The Broken Throne: Chapter 4

 May 19th, 1461 – Cadherra

Philip paced back and forth in that desolate hallway. Even though they were at summer's doorstep, a chill swept him over. His brows knit together, his eyes unfocused. His hands were clasped behind his back as he kept tapping his left foot in an irregular pattern.

The door next to him suddenly opened. Philip rushed to the physician. But when he heard the sobs of his wife, he understood it was no use. Marianne tried to contain her cries as she sat by the bed of her son, holding a small pale hand in her own.

The physician's face was reddened with anxiety. "Your Majesty—"

"Is it just a cold as we suspected?" Philip’s tongue felt leaden as he spoke, the words formed with difficulty.

"The prince is showing the first signs of the plague," the man before him forced the words — strangled and strange. They sounded thick, like spoken through water.

Blood rushed in his ears; his vision blurry. Which parent could even begin to comprehend that their child was struck by a mortal disease? Philip suddenly felt older — as if his years had suddenly caught up with him. He was no longer that once young and charismatic prince, nor the arrogant monarch who would do anything for his country.

He was only a parent, faced with the potential death of his child.

He stared emptily into the eyes of the physician. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked in a thin voice.

"We caught it at an early stage. There might still be hope, Your Majesty."

Philip did not believe him. The thinly veiled skepticism in the medic's eyes told his as much. He pushed past the physician to join Marianne and Edmund.

"I urge Your Majesty to be cautious. The disease is highly contagious."

The small figure of a boy lay wrapped in oversized blankets, shivering as fever took him. His pale face was still, his cracked lips parted in peaceful slumber. Marianne held his hand, her face ridden with tears. She turned to meet her husband, looking as lost as he felt.

"Philip!" she said in a plea. "They say there might be a chance. Tonight, will decide Edmund's fate," she hiccupped. Philip gritted his teeth but quickly masked his worry with a smile.

"Then I am certain our son shall live. I shall stay with him—"

"You cannot be here. If it is the plague—" Marianne shook her head violently. "You must be kept safe."

He kneeled next to her, reaching out for an embrace, alas she pulled away.

"And what of you?"

"A king is invaluable, a queen is replaceable," she sighed, her tears dampening her cheeks.

As night fell, Philip announced he was retiring. He left his son’s apartments for his own. In the wee hours of the morning, when the castle had settled, he snuck out of his bed. Philip stalked through desolate corridors with one wax candle in hand to the chapel.

As he entered the modest construction, the cross caught his eye. He was not religious by nature but in this hour of need he had no one else to turn to.

He slowly approached the altar and kneeled, thus commencing a long night of prayer. He put all his energy into it and as the hours ticked by, his stiff body protested.

May 20th, 1461

As dawn neared, Philip remained at the altar. He pushed away the anger at the situation, and focused only on the hope that all this would soon pass.

He tried to ignore the chill of the stone chapel. A sigh echoed through it and reverberated through him. A shiver struck him, unlike anything he'd felt before. The hairs at the end of his neck stood up. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that started playing tricks on his mind. But the king sensed something looking over him.

It was one of the priests who found him kneeling admits lit wax candles, staring at the cross that floated before him. Daylight spilled into the enclosed space as the door glinted open, disrupting the darkness that otherwise enveloped him. Philip ignored the footsteps nearing him. He knew what they would bear. He was not yet certain if he was ready to hear any news regarding his son.

"Your Majesty?" the priest said in astonished disbelief as he neared the altar. Philip dressed thinly in a long white nightgown and a purple velvet robe lined in gold thread. When Philip did not react to the calls, the priest reached out to gently shake his shoulder.

"What news of my son?"

The priest then smiled, alas the king could not see it. "The prince lives to see another day."

Philip turned to face him — his face exhausted from lack of sleep. Gratefulness shone in his eyes as he glanced at the cross.

"It seems your prayers were heard."

Philip stood up against his protesting limbs and darted to his son's bedroom. There he found Marianne, speaking with the physician. She had spent the whole night awake, outside of Edmund's chambers.

When she saw her husband, dressed in his nightclothes, her smile grew.

"It seems the fever has broken. I cannot yet say with certainty, but it appears His Royal Highness will survive this ordeal," the physician said. No words had ever sounded so reassuring to a parent.

A strangled laugh escaped Philip. Tears pooled in his eyes and his throat closed. He reached for the door to see his son, but the physician cautioned him.

"Sire, we are still not certain that it is not the plague. Yesterday we took little precautions. Today we need to be wary of the miasma," he said, handing a piece of white cloth and gloves. "I suggest you use these and then throw them away into the fire, just in case."

