Heir to an Ancient Throne

Heir to an Ancient Throne
By Paul T Beardow
Prologue

Summeren, Year 1671

It was cold rain for such a warm day. Clouds shrouded the sky, but the midsummer heat endured, turning from the blazing heat of the week before to the heavy haze of this; becoming a humid prelude to the inevitable thunderstorms. Duana’s hair and summery dress were already soaked before she approached the grave of the man she had loved, she cared not. Nor did the mud bother her that soiled the green cotton where she knelt to grieve on the only recently covered grave.
It was her fault; it was all she could think about. She was here to say sorry, if only he could hear her. The blame lay on her slender shoulders, and there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered as she read his name on the granite headstone, the letters blurring, seen through eyes drowning in tears mixed with rain. ‘Please forgive me. I didn’t know…’
She shook with sobs, as though a physical pain wracked her body, her voice broke and her whispering became a wail of sadness. Despair and guilt coursed through her, as though a dam had broken inside her heart and emotion spilled free, unstoppable, driving all else before it.
A hand touched her shoulder, the touch becoming a firm grip under her recoil. Her vision was still obscured by tears and rain as she turned, but she knew the voice that spoke calming words into her ear, saying things she desperately needed to hear. Strong arms lifted her out of the wet dirt, one hand scooping under her legs as she curled her arms around the shoulders of the other man she loved.
How could she love two men at the same time? Was it possible to love more than one person this way? Did it mean that she loved neither? Not truly, not in the way others loved only one, the one as her mother had always said about her father when she was a little girl.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said into her hair, bringing her back into the here and now. His warm breath against her cheek was as comforting as his words. ‘It’s not your fault.’ She was aware of being carried away, though she kept her eyes shut tight, concentrating on his soothing words. If only they weren’t lies. He was lying for her, she knew, but they were lies nonetheless, and though they brought some solace to her aching heart, it was but a fleeting comfort. She would have to live with the heartbreak of this tragedy she had wrought, forever and ever and she deserved nothing less.
The gravel of the path they walked on crunched beneath his boots as he took her away and towards his horse, a fine dun tethered to the tall old ash tree that stood sentinel over the graveyard. The beast’s flanks were still heaving and steaming as they mounted, and with her arms wrapped around his middle, they galloped away through the downpour.
Later, quite sometime later, she lay in his bed, listening to his breathing in the darkness. Her sorrow had turned to passion and in his arms, for a while at least she had found peace. But now, after the flames of love had died down to embers, her mind turned back to the past; the day when her life changed and set her on the path to tragedy.
Chapter 1: Hunters’ Moon

Late Aut, Year 1670

Twilight: the time around dawn and dusk, when it is neither day nor night. The twin hours when the sky is often at its most dramatic; the strange pink that promises a hidden sun’s first light; an indigo fading like a lament of the lost blue of day.
This dusk, at the end of a day worth grieving for, an afternoon warm for so late in the season of Aut, a poacher stalked through the Kingswood. A daring raid for one such as her, for although far from the Royal Capital, these lands were kept guard by the King’s finest gamekeeper, yet Duana was both daring, and able.
The sky was clear; the sun had cast its last shadow. The first star shone over the dark, early horizon like the herald of the full moon yet to rise; the hunters’ moon. The tenth moon of the year, the hunters’ moon followed the harvest moon during which the fields and fruit were ripe and the trees became a fiery blanket of glorious red and gold. But now these wild moments of glory had passed. The season was losing its colour, fading into the greys of Whint. The leaves were falling and the game was fattened. The fields had been reaped and cleared, the berries collected. The foxes and the deer came out to glean what they could, and by the light of the year’s tenth moon the hunters would take them in the night.
Tall for a woman, Duana crouched amongst the undergrowth, keeping her head below the line of visibility, her dark eyes scanning the steep hillside below her. Her deep brown, almost black hair was tied back behind her head in a short ponytail, and on her back were arrows, some traditionally flint-tipped for killing animals, others steel-tipped for dealing with men, kept in a light quiver made from the same brown hides as her clothing. A tightly-strung short bow of Yew and Ash was hung over her shoulder and by her right hip was a long knife for killing and skinning. Strapped to her left was a small leather sheath left empty by the short knife in her hand.
A cool but slight breeze blew through the Kingswood as she waited, bringing a shower of leaves, and carrying Duana’s scent up the hill, but that was well for she hunted down slope. From here, even into the wind, her arrows would carry much further than when aiming uphill.
Stillness was a prime requisite for a hunter. Only her eyes and head turned, constantly looking for movement, patient, until the first light of the moon cleared the canopy of the forest, casting its pale glow upon the hillside and illuminating the forest floor. Duana twitched involuntarily; a small gasp escaped her lips. Not forty paces from her, as though it had appeared out of nowhere was a deer, unlike any she had seen before, although she had often heard of such a legendary beast. As tall at the shoulder as Duana was standing, the white hart swivelled its head towards the Redberry bush behind which she crouched, frozen in awe at the magnificence of such an animal.
For a moment Duana thought the hart had seen her, but then it dipped its head back down to rummage amongst the fallen leaves that carpeted the small clearing in the centre of which it stood, its long antlers gleaming in the silvery moonlight. Slowly, it turned away, moving gracefully down the hill away from the glade and into the shadowed wood beyond. Duana moved swiftly, sheathing the knife and notching an arrow to her bow as she followed quickly and stealthily down the hill and into the shadows of the Kingswood.

