Earning the Love of a Princess-Chapter 57: Flashback: The Long Way Home
20 July, 1353. Eberelle Monastery, Northern Islia.
William sat on the floor, just outside the bedchamber where his father was lying. A stream of clerics, monks and royal advisors came and went from the room, paying no attention to the fair haired youth slumped by the door. William couldn’t make out much of what the men were saying, but their hushed, anxious tones told him it wasn’t good.
Prince Johan had taken ill the day after the Islian diplomatic delegation had set off from Port Canfirth Palace. What had started off as a simple nagging cough had quickly turned into a high fever and coughing so violent it racked the prince’s broad frame.
At first, Prince Johan had insisted on continuing the journey south, eager to reach Magdaline Castle. But the hot sun beating down on him had seemed to sap his strength and drain him even further. After trying to endure on horseback for a couple of days, the prince had been gasping for air and was too weak to keep riding. The decision had been made to seek shelter in a nearby monastery, at least until the prince recovered his health.
There had been whispers among some of the more superstitious men in the Islian delegation that the prince must have been poisoned by someone in the Moraigthian court - maybe even by King Kenneth himself. How else could anyone explain how he had fallen ill almost immediately after leaving Port Canfirth?
They had arrived Eberelle Monastery two days ago. At first, the monks and clerics had been eager to help treat Prince Johan. But as his health steadily declined, the monks became more and more concerned. No one wanted to be associated with a dying man, much less when it was the king’s brother. If he were to die, the monks feared their monastic order would be subjected to royal punishment.
It was strange for William to see his father, who had always been an indomitable giant, now bedridden. He was mostly kept out of the bedchamber by the monks but when he had been briefly allowed inside, he had stared in shock at his father’s haggard face. It was as if the man were shrinking in the bed, being consumed alive by his illness.
A young monk appeared in the corridor, carrying a small bowl of steaming liquid with a strange, pungent smell. Ignoring William, the monk entered the bedchamber. A few moments later, William heard his father’s hoarse bellow, complaining about the tonic’s foul taste. A brutal coughing fit followed.
William closed his eyes, his back pressed against the rough stone wall. He wished they were in the familiar surroundings of home, rather than in a poor monastery in Islia’s desolate northern countryside. He wasn’t used to sleeping on a mattress stuffed with hay and eating nothing but watery soup.
As he grew drowsy, William heard the door next to him open and saw the same monk who’d entered earlier, leaving and walking down the corridor. In his hands he was carrying what looked like blood speckled rags.
That makes no sense, the youth thought sleepily.
- - -
William was jolted awake by a hand shaking him roughly by the shoulder. He stared, dazed, at the face of the old man crouched in front of him, clad in homespun brown robes. It was the monastery’s abbot. William was immediately reminded of Tession, the old healer back in Islia.
He looked into the old man’s wizened grey eyes in confusion.
"You may enter the room now. Your lord father wishes to speak with you." the old man whispered.
"He does?" William was sure he had heard the old man wrong. His father never asked to speak with him.
"Yes, hurry. There isn’t much time left. We’ve already had to administer the last rites to His Grace." The old man’s manner was brusque.
William quickly stood up and rubbed his face, suddenly afraid. The abbot had to be wrong - the last rites were for the dying. William’s father was in the prime of his life. Everyone feared and respected him. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖
He noticed the shadows in the corridor had lengthened considerably. How long was I asleep, he wondered?
William entered the room on shaking legs, though he did his best to appear calm. He never liked it when his father called him a little coward.
Prince Johan was on the bed in a half-lying, half-sitting position, his sunken eyes closed. His face was a chalky grey colour and there was blood streaked across his chin. His once strong, broad frame had lost an incredible amount of weight.
When he heard his son enter, Prince Johan opened his eyes and started to speak before being interrupted by a coughing fit. He pressed a blood spattered rag to his mouth as his shoulders shook uncontrollably.
William suddenly recalled the bloody rags in the young monk’s hands earlier.
"Come closer, boy." Prince Johan wheezed.
William approached the bed fearfully. When he was within arm’s reach, his father raised a shaking hand and held out a letter to him. It was sealed with Prince Johan’s red wax seal.
"Find a messenger and make sure this reaches Magdaline as quickly as possible. It is to go directly into the hands of our king, do you understand?" Prince Johan rasped, breathing hard.
William nodded, wondering what was so important that his father had to write a letter about it from his literal deathbed. He dared not ask. Instead, he just looked at his father, waiting for him to say more.
But the older man had nothing more to say to his son and feebly waved his hand, indicating he should leave the room.
William walked out, looking at the letter. He knew he should go look for a messenger straight away, but the overwhelming curiosity stopped him. Instead, he walked until he found a small alcove nearby. Under the rays of the setting sun, William unsealed the letter.
His father’s once strong, distinctive handwriting had been reduced to a messy scrawl but William could read the contents easily enough. In the letter, Prince Johan confirmed his intention to marry for a third time, this time to the young niece of King Kenneth Stephenson. The prince requested that His Majesty immediately start dowry negotiations via the Moraigthian ambassador that resided in the Islian court. It was his greatest desire to wed and bed the girl by her thirteenth birthday.
William could feel his face twisting with disgust. Bedding a young girl? Was this all his father could think about, even in his last moments? He stood quietly in the fading light for a few moments, then suddenly tore the letter into small pieces. He walked into the dining hall, where he fed the pieces of the letter into the fireplace and watched the flames devour every last one. No one even bothered looking in his direction.
William figured that if his father did recover, he could always lie and blame an errant messenger for the letter never reaching King Edward.
"Sorry, Father. But there will be no happy wedding for you." William muttered to himself.
The steady procession of monks and healers pacing in and out of Prince Johan’s room gradually slowed to a trickle, and then stopped late that night. William sat in the same spot, unsure if he should move or not. It seemed wrong to leave and try to get at least a little sleep in the room he’d been assigned. But then again, his father hadn’t asked for him again.
On he sat.
He wondered where all the clerics had gone. Should he call one back? Was it right to leave a sick man alone like this, he asked himself?
In the end, it didn’t much matter. Before the sun had fully risen the next morning, Prince Johan Devon took his last breath.
A storage hollow feeling lodged itself in William’s chest. He didn’t grieve for his father exactly, though he knew King Edward would feel the loss of his only brother deeply. Instead, William felt...bereft?
William sat blankly on the floor again, listening to his father’s men make hasty arrangements to transport the body back to court, so that a suitably grand funeral to be planned.
After completely ignoring him up until then, William noticed the men had suddenly started treating him more deferentially. He had inherited Prince Johan’s considerable fortune and vast tracts of land.
William smiled bitterly at this sign of his increased status.
