"Pull!" Alexander yelled.
A target was released into the air and he shot at it with perfect accuracy, bringing it down in bits and shards. Swiftly, he switched his musket with another loaded one and prepared again to engage: gun supported underneath with his left hand, butt to his shoulder, right index finger on the trigger, eyes focused; ready to follow the target as soon as it was released. From his line of sight, he saw someone approaching but he was too concentrated to turn or be concerned. He blinked and slowly released his pelt up breath. "Pull!" He yelled again. Another target went in the air and with his pressing on the trigger, the target disappeared into pieces and nothingness, scattering everywhere. He switched his musket and returned to his original stance point. "Pull!" Again, another target was released and destroyed. He stopped and watched the remains of his target reach the ground, then set the musket butt down with a gentle thud. "Hold." He told the servants who were preparing to release another target, and switched muskets with him and turned to the intruder. Oliver St. James. "You are late." "Your Majesty." St. James greeted, bowing fully, bending at the waist. "Long live the king." Alexander waited until he stood straight up. He stared him down from his head. "With your tardiness, I should. And I will." "I apologize for my lateness, My Lord. I was at…" "I do not care about your whereabouts." He passed the musket to Edmund and began to walk to the temporary shelter erected to create shade. "You kept your king waiting and delayed my day for your own reasons." St. James hurried after him, but kept a reasonable distance to not walk by his side. "I am truly sorry, My Lord. There would not be a repetition." Alexander waved the apologies aside, but nodded, taking note of the promise, knowing he would hold the man accountable to his words. He was the king of accountability. Under the shade, two other men stood, waiting. With a snap of his fingers, he commanded for a cup of water. The waiting servant poured from a jug and handed it to him. He sat slowly and regally, sipping from his cup. After a hefty swallow, he waved to the newcomer and the other men. "Do sit." "My Lord?" St. James asked. Alexander's lashes fluttered. The man was not only slow in movement, apparently, he was slow in thoughts too. "You can sit, this is not the courtroom." In the courtroom, he alone was allowed to sit, he had made sure of that. They looked from one to the other, and finally sat, looking immeasurably uncomfortable. He was pleased. Taking another sip from his cup, he studied the men over the rim, his eyes moving from one to the other. Slowly, he searched their countenance to determine the stance of whatever news they had brought. All dull. There would be no single good news, he realized. "Seeing as I have been momentarily disturbed from my leisure, what great news do you have to trouble me today?" He asked sarcastically. The three men looked from one to the other, no one said a word. He kissed his teeth. "Either speak or leave my sight. I have no time to dally as a victim of your indecision." He passed his cup to Edmund. At half past one, he was already exasperated. The affairs of the kingdom came knocking at his door, demanding his attention, stealing him from his troubled leisure. He was smiling at them but it was untrue. His mood had not been agreeable, nor had it been for a while, and to a great amount, sleep had been lost. The tension that had for days been building had finally been released for a moment, he would not let them replace it. He clenched his hand, fisting it. The results of all the spies he had sent out were dreadfully negative and it seemed he was losing hold of the command he had over his kingdom, and his subjects. Carefully, he rubbed the nape of his neck, hoping to release some tension. The sweat was beginning to dry and causing an itch. An itch as irritating as the result he had over the week received. "Edmund, escort these men out of the Castle grounds. They are of no use to me." He commanded, relaxing into the chair. "No, Sire." Colin Brimsbol rushed out. "We have news." "Speak! Now!" His voice adopted the unagreeable notion of his mood. Oliver St. James sat up. "Your Majesty," He bowed halfway. "the bandits at The Conqueror's Path have been dealt greatly with, but not before they harmed a sizable number of the fleet." He scoffed. "How many?" "Tw- twen- twenty-three." The man stammered. "This would mightily affect our next mission. The scouring team are set to return soon, but the injured must be allowed to rest and heal." Alexander sighed, suddenly needing a drink, but deciding otherwise. It was too early in the day. "Let them rest then and pay them handsomely for wounds sustained. In the meantime, work with the royal guards and ask for thirty to fifty men. That should even out the void." He said, rolling up the sleeve of his half-buttoned shirt, staring down at his boots covered in mud and grass. "But, Your Majesty," Alexander raised his eyes to the man, bordering between anger and annoyance. "they are not trained soldiers nor are they knowledgeable in the act of stealth." "Then teach them." He emitted through clenched teeth, refraining from cussing at the man. "But, Your Majesty…" He groaned lowly and exhaled, his mood gaining another height of fury. Having had