Shattered Crowns - Chapter One (Gregor)

Read the prologue here

Maker guard our gracious lords,

For they are our gracious wards,

Maker guard them all,

May they find Victory,

Go down in History,

They’re glory we will see

Maker guard our lords

-Maker Guard our Lords (Song of Albion)

Gregor

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Greg awoke with a start, breathing heavily as he sat up in his bed. The room was quiet, unlike the dream he had just endured, and the change in scenery, so to speak, was difficult for him to adjust to. The only sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

After wiping the sweat from his brow, Greg attempted to recall what it was that he had seen in his dream. All he remembered was fire.

He took a look around his chamber, a large, ornate room decorated with traditional and contemporary Albanese décor. The dancing light in the fireplace cast grotesque shadows on the walls, making Greg feel utterly terrified. He through the covers off of him and ran to the door.

Out in the corridor, he felt safe enough to revert back into a walk. What was that dream? The colour green? A forest perhaps? No. All he could be sure of was that it was a dream of fire.

Gregor walked down the dimly lit hall, still jittery from what he had seen. He continued to contemplate its meaning as he continued on, but said contemplation was short-lived. He was not able to fully snap back into reality until he lay on the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He saw a large hand reach down to help him back to his feet.

“Are you alright, Master Gregor?” the muscular man asked, helping the boy’s feet find solid ground. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m fine,” Greg replied brusquely as he rubbed his slightly bruised temple. In the dimness, it was hard to tell exactly who the larger man was, but when the latter stepped into the torchlight, he could easily distinguish the man as none other than Syr Walter Hamleigh, captain of the Royal Guard. Greg was not accustomed to seeing the man out of uniform. Instead of the scarlet tunic, silvery armour, and plumed helmet that distinguished a man of the Albanese bloodcloaks. Instead, Walter was wearing a tight leather vest over a linen shirt, a brown belt buckled across his chest. As always, he had a sword at his side.

Syr Walter brushed himself off and yawned. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour, Master Gregor?”

Greg was slightly embarrassed to admit the reason for his stirring. He was a big boy, almost five years old! Surely he shouldn’t be scared of a nightmare. It was unbecoming of a man grown. But he couldn’t hold it back. “I was frightened, Syr Walter.”

“Frightened? What do you have to be frightened of?”

“Dragons,” Greg lied.

The man smiled. “There hasn’t been a dragon here in ere’ a thousand years. You’re perfectly safe.” Walter let out a deep sigh and stared into one of the braziers on the wall. “Was it a nightmare you had?” he asked. “Is that why you are stirring at this hour?” Greg nodded, knowing that he could not disguise the source of his fear. “Come on,” the captain said with a smile. “I’ll take you back to your room. Dawn is coming, but it is not yet time to rise.” With that, Walter picked the lad up at put him on his shoulders. As the tall man began to walk, Greg tried to reach for the ceiling.

When they reached the door to Greg’s room, Walter set him down and motioned for Greg to step inside. A quizzical thought reached Greg’s mind. Why was Syr Walter in the hall? What was he doing himself? “Syr Walter, why were you out here?”

“To keep you and your cousin safe, voluntarily.”

“What’s volinity?”

Syr Walter chuckled. “Voluntary. It means that I do it without asking.”

“Why?”

Walter was about to open his mouth, but Greg noticed that he stopped himself. “Get yourself into bed, Master Gregor.” The boy obliged.

The captain walked towards the door and began to exit the room. Upon reaching the threshold, he turned around and said: “And I don’t want to see you up and about until the bell rings. Do you understand?”

Greg nodded. “Yes, Syr Walter. I understand.”

Walter gave one final smile before he closed the door. Greg could hear his footsteps going down the hall, until they finally disappeared. He knew that the man would be dressing himself in his scarlet uniform soon enough and prepare for yet another day of protected the royal family.

The lad knew that he would not again find sleep this night, so he walked over to the window and sat on the cushioned daybed. He rested his head on his tiny hand and gazed out into the night, which would soon give way to the grey-blue of early morning.

