Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 8

Why is this damn seat so hard? I thought I asked the attendants to replace the cushions.

In truth, the cushions were far from the problem. As Artus shifted in his seat, the soft plumage of goose down encased in velvet cradled his rear, providing a buoyant layer between himself and the white oak panels of the throne chair. He could not have asked for a more comfortable piece of furniture.

But the posture, the duration he spent with his knees bent and his back straight, that was the source of his agony. From youth, his regal upbringing had instilled in him the discipline to sit properly, so he looked the part no matter the news delivered upon his ears. Whether of war or windfall, a monarch had to appear stoic, unspoiled by the rumblings or emotions of court. 'Twas his duty.

That duty had worn on him, though, as the years bestowed on all men age out their skills to supplant them with fatigue and longing. Not quite into his second hour of court and already Artus started to endure the restlessness of body and wandering of mind which in recent years had become his constant companions.

Bloody nobles, he muttered silently, his lips moving with no words spoken. The baron before him cared not of what his lordship nor the rest of the audience thought. He simply droned on and on, each phrase spilling forth, followed by another even duller than the one before. Get on with it!

A man, perhaps as fidgety and ill-tempered as Artus at that moment, shouted what the former monarch only thought. "Speed up, you bloody hound! The lot of us haven't got all day!"

A number from the crowd clapped and cheered. The nobleman, Baron Mortimer of Har-Kin Watteau, sneered as he swung around to reprimand the heckler. "How dare you!" he barked, his voice indeed sounding like a mutt, so much so some within the audience chuckled.

"Me?" retorted the outspoken man, who remained obscured by those around him. "There are a hundred more awaiting an audience with his Liege Artus, and there you stand wasting precious time with your drivel."

A hundred more? Artus rose. The subjects in his wake silenced, expecting the former sovereign to utter an admonishment or edict in response to the disturbance in the court.

He stood, his awkwardness dwelling within even as his regal exterior persisted intact.

What do I do?

Perhaps in anticipation of a tongue-lashing, the lord of Har-Kin Watteau bowed his head. "Baron Artus, forgive my ill-mannered ways. I allowed my pride to wrestle my wits, and in doing so, forgot my place in court. I apologize."

Artus nodded. Seeing an opportunity for respite, he addressed the crowd. "With our noble sovereign away, along with many of his ministers and confidantes, I know our patience is tried, especially after hearing about the massacre at Castle Arinn."

"We want justice!" shouted another hidden man in the crowd, this one with a hoarser voice.

Insolent subjects! If I were but younger and stronger, none would dare to raise their tone with me!

Ever the regal, Artus quieted the warrior within as he tilted his head upward. "And you shall have it! Marland will seek vengeance. Of that, I am certain. I know the King, sired from my line, holds the same intention. But justice with haste leads to hell, as many of those in the audience who survived the Century War can tell you." Artus paused, grateful for the older gentlemen in the crowd, who picked up on his cue and nodded in affirmation. "Until the day when we will have our reparations in full, Marland will carry on, as we always have. Now, in consideration of the tone of this court, let us recess, so the more passionate among us may calm. I will return then, and not a moment sooner."