enough, he said. "If I am to do your job for you, St. James, then I would have defeated the reason for you holding that position. Or don't you think so?" He stared the man down who immediately became quiet. He was incompetent and still searched for the liberty to complain. "Leave, and return with acceptable results. And this time, keep your men from harm's way or I will put you in one." "Yes Sir." St. James bowed and ran out. He turned to another. "What news of the pirates, Mowbray? What do your spies say?" Mowbray bowed. "The pirates move southward, but their movements have become difficult to maintain. They move with irregularity as they know we are in search of them." "And Brand?" "His Highness is hot in their tail, keeping up on their trail, but he can't seem to catch up with them." Alexander's face hardened, his eyes meeting the man's eyes squarely. "They are smarter than you, I am interpreting, enough to know to evade you." How pathetic! Mowbray blinked, looking away. "We have noticed some movement of theirs on land too." He blinked slowly, scratching his neck again, cussing inwardly. "Where?" The single word was forced from his mouth rather than the cuss word. "Last I could gather, two nights ago, they were at The Fox. A local tavern outside of Carlisle." The Fox. He knew of the place. He had been there many times on his way to Lanhandron, passing by Carlisle. And too frequently he had noticed the coach of Lord Denney. His Uncle frequented the tavern too. He blinked again, this time with realization. Was his Uncle in league with a bunch of greedy savages, all to get the throne he did not own? Had he again stooped so low to acquire what was not his? Alexander pushed himself into the chair, relaxing his back, choosing not to agree with the thought. His shirt hung loosely on his shoulders but he was not bothered by it. Denney would not be so desperate, would he, to align with the pirates? Would he be disastrous to the kingdom and the throne he hoped to claim? He would not be so foolish. The thought was dismissed. He snapped his fingers, exhaling sharply. "They were probably in meetings with some of their contacts. Do not relent on your watch on them, I must know of their movements and all they do while on my grounds, who they meet and what they acquire." "Everything, My Lord?" Mowbray asked. Alexander's eyes landed on him, staying strongly on the annoying man. Choosing not to dignify his stupidity with a reply, his glare was answer enough. "Yes, Your Majesty. Everything." The man said and hurried away, bowing swiftly. Colin Brimsbol, the latecomer, remained adjacent to him, looking at him and Alexander sat, bringing his hand to rest on his chin, doing the very same, looking right back. After a while, Brimsbol asked. "Shall I proceed, Your Majesty?""Do you want to? I had thought your assignment was to win me in a staring competition. Or would you rather I plead you to tell me the results of your scouring?""No Sir, I apologize." Alexander sighed. How did he appoint such men as his most elite soldiers and spies? Suddenly, he feared for his kingdom. Brimsbol began. "The land thieves have been apprehended and thrown in the dungeon, but the wares of the villagers could not be recovered. Farm produce and livestock, gone. They had successfully sold it before we could catch up with them."He became incredulous. A terrible pause ensued. Then, "Excuses! Excuses!! Excuses!!!" He exploded, scaring Brimsbol, Edmund and the other servants who stood around the artificial shade. His eyes remained on the man. He had not meant to yell, but from the report the men had given him, to the news he received the day before from his spies, the frustration had finally caught up to him, vexing him in ways unfathomable. He breathed deeply and strongly. "Wh
Alexander's regard of the man was scathing. He was aware of the tension in the room and he gloried in it. "Mr. Wylore, is there a problem?" As the man was about to speak, he raised a hand to stop him. "Did I not ask for funds to be allocated or was it not included in the letter?"He nodded. "It was, Your Majesty…""Then, why trouble me, or do you presume I do not already have enough to do?""No, of course, Your Majesty. I only intended to confirm.""Mr. Wylore," He called, sitting forward and clasping his hands together. It was a look to cause fear. "if I need to give my present consent every time, then I suggest you retire soon.""No Sire, I_ I would nev_ I did not intend_"Alexander smiled. How greatly he enjoyed to tease, and making people uncomfortable was a joy. "Shall we review the accounts?" It was neither a plea nor askance. Mr. Wylore climbed to him, turned the pages and began to read it to his hearing.Tapping his feet rhythmically on the floor, Alexander listened to the Sol
Alexander chose to indulge her excitement, but Carlisle was glaring still. "I am tempted to hear what your imaginations are, but I'm not keen on the glares of Carlisle here. He probably thinks I am in the act of seducing you." Her jaw dropped. This time, he chuckled. Oh, she would be easy, he gloried. "Enjoy your stay then." "I thank you for this opportunity. We promise not to impose." Was she so righteous? Or was it a ruse? One thing was certain; her timidity would not sit right with him. What did Carlisle see in her to want her as a friend, as he claimed? "Why not?! Carlisle does it as much as he can. My Castle is open to all that choose to adhere to my rules." And all who can bear to survive my tease. He added wordlessly. Again, she bowed. "Then I must thank you for your hospitality." His humourous side was greatly appeased. He tittered. "A sweet talker, won't you agree, Carlisle?" but a timid one. She would bore him soon. "A great hostess you must be Lady Beth." And indeed, he
