第17章 Richard's Revenge

Edward returned to Northgate two weeks later, his crown hidden beneath his cloak, his heart heavy with the weight of what he had done. He had claimed the western throne, but he had not forgotten his father's lands, his half-brother's betrayal, the injustice that had been done to him and his mother. He needed to confront Richard, to face the brother who had taken everything from him and called it justice. The journey was long and arduous, but Edward did not complain. He rode with a small escort of loyalists, men and women who had served under his grandfather and who had sworn to serve him now. They moved through the countryside, through forests and fields and villages, and Edward saw the poverty and hardship that had been caused by Aldric's tyranny, the suffering of people who had nothing to do with the politics of thrones and crowns. He reached Northgate on a cold morning in early winter, the castle rising from the mist like a vision of his past and his future. He dismounted at the gate and waited, his heart hammering, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Richard emerged from the castle, his face pale, his eyes full of fear and anger. He was dressed in the colors of Northgate, the green and gold that had been his father's, and he looked at Edward with a mixture of hatred and envy. You dare return, he said. After everything I have done, you dare return to claim what is mine? It is not yours, Edward said. It never was. Father died without acknowledging me, without giving me my rights. But I have found them. I have claimed my birthright. You are a bastard, Richard spat. You have no right to this land, this title, this name. Name is not everything, Edward said. Blood is not destiny. I have proven myself. I have fought for what is right. I have claimed a throne that was stolen from my family. What have you done, Richard? What have you accomplished since you took Father's place? Richard's face twisted with rage. I have held the land. I have protected the people. I have done what was necessary to maintain order. Order? Edward laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. You call this order? You call the oppression of your subjects order? You call the silence of the hungry and the poor order? It is the way of the world, Richard said. The strong rule. The weak serve. That is the law of nature. No, Edward said. That is the law of tyrants. I will build a different kingdom, Richard. A kingdom where justice prevails, where the voice of the people is heard, where the crown serves rather than rules. Richard drew his sword. Then you will have to take it from me. The trial of Aldric the Usurper took place in the throne room of Blackstone Keep, before a court of nobles and soldiers and commoners who had come to witness the fall of a tyrant and the rise of a true king. Edward sat on the throne, the crown on his head, and he looked out at the faces of the people who had gathered, and he felt the weight of their expectations, the hope and fear and uncertainty that filled the room. Aldric stood in chains before the throne, his face a mask of fury and humiliation. He had been captured by his own guards, men who had sworn to protect him and who had instead turned on him when they realized the truth. It was a fitting end, Edward thought, for a man who had built his power on betrayal. Edward did not reach for his own blade at once. He looked at the steel a long moment and then out past his brother's shoulder, at the wall where villagers had gathered to watch—faces he had grown up among, men whose fields he had harvested, women who still called him Eddie behind his back because they had known him in short trousers. Trial by combat, then, he said loudly enough for the wall to hear. You accuse me of having no right. Very well. Let right be decided the old way, before witnesses, on this ground, with God and the valley watching. If I fall, I die a traitor to Northgate and no one will mourn me. If you fall— If I fall, Richard said, his mouth thinning, you may have the stones and the debts that come with them. Then we are agreed, Edward said, and only then did his hand close on his hilt. The heralds were summoned that afternoon because even hatred kept its forms. Terms were read aloud in the outer yard while scribes took them down in triplicate: single combat, edged swords, no armor beyond mail shirts, seconds permitted but not intervenors, the loser's cause forfeit with his life. Richard chose Ser Hale, the master-at-arms, as his second, a gray veteran who had taught both brothers the first footwork they ever knew. Edward named Torren, which made the old smuggler go quiet in a way Edward had never seen. That evening Torren brought him whetstone and oil without being asked and sat sharpening his own knife by the brazier for an hour before speaking. I have watched better swordsman than you die against worse ones, he said finally. It happens when the better man fights angry and the lesser one fights patient. Your brother has been waiting his whole life for this day. Try to be the one who waited. Edward took the whetstone and worked the edge until his arm ached, because hands that are busy cannot wring themselves. Through the arrow slit he could see torches being set along the courtyard walls for tomorrow's crowd, and below, in the stables, Ser Hale putting Richard through slow forms by lamplight—over and over the same disengage and cut, patient as water wearing stone. He watched for a long time and made himself learn from it instead of fearing it. Before lying down he wrote two letters. The first was to Sister Agnes, three lines only: the mark is real, the book saved me twice, pray for a sinner who means to live. The second was shorter and had no addressee; he wrote it in case the morning went badly, read it once by candlelight, then fed it to the brazier page by page and watched his own handwriting curl and go out. Richard's Revenge - Continued