy, reddened eyes, the lines of worry on her brow, and the hint of fear on her quivering lips gave her away.

  “How long are you going to allow this crime to continue?” She spat her words.

  “This ‘crime,’ as you call it, is nothing of the kind.” Hereweald took a step toward her. “It is repayment for their treachery against my brother.”

  “Treachery?”

  “Yes, I know the truth about his murder. The wedding, the talk of peace … all a ploy by you and your king: a cowardly strike at the heart of my family! Well, you’ll pay for your foolishness now: every city, every town, every farm in my path!”

  “No! It’s not like that at all. Can’t you see?”

  Hereweald stared at his prisoner. She did not have the face of a murderer, and yet the reports said otherwise. He shoved his observations aside. “All I see is the harlot who killed my brother.”

  He watched while Myrredith forced down her rage. He knew all the reasons she hated him: He brought death to her countrymen, destruction to Dyven, and threatened everything she held dear. He knew, yet felt guiltless.

  She clenched her fists at her sides. “Gaelyn was my friend.”

  Prince Hereweald struck Lady Myrredith with the back of his hand, knocking her to the floor. “You lying witch! Don’t ever say his name again. Or so help me, I’ll tear out your tongue with my own hands.”

  Myrredith placed a hand over her bleeding lip and looked up at the prince. Tears welled in her eyes, but she did not allow them to fall. “Please,” she whispered. “Stop this now.”

  Hereweald once again looked into her expression. She was not unlike the women of his homeland. He recognized that she possessed strength and courage, but there was more. She was also very beautiful, much more beautiful than he had thought she would be. The prince blinked and realized that he had stepped toward her. He stepped back, feeling disgraced and betrayed by his thoughts.

  “To answer your question: Dyven will be punished one day for each year of my brother’s life.”

  “No.”

  “Your country will burn, as long as my blood burns for revenge.”

  “Please. I beg of you ...”

  “Do not beg to me, harlot.” Hereweald took another step away. “You should be beggin’ for your god’s forgiveness, for in twenty-eight days, on the first morning of Dyven’s new life, you shall be taken to the market square where your head will be struck from your body.”

  Prince Hereweald turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  *

  A moment later, Myrredith heard the bolt slide into place. This sound had a certain finality to it that eroded her strength.

  “Prince Hereweald!” she cried. “Prince Hereweald! Your Highness!”

  Again, the door opened. Prince Hereweald stood in the doorway with arms crossed. His eyes still smoldered.

  “What is it?”

  “Your Highness.” Myrredith dropped her gaze. “I ...” She wanted to plead for her life, but hesitated. She looked into the eyes of her enemy. The stone-like orbs mocked her. “I ...” Just then, she remembered all the other lives at stake and threw down her weakness and fear. If she just rolled over, if she allowed them to kill her, then she couldn’t stop Hereweald. She didn’t give herself much of a chance, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

  Lady Myrredith straightened her shoulders and said, “I have not bathed in two days, or had a change of clothes. This room is cold and the bed uncomfortable—”

  “So?”

  Myrredith lowered her eyes again. It appeared that she was being submissive, but in truth, she was girding up her strength.

  Lady Myrredith renewed her subtle attack. “I would ask Your Highness to allow me to return to my own room. Your Highness could keep me prisoner there just as easily as here ...”

  Prince Hereweald listened to her words. Each time she addressed him as “Your Highness,” his brow furrowed. She’d said it with the proper regard due a person of his station but still managed to sound superior. With each repetition, the prince’s title took on the qualities of an insult.

  “Therefore, Your Highness.” Lady Myrredith ignored his deepening scowl.

  “No.” The prince shifted his weight to the other foot.

  She finished her thought, as though he hadn’t spoken. “I would be most grateful—”

  “No!” Hereweald flexed the muscles in his jaw.

  Myrredith bowed her head in a way that could seem condescending to Hereweald, and he left again, this time not only slamming the door but also stomping his feet as he marched down the corridor.

  Lady Myrredith listened to Hereweald’s heavy footfalls until he was out of earshot. A faint smile crossed her lips. If nothing else, she could upset this arrogant prince. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough to keep him unbalanced. It might even save her life or spare Dyven. Myrredith’s smile faded as the window drew her attention. If I were a man, she thought. I’d do more than upset him.

  ***

  For the remainder of the day, agitation plagued Hereweald, Second Prince of Gwythia. He was quick to rebuke each soldier, servant, or advisor who approached him. Quite unusual behavior, in light of his recent victories. At last, it rose to the attention of his newly-arrived advisor, Lord Snegaddrick, who found the prince in his quarters.

