Chapter Text
He is somehow lost in a manor, walking through room after room and never finding other people or his way outside. Each room is plain, unpainted and barely-furnished so that they can hardly be distinguished from each other, but they do not seem to repeat themselves exactly, as far as he can tell.
Which manor is this? he wonders. It is too cold to be Marham, and besides, Marham was much more richly appointed … not Henstridge, the ceilings there were lower and the rooms darker … not Wylasten, it simply is not Wylasten … Perhaps he has never been here before. Perhaps it is his new prison, one that is entirely inescapable because there are no doors to the outside, and he has been left there to starve and die on his own.
He continues walking from room to room, never coming to a main hall or finding a guard or servant. He puts on speed, trying to move through them more quickly in order to find someone who can help him, and soon he is running through them. But there is no end to the rooms, and he finally stops – only to find that his feet are sinking into the floor. Frantically, he tries to move again, but to no avail: he cannot stir from the spot. He is lost and alone and powerless.
Edward awoke with a start, his heart pounding more than really seemed necessary for such a dream, particularly when he had had it so many times before. For a long moment, he lay curled on his side and simply breathed in the damp air. The sun was not quite up – it must be early, but Matins was past.
Wylasten, at the edge of the kingdom, sat “on the marshes and on the Marches,” as his father used to say; even when he had visited once as a child, dressed in velvets and furs, he had felt the cold, wet air sink into his bones, and had had to curl his little hands up to stop his fingers from going numb. Now, here he was again, dressed much more simply in a few layers of linen, which did little to warm him. His blankets were wool, though, and he wrapped them around himself as he rose from his pallet and went to the window to survey the Marches in the wan early light.
When he had first become the prisoner of the new king Athelstan, he had been kept nearly in proper state for a sovereign, though he was now only the Earl of Walcot: he had a household, servants who were his to command, pages and ushers from noble families (many of which had served him when he was king), musicians, his own cook. He had slept in the state bedroom of Marham and his keeper, the Earl of Clifford, had come to see him every day, conversing and asking if his accommodations were satisfactory, even taking him hunting and hawking once a week. There had been times when he had even given thanks in his prayers – made when he heard mass in the chapel from his own priest along with his retinue – for the Lord and Lady’s decision to take his throne, because was his life not much better than it had been in many ways? He hadn’t needed the truly extraneous luxuries of kingship, and there was a greater luxury in no longer needing to make the difficult choices about taxes, levies, and diplomatic relations. Then he repented, for hadn’t They also chosen for him to be king? It seemed most likely that he was meant to be humbled, to remember that just as he had been raised up he might be cast down. He had spent an entire day in the chapel then, he recalled, prostrate on the stone floor before the altar; it had worried his pages, and he had tried to tell them as cheerfully as possible that even a king might need to show penitence.
But then Radwulf had come. Radwulf, Baron and now Earl of Orreby, was not a large man, but he had always had a dark, contemptuous presence that had frightened Edward as a boy and unnerved him as king.
“Edward,” he had said, dropping into a chair beside him in front of the fire and making him jump. He was no longer given all the courtesies of a king, but all of his servants and attendants paid him due deference, and even Clifford treated him not as an equal earl but something more, sitting in his presence only when invited and referring to him as “Walcot”. Orreby clearly did not feel the same way. “I see Clifford is keeping you well here.”
“My lord Clifford has been most hospitable,” Edward said, hoping the coldness in his voice would transmit his disdain without hinting at his fear.
“Perhaps too hospitable,” said Orreby. “God’s teeth, you live like a king. Well, no point in pleasantries – I’m here on business. King Athelstan requires that you admit to your bastardy in front of the council and then retire to a monastery.”
There was no noise for a long moment save for the crackling of the fire. The words King Athelstan were ringing in Edward’s ears unpleasantly, although that was not the main source of his speechlessness.
“It would be better if it were done publicly, on the steps of the Elswick Cathedral before mass,” Orreby added casually, “so that there would be no question of your having any right to rule. But the king is merciful, and willing to grant you some privacy for the sake of your self-respect, even though it transgresses on the security of his own throne. And he would allow you to go to an abbey of your choice, perhaps the one your mother founded at Boothby. Be sure to mention that and show your gratitude.”
Edward began to speak, but found his throat unable to emit sound, and tried again. “I will not do any such thing,” he stated at last.
“You would not show your respect for the sovereign who might have you executed if he wished?” Orreby knew what he meant, he was sure, but could not resist needling him.
“I will not dishonor my mother by agreeing to this disgusting lie you have bruited about in order to justify usurping my throne for your nephew. She was a good and virtuous woman who never once even thought of cuckolding my father! How dare you demand this of me, sir?” He was on his feet, his voice raised and his fists clenched, angry in a way that he had never really been even when they were taking his crown from him and having him escorted to captivity. It could be borne, if God decided to make him no longer king – but he would not be complicit in it, and he would never contemplate slandering either of his parents with the base claims of Orreby and his faction.
In one smooth movement, Orreby pushed himself out of his own chair and hit Edward across the face with an open palm, driving him to the floor. Then he crouched down beside the gasping former king and seized him by the hair. “Stupid boy,” he said, and shook him slightly. Edward’s mind was still trying to cope with the blow, but he managed to register the contempt of the actions. “You could have made this so easy, but you haven’t the brains for that.”
It was the first time in his life that Edward had been offered violence on a personal level. It would not be the last.
