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[Rough Draft] Chapter 66: A Tangled Crown of Divinity
The fourth day of the ice witch’s slumber.
A frantic but tangible silence fell over Peony Palace as the sun climbed the cold stone of its exterior. Ceremonial garments that had still not been mended and adjusted to Nicholas’s size were carried in by the Royal Tailor before the crack of dawn.
Nicholas stood half-dressed by a large golden enameled mirror, reading over the documents rushed to him just before breakfast by the House of Lords. The two party leaders, Earl Chase Coldwell and Earl Percy Hawthorne, stood at a respectful distance as the tailors measured, trimmed, sewed, dressed, and undressed their young monarch with forced calm.
“Is it ready yet?” Nicholas growled, pulling his hazel-blue eyes away from the amended document stating the needs of his expected, if not early, very important guest.
“The adjustments are finished, your Majesty,” the Royal Tailor replied, smiling despite the pallor of his face as he oversaw the work of his focused apprentices. “We just need to repolish the buttons and—”
“The buttons be damned; his Holiness is waiting!” Nicholas flinched as the steward behind him placed his hands on the Crown Prince’s waist to turn him towards the Tailor’s waiting measuring stick. “What is it now?”
“The Ceremonial Mantle, your Majesty.”
“Later,” Nicholas waved the men away and messaged the visible stress forming behind his tired eyes. “Lord Chase, Lord Percy, your thoughts?”
“We think his Holiness’s requests are more than understandable, your Majesty, given the length of time he will be staying with us,” Earl Coldwell chirped as if he had been eagerly awaiting permission to speak.
“I see no problems with the finances as requested,” Percy replied with less enthusiasm. “I would, however, like it stipulated that his Holiness will not pursue any additional form of inquisition while he is here.”
“And how do you propose I bring up, let alone make such a request?” Nicholas remarked acidly. “I do not expect his Holiness to carry out a public witch hunt, not when he would be better off reminding the populace of why they need him.”
Earl Hawthorne’s expression soured, but he gave no additional comment.
“Indeed,” Coldwell interjected carefully. “His Holiness has already sent several priests to the areas affected by the plague to provide comfort and relief where they can.”
“A useless gesture,” Percy snarked coldly. “Those plague victims not already dead or burned out of their homes have taken refuge in the Duchy of Bastiallano.”
“But the surviving members of those families afflicted by the plague will receive aid.”
Earl Hawthorne turned towards his comrade with a scornful sneer. “The plague was spread by public sources of water. All those who were contaminated died. How many families were lucky enough not to drink the same afflicted water as their dead relatives?”
Coldwell shrugged. “I see that the Earl of Hawthorne does not wish to receive any aid from the church. Even though—the Pope is our one and only hope of ending the plague.”
“Only a Saint can’t destroy a plague—”
“Enough!” Nicholas cut in with a tired sigh as his steward, Peyton, finished buttoning up the mahogany red jacket. The Royal Tailor hastily carried over the royal medallion of faith while Peyton left to fetch the royal chain of office.
“Your Majesty looks splendid,” Coldwell declared and stepped forward to help Peyton adjust the chain around Nicholas’s shoulder to keep the lengths even.
“It will do,” Nicholas replied with one last assessing look at the mirror. He stepped off the short platform and nodded to Captain Beaumont, who waited by the chamber door. “I shall head to the royal cathedral straightaway then.”
“Your Majesty will invite the Pope to dine in the royal palace, surely?” Coldwell pressed as he trailed behind the prince.
“If his Holiness is agreeable to the idea.”
“Then will your Majesty also invite the members of the House of Lords?” Percy asked as he followed them out of the room, leaving the Tailor, apprentices, and steward to clean up any fallen threads or needles.
“I suppose that would be possible—”
“And your Majesty wives,” Coldwell interjected quickly. “Surely they will be present as well.”
Nicholas stopped short and turned towards Coldwell with a warning glare. “Are you suggesting that I parade Lady Priscilla before the Pope and his Cardinals in her current state? Or perhaps you expect me to force the Crown Princess to share the same table as a man who is at war with her adopted father?”
“I imagine that even the Queen Regent would find it hard to enjoy her food eating at the same table as his Holiness,” Percy commented with a bemused smile at Coldwell’s apparent embarrassment. Earl Hawthorne stepped closer to the flushed nobleman and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “I would not overthink the matter, Earl Coldwell. His Holiness is not a man accustomed to viewing women as his equal. I doubt he will be disappointed that they are absent.”
