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[Rough Draft] Chapter 82: Phantoms of Deception
By the time the final hour of prayer had ended, Nicholas’s jaw hurt from trying to hold in one too many yawns of exhaustion, and his eyes burned from the endless cloud of incense he had to breathe in. Additional candles that had been added to the alter and melted down only added to the heaviness of the stagnant, smoke-filled air.
Still, the Crown Prince could only breath a sigh of relief when the Pope rose from his prayer carpet, which the priest hastily rolled up and carried away. Jericho turned to Nicholas, performed one last anointment with the scented oil, then motioned for Lady Priscilla to come forward and assist the prince to his feet.
It took Nicholas more than a few tries to get his legs working again. Even with the Royal Consort’s support, he found it difficult to move without stumbling, not to mention walking in a straight line.
Nicholas drank in the fresh air of the hallway and moved towards the nearest open balcony, where he stopped just short of the curtains to breathe and massage his stiff, numb muscles. A moment later, he pulled the curtain slightly to one side to check the lighting of the evening sky and was met by a sea of flickering candles from the crowded courtyard below where the commoners still waited to be released from the final hour of prayer.
‘What a splendid depiction of my people’s unshakeable faith in the Saints,’ the Crown Prince mused tiredly as he dropped the curtain back in place.
“Congratulations, your Majesty,” Jericho called out as he paused in the hallway behind the prince. “You will be happy to know that I received an oracle from the Saints regarding your future reign.”
Nicholas blinked in surprise as he turned to face the Pope. The motion sent his head spinning and forced the prince to lean against the wall for a moment before responding, “An oracle?”
“Such things are not uncommon amongst the descendants of the Saints,” Jericho replied with a raised brow as if questioning whether the Crown Prince already knew this or was doubting him.
“Of course,” Nicholas muttered out behind another barely disguised yawn.
“Your Holiness,” Pricilla replied almost breathlessly as she curtsied before the Pope. “Will you not share the oracle with us?”
“Perhaps another day, Lady Priscilla,” Jericho replied as he turned his attention from the tiredly blinking Crown Prince to the Royal Consort. “For now, I should address the citizens of Lafeara and end this holy day of prayer.”
“Yes, I’m sure they’re beyond tired and ready to go home,” Nicholas mumbled as he rubbed his tired eyes.
“Your Majesties nobles are also waiting for you below,” Jericho replied with the faintest of nods. “I look forward to your coronation tomorrow morning.”
A shiver of anticipation shook the tiredness from the Crown Prince’s weary frame. He quickly straightened and met the Pope’s gaze squarely. “Yes. As do I, your Holiness.”
Jericho smiled and then stepped forward to offer his hand. “Then I trust there will be no further interference in the future our nations shall build together.”
Nicholas froze with his hand half-extended, then plastered a pleasant smile to his face while he gripped the Pope’s offered palm. “The legacy of the Saints and their influence on this kingdom is something the people of Lafeara will not soon forget, your Holiness.”
‘As you well know.’
A faint smirk touched Jericho’s smile as his hand tightened around the prince’s with surprising strength like a python constricting around its already cornered prey. The Pope nodded politely as he pulled away, then moved past Nicholas towards the other end of the cathedral, where the balcony that overlooked the still praying commoners waited.
‘The more time I spend with this Divine Heir, the less I trust him.’
“Come, your Majesty,” Priscilla murmured as she stepped forward to offer her arm and shoulder for support. “We should head down—”
“Wait!” Nicholas frowned and twisted around to study the all but empty hallway around them. A strange tingle of anxiety slid across his skin like a cold sweat as he fixated on the blonde knight who stood just behind them. “Lieutenant Olund—where is Captain Beaumont?”
“Your Majesty,” Olund replied with a stiff bow. “The Captain was called away during prayer. He asked that I escort your Majesty back to the palace if he did not return in time himself.”
“Called away?” Nicholas stared at the knight, completely baffled, and then turned to Lady Priscilla. “By who?”
Priscilla blinked innocently as she reached up to adjust the lapel of the prayer robe he wore. “How could I possibly know that, your Majesty. I was inside the prayer room with you all day.”
