You Don't Want the Crown

The Story of Matuac - 3

"Married????"
Morgana and I sit at the dinner table, horrified.
"Yes, she's of suitable age, and it's a good political alliance, stop staring at me like that you two," our father scoffs.
"No—no—no, you cannot, you can't do this, we're—," the only family we have?
"You'll find that I can do it. She leaves in two weeks time. One of the younger Saxon boys needs a bride, and I need an alliance with the Saxons—,"
"By younger you mean...?" I ask, hopefully.
"He's twenty, same age I was when I married your mother."
Morgana and I stare at each other in horror.
"I will not allow it," I hiss, as we walk out into the hall, dinner finally needed.
"There's nothing you can do," she says, near tears, "He's already got it arranged."
"No. No," I'll stop this. Our mother would not want us separated. I am the eldest. It's up to me now.
I don't know when it gets into my mind that I should kill him. But he's been miserable for years. And this is the final straw. If he's dead, the match doesn't go through. It's over. And he's not locking Galin up or being cruel to us again. This is his fault now.
But how can I do it?
I pace my room, getting angrier and angrier. I have knives. I'm a page after all. I find the sharpest one. This is all I have to do. So easy. The regicide will only take a moment. He'll be drunk on wine, he always is.
And so another king is stabbed in his bed, in Bray castle.
I don't stab him in the chest, no, not like the old king. Instead I creep into his room, knife in hand, and very carefully plunge it into his neck. All manner of fluids and the like pour out and he gasps and wiggles. But he's quite dead.
Oh quite dead.
And I have no idea what to do.
I can't leave. I'm coated in blood. Do I scream for someone? What do I do, hide the knife? I need help. I need to do something. I need to—
"What—why—why did you want me here for this?"
"You were nice to Galin this afternoon and I'm completely terrified," I say, standing covered in blood, as the knight leans against the door a hand over his eyes.
"I sent the maid for you she doesn't know what happened, now what do I do?" I ask.
"What do you—we scream bloody murder and act like we found him, open the window—no I'll do it you're bloody—hell, kid," Fitzroy sighs, going to the window to open it, "Why would you do that?"
"He was going to marry my sister away to someone old."
"Oh that's a good excuse well, all right," he sighs, going back to the foot of the bed, "What'd you do with the knife?"
I hold it out.
He takes it and throws it out the window.
"Oh," I say.
"Yes, oh," he hands me an identical knife, "To replace yours."
"Why did you come when the maid came for you?" I ask, twisting my hand.
"Figured what the prince wanted was probably important and anyway I wasn't doing anything special," he shrugs.
"Oh," I say, "It is important."
"Yeah, you want to scream bloody murder and wake everyone up now and get yourself crowed king or do you want to leave it another minute?" He asks.
"A minute—wait what do you mean king?"
"Ah—he's the king, he's dead, you're his eldest son unless I'm confused, that means you're king," he says.
"Oh bloody hell," I didn't think of that.