  “Your Highness—”

  “What is it, Snegaddrick?” Hereweald snapped.

  “If it pleases, Your Highness …” The former ambassador threw about extraneous gestures. “… would you
address me as ‘Lord’ Snegaddrick? I do so like the sound of it, having only recently acquired the title.”

  Prince Hereweald shot the impudent little man a dark look. He took in the man’s chubby face and bloated body and chortled. “Lord Snegaddrick,” he said with a grin. “You are the only man here with enough cunning and gall to talk to me that way. My father was right to send you.”

  “Are you sure my years as ambassador to Lyonesse didn’t have something to do with that, Your Highness?”

  “Perhaps, but I believe it was your … character, that landed you in that role as well.”

  “Quite so, quite so,” the newly ennobled lord said. “After all, a man’s character does more for his duty than all his former titles.”

  “I had no idea you were a philosopher.”

  “Oh yes indeed, Your Highness.”

  “But I doubt it’s philosophy you have come to discuss.”

  “In a manner of speaking, it is, Your Highness.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, my prince.” Snegaddrick hesitated. “It has been brought to my attention that you have been quite … short today.”

  “Short?” Prince Hereweald scowled. “To whom?”

  “Well, to everyone, Your Highness.”

  “Oh.” Hereweald grudgingly accepted this judgment.

  His advisor seized the opportunity to continue. “And, as your advisor, it is my duty to know what it is that is troubling you so that I might better advise you.”

  “I see.”

  “If you don’t wish to talk to me about it …” Snegaddrick sounded apologetic.

  “No. It’s quite all right.”

  Lord Snegaddrick clasped his hands together and moved to the prince’s left side. He sat next to his chair and waited there for Hereweald to begin.

  Though it was the customary position for an advisor, Hereweald felt uncomfortable with Snegaddrick by his side. This was his first campaign with full command, and having advisors of this nature was something new to him, but there was something more. Something about the cheery, gluttonous man bothered him. Rather than controlling his instincts, Hereweald allowed them to propel him across from the little man. He wanted to see his fat, round face and know what he was thinking.

  Snegaddrick got up to follow his prince, but Hereweald’s pale eyes rebuffed him. He resettled himself across from Hereweald, and once again clasped his hands together.

  “What is it that’s troubling Your Highness? I hope I have done nothing to offend.”

  “No, no.” The prince noticed his new advisor’s hurt expression. “Sometimes I think better on my feet.”

  Hereweald wondered about this man before him. How could this soft, emotional, easily slighted creature get so far with no birthright whatsoever? He must possess a great wealth of cunning for my father to send him. Perhaps all these weaknesses are affectations to deceive.

  Hereweald took a deep breath and released it. “What’s troubling me …” He pointed towards Lady Myrredith’s cell. “Is that woman!” He stopped himself when he realized that his voice had already risen higher than he had intended. Just the mere allusion to her made his blood boil.

  “Woman?”

  Hereweald sighed. “Lady Myrredith.”

  The prince was almost too busy controlling himself to notice a change in his advisor’s expression, but it still pulled his attention. Snegaddrick’s eyes had shifted and narrowed in response to the woman’s name but quickly returned to the prince.

  “I don’t see why she should bother Your Highness. She is guilty of your brother’s murder. When she is executed, she will trouble you no more.”

  “You say that with such certainty.”

  “I have found that dead enemies are soon forgotten, Highness.”

  “No. You seem so certain that she is responsible.”

  Lord Snegaddrick scanned Hereweald’s face and said, “As were you, my prince.”

  “After hearing your report, aye. But now I am not so sure.”

  “Don’t let her bewitch you, Your Highness.” Snegaddrick sat up straighter. “She is no less guilty of Gaelyn’s murder than the cursed elf that wielded the knife!”

  “Yes, yes, so you’ve said.”

  “Believe me, Your Highness …” Snegaddrick leaned forward. “The sooner that witch is dead, the sooner your brother will rest easy.”

  “Won’t her people rise against us if we kill her? She is a noble, and quite popular.”

  “Not when they are told she is the reason for this war. The reason for their suffering.”

  “Is she?”

  “Is she what?”

  “Is she really the reason for this war?”

  *

  Snegaddrick started to answer with a pat affirmative, but then saw that Hereweald was after something more. The ex-ambassador recognized that Prince Hereweald, like his father the king, had a keen intellect and keeping something from him would be a challenge. Not wanting to give up too much at once he asked, “What are you getting at, my prince?”

  “It’s probably nothing.” Hereweald crossed to the window.