Philip looked at the cloth with a frown.

"It is only a precaution. I was made to wear it too. The maids attending Edmund are wearing them as well. He understands, he is old enough to do so," Marianne said.

Philip's lip pressed into a thin line as he accepted the cloth, tying it across his nose and mouth.

Marianne placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. The physician grew embarrassed as he witnessed the display of affection between the king and queen.

A few servants were washing Edmund while others were airing the room as he entered. A delicate vase of freshly picked flowers stood on the table next to the bed.

The servants quickly left as Philip entered, leaving him alone with his son.

"Papa!" Edmund's weak voice said as he caught sight of his father. Philip chuckled as he sat down on the bed. “You look like a bandit,” he laughed. It was weak and strained.

"I snuck in, Your Highness," Philip played along, deepening his voice and accenting it.

"And why would a bandit wish to see a sickly prince?"

"I did not come here to see a sickly prince. I came to see the prince who defeated death," Philip boomed. The ten-year-old stared back at him, astonished.

"Is that what the people are saying about me?" he asked as his eyes lit up with wonder. Philip nodded. Suddenly Edmund grew shy, looking at his father from under his eyelashes. "Is it true what the servants say? That you stayed up praying for me at the chapel the whole night?"

Edmund's words caught Philip off guard. "There are some things that not even a king can command over," he trailed off, "thus, there is only one way we can all look to and ask for help."

"It seems He listened," Edmund smiled, but exhaustion was still evident on his face.

"Indeed."

Philip brushed his son’s hair out of his face and tucked him in.

"What you need to do now is to rest, the breeze is warm and the pastures are open. It is a good a time as any to go for a long ride beyond the castle."

"Like you," Edmund began, sleepily.

"Like me," Philip said.

As Edmund shut his eyes, Philip gave out a sigh of relief.

---

March 2nd, 1520

The last of supper was taken away by some sailors. Juán patted his belly in a satisfied manner, relaxing back in the highchair, sipping on his cup of Rioja. The Spanish captain had invited the three Angloans to dine with him. Journeys at sea were always dreary and awfully boring, and he always found company — in any form — to be better than dining by himself, or with his steering mate.

"What takes you to Rome, señores?" the captain asked as he passed around the wine bottle. His eyes drifted to the hooded one, a man he found deliciously alluring. If there was something Juán Mejías loved, it was a good mystery. They exchanged glances over their cups of wine.

"Business," Lucius cut through in his baritone voice that boomed in the captain's cabin. The curt response provoked a laugh in Juan.

"If you are businessmen, then I am the king of Spain!" he mused, raising his glass at the mention of his king, drinking to his honor. "I am guessing you are on your way to Rome for some other type of business, say business of honor perhaps?" he continued. The words provoked a faint reaction in Joseph and Lucius, though the hooded man was as stoic as ever.

"Or perhaps it is a woman," Juán said, trying to dig deeper. Now the hooded man’s grip on his goblet grew tighter. "Ah, it seems I am on the right track," Juán mused, delighted. "It is about a woman."

"I would appreciate, Capitán, if you did not meddle in our affairs," came the stern reply from Tristan as he leaned forward in his chair. Juán arched one eyebrow before he put both hands up as a gesture of submission.

"I did not wish to offend, señor."

"Then do not speak more of it," Tristan said, cutting him short.

"Ah yes," Juán could not stop himself. "But I always feel that women bring nothing but trouble," he started, pausing as if thoughtful. Both Lucius and Joseph exchanged brief glances as Tristan’s grip tightened further around his goblet.

Juán unbuttoned the upper part of his shirt and exposed part of his collarbone. A deep scar ran a few inches wide, diagonally across his left collarbone.

"Her name was Lola," he sighed in remembrance. A dark twinkle sparked up in his eyes. He then rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt. A silver scar ran across his lower arm, not as deep but quite a lot longer than the first one.

"This one I got from Valeria," he lamented.

"It seems you choose the most passionate of them, or maybe that is just the way you do things here around the Mediterranean," Joseph muttered — more to himself than to Juán. His words provoked a chuckle in the Spanish captain.

"Valeria did this to me when she found out about Lola. I thought she would chop my arm off!" he exclaimed. "Lola wielded my own blade against me when she found out about Rosario."

"Rosario?" Joseph asked in blissful innocence.

"Hm yes, for then there was Ángela and Catalina. So many women, all of them have brought me many troubles over the years. Yet, I cannot seem to quit them," he said, staring at Tristan.

"It seems you have suffered for your woman as well, yes?" Juan asked, pointing at the mask, barely visible under the deep hood.