For the next hour-and a half he sat there and did nothing. To occupy himself, he blew onto the pains and drew shapes on the fogged up glass with his fingers. When dawn’s first light finally found its way into the skies of Albion, Greg felt relieved. Slowly, the courtyard below became visible. He could also see the silhouettes of the towers on the far side of Castle Windstorm, and traced their edges on the glass. Fresh snow covered the ground, and the large fountain in the center of the courtyard was all iced over. Greg did not have a clock in his room, but he figured that it could not be more than an hour until the first morning bell would ring.

The cooks were probably already hard at work preparing a tasty breakfast. As a matter of fact, a good majority of the castle would already be up and about. The bell only signaled the awakening of the royals and other essentials, many of them servants on Prince Char’s personal payroll. Greg did not know why royals slept in the longest. They needed their rest most, he supposed. To him, cooking seemed a lot harder than sitting in a chair and telling people what to do. That’s all running a country was, wasn’t it? The idea of doing that bored him. He’d much rather enjoy cooking than ruling, not that he had any experience at either.

It was not long until the first morning bell rang, and Greg was already dressed in his tunic and trousers, ready to head down to the dining room. He was proud that he had dressed himself. He often had trouble with his tying his pants and buckling up his shoes, but he had gotten better at it. It just took some practice, just as using the privy by himself did over two years prior.

Once he had taken a sip of water and urinated in his chamber pot, he headed out into the corridor, now brighter than it had been just two hours earlier. It was empty, from what he could tell, and quiet, that is, with an exception of the humming he heard just up ahead.

He followed the sound of the humming and, after rounding a few corners, discovered its source. Heading in the direction of the spiral staircase was Bas, who stopped, turned around, and gave a warm smile. “Hi, Greg,” the boy said, giving a quick and awkward wave.

“Good morning, Bas,” Gregor said, returning the cordial greeting. “How was your sleep?”

“It was good.”

Greg nodded, smiling back his counterpart. “Mine too.” He did not know exactly how he and Bas were related exactly, but everyone referred to them as being cousins. But this could not be true. Greg’s only uncle, Harold, his father’s younger brother, had no children of his own, and his mother’s sister was barely of marriage age. Not to mention that she and the rest of Greg’s mother’s family did not even reside in Lordium. Still though, despite the enigmatic familial relationship, Greg and treated Bas as if he were his brother.

The boys shared a set of apartments situated in a set of hallways on the second floor of one of the castle’s many sub-sections. This particular wing of the palace was located along Castle Windstorm’s western wall, which was reinforced with the strongest stone in all of northwestern Caenterin, in the quarries of the Sherwoods.

It took about ten minutes to reach the central palace, where, on the third floor, Prince Char’s personal residence was located. Once there, the two lads tried hard to avoid the various cooks and servants rushing and scrambling about. It was always busy in this part of the castle.

They finally reached a set of double doors. Above the door was depicted the Crest of Westvale, the symbol of the crowned prince of Albion. They went through the doors, entering the parlour of one of the various suites belonging to the prince. There were comfortable chairs throughout the decorated room, and just beyond the entrance was another set of doors, leading into the small, private dining room. In a sense, the parlour was less a living room and more an antechamber to the dining room itself.

Greg took a seat, dangling his legs as he sat there. Greg turned his gaze out the window. Snow was falling once more, and Greg heard the howling of the morning wind.

After waiting for a good ten minutes the doors to the parlour swung open, and inside came Father and Mother. Father was dressed in a tight-fitting cotton tunic, with the crest of an Albanese griffon sewn onto the front. His wife was wearing a simple, white gown, appropriate for a casual breakfast in the presence of the crowned prince.

“Daddy!” Gregor exclaimed, jumping off of his seat and rushing to give his father a big hug.

“Good morning, Greg,” said the prince as he lifted his son into the air and swung him around. Greg laughed a laugh of joy. Father smiled.