“Forgive me, your Majesty. The Captain did not say who, just that the matter was urgent,” Olund explained when the Crown Prince turned back to him. “He said that he would return to the palace and wait for you there if he couldn’t make it back before the hour of prayer ended.”
‘Something urgent? That isn’t like Beaumont—and to leave without a note so suddenly?’ Nicholas fidgeted with the belt of his prayer robes as he moved towards the stairs that would take them down towards the congregation auditorium room below. ‘Who could possibly persuade Beaumont to leave his post on a day like—’ He pulled up sharply as the face of a certain Duchess came to mind.
“Did her Grace, Duchess Kirsi happen to visit or leave a message while I was at prayer?”
Olund looked caught off guard, then scratched his neck awkwardly. “Now that you mention it, I believe I did see a knight of Bastiallano stop by shortly before the Captain said he had to leave.”
Nicholas repressed a groan and crossed his hands behind his back with an impatient sigh. ‘I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with Lady Hana. If the Duchess tries to force the Pope to give up his sister, all hell will break loose.’
Your Majesty, you are tired,” Priscilla said sympathetically as she placed an arm around his waist and pulled his right arm over her shoulder. “Come, we should greet the nobles below and then return to the palace so you may properly rest and enjoy a decent meal.”
“Yes,” Nicholas muttered absently as he fingered the edge of her veil that rested against the Royal Consort’s shoulder. “The quicker I get back, the sooner Beaumont can explain his absence.”
‘And what the Duchess wanted from him.’
“Surely your Majesty can have no cause to doubt the Captain who has protected you all these years,” Priscilla murmured with an innocent smile.
“No. None,” Nicholas replied sharply, then softened his tone before adding. “Your right, Lady Priscilla. I was just surprised. I’m sure the Captain has a good explanation. Come, Sir Olund.”
***
Percy sighed as he turned in the cushioned pew seat to glance over the other gathered nobles awaiting Nicholas’s descent from the reserved prayer room above. Marquess Winifred stirred beside him, pulled out his pocket, and nodded to the Earl. Both counselors stood and adjusted their jackets and robes.
Across the aisle, Earl Coldwell noted their reaction and, after confirming the time on his own pocket watch, signaled the nobles waiting around him, who quickly rose to their feet and moved towards the raised steps and platform in the apse.
Percy smiled as he took his time joining them. Their eagerness to please and fuss over the soon-to-be king amused him, given that Nicholas could not be expected to hold onto his throne for very long.
“My lord.” The familiar, husky tone of Serilda’s voice preceded the gloved hand which wrapped around his left arm naturally.
The Earl turned and offered the Marchioness a welcoming smile before his winter-grey eyes narrowed in on her pale complexion. “Seri, are you alright?”
“I have—something to tell you once this is all over,” Serilda replied stiffly and then offered a smile that did not meet her moss-agate eyes.
The Earl stopped moving and sealed them in a small air bubble with a subtle gesture of his fingers. “Would this have anything to do with the Witch Hunter whose eyes I asked you to collect?”
A grimace turned the corner of the Marchioness’s lips. Her moss-agate-green eyes fluttered away from his with a look of guilt. “Seri—” Percy stiffened as he watched her turn paler still and press a hand to her stomach. “Veles breath, Seri! Did you—”
“Please, let’s not mention it. It is not a scenario I would ever care repeat again,” Serilda replied weakly. “But—given the importance of this information, I thought it best to handle the matter personally—to minimize the risk of such information falling into the wrong hands.”
The Earl turned away from her and focused his gaze on the nobles neatly lined up and waiting for their young monarch. “Was it worth it?”
“While I find it difficult to justify the—disgust which still lingers—” the Marchioness drew in a slow breath, dropped the hand from her stomach, and raised her chin defiantly. “I can say that the information I gained more than made up for my discomfort.”
Percy shook his head, his momentary revulsion dissolving beneath curiosity and eagerness. “Then—have we found a weakness, dear cousin?”