His time at Marham had been over as well. The next day, Clifford visited and told him, without meeting his eyes, that he was to be moved to Henstridge. This was a seat of the Earl of Auckley, one of Orreby’s men, and Edward found it remarkably less comfortable. The manor itself was smaller and less well furnished, and so his chambers were in accordance. His attendants were diminished, the nobly born pages sent back to their fathers and his kitchen staff dismissed; Auckley still allowed him the freedom of the house and, usually, the grounds, but paid him only a civil courtesy and showed him no signs of personal friendliness, which Edward did not expect anyway. He still had his companions, his real friends – Cuthbert, son of the Earl of Mannix; Godwin, son of the Baron Chetstone; Cenric and Dunstan and Harold. It took some time to become used to this new setting and routine, but they all adjusted, and after some months Edward began to feel again as though this were a life he could become accustomed to.
Then Radwulf, Earl of Orreby, paid another visit.
This time, he came across Edward while playing skittles in the hall with his companions; the driving autumn rains kept him indoors much of the time, apart from the occasional hunt. Smiles faded from all faces as the earl slowly ambled over to them, taking his time, and Edward was left holding the ball lamely as he waited for Orreby to address him.
“The king is still inclined to be merciful and to respect your privacy,” the older man said. “It is still most generous of him. All you need to do is make one little admission of the truth and stand aside.”
“It is not an admission of truth.” Edward did not have the fire that he’d possessed during his first refusal, but he looked Orreby in the face and spoke plainly. “As I have told you, I will not dishonor my mother with such slanders. I am the true and legitimate son of King Oswald and Queen Sunniva and rightful ruler of this kingdom.” He closed his eyes before the blow came, but this time it was with a fist, and it was followed by others as his attendants gasped and cried out for the earl to stop. But the earl did not stop until he was finished, and Edward was left in a crumpled heap on the floor, to be half carried by Cuthbert and Dunstan back to his bed.
The next day, Auckley loomed over him and announced angrily that they would be going to Wylasten, and when they arrived, Edward could see why he was so irritated: it was in great disrepair (apart from the main defensive wall, which was a necessity on the western border of the kingdom), in a terrible climate, and simply dreary and unpleasant. The earl also sent away his remaining companions and servants, leaving him to be attended by the castle’s staff, when they had the time or attention to spare for him, or perhaps only when they remembered his existence; and he was kept in a single barely furnished chamber that resembled nothing so much as a prison – though Edward supposed with a foreboding feeling that if he were to turn down Orreby’s request again, he might find that a real prison cell was much worse. He also no longer had his personal guard, but instead found Auckley’s own guards stationed outside his door, preventing him from walking abroad except on the occasions when a servant came to fetch him.
He spent most of his time alone in his room there, and while it was lonely, there was something refreshing in it. His kingship had been stripped from him some time ago, but in the luxury and playful idleness of his previous confinements, he had never come to the proper humility he had needed. How foolish he had been when still at Poole House to think that he was being penitent and obedient! There had still been so much vanity in him, a love of fine clothing and good food; he had still issued orders to his servants and followers as though he had any real authority worth following. Now he had nothing and was nothing. There were no games or musical instruments or books of any kind to take his attention away from his surroundings – nothing to distract from his prayers and his attempts to keep warm. (Periodically he attempted to mortify his flesh by eschewing the wool blankets and making do with only the plain linen robe and leggings he had been given, and he supposed that his lack of perseverance in doing so might be the reason he had not yet found any sort of release. Then he would castigate himself for continuing to hope for divine intervention.)
Edward stood at the window until Prime, watching the sun rise in the early spring morning and spread its gleaming golden rays across the patchwork of fields beyond the castle walls. When the bells rang for the hours, he said his prayers without moving from the spot, and continued following the folk who were going about their business in the fresh air with his eyes. There was something soothing in it, meditative: from this distance, he could not see who they really were or make out any details of their appearance, let alone have any effect on them himself, and he was forced to patiently watch as they trekked within and without the village.
Just as he was beginning to think of breaking his fast with the piece of stale bread that remained from his supper the previous night – hoping that a servant would bring more at midday – he became aware of the sound of footsteps in the hall. They were heavy, and indicated more than one person. It could have been the guards changing, or Auckley coming to take him for a walk or even a ride, but somehow he knew who it was, and he flattened himself against the wall next to the window as the door creaked open.
“Good to see you again, boy,” said Orreby, as he entered with two men who were likely guards but looked like soldiers. There was only one chair in the chamber, placed near what was left of the fire, and he moved it to face Edward and sat in it with an air of great authority as the men stood on either side of him. Then he waited and said nothing.
Minutes may have passed, or hours. Edward was frozen in place, waiting for the king’s demand to be made again and for the inevitable beating that would follow his refusal. He could save himself if he gave in, he knew. All he had to do was say yes, bow his head and agree to perjure himself, deny his father, and cast his mother’s name into the dirt. But he could not.
“Well?” Orreby asked at last. The full request was unnecessary.
Edward could not bring himself to take on the appearance of defiance. He spoke his “I shall not say it,” in a low tone, without looking the earl in the face, only raising his gaze when the two guards stepped forward.
“Make sure to keep clear of his face,” Orreby said after the first fist drove into Edward’s gut; it was followed by another hammering down on his lower back once he doubled over. “We must keep him looking pretty.” Edward tried to focus on why the state of his appearance would matter when he would only be transported into an even more restrictive imprisonment, but the pain exploded into his mind and forced the thoughts away, and eventually consciousness.