“True enough,” Nicholas replied and quickly spun towards his destination. “My lords should focus on ensuring that the members of the party do not embarrass us in the coming days ahead.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” the party leaders responded in unison before exchanging less than friendly looks and exiting in different directions.
***
The grand cathedral pillars and arched rooftops towered over the Crown Prince as the Royal Carriage pulled up before the white marble steps, escorted by eight Royal Knights in full ceremonial dress.
Nicholas stepped out of the carriage, mindful of his new boots, and glanced towards the two witch hunters who stood on either side of the main entryway. “It would appear his Holiness is taking no chances.”
Captain Beaumont passed the reigns of his speckled gray warhorse to one of the knights, then moved to the Crown Prince’s side. Nicholas glanced over the Knight Captain’s uniform absently and sighed.
“You’re not wearing your medals, Captain?”
“My job is to protect you, not outshine you, your Majesty,” Beaumont replied with a faint smirk.
“Ha!” Nicholas cracked a smile and proceeded up the cathedral steps. “I wouldn’t mind our guest feeling a little intimidated by you.”
The Knight Captain grunted as he climbed the steps beside the young monarch.
The witch hunters waiting by the door straightened, and Nicholas frowned as they focused their attention on the giant knight beside him. ‘I guess he doesn’t really need medals to intimidate them.’
“His Majesty is here to greet his honored guest, Pope Jericho the I,” Beaumont announced with booming authority as he fixed his violet eyes on the men in turn.
“Greetings, Crown Prince Nicholas. I am Witch Hunter Bron. His Holiness is expecting you and welcomes your visit,” the senior of the pair, a man sporting a long braided white beard, replied smoothly. His comrade turned and rapped on the door in a series of sharp raps and pauses. The cathedral opened from within, and four more witch hunters appeared inside the narthex, their shiny scarlet red armor reflecting the outdoor light.
Nicholas nodded, careful to keep his expression neutral and relaxed as he stepped forward. His placid mask quickly faltered as the two witch hunters at the door moved to intercept the Knight Captain, blocking his way.
“Only the Crown Prince is expected,” Bron declared pointedly as the witch hunters within the narthex cautiously reached for their weapons.
‘The Pope has at least a dozen witch hunters at his side but forbids me a single knight?’ Nicholas clenched his jaw but smiled disarmed as he turned to meet the scowling Knight Captain’s gaze.
“Captain, would you lend me your glove?”
Bron and his companion exchanged glances as they moved aside to permit Beaumont to pass over a single leather glove. The Crown Prince smiled in gratitude, turned, and struck a startled Bron across the cheek with as much force as his arm, and the leather glove could muster.
Bron flinched. The witch hunter’s left hand moved instinctively to the short battle ax strapped to his waist before he froze. Nicholas did not have to look back to feel the murderous glare his Knight Captain was wearing.
Bron lowered his hand and moved back as his gaze returned to the Crown Prince. “Why—”
“Do you accept?” Nicholas interrupted with a single arched brow.
“Pardon? Accept what?” The senior witch hunter was scowling now.
“A dual,” Nicholas replied with a disarming smile as he pointed over his shoulder. “With him.”
“Ahha!” Bron shook his head, bewildered, and took another step back. “I don’t follow?”
“Oh, perhaps this will clear things up.”
The crack of the glove striking Bron’s cheek a second time echoed through the narthex. The witch hunters waiting inside didn’t move, but their attention had clearly shifted from Beaumont to the Crown Prince.
“Enough!” Bron growled, ignoring the sting of red that now bled into the flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.
“Is it?” Nicholas replied acidly as he stepped closer. “You’re standing in my cathedral, built in my capital, inside of my kingdom, and yet you have the audacity to tell me who I can or cannot bring with me?”
“Your Highness,” a tall, willowy witch hunter moved towards them and waved the stunned Bron aside. “We humbly ask for your understanding. It is customary for kings to have their first audience with the Pope alone.” The witch hunter smirked faintly while his silver-blue eyes briefly ran over Beaumont before returning to the Crown Prince. “You are in no danger here.”