“No.” The Marchioness shook her head. “Rather, I believe that I have uncovered the identity of the threat you so feared.” Serilda turned to her gaze to where Nicholas had finally emerged, escorted by none other than Royal Consort Priscilla. The nobles before them also took notice and began whispering as Nicholas walked out to the edge of the platform to greet them. “What is she doing here?”
Percy turned a distracted gaze towards the Crown Prince and Royal Consort, then snorted. “Taking advantage of the fact that Eleanora was too ill to attend today’s event.”
The Marchioness’s grip on the Earl’s arm tightened. When he turned towards her, Serilda leaned in to whisper, “There is another matter the Witch Hunter knew. One that concerns the upcoming Election for Prime Minister of the House of Lords.”
Percy smiled grimly in understanding. “I take it the church has plans to interfere?”
“My dear cousin, they have already begun,” Serilda replied grimly. She quickly flashed a smile in Nicholas’s direction then curtsied as the Crown Prince raised his glass towards them. “I would suggest polling the number of nobles who have the rank and title to vote. We may be further from winning the election than we anticipated.”
***
Nicholas smiled as he accepted the offered chalice of wine presented by Bishop Murdock. He raised it to the cheers of counselors and several other nobles who moved forward to welcome and congratulate him enthusiastically.
“Well done, your Majesty.”
“I’m sure the Saints will listen to your prayers and offer their blessing on your marriage and reign, your Majesty.”
“Long live the future King.”
“Long live King Nicholas Havardur!”
“Thank you. Thank you,” Nicholas murmured tiredly, taking a long drink from the delightfully fragrant wine before raising it in a toast to the nobles. “Thank you all for being here and waiting in vigil alongside me.” ‘Not that I would believe for even a second that any of you spent the entire time on your knees in prayer.’
“Our task was not as laborious as yours, your Majesty,” Earl Coldwell replied with hasty modesty. “However, I am grateful that Lady Priscilla could accompany you so that your Majesty could receive some comfort.”
“Indeed,” Nicholas replied as he turned and nodded to the veiled noblewoman beside him. “My Royal Consort has more than demonstrated her faith and loyalty.”
“Your Majesty,” Priscilla murmured, sounding for all the word like an embarrassed, naive maiden. “I am grateful for your gracious words of praise.”
The Crown Prince smiled, torn between accepting the pretty submissive woman before him versus the impulsive, arrogant, and prideful Priscilla he had always known. Aware of the noble’s gaze, Nicholas looked away and—scanning the crowd—spotted two familiar faces near its edge. He raised his chalice towards Marchioness Serilda, pleased to see that she and Lord Percy had attended the event despite their opposing beliefs.
The Marchioness smiled and curtsied but appeared more than a little distracted by whatever whispered conversation she and the Earl were having.
‘If you didn’t know they were cousins, you might suspect they were more than that,’ Nicholas thought bitterly as he turned and handed the barely touched wine back to the Bishop. “Now then, if my counselors, lords, and ladies will permit me. Your Crown Prince is tired and eager for bed.”
The nobles bowed hastily and parted into the pews to leave the aisle open for his departure. Nicholas flashed them a grateful smile and, with a glance to ensure that Priscilla was ready, led the Royal Consort down the stairs towards the exit.
It might have been his imagination, but Nicholas thought he saw Earl Coldwell give an odd gesture to Priscilla. She bowed her head politely as they proceeded past the currently acting figurehead of the Royal Party.
‘Ah!’ Nicholas hesitated for a second, then turned his head towards the Royal Consort as they continued down the aisle. “My Lady, should I have a carriage prepared to take you back to Coldwell’s estate?”
“That would depend,” Priscilla replied as her veiled gaze turned to meet his. “On whether your Majesty intends to remain my husband after tonight?”
‘So you want me to choose now? As tired as I am?’ Nicholas gritted his teeth as a flash of grief shadowed his amusement at the situation. ‘If only Attwood were here to offer guidance or a tactful distraction.’
The doors at the end of the auditorium opened, and the Crown Prince froze in his tracks as the familiar visage of lust, comfort, and friendship ran towards him with open arms, platinum blonde hair, and clover-green eyes.
“Your Majesty!”