Greg saw his do the same as his father put him down, and he then ran for his mother, who gave him an affectionate embrace.

The doors of the dining room opened and out came Wordsworth, the prince’s personal steward. “My lord and lady,” he said in a stodgy voice that sounded to Gregor as if the man had a bad cold, “the prince is ready for you. Father gave the man a nod, and then motioned for the others to enter. Greg’s mother entered first, holding the lad’s hand, Bas following behind.

Father lingered in the parlour. Greg thought that he looked nervous about something, as if he were expecting something, or someone. He muttered to himself and entered the dining room, closing the doors behind him.

It was then when Greg realized that Uncle Harold was not present! Greg himself had not seen his father’s brother in over a week, save for one or two breakfasts. He wondered where he had been all this time.

Greg took a seat on the side of the table closest to the windows, back facing them. The dining room was small. There was no need for it to be any larger than it was, designed to fit only about eight or so. If a larger dinner or feast were to take place, such a meal would take place in the great hall, located in the inner keep, but on most occasions, the family supped in rooms such as this one. At the far end of the room was a large fireplace, above it the head of a boar that Grandfather had killed in the Kingswood when he was younger. On the wall across from Greg were multiple tapestries depicting famous events in Albanese history, such as the Doomsday Conquest, the Dragon Wars, and the signing of the Parliament Charter. Also on the wall was an oversized oil painting of the crowned prince himself.

Sitting there, at the head of the table, chair turned around facing the fireplace, was Prince Char. Greg did not know how the exact age of his grandfather, but he figured that he was relatively old. Sixty, he thought, was a conservative estimate enough. Wrinkles aside, he did not look his age. His hair, which he kept pulled back into a ponytail, was still as black as it was in his youth. While not entirely covered with facial hair, he had a stubbly goatee and medium-sized sideburns, which extended all the way down to his cheeks. Greg thought that they looked funny, but he knew never to laugh at them again. His grandfather had gotten angry after he had told the man that he thought that they looked silly.

The prince, upon hearing his family’s entering the room, stood up, turned his chair, and took a seat once more. Gregor put his napkin in his lap, like his mother had taught him.

“Good morning, family,” the prince greeted. “I trust that everyone has slept well?” They all nodded. “Very good,” he said, taking a bite out of one of the sticky buns already on his plate.

“How was your night, Father?” Greg’s own asked, returning the question as courteously as possible.

Greg saw his grandfather give his son a stare, revealing bloodshot eyes, bags underneath them. This, even Greg knew, was a sign of sheer exhaustion. “My night was dreadful. I barely slept a wink.”

“I am truly sorry, Father.”

“Don’t be!” Char snapped. “It’s not your fault I don’t sleep anymore. It’s those damn ministers. They’re keeping me up all day and night, leaving me stacks upon stacks of inane documents.”

“Come now. Is that not the requisite of your office?”

“No,” Grandfather retorted, pounding his fist to the table, causing Gregor to jump in surprise. “I should actually be ruling these lands, not settling petty disputes on paper. Where’s the bloody prime minister?”

Father chuckled. “I dunno. Parliament?”

Char rolled his eyes. “I swear, ever since Mother made me her regent, I’ve done nothing but age.”

Greg considered the remark and turned his head to the side, looking closely at his grandfather’s face. Huh, he can’t be that old.

“Now I understand why she gave up her official regency. It’s taxing.”

“And how is Grandmother doing?” asked Father in a sarcastic, but ironically sincere, tone.

“I don’t bloody know. I last saw her two fortnights ago. Probably venerable as ever.”

The queen was old, Gregor knew that much. Most men did not live past seventy. Due to recent advances in medicine, the average life span had increased. The queen herself was well beyond eighty, a thought that perplexed Greg.

“I swear,” Father said with a smirk, “that woman’ll outlive us all.”

Char took a deep breath, probably intended to be a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if I will ever actually ascend to the throne.”

