第19章 The Coronation

The coronation of Edward Lord of Northgate took place on the first day of spring, in the great hall of the castle that had once been his father's and then his brother's and was now his. The hall was filled with nobles and commoners, with soldiers and priests and merchants, with people who had come from across the kingdom to witness the crowning of a new lord. Banners of green and gold hung from the walls, bearing the crest of Northgate, and the air was thick with the smell of flowers and incense and the sweat of eager crowds. Edward stood before the altar, the Crown of Saint Edmund resting on a cushion before him, its golden light reflecting in the faces of the gathered crowd. He thought of his father, who had died without knowing that his son would one day wear a crown. He thought of his mother, who had died giving him life, who had never known the love of a husband or the pride of a mother. He thought of Richard, who had died by his hand, who had been both brother and enemy. And he thought of all the people who had helped him—Lyra, Torren, Catherine, and the loyalists who had risked their lives for his cause. And he thought of the future, of the challenges that lay ahead, of the people who would look to him for leadership and justice and hope. He was no longer a farmer's bastard. He was no longer a man without a name or a place in the world. He was Edward of Northgate, Lord of the North, and he would prove himself worthy of the title. The bishop stepped forward, his robes white and gold, his face solemn and reverent. Do you swear to uphold the laws of the land, to protect the people, to serve justice and mercy in equal measure? I swear, Edward said. His voice was steady, his eyes fixed on the bishop, his heart full of purpose and determination. Do you swear to honor the memory of your father, to uphold his legacy, to build a kingdom worthy of the name Northgate? I swear. Do you swear to defend the weak, to listen to the voiceless, to never forget that power is a trust, not a privilege? I swear. The bishop picked up the crown and placed it on Edward's head, and the hall erupted in cheers. Edward felt the weight of it, the gold against his brow, the responsibility that came with the title. He was no longer a bastard. He was no longer a peasant. He was a lord, a king in all but name, and he would spend the rest of his life proving that he deserved the honor. After the ceremony, Edward walked out onto the balcony of the castle, looking out over the lands that were now his. The fields were green, the forests were dark and full of life, the rivers ran clear and swift. The people of Northgate looked up at him, their faces full of hope and expectation, and Edward nodded to them, acknowledging their presence, their loyalty, their faith. He had won. He had claimed his birthright. And now the real work began. He would rebuild his father's legacy, heal the wounds of the past, and build a kingdom that was worthy of the name Northgate. He would be a just king, a good lord, and a true heir to the line of Edmund. The duel between Edward and Richard took place in the courtyard of Northgate Castle, before a crowd of nobles and soldiers and commoners who had gathered to witness the contest. It was not a formal duel, with rules and referees and honor. It was a fight to the death, fought on ground that was bare and cold, with the wind howling around them and the sky dark with coming snow. The courtyard was packed with people, hundreds of them, who had come from across the land to see the bastard of Northgate face the legitimate heir in single combat. Richard was a skilled fighter, trained from childhood in the art of the sword, and he pressed the attack with ferocity and precision. But Edward fought with something more than skill. He fought with the anger of a lifetime of injustice, with the determination of a man who had nothing left to lose, with the fire of a king who had been forged in suffering and emerged stronger for it. The feast that night ran long and loud in the great hall, and Edward left it early by the servant's stair, as his father reportedly used to do, though he suspected the resemblance ended there. In the corridor he found the first petitioner already waiting—a crofter's wife with a petition against a miller written on slate because she could not afford paper—and he realized that word of an open door traveled faster than any rider. By morning there were forty of them, then eighty, a line that bent twice around the courtyard like a queue for bread in a famine year. Torren organized them into order with a smuggler's efficiency, sorting grievances into piles: land disputes, tax arrears, a feud between two fishing villages, one man who had walked nine days to ask whether the old shrine at Edmund's Well would be reopened now that a pious king sat in Blackstone again. Catherine took charge of the slate petitions and read them aloud each evening while Edward worked through the ones on parchment. It is not justice most of them want, she observed on the fourth night, setting down a case about a strayed cow. They want to be seen. Aldric sold audiences to favorites. You are giving them away, and it is making the northern lords nervous—generosity looks like strategy from a distance. Then let them look, Edward said, stamping the cow case settled with the wrong end of the seal until Catherine turned it over for him. I had twenty-three years of not being seen. I know what it is worth. She blew out the extra candles and left him the last one, and in its small circle of light he finished the day's stack alone: a bridge petition, a boundary quarrel older than his father, a boy asking to be apprenticed to the falconer because he could whistle like a kestrel and wanted it made official. Edward granted the apprenticeship with a full sentence of reasons, so that the record would show the crown of Northgate had heard of whistling. It was small work. He suspected, without being able to prove it yet, that small work was the whole secret. The Coronation - Continued