“W-what?” Nicholas stammered out and pulled back to verify his senses had not left him. Priscilla released his arm and discreetly withdrew, leaving the Crown Prince free to embrace the crying and smiling Rosamund, who now fell into his arms.
“Oh, your Majesty! I have been waiting all day to tell you the good news.”
“Rosamund?” Nicholas gasped, bewildered and keenly aware of the nobles circling towards them with looks of disapproval. ‘How did she even gain entrance? Who would let her through without my permission!’ He glanced over Rosamund’s glowing face towards the cathedral door but caught only a glimpse of the nobleman who stepped out of sight, carrying a large dark robe over his arm.
“Your Majesty! Nicholas!” Rosamund pestered impatiently. “Why won’t you look at me?”
“Rose. Rosamund,” Nicholas replied swiftly as he captured her hands and kissed them gently. “You shouldn’t be here.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.
“And where else should I be?” Rosamund demanded crossly as she clutched his wrists. “Trapped in a house with only a maid for company and not even a single letter from you to reassure me? You promised, Nicholas. You said you would never abandon me, and then you left me alone for weeks!” She pressed her hand against her stomach, drawing his attention to the slight curve in her dress. “Well, I have held up my end of the bargain, your Majesty. Now, will you accept me as a Royal Consort? Or will our child be born a bastard forsaken by his own father!”
Nicholas stared at her in complete silence as a wave of protests clashed against the sudden ringing in his ears. He opened his mouth, could not find the words, and yet suddenly, his cheeks were wet with tears. “Rose—you—we—are we pregnant?”
The reproach in her beautiful clover-green eyes faded in an instant as Rosamund pressed her hands gently over his cheeks, smiled through her tears, and then nodded. “Yes. Yes, your Majesty. Nicholas—”
‘But—how? How is it that now—after I had all but pushed you away for the sake of my kingdom.’
“—you are going to be a father,” Rosamund finished with a flush of pride as she placed his hand over her stomach. “And I am going to bear your firstborn prince.”
‘A prince. My son?’ Nicholas embraced her carefully, blinking through his tears as rational thought gave way to hopeful bliss. ‘Is it true? Am I going to be a father? And Rosamund’s child—not Eleanora’s. That was what I wanted before—but now—’
“Congratulations, your Majesty!” Priscilla called out eagerly, stepping forward to grasp Rosamund’s hand and kiss the back of it affectionately. “And congratulations to you, Lady Rosamund. How blessed you must feel.”
Nicholas blinked in surprise at Priscilla’s strangely friendly behavior. Normally, he would have expected her to fly into a rage of jealousy. ‘Perhaps she has changed after all.’
“Your Majesty?” Marquess Winifred stepped forward with a solemn expression that quickly brought the dazed Crown Prince down to earth. “Perhaps we should have the pregnancy verified?”
“What? How dare you!” Rosamund spat as she whirled around while still clinging to Nicholas’s arms. “I am bearing his Majesty’s child. Who are you to interfere!”
“Rosey!” Nicholas hushed gently.
“Pardon, Lady Rosamund,” Winifred replied with a polite bow before fixing the commoner with his stern gaze. “But you have been living outside the palace all this time. There is a certain—etiquette for evaluation—with regard to bringing in a Royal Mistress who is already pregnant.”
“Ha!” Rosamund turned towards the Marquess fully, still clutching Nicholas with her pale white fingers. “You wouldn’t let me enter before when you thought me baren, and now you continue to object when the Saints have blessed me with his Majesty’s child!”
“Your Majesty,” Priscilla interjected as she stepped forward to place her cloak around Rosamund’s shoulders. “We should discuss this later. Lady Rosamund is tired, and being upset in her current condition is not good for the child.”
“Yes!” Nicholas agreed sharply, then shot Lord Winifred a stern look of warning. “All traditions related to the birth of a royal child shall be observed, Marquess. Let no man or woman speak ill of Lady Rosamund and this child unless he or she can provide evidence to back up any claims of impropriety.” Hazel-blue eyes swept over the crowd of solemn nobles, most of whom looked stunned and caught off guard. “Anyone who defies this order will face a suitable punishment for the crime of disparaging the royal family’s bloodline.”