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[Rough Draft] Chapter 81: Shadow of a King
The tiled floors of the cathedral prayer room were indeed uncomfortable to one’s knees, or so Nicholas found as he leaned awkwardly forward to stretch yet another cramp out of his foot. The floor pillow, provided by a priest some hours ago, had long since lost the comfortable barrier that spared his knees from direct exposure to the painted tiles of clouds, stars, moons, and suns. Still, there was something strangely reverent and humbling about touching the ancient floor where all the past kings of Lafeara, his ancestors, had knelt and prayed the day before their coronation.
Time lost all meaning during these endless hours of silent prayer. The Crown Prince was forbidden to speak, not that there was anyone to converse with, aside from the Pope, who knelt just below the alter endlessly muttering a prayer in a language Nicholas did not even pretend to understand.
Behind the kneeling prince was a sheer curtain of white through which he could see Priscilla kneeling at prayer if he cared to check. The Royal Consort was only permitted to step beyond the curtain during the small breaks provided.
Nicholas tried to shift his weight to his right side, hoping that would prevent the cramp from returning to his left foot. His neck, shoulders, and lower back were all stiff with discomfort, but there was little he could do aside from stretching and subtly rotating his neck and shoulder discreetly.
When he wasn’t reciting prayers from memory, Nicholas focused his tired thoughts on all that he would accomplish after tomorrow’s coronation.
‘With the old fox Borghese gone, the Royal Faction is scrambling to regain power. Earl Coldwell and Earl Hawthorne will be fighting tooth and nail for the seat of Prime Minister. Unless the nobles show overwhelming support for one side, I will get to make the deciding vote.’
A priest circled the narrow room, waving a bronze thurible of incense that tickled against Nicholas’s nose and brought him close to sneezing more than once.
‘Saints, I can’t wait for this to be over. I couldn’t even sleep well the night before from all the stress. His Holiness may be acting amicably in public, but I know he will make things difficult for me, even after the coronation, if I don’t allow him to deal with Duchess Kirsi. I can’t believe he wants to blame this plague on her—but what can I do when the public opinion of the Pope and his Cardinals is all but untouchable.’
Nicholas drew in a quiet breath, then exhaled as he interlaced his fingers and closed his eyes once more.
‘Divine Saints—if you are listening—please offer your humble subject guidance. Second Saint, Master of War, show me the way to liberate my kingdom from the suppression of the Church and the tyranny of the Witch Emperor. It was you who made the Havardur family kings. The gods made mortals and witches alike. Surely, there is some way we can co-exist?’
The Crown Prince clenched his praying hands silently as his head bowed forward. The incredible weight of the crown that had been looming over him all this time was suffocating.
‘And yet, what choice do I have? I must find a way to bring the Covens to my side in order to oppose Emperor Arius. But—without the Pope—how do I remove the plague that is killing my people?’
There was no doubt in Nicholas’s mind that Jericho wanted Lafeara’s next king to rid the kingdom of witches once and for all.
‘Tristan would have found a way. He was a born witch himself and the Emperor’s son!’ The Crown Prince clenched his teeth silently as the old resentful game of comparing himself to his older brother played out in his mind.
Tristan would have easily found a way to unite the Coven witches of Lafeara to his side. Tristan would have joined the Emperor in opposing the Church without question. Tristan was beloved by the people of Lafeara for all his battles against the pagan Tharyians.
‘But it is I, not Tristan, who will be crowned King of Lafeara tomorrow!’
For all the love and support the commoners and nobles had given Tristan, they would have opposed him for breaking the longstanding alliance with Zarus and the Divine Heir. The Pope himself had refused to acknowledge Tristan as Crown Prince before the First Prince’s presumed death on the battlefield.
‘How? How did you survive, Tristan? Did you already know your life was in danger—is that why you said what you said before you left that day?’ Nicholas winced as a sharp pain made its way across his shoulder and then ran down his spine. He slowly unclenched his fingers and reached up to rub his neck and shoulder with a cautious glance at the Pope’s back.
‘I wish I knew what Jericho was thinking—planning. The number of witch hunters he brought with him to Lafeara was unprecedented. Not to mention the trouble he went through providing Lady Priscilla with a divine cure to restore her lost beauty.’
A tingle ran down Nicholas’s spine just as the Pope finished his prayers. The Crown Prince quickly resumed his praying posture right before Jericho’s pale golden eyes turned to regard him with a weight stare.
‘I can only surmise that the Pope has formed some sort of alliance with the Royal Party, hence his support of Lady Priscilla. Guessing what the Royal Party is after is simple enough—but what does Jericho get from such an arrangement?’
The Pope rose wordlessly to his feet with graceful movements, bowed his head towards the kneeling prince, and then turned to exit through the side door. Nicholas stared silently at the small white pillow tripped with gold tassels in the Divine Heir’s hands. Something lay upon the pillow buried beneath a white silk handkerchief. It looks like a vial or bottle of some sort, but Nicholas couldn’t be sure.
‘Probably some ancient artifact that is part of the coronation ceremony?’
The Crown Prince remained on his pillow until the priest finished his last round and carried the fragrant censer out through the side door which he shut after him.
‘Finally!’ Nicholas sagged down onto his side and winced as he attempted to stretch his legs. Soft footsteps on the tile quickly approached, and Lady Priscilla knelt down to message his legs as she had offered to do during their last two breaks.
“Only seven more hours, your Majesty,” she murmured encouragingly.
‘I didn’t ask. Gods—this had better be worth it!’
“Tell the steward I want a hot bath, wine, and food prepared for me at the palace upon my return,” Nicholas grumbled and sucked in a sharp breath to repress any further complaint.