Rill Whitehand was not the King’s finest game keeper, such a repute belonged to his father, Ricard Whitehand, who right now was dining with the King, eating such splendid game as he kept guard upon here in the chill wind of an Aut evening.
He looked down from the roof of the small, wooden lodge in which he and his father often spent their nights. The lodge was comfortable within, though a long way removed from the luxury of Wood House, their home, and manor of the Whitehand estate. The Kingswood was dark and still before him, the only light apart from the lantern at his side that shining from the moon traversing a clear, star-filled sky. A full moon: a hunter’s moon. Rill was not as experienced as his father, few men were, but he was well-trained enough to know that there would be poachers tonight, possibly out there now, somewhere in the great, forested expanse that lay around him.
He was not the only keeper on duty tonight. The Kingswood was too vast an area to be guarded by only one, and this evening at least three more besides Rill would be patrolling their quarters of the forest. But they were miles from here. This section, Ash Hill, as it was named locally after the old charcoal burners that built their kilns and huts on the flattened hilltop, was his to guard and protect.
A fortnight ago during the week long Royal Hunt, Rill may have had company from the hound boys, or falconers that travelled to the Kingswood with the Royal Court, but the Hunt had come and gone, his father left with his friend the King, back to the capital for his seasonal visit, and so tonight Rill was alone.
Leaves blew onto the rooftop, carried by a wind which blew up from the valley below the hill, and danced a circle around Rill’s feet before the swirling gust swept them off the other side of the flat roof. He pulled his dark, woollen cloak tighter around him, and brought up his hood to cover his light blond hair. He checked the short sword at his belt; long blades were useless in a forest as dense as the Kingswood, and swept up his longbow from the rooftop before climbing down the ladder to make his first patrol.
The lodge was situated almost at the brow of the hill, built slightly taller than the trees for viewing the hill bank and valley below. During the day, the panorama was breathtaking from the lodge rooftop, the verdant greens and lush reds of the forest, the gilded colours of countryside visible for miles, all the way to the river Bere and the steppes of Vyr beyond on a clear day, but when his feet reached the foot of the ladder, Rill found himself in the murk of the wood, his vision limited in the dark to perhaps fifty paces all around. The lantern, he left on the rooftop, to lure the poachers into thinking he was still there. To bring the light into the forest would only alert them to his presence and he didn’t want that. A poacher would kill him as quickly as they would slay one of the King’s red deer. His thick, black leather vest would protect him against all but the most powerful bowshot, but stealth was as important for a gamekeeper as it was a poacher. He stepped deliberately but lightly, his soft boots made little sound upon the leafy floor. The bow he kept ready, an arrow loosely held, the throwing knifes at his belt were greased and within reach. A poacher could step out on him at anytime, often too quickly to draw his short sword, or aim an arrow.
From beneath the shadow of his hood Rill’s blue eyes peered into the shadows, looking for movement, his ears alert for the sounds that might betray a hunter. Twice he heard noises, the cracking of dry branches, followed by the snuffling grunts of a boar probably seeking mushrooms in the night. Both times, he remained calm and observant until satisfied there was no threat, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he came into sight of the small clearing halfway down the hill, that folk called Faeries’ Glade. The floor of the clearing was painted a shade of blue by the moon’s glow, and standing in the heart of the glade was the most stunning sight his eyes had ever beheld. A white hart stood proudly, its flanks gleaming like silver silk, staring away from him into the forest beyond, as though it saw something there, then it lowered its head, and nuzzled through the dead leaves, searching for food. Rill could only stand transfixed at the sight. The Kingswood was home to many creatures; foxes, badgers, boars and numerous types of deer, but such a beast was not known around these parts. The white hart was fully adult, its bone-white antlers long and sharp, its body too muscular and taut for a youngster, yet the antlers were entire, and no scars or injuries were visible on its flanks, so neither was the deer old. Rill estimated its age at two or more years, but that puzzled him for surely such a treasure would have been seen by now, by him or one of the other keepers. The white hart was a regal creature, a prince of beasts. Not something you would glimpse and then forget to mention or fail to record.
He watched the hart step gracefully out of the clearing back into the protective gloom of the wood, and was about to follow when he heard something. He could not be sure what it was that made him take cover behind the broad oak, but he definitely heard a noise which didn’t quite fit in with the usual sounds of a forest night. Perhaps it was just instinct.
Trust your instincts, his father had told him when he was young. You come from a line of foresters, trackers, rangers and scouts. The conversation had taken place while his father trained him one afternoon in almost this very spot, close to the Faeries’ Glade. Your abilities are inborn. Hone your skills, but always trust your instincts. They are what separate you from the others. They are what make you special. They had caught a lynx that same day if his memory served him well. The cat’s skin was still stretched on the wall of the dining hall at Wood House.
His instinct, if it was that, did serve him well, as did his sharp eyes. A figure, difficult to tell much else at this distance in such low light, edged around the other side of the clearing, being careful to stay in the shadows. Rill notched his arrow tight, and ducking low traced the opposite edge of the glade, circling towards the stranger whilst keeping him in sight. As he gained ground on the intruder, it was obvious that he was intent on following the white hart and when he approached close enough that he could make out his clothing, the mixed hides identified him as a Vyran, one of the tribesman from the land across the river Bere. The figure followed the hart through the shadows with stealth in his step, walking in a half-crouch. He couldn’t let this poacher get any closer. The white hart was almost in range of the short bow that the savage held in his hands, arrow notched. Rill stood straight, steadied his aim, and prepared to let his arrow fly.