“Neither is his Holiness,” Nicholas growled. “Especially with so many of his own personal guard at his side.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Does his Holiness imagine that I will go without a single knight for my protection for the Holy Day Celebration, Pray Day, my coronation, or the rest of the public events we shall be attending together?”
“No—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Your Highness—”
“His Majesty!” Beaumont growled as he stepped forward, knocking aside the witch hunter who moved into his path with a single outstretched hand.
Nicholas gestured towards his Knight Captain and lifted a brow cynically. “I’ve never heard of any tradition that requires a monarch to leave his royal guard behind against his wishes.”
The tall witch hunter’s attention once more shifted between the Crown Prince and his Knight Captain before he let out a sigh and relented. “Very well then, but we must ask that your Knight Captain hand over his sword—”
“Hahaha!”
The witch hunters scowled as Nicholas doubled over in laughter, stepping back to lean against Beaumont and return the Knight Captain’s glove before he wiped a single tear from the corner of his eye.
“The reason I proposed a dual earlier,” Nicholas explained as he caught his breath. “Was to show you the range of difference in power between a witch hunter and my Knight Captain.” He held out his hands and shrugged. “The offer still stands. I can always meet with his Holiness another time.”
Two witch hunters stepped forward, looking eager to take up Nicholas’s offer, but the tall witch hunter raised his right hand and waved them back. The silver-blue eyes once more narrowed in on Beaumont before the witch hunter spun on his heel and motioned for them to follow him.
‘If this was a strategy to remind me that my position of strength is lower than that of his Holiness, then I’ll count this as a win,’ Nicholas thought smugly as he followed behind their sulking guide. Beaumont moved behind him silently as the number of witch hunters in the narthex watching them grew in number.
***
It was only as they approached the residential chambers, which were tucked away in the back of the cathedral, that Nicholas realized he had never been here before. The Royal Family only visited the cathedral for weddings, coronations, and of course, Holy Saints Day. While the rooms themselves were clearly spacious, they were meant for the Pope and his Cardinals, with two smaller rooms reserved for the King and Queen, should they need rest and privacy during Prayer Day.
The largest residential rooms were, of course, reserved for the Pope. On guard outside, the two men in scarlet armor frowned at Beaumont but opened the doors without comment at the witch hunter’s signal.
Inside, the massive stained glass windows, which framed the back of the cathedral, filled the inner rooms with heavenly colors as a man, dressed from head to foot in robes of white and gold, rose from his throne-like chair to welcome them.
“Crown Prince Nicholas!” Jericho greeted in a quiet yet naturally commanding tone that reminded Nicholas of the days when he had been summoned before his father, King Henri. “We hoped you would visit.”
The Crown Prince found himself unable to look away from the man’s unnaturally white eyes, and the more he stared, the more the faint outlines of the burns that had once blinded the Pope at a young age became visible.
“We apologize for coming ahead of schedule,” Jericho continued, seeming to ignore or overlook the prince’s awed expression.
‘He’s just a man—and yet—my gut tells me he’s so much more.’
Nicholas shook himself quickly and stepped forward to accept the Pope’s offered hand. “Not at all, your Holiness. My people have looked forward to your arrival with great anticipation! They will be delighted to learn of your arrival!” He bent towards the ruby ring upon Pope’s pale hand and kissed it lightly before retreating to a respectful distance.
“Yes, our early departure was for their sake,” Jericho replied with a somber shake of his head. “Bishop Murdoch wrote to us of the pestilence that has appeared in Lafeara. Naturally, we moved up our plans accordingly. Rest assured, my Cardinals and priests are doing all they can to determine the source of this witchcraft.”
‘So, his priests are using charity as an excuse to look for clues as to the plague’s origins?’
“Will it be possible for your Holiness to destroy this horrible plague?”
“More than possible,” Jericho replied calmly. “The source of any plague spawn is naturally the witch who pushed it into this world. We find the witch or witches, burn them, and the plague will burn out in due course.”
Nicholas nodded, even as a nerve in his temple twitched with annoyance. “Forgive me, your Holiness, but I cannot allow another inquisition to burn its way through Lafeara—”
Jericho quickly raised his hand. “I understand completely. Fortunately, the evil nature of this witchcraft carries its own recognizable markers.”
“Markers?”
“The witch will carry a large mark upon her body. An unnatural blemish that will expand with the plague.” The Pope snapped his fingers, and a young male servant in a simple white tunic appeared with a scroll that Jericho unfurled and held out towards them.