"She did not scar me, if that is what you ask," Tristan growled.

"Of course, señor. But you must understand my curiosity. I have rarely come across many honest men who hide their faces." Juán took another sip from his cup, hiding the upward curl in his lips.

"Might it be that you have so many troubles with women because you cannot settle for one?" Lucius interrupted, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

"Probably. But I find that once I have decided on one, another one pops into my life. It is a curse, really," Juán said, flashing a charming smile. The ladies loved that smile more than they loved his sweet words and gentle caress. When he saw that he could not take the conversation any further, he decided to play along with Lucius and change the subject as well.

"I heard some disturbing news in the harbor at Málaga before we sailed," his brows knitted together. "Something about a coup in Angloa against the royal palace and the king himself."

"The facts are true," Joseph stated, "but the traitors were dealt with accordingly."

Juán eyed the trio a long while.

"Then again, some other traitors might have made it on to the first ship they could get… a ship that so happened to sail into Málaga. Maybe they are sitting here, in front of me, sharing my wine, my food and my hospitality."

All lightheartedness was gone as Juán brought up what had been going through his mind for the last few days. He did not wish to house traitors on his ship. He was proud, like most Spaniards, and he would be damned if he was caught fraternizing with such men.

The tension in the room grew. His own steering mate, Rodrigo, could sense it as well, even if he did not speak a word of English. The hooded man stared harshly at Juán through the slits of his mask.

"I assure you that we are not traitors," Tristan said curtly. But he would not explain himself, pride ruled before common sense.

"We defended the royal palace when it was besieged by the traitors, led by Lord Oscar Braun — who escaped, taking my friend's fiancée in the process," he offered.

Juán's expression did not change, he was not moved by the words. After a long pause, the Spaniard finally spoke. "Men will tell the most impressive lies to get away from what's coming for them."

Joseph grew pale, if the captain did not believe them they could well risk being thrown overboard.

"I swear on the Virgin, that my men and I speak the truth. You have my word of honor, if that is of any use to you, " Tristan said in accented Spanish. Juan rose an eyebrow, for the words weighed heavy on him.

"If you are willing to swear on the Holy Mother, I must take your word for it — as well as your word of honor," Juán said with a curt nod before the tension evaporated.

The rest of the evening passed by in a slow manner. The captain engaged Tristan in deep conversation, speaking in rapid Spanish while Joseph and Lucius got lost in trying to decipher the foreign language.

When the evening was coming to a close, for most of the wine had been drunk, Tristan, Lucius, and Joseph left for their quarters. On the way there, Tristan was bombarded by questions.

"What magic did you unleash upon that Spaniard that he would believe you with a mere phrase?" Joseph asked in awe. He only received a slight smirk from Tristan as they walked through the small corridor, their door at the end of it.

"He does believe in us, right? He knows we tell the truth and will not try to lock us up?" Joseph continued, still not entirely willing to trust that the matter could have been brushed away that easily.

"He assures me so. But I would advise caution in either case. We arrive in Rome soon. We should try to get away from Juán as fast as we dock, in case he reports us to the local authorities," Tristan said.

"You think he would do that?"

"He promised me we would be safe on this ship, but I think him a fickle man; he did not promise our safety off the ship."

They entered their shared living space. Tristan had a bed in the corner with drapes for further privacy.

"You sound like a native when you speak," Lucius said as they settled in for the night.

Tristan paused by his bed. Lucius and Joseph had never wondered at his background. The rumor that he hailed from beyond Angloa had floated around Wessport Palace for long before he arrived last autumn.

Tristan stared at the roof, suddenly remembering Sofia; her gray hair, her black eyes and her sweet accent, running like honey. He missed her, now more than ever.

"I spent most of my youth in the company of a Spaniard. I don't think you ever knew her. She was like a mother to me," he said distantly.

"But she was not your mother?" Joseph asked, digging where he should not.

"No, my mother is… not here," he sighed.

The other two did not push more on the subject and decided to leave it at that. They put out the candles and Tristan drew the drapes. His thoughts wandered to another woman; a woman with tresses of soft gold and expressive lavender eyes.

March 5th, 1520

She was above deck for the first time.

Christine had never sailed on the Mediterranean. She had always thought it the same as the Western Sea in the Bay of Biscay that stretched between Angloa and the continent.

But she had been wrong.

When she had traveled from Wessport, Christine and her mother had taken a ship down to Coldwick. The sea had been stormy, a black depth under gray skies that threatened to swallow the ship whole. She had kept away from it, trying to ignore the waves that rocked the ship violently, threatening to tip it.