Brand attempted another parry, anticipating Alexander's attack from the left, but his brother's cunning and expertise in swordsmanship proved to be a formidable challenge. Instead of following the expected trajectory, Alexander swiftly changed tactics, manoeuvring to Brand's right side. Caught off guard, Brand left himself vulnerable, providing Alexander with an opening and he took advantage. With a perfect move, Alexander swung and his blade made contact, grazing Brand's upper arm and drawing blood. Brand let out a yell of pain, instinctively retracting and clutching his wounded arm. "God dammit, you bastard!" Alexander let his sword drop to his side. "Watch your words, you speak to your king." It was ironic how he was being called a bastard by Brand. "I speak to my brother." His eyes narrowed with an intense glare. "Who happens to be your king." Then, "Raise your sword." He commanded, raising his, ready to fight again. Brand flexed his shoulders, stealing a brief glance at his
As they walked past the wall outside, flanked by verdant bushes, Alexander's gaze fell upon the two ladies awaiting the one whose help had been rejected. In a fleeting moment, his attention was fixated on the golden-haired figure, Guinevere, as beautiful as her name. Unlike her sister and cousin, she possessed a distinct allure that piqued his curiosity and she possessed no semblance to them.Observing her, he noted the way her eyes darted down when they bowed. Alexander stared on until they met his gaze, and impulsively, he smiled at her, continuing on his way. Whatever it was about her, he would find out. Brand walked ahead of him, still clutching his arm.Alexander didn't bother to look back at the fair lady, but for certain he knew, if Guinevere had approached him, offering to tend to his wound, he would not have rebuffed her assistance.***Gwen and Lucy lingered by the wall outside, waiting patiently for Beth's return. The tournament had ended, with the King emerging the victor,
"What do you know of weapons?" Lucy, always a pragmatist, interjected with a chuckle. "Gwen, what do we know of weapons?" Gwen bristled slightly at Lucy's skepticism, her desire to prove herself simmering beneath the surface. "I may not be a master swordsman," she replied evenly, "but I know talent when I see it." And she knew about swords. They were a form of protection. A companion to defence. A carrier of safety. With a sword in hand, she could protect and defend herself. And if need be, she could cause harm to all who frightened her, chasing them afar off and seeing that herself a secret her family was never again brought to humiliation. With a sword, and the knowledge of usage, she could protect herself, and her family, Gwen thought Lucy almost tripped, but caught herself in time. "What about the Duke?" She asked, stealing a sly glance at Beth who was trailing behind them, deep in thoughts. Whatever her reason for asking such a question was thwarted. Beth was greatly caught u
Running his other hand over the head of the chair, he calmly said. "I do not care whatever lies between the de Nocrosses and the Cossingtons, but I don't appreciate you bringing your personal family issues into my home." Carlisle turned and walked to the window. What was it about windows that always called to him? Alexander wondered. Once or twice, he had stood with him and the same things remained outside; people and more people. "I would not stand for it, Carlisle." He said, loud enough to be heard, low enough to command immersion.Turned from him, Carlisle said. "There are no issues between us.""No?" Alexander stood upright. "Not even the fact that you delayed your marriage to his sister and brought another woman along as your guest?" Carlisle's eyes remained out the window, refusing to respond to him. He pressed on. "Not even that?""There are no issues between us." Carlisle reiterated.The doors opened and the servants came in, walking in rolls, bringing along different dishes t
The walk to the dining hall felt akin to a march towards the guillotine for Gwen. Each step weighed heavily, without purpose or enthusiasm. Had the invitation to dinner not come from the Duke and if it was not a dinner with the King, Gwen would have refused outrightly. The prospect of sharing the same space as Lord Cossington filled her with dread, yet she had no choice. It was now beyond her and she would have to endure it.As soon as the servant who had informed them of the prepared table exited the room to wait outside, Beth had turned to Gwen, urging her to refuse the invitation if she felt unable to attend. She offered to excuse Gwen by feigning illness on her behalf. However, Gwen had hesitated, partly because she did not want to cause her sister any unnecessary worries and partly to avoid rudeness towards the Duke of Carlisle and the King of her country.Slowly, she trailed behind Beth and Lucy, as they followed closely behind the servant. The hall was a great distance from the