‘This is nothing. Every king in the past has suffered through as much to gain the throne. Some of them even had to kill off a brother or two to get this far!’
A cynical smirk crossed the Crown Prince’s lips before he rolled onto his back and let Priscilla assist him in stretching out his legs fully.
“Perhaps you should use my pillow, your Majesty?” Priscilla suggested as she picked up the flattened cushion beside him.
“No. It’s fine,” Nicholas replied dismissively. “His Holiness would probably notice.”
Priscilla frowned as she regarded the somewhat faded crows surrounding embroidered suns on the pillow. “I have an idea.”
Nicholas grunted as he pushed himself into a seating position, rubbed his neck, and watched the Royal Consort dart through the curtain to return a minute later with a simple gray pillow. She dropped the new pillow onto the floor and then placed the crown embroidered one on top of it.
“There, I doubt his Holiness will notice or mind.”
“I appreciate the effort,” Nicholas replied tiredly. He tensed as footsteps drifted past the door but relaxed when they continued on their way. “Is there anything left to eat or drink?”
Priscilla nodded and eagerly returned with a tray of fresh tangerines and honey water.
Nicholas eyed the simple meal with a sigh. This was all that was permitted to him while fasting and praying. He took a piece and motioned for Priscilla to help herself. The Royal Consort selected a slice of fruit and lifted it beneath her veil to eat silently.
The sweet-savory flavor only served to aggravate his empty stomach. Nicholas shoved a few more pieces of fruit into his mouth in an attempt to mollify the grumbling protests, then took a sip of honey water to wet his throat. Drinking too much was inadvisable since he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the room, much less relieve himself, until the hours of prayer were over.
‘Thank the Saints. I only have to do this once.’
Once his legs were feeling normal, Nicholas stood up stiffly and paced the small room while stretching his back, neck, and limbs.
Lady Priscilla cleaned up their meal and carried the tray away before returning to watch him in complete silence. Nicholas glanced her way now and again, tempted to voice the questions that bubbled up in the sometimes awkward silence between them.
He still remembered the day King Henri announced their engagement. Priscilla had glowed with happiness, and Marquess Borghese had shaken his hand as if to acknowledge that Nicholas would make a worthy son-in-law.
‘Of course, the old boar was already planning on making me king, even then, and placing his daughter beside me as queen. He would be proud to see how Priscilla has managed to garner the support of the Chruch and the Royal Faction to realize his lifelong ambition.’
Priscilla turned to meet his gaze beneath her veil. Nicholas narrowed his eyes as she moved closer, irritated by the fabric that masked her emotions so well. He flinched slightly as she reached up to brush something from his chin, her fingers straying and lingering for just a moment against the corner of his mouth.
‘You have every reason to hate me—so why are you trying so hard, Priscilla?’
Nicholas had humiliated her the night Borghese sent Priscilla to his bed chambers to beg for forgiveness and a royal pardon. He had given Lady Kirsi an order to kill the traitor and honored the Duchess for it.
‘Even if you loved me once, there is no way the Priscilla I knew would be so forgiving.’
The Crown Prince kept his gaze focused on the Royal Consort’s hidden face and innocently dressed figure. ‘We’re all alone—just the two of us. She could kill me easily if that were her goal.’ He blinked as her warm fingers wrapped around his right hand and watched, mystified, as she lifted it beneath her veil to kiss his palm and fingers seductively.
“What are you doing?” Nicholas tried to pull his hand back, but Priscilla held on firmly. She shook her head and pulled his fingers towards her neck, where she pressed them against her pulse.
“Are you afraid of me, your Majesty?”
The Crown Prince opened his mouth, but no words came out as he focused on the rhythmic heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Her pulse quickened as Priscilla grabbed the edge of her veil and pulled it free.
Perhaps it was the feel of her heart, quickening rapidly beneath his touch, or the haunted look in her chartreuse-green eyes that drew him closer, or even the heavy incense still lingering in the air, but Nicholas did not resist when she moved closer.
Priscilla’s kiss was delicate and bold. When she drew back and hovered before him, Nicholas moved his hand from her throat to the back of her neck and pulled her back for a deeper kiss. She tasted of honey, sorrow, and innocence.
When Priscilla pulled away firmly a few minutes later, Nicholas was already second-guessing himself. What right did he have to kiss Priscilla after destroying her world?
Selfconsciously, he couldn’t help but compare the kiss to those he shared with Eleanora and Rosamund. The Crown Princess’s kisses were clearly reluctant yet strangely passionate as if she were trying to dominate their marital bed. Rosamund’s kisses had always been eager, seductive, and at times desperate. Priscilla, he would have to place somewhere between the two. She was obviously inexperienced but certainly not timid or reluctant.
Nicholas glanced in her direction uncertainly. The Royal Consort appeared satisfied with this brief moment of intimacy—happy even. She glanced his way shyly, smiled, and then replaced her veil before moving back behind the curtain.
‘I need to be careful here. Priscilla has the backing of the Pope and the Royal Faction now and, if it weren’t for Eleanora, would be the most likely choice to become Queen.’
A knock proceeded the Pope’s return. The priest entered first with his freshly lit thurible and then stood to the side as Jericho stepped into the room. The Pope’s pillow and its mystery object were gone.
‘I wonder what it was?’ Nicholas shook the thought from his head quickly as Jericho approached. The Crown Prince carefully knelt on the double pillows, then clasped his hands and closed his eyes as Jericho marked a star upon his forehead with scented oil.
‘Another six-seven hour to go. Please let sundown come quickly.’ Nicholas bowed his head in prayer as the Pope knelt on the carpet before the alter and resumed his unintelligible mutterings to the Saints.