But now, leaving Spain behind them, closing in on the east, she saw another world. The smell of salt and fresh seawater wafted through the air as frisky waves danced around the ship. The wind kissed her face gently, while the sun touched her pale skin, turning it a shade darker. The men ran around the main deck, working fervently to manage the vast white sails, looking like strange clouds contrasted against the blue skies. To her left, far in the distance, Christine spotted a very thin strip of land.

"That is North Africa," came a slow drawl behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up in the presence of Braun as he neared, standing just behind her. She fought against the revolting reaction he provoked in her.

"I have never been there," she said in a stiff voice.

"It is indeed an impressive land, so very different to our own," he continued, awe lacing his voice. "Their customs, their way of life — there is a finesse in their culture, a grace that we have ignored for centuries in our land. And to the east, their accomplishments only grow. We are mere specks of dust compared to them. We have been wasting away in an age of ignorance and lack of culture," he sneered.

Christine was surprised at the words. She turned to face him. "You speak of Angloa?"

Her questioning glance and innocent expression brought a sly smile on Braun's face. "I speak of Europe in general, my dear," he responded. But the words made her frown.

"I do not think we are an ignorant people," she argued, offended at the way he so easily dismissed his own people.

"Do not speak of what you do not know, Miss Vega," Braun snapped, his eyes growing darker. A snarl fouled the expression on his face.

Christine took a step back at the sudden change in him. Her eyes darkened, and her lips formed a thin line as their polite exchange turned sour. Not that she had ever wished for polite conversation with him.

Braun recollected himself. He did not apologize for his sudden outburst.

She tried to ignore him, feeling trapped on the vast deck. The men kept sending glances her way; most knowing better than to try anything with her. The barber who had taken out the splinters drifted his gaze nervously from her to Braun and back.

"We shall arrive in a fortnight if the winds are in our favor," Braun said casually.

"And where might that be?"

She had tried to discern where Braun might be taking her, but the only clue she had was Cardinal Thorpe.

"It matters little," Braun smiled. He stared as strands of her hair blew across her face, her lips parted as she awaited the rest of his answer. But it never came.

"It matters to me. I heard you speak of Cardinal Thorpe—"

"Thorpe," Braun chuckled as if remembering something before shaking his head. "Once we arrive there, you will know where we are. Accommodations will have been prepared for you," he started, hoping to continue their conversation. All he got was a glare as she pushed past him, making her way down to her quarters, praying he was not following her.

Christine arrived at her chamber, swiftly locking the door behind her, resting her head a brief moment against the worn wood. When she heard no footsteps, she went to the bed and searched under the mattress until she found the dagger Zoráida had gifted her. Holding it in her hands gave her comfort when nothing else would; it was safety — a weapon to defend herself with. Tristan was gone, hard as it was to accept, it was a fact. Every night when she shut her eyes, she was reminded of his loss. It hurt, but what had once been a sharp pain in her heart was now dull, aching. She reasoned to herself that she would always keep the memory of her fiancé alive. When she returned to Angloa — for she would indeed return — Christine would make sure that he was honored accordingly.

As soon as they docked in whatever harbor Braun was taking her, she would run. The day he had stormed into her townhouse in Wessport, she had heard whispers of Cardinal Thorpe. Christine never knew they were both allied, or perhaps they were not; perhaps Braun would run to wherever Thorpe was and push him for finances — it seemed like something Braun would do. Her mind had pondered this question for days. She had no recollection of where the Cardinal could be. But she suspected that there was only one place for him to visit if he had left Angloa: the Vatican.

Christine had managed to whisk a few coins from Braun's coat, which he would sometimes forget whenever he visited her. It would be enough to buy her safe passage across the Mediterranean back to Spain. She knew she would be safer on the Iberian Peninsula, where her father's relatives lived. They would no doubt help her the rest of the way back to Angloa.

She found herself once more glancing out of the large windows, staring at an empty horizon where the sea met the sky. It was west — where the sun would set every evening, always shining in through the windows, bathing her chamber in a myriad of colors.

March 6th, 1520

The clash of swords sounded on deck as steel met steel. Tristan easily parried an attack from Juan as he sent him back in a swift maneuver.

Lucius and Joseph watched intently, following every move of their friend.

"His wound seems better," Joseph remarked. "Though the captain may not be the opponent Braun was."

Tristan’s right arm was still hesitant, his shoulder remained stiff from the wound inflicted by Braun.

Lucius’ hair was tousled by the wind, golden tresses dragging over his eyes. When training with Tristan, he had always suspected him to hold back. He had seen him on the field against Alistair, after all.