“Oh, come off of it, Father. Old age runs rampant in this family. If mother lives to one-hundred, surely you will too, and I, and Gregor.” Gregor liked that idea. All the things he could accomplish!

“My dear son,” Char started, putting his fingers together, “there is a substantial difference between living and being alive. If Mother lives as long as you predict, I will not see the crown until my eightieth winter!” He laughed a hardy laugh, and his son followed his suit. When the laughter had died, the older prince asked, “Would you consider an eighty year old an able king?”

“If it were you, Father, of course I would.”

The heir laughed once more. “Don’t you lie to me, Wyl. By that time, I’d be more senile than your grandmother!”

“I would hardly consider the queen senile, my lord.” Greg’s mother had not spoken the entire meal. Part of him was glad that she had given her own input in regards to, what Greg assumed, what would soon become a long conversation. “If she were truly senile, she would have abdicated the throne right now.”

Greg turned his head back to his grandfather. “If she were truly senile, which I am convinced my dear mother is, she would be truly oblivious of the fact that she is not fit to rule!” Char sighed before taking a sip of his tea. “ I just wish that we could take her away somewhere. I love her, mind you, but I feel that she would be better off in a palace somewhere with all of the other incurable tyrants and kings of the world.”

“Grandmother is neither a tyrant nor a king,” Father said in a good-humoured, but equally serious tone of voice. Greg had no idea what the word “tyrant” meant, but he figured that it could not mean something good.

“I was only making a jest, son.” Greg could tell when his grandfather was joking given the tone in which he said certain things, but were jokes not meant to be funny? There was nothing funny about him, in the lad’s opinion. Sure he loved his grandfather enough, even if he was always busy…and stressed…and ill tempered. But there were times, at least when Greg was around, when he was kind and generous and, well, grandfatherly. But times were different now. Ever since Gregor’s father’s grandmother had given Char some sort of responsibility and she had retreated back into her palace in the city, anxiety had swept over him like a storm above a mountain.

He had that grumpy look again. He was always so grumpy now. The look morphed into a frown, and the prince opened his mouth. “Where’s Harold?” he asked. “I see three vacant seats this morning.”

Greg looked over too, bothered by the lack of his father’s brother’s presence. “Where’s Uncle?” He was sincerely concerned. He had not had a proper conversation with Uncle Harold in days.

Char’s gaze met Greg’s and he smiled. “See? Even Gregor, my only grandson, understands.”

“I don’t know,” Father said with a shrug. “I’m not his keeper.”

“Aye, Harold’s his own man now. It’s probably a girl again. He prefers the common maiden’s touch as opposed to that of a proper highborn lady. I truly hope that he is able to get it out of his system before he marries.”

“Harold has at least another five or six years.”

Grandfather shook his head, laughing once more. Had Greg missed something? Did someone say another joke that he did not get? No matter. He was older now, and would be able to engage in proper conversation very, very soon.

Grandfather chuckled yet again? What was so funny? “Wylfred, just because you did not wed until you were five-and twenty does not mean that your brother should do the same.”

“I was not born until you were my age. If you ask me, I married rather young.”

How was Father young? He was a man, a grown man. Everybody else was so old, in Greg’s own mind. He would one day be old too, and married, and a father. He hoped that it would not happen for a long time. And then he would have to be king. Greg would have liked the idea if he knew that it would not have to be like this every day. Everyone always bickered now, and it tired him. Mother said that family always stuck together. That was what family was about, was it not? He did not get that impression now, and at all the breakfasts past. It was always fighting.

“Your mother was always a difficult one,” Grandfather continued. “It took some effort to get her to spread her legs.”

What does spreading legs have to do with marrying? Greg thought to himself. No one ever makes any sense.

“It was especially so in the early days of our marriage. I tried my hardest to be a gentleman with her, but what does she do? She whores around with a bloody Sarec before getting herself burned in a fire.”

“Why must you bring Mother into this?” said Father with a hint of bitter contempt. “Don’t forget that you had your own share of infidelity. Remember Francesca?”