  The prince’s advisor was relieved that his young master hesitated, this once, to follow his instincts. The line of questioning he had started could lead a young man, even a prince, to falter in his duty.

  “I understand completely. It is only natural that you should be unsure. This is your first command of such a campaign, and your brother’s murder must weigh heavily on your heart.” He wanted to bring the conversation back to where he was comfortable—to a place he could manipulate the prince, and correct any misgivings he might have about the enemy. He stood and walked to just a pace behind Hereweald. “You and your brother were quite close, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Hereweald’s focus was far away. “We are—were—less than two years apart.”

  “And now they’ve taken him from you.” Snegaddrick placed a hand on the prince’s shoulder.

  Hereweald spun around to face his advisor. His eyes were cold and dark as the sea that hungrily drowns sailors. Snegaddrick swallowed hard.

  The new lord realized that he had made a mistake. He had meant to reinforce Hereweald’s anger with Lady Myrredith and Lyonesse, not to bring it on himself. You fool, he thought. You moved too soon. Let your new title go to your head, didn’t you? He doesn’t quite trust you yet.

  “Leave me!” Prince Hereweald bit off each word. “I wish to be alone!”

  “Yes, of course, Your Highness.” Snegaddrick gave a deep bow.

  *

  As the cowed advisor bowed and scraped his way to the door, Hereweald turned back to the window and scanned the lush countryside. The blue shadows of evening were merging into night. “We’ve been at war with Lyonesse for so long, and peace was in our grasp! Why would they … ?”

  Snegaddrick hesitated at the door. Finally, he chanced to answer. “Arrogance, jealousy, vengeance … The list is long, my prince. I think it is simply because they hate us so much.”

  “So much,” Hereweald mumbled, staring at the soft glow from Dyven’s fires. “I wish to be alone.”

  “By your leave.” Snegaddrick gave a final bow.

  Alone, Prince Hereweald stewed over the situation late into the night. As he stirred the fire, something he liked to do himself, he glanced around his new quarters. A pleasant, albeit feminine suite of rooms. Not surprising, since they had belonged to the Lady of Cyndyn Hall.

  The Cyndyn family crest, carved boldly in reddish stone, presided over the hearth. On the adjoining wall, there hung a large tapestry in vibrant hues, depicting wild animals in peaceful coexistence with men. A rose-floral cloth draped the large canopy bed—something that Hereweald had never seen before. Its down mattress felt uncommonly soft and warm. In fact, it was too soft for Hereweald, who was accustomed to a barracks cot or the ground. The remaining furniture, all of dark wood, was also quite comfortable except for a tall chair that sat behind a rather imposing walnut desk in the entry room. Near the large double window, next to
the large wardrobe and wash basin, stood an extraordinary mirror, which allowed the prince to see his entire person at a glance; a treasure unto itself.

  Prince Hereweald found himself standing in front of that mirror. For an instant, he panicked, not recognizing the face staring back at him. It was the same every time. He thought it peculiar that no matter how many times he saw his reflection, his own countenance was, at first, strange. It was as if he expected to find a different face. But as soon as he saw his own constant features, whatever image he had in his head evaporated. The thought made him feel uncomfortable and he wondered if others might have the same odd experience.

  Hereweald focused on his body. He had a well-favored physique—tall and trim like his brothers, only more muscular. He attributed this to his extensive martial training. His older brother, Brendyn, had been groomed for the throne all his life while he himself had been schooled and practiced in the ways of war. Little Gaelyn, expected to be married off to some foreign hussy, as he was, had been offered only scraps of both disciplines.

  The thought of Gaelyn brought Hereweald back to his campaign. Seeded deep in his heart was a hatred of all that was Lyonesse. As a boy, he was taught they were the enemy, and as a man—a warrior—he had grown to know what that meant. But now, it was more than the lessons he had learned from history or on the battlefield; it was personal. The murder of his brother had riven the chain that held his primitive instincts at bay, and catapulted him beyond the narrow, carefully constructed walls of civilization. He burned for revenge. He wanted to see the whole of Lyonesse put to the torch and its inhabitants trampled into the ground.

  Once again, the prince’s image in the mirror distracted his ranting mind. The regal clothing on his person seemed out of place for the man who, only days before, had butchered countless soldiers and citizens in the streets of Dyven. On that horrible day, his hands were not his own. His mind was not his own. His heart was not his own. He wished that his eyes had not been his own, for the sights that they witnessed were abhorrent to him now. He could scarcely believe what he now knew he was capable of, what he was still capable of doing. The reflection stared back at him with calm, civilized, princely poise. The monster within was not visible. I am truly two people: a beast and a man. But which one is stronger? Which one will rule?