"Braun defeated him?" he pondered in disbelief. Lucius couldn’t believe it, not during such a high-stake battle.

"Why do you think he was so badly wounded? It was Braun who cut through him," Joseph continued.

"I have sparred many times with Tristan. I know he held back every time." Lucius’ brows knitted together, deepening the wrinkle in his forehead. "Braun should not have won."

Joseph looked pensive, trying to unravel the mystery of Tristan's defeat.

"Perhaps Braun is his superior in swordsmanship," Joseph said.

Lucius breathed harshly through his nose in disagreement. The mere thought did not sit well with him.

"Or perhaps we esteem Tristan’s skill to highly," Lucius responded.

Tristan once more coaxed the rapier from Juán's hand. The Spaniard laughed it off, but it was clear that he had had enough of the exercise.

"Braun will not fight as dirty as Alistair. However, I am certain he had something up his sleeve when he fought Tristan," Joseph murmured as both men before them shook hands.

"What do you mean?" Lucius asked, lowering his voice.

"A decade ago, one of my father's friends — Lord Robert Giraine's cousin — had offended Lord Braun. Lord Robert loves to bring up this story every so often. I always thought him exaggerating; maybe I was wrong," Joseph said in a steady voice as the memories resurfaced.

"His cousin — whose name escapes me — was an excellent swordsman, well enough to be Braun's match. He chose combat by sword, of course. Lord Robert acted second, so he witnessed the whole ordeal. They fought for a long while. Lord Braun managed to slice the cousin first, drawing blood. But Lord Robert's cousin would not stop until he had sliced Lord Braun as well. It appears that he grew sluggish and tired at the end of their fight; it had gone on for a long time though, so it was natural. In the end, they stopped as ah yes, Fausto, that was his name! Fausto was said to have been very tired indeed. He retired shortly after. The wound he received on his arm got infected and he died from it a week or so later. Everyone else brushed it away as a tragic occurrence, everyone but Lord Robert. He suspected Braun was behind it. Perhaps he was only exaggerating. He had overestimated his cousin’s talent with the sword."

"Perhaps we also idealize our friend. Maybe Braun is the better swordsman," Lucius said.

"Lord Braun was never questioned, for how could he have been capable of infecting such a wound?" Joseph reasoned.

"Maybe Fausto was poisoned," Lucius said jokingly. "It would indeed be a strange poison to use, but practical would it not? Imagine a poison that would show up as a normal infection in a wound that you inflicted with your coated weapon. No suspicion would fall on you since death from infection and inflammation is a natural occurrence," Lucius speculated, playing with the idea. But it was never more than mindless speculation.

Joseph, however, was keener on accepting such an idea.

"And why would Braun not have done such a thing? A man like him, without honor, could indeed use poison for his own benefit. He had everything to lose the day he stormed the palace." But when he saw the look on Lucius' face, Joseph sighed. "Or perhaps, as you say, we are indeed over-analyzing this."

 Lucius gave away a deep sigh as well. He patted Joseph on the shoulder.

"Let us not dwell on such things now, Joseph. Perhaps the time will come when we shall face Braun again." A tone of premonition laced Lucius’ voice as worry seeped into his face, manifesting in the deepened wrinkles on the otherwise handsome visage.

"Perhaps," Joseph joined in, letting the words be carried away by the faint sea breeze. He squinted his eyes as the sails shifted, making the sunrays blind him.

"We dock in a few days," came a sudden voice behind them. The hairs in the back of their necks prickled up. Lucius and Joseph turned around, facing Tristan.

"That is good, I cannot wait to get off this blasted thing," Lucius said.

"Yes," Joseph joined in, giving a stale laugh to tide over the sudden scare.

They both felt the penetrating eyes of their friend on them. The blue depths seemed to tear into them as the gentle Mediterranean breeze swished past.

"We should start preparing for the arrival. I do not trust too much in Captain Mejías," Tristan continued.

"You still suspect he will have us arrested as soon as we dock?"

"We will not even have made it out of the harbor before we are thrown into prison," Tristan confirmed.

"How can you be certain?" asked Joseph.

"Because that is what I would do if I suspected someone," he said coldly.

"Oh," said Joseph.

"Oh indeed." Tristan leaned forward, Joseph was certain if it weren’t for the mask, he would have seen an arched eyebrow.

"I have time to give these things thought, instead of pondering about battles and duels already fought," Tristan said, the hint of a smile touching his lips. "Or making up biased speculations about swords and poison," he added. The words turned both Joseph and Lucius white as they realized that Tristan had heard their whole exchange.