“Your wet-nurse?”

“Yes, Father, my bloody wet-nurse.”

Greg had a wet-nurse. Sally Helms. She was nice. He had been at his mother’s breast as a babe, but she had matters of court to attend to, so Sally was there for Greg a lot of the time. How old was she? Sixteen? Seventeen? No matter, Greg liked Sally. Does Sally like sharing infidelity too? Greg did not care for sharing, but Sally told him that it was an important. Maybe this is because she shares infidelity, like Grandfather and this Francesca.

Greg had never really asked about his grandmother. She was a very sensitive topic from what he gathered. All he knew was that she was fourteen summers dead. Something involving a fire and another man and a stagecoach. And all of that happened before Grandfather had a chance to get the marriage annulled, whatever that meant.

“I think,” Greg’s father went on, “you are just jealous that mother was the better parent.”

“Do you mean the woman that took you to the streets of Lordium to frolic amongst all the poor folk? Eris never raised you properly, Wylfred. You must know that.” He took a deep breath. “Your wet nurse and I deserve the praise.”

“You mean Francesca?”

Grandfather slammed his fist on the table. Greg knew what would come next: yelling. “How dare you speak to me in that manner! I am your future king!”

Father sneered, but remained calm. “I do not see a crown on your head yet, my liege.”

Greg sighed in relief when he saw his grandfather calm himself down, but his words still reflected a constant negative emotion. “Perhaps we should speak more of this to your grandmother when she arrives, eh? The matter of proper succession? She favours you, you know. Why don’t I just abdicate and move into that so-called home for incurable tyrants and kings?” Grandfather reached across the table and grabbed a vine of grapes and, in one motion, sunk his mouth into it, spilling juice all across his tunic. Before he even had a chance to finish chewing, he said, “Why can’t you be more like your uncle? He’s a respectful man, the paragon of a true Windstorm. You’d learn some true respect if served under him as even a mere foot soldier on the Tarran front.”

“I have military experience, Father. Do not forget that I-“

Char cut him off. “You did nothing. You sat back and observed the conflict in the Bara. You did not engage a single Maker-damned Sarec. You know that there was once a time when royals actually fought in wars, as your uncle Visyryn still does today?”

And so father and son bickered on, and Greg, used to this sort of thing, simply blocked it out. He lost himself in his thoughts, primarily focusing on that dream of his, but such was eventually drained out once he heard the sound of quick footsteps. Greg heard the outer parlour doors slam open and then, only five seconds later, the double doors to the dining room did the same. Standing there, panting like a dog, was Prince Harold, Father’s younger brother, wearing nothing but a white shirt, loose trousers, and a brown vest. He plopped down in the empty seat next to Mother. “Did I miss anything?” He rested his hands on his knees.

“No,” Grandfather responded, “nothing of importance.”

“I apologize, Father. I was-“

“In bed with the miller’s wife? Or just a whore this time?”

“Actually, no,” Greg’s uncle replied. “A legitimate lady.”

Father chuckled. “You mean you dressed your right hand in a dress?” The two of them laughed. Grandfather did not.

“Is it impossible for you to pursue any other outlets, Harold?” Char asked as he rolled his eyes.

Uncle pretended to look offended. “I have plenty of outlets!”

“Besides vaginas.”

What was a vagina again? No matter, Greg would remember.

Mother sat up abruptly. “Please, My Lord,” she said in a near-whisper, “not in front of the children!”

Grandfather smiled smile. “As you wish, dear lady. But only for Greg’s sake, not little Bastard’s over there. He doesn’t care. Isn’t that right, Bastard?” Greg’s cousin looked towards the floor and gave a quick nod. I thought Bas was his name, not Bastard! Thought Greg. Why don’t they just call him his name? The room quieted down, and, for once, everyone seemed to focus on the meal in front of them. After a while, Char said: “Nothing good has ever come out of winter.”

Greg perked up. “What about the Yuletide, Grandfather!”