The crudely drawn portrait of a naked woman tied to a post appeared. Her face was hidden behind wild black hair, but a large black mark covered most of her torso and face.
“That seems—rather hard to miss,” Nicholas commented.
“Easy enough if they are undressed, but while fully clothed, hiding behind veils, and locking themselves away indoors—they can be rather hard to track down.”
“But your witch hunters can track them,” Nicholas pressed. It was then that he noticed the albino sitting in the corner of the room calmly eating from a plate of sliced apples. Ripper offered the prince a fanged smile before he continued his snack.
“They can, but only if they are allowed to get close enough,” Jericho replied as he handed the scroll back to his servant. “The more powerful the witch, the more potent her plague, and the easier it will be to track her down.”
“Her?” Nicholas raised a brow questioningly.
“Yes, in every instance recorded throughout history, the source of each plague was a female witch.” The Pope held out his hand, and another scroll was presented. Once opened, it revealed the drawing of a demonic child with black skin wrapped in wriggling in a nest of serpents. “According to our historical records, the Plague Witch nurtures the cursed pestilence within her womb by offering it her unborn child. This plague spawn is conceived, stillborn. The infant’s body rots and festers within a day, at which time the Plague Witch mutilates the body, spreading the pestilence via the spawn’s limbs, body parts, and even organs.”
Nicholas turned away, his empty stomach unsettled by the graphic images. ‘Saints above—if this is a witch plague—’
Jericho appeared to realize his words had had their intended effect and passed the scroll back to his servant before gesturing to the couch, which faced his fur-covered seat. “Please, let us turn to less distressing topics.”
“No, it’s alright. Dealing with the plague as soon as possible is a priority.”
“Then—your Majesty will give us his corporation?”
The Crown Prince met the Pope’s unwavering gaze and grimaced. “Within reason.”
“Of course. Then, to start, I would like permission for my Witch Hunters to search the Duchy of Bastiallano, specifically the refugee camps we have heard about located on those lands.”
“What?” Nicholas sank onto the couch and quickly shook his head. “Why?”
“The plague witch is known to—relish the pain and suffering of her victims,” Jericho explained calmly. “She can generally be found where the largest number of plague victims exist.”
“But—those victims were transported to the Duchy for treatment,” Nicholas protested. “Recent reports suggest the Duchess has found a way to slow the spread of the disease while she searches for a cure.”
“Indeed?” Jericho raised a brow cynically. “This would be the same Duchess who is also the clairvoyant known as Mr. Frost?”
The Crown Prince scowled at the Pope’s condescending tone. “The Duchess is a trusted ally of the crown. It was her efforts that exposed these—spawn seeds—and sealed up many contaminated water sources around the capital.”
“And Your Majesty does not find this strange?” Jericho pressed with a faint smile. “That a self-proclaimed Seer would anticipate a plague but bungle her preparations for it. Track down the plague seeds, but not the witch who caused them. And gather all the plague victims to her lands where she prolongs their suffering through—further witchcraft?”
“Your Holiness,” Nicholas responded stiffly, keenly aware of the threat growing in the form of his own bodyguard. “Please mind your words. You appear to be slandering her Grace, twisting her efforts to help these plague victims, because you are obviously aware of the fact that she is a witch.”
“A female witch,” Jericho replied with a faint sneer. “One recognized and elevated by your Majesty’s own hand.”
“Careful,” Nicholas growled.
“Do you think it a coincidence that shortly after you promote a half-blood witch to Duchess Lafeara suddenly finds itself in the grip of another plague?”
“I think your Holiness has no proof that the plague would not have come whether or not Lady Kirsi became Duchess.”
“I see,” Jericho smiled thinly and tapped the armrest of his chair. “Well then, I will just have to find further proof.”
“Your Holiness can do as he likes within reason. You may not, however, trespass on the Duchess’s lands without her express permission.”
“Ah, what a shame.” The Pope shook his head as he stood. “And here I had thought I was addressing a king, not a prince who bows to the whim of his Generals.”
Nicholas scowl relaxed as he leaned against the sofa and crossed his legs. “Perhaps we should address a different matter. Such as the true reason your Holiness made the journey to Lafeara.”
Jericho’s jaw clenched for a moment before he turned to face the Crown Prince with a patient smile. “Of course. When can I meet my dear sister?”