Duana followed the white deer through the wood, the string of her bow drawn back tightly, pressing into the flesh of her fingers. She almost stumbled once, when the ground dipped into a small gully and she stepped forward to find the forest floor a palm’s width lower than expected. She mouthed a curse as she regained her footing. To prevent her fall she had to put a hand, the one holding the bow, to the floor and had plunged the bow into a narrow brook. Water ruined bowstrings, and could seriously reduce the effectiveness of a bow. She shook it gently, never taking her eyes off the white hart which had slipped out of bow shot.
A whisper in the air above her, and suddenly the hairs on the back of neck rose. She spun around on her heel, bow temporarily forgotten, the short, wickedly sharp knife out in front of her in the other hand, held at arm’s length.
Nothing. She was alone; her eyes could see naught but darkness between the trees. Just the noises of distant birds’ evening songs met her ears, and only the smell of the damp, decaying leaves permeated the air. She gazed around at the tree trunks close by, looking for arrows or score marks. The whisper had sounded like the flight of an arrow, but it could have just as easily been the flight of an owl, or just a breeze tickling the leaves above.
Turning back to where the hart was, she cursed again softly under her breath. Her mother would have been ashamed to hear her use such language, but her father would be even more ashamed if she let such a beast escape her. Where had it gone? She hurried after it in the direction of where she had last seen it, her haste making her clumsy and noisy but time was of the essence now. Even a white deer could be easily lost in a forest such as the Kingswood, and even the best trackers were limited in the darkness.
At the bottom of the hill the ground levelled out, before rising again in a steep rock face, creating a gorge carved by the original flow of the