He laughed. “The Yuletide, my boy, is the worst part. It means bloody weeks with my mother and her court when they come here. As if summers at Tudor Palace weren’t bad enough. Two more days till’ solstice. Two more days till’ Mother.”

The doors slammed open. Gregor expected it to be Wordsworth, but it was instead his grandfather’s messenger, Regan. “Your Grace,” he declared, approaching Char. “A letter.” He handed Grandfather a piece of parchment, who snatched it out of the man’s hand. Regan moved to the corner, tracking more snow across the room. He looked as if he had been riding for a while now. He clasped his hands behind his back.

After about a minute, Harold said, “What is it, Father?”

“It seems that I spoke too soon earlier,” the crowned prince said, stroking his goatee. “Grandmother has requested our presence at Tudor Palace.”

“When?” retorted Uncle Harold.

“Today. And the letter requests the presence of us all, including Katrice, Gregor, and even little Bastard. Sometimes I forget the little shit’s her own grandson.” Uncle Harold frowned. Greg knew that his uncle was very protective of Bas in spite of Grandfather’s belittlement of the boy. “We will leave as soon as possible,” he said once he had finished the letter. “I suggest that you all make yourselves look presentable.” He looked at Harold when he said this, who, in turn, smiled wickedly. Char cringed at the smell of his son’s sweat. “And I would suggest a bath as well.”

Once breakfast had ended, Greg and Bas were led from the dining room to their own chambers’ by their respective maids. Sally, who always smiled, drew a bath for Greg and helped him wash, singing a folk tune to him softly. Greg liked when she sang to him.

Once he had dried off, and Sally began dressing him, he asked: “What’s infidelity?”

The maiden looked taken aback. “And where did you hear that word, little syr?

“Father told Grandfather that he shared it.”

She licked her lips and moved her eyes back and forth, as if she were thinking about something, “well, umm, I do not believe that it is something that you share.”

Greg was confused. “But Grandfather shared it with his lady once.”

Sally looked all the more befuddled. “Tis’ not infidelity if it be with one’s lady.”

“Oh.” Sally continued to dress him, and then laced up the back of his vest. Hesitantly, he prepared another question. “Sally?”

“Yes, little syr?”

“Have you ever shared it before?”

She smiled warmly, as she always did, but Greg, always uncannily perceptive, picked up on a subtle discomfort behind the outer warmth. “No,” she finally replied. “And it is something that I do not intend to ‘share.’”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to marry a man that I love, and I would not want to hurt him like that.”

“I thought sharing was good. Why would sharing hurt?”

“It is not something that you share, little syr. It is unbecoming of a good person.”

Unbecoming? If Grandfather shared it, what did that mean? “So Grandfather is not a good person?

A dark golden lock slipped down to cover Sally’s eye, and she blew it away. “No, I do not mean to call the prince a bad man. Everybody does things that they regret. I have, you will, and he has. If we did not make mistakes, we would not be good people.”

“What would we be?”

“Shattered people.”

Greg nodded his head, but then squinted his eyes perplexedly. “What’s shattered?”

“Broken. On the inside and out. Humans make mistakes, and we are meant to make mistakes. We learn from them and the Architect made us so that we would make those mistakes and grow from them. We make mistakes so that we may learn if we choose too, so that we may not shatter ourselves.”

It seemed to make sense to Greg…a little. He liked Sally, and knew that she was very smart, but he still could have a hard time understanding grown-ups and why they did what they did. Even Sally. Like why did she enjoy talking with him? Why did she take her time to watch over him? What was it that she did to make boys her own age want to touch her? Why did she sometimes let them? Why was she so kind? Perhaps he would understand it all in the future, when he was older. He realized that, perhaps, he was not so very old at all. His mother and other, like Sally, called him a “big boy,” but maybe he was not so big after all. How could he be? The Old understood things that he could not, and it seemed common on their part. Perhaps he would one day, that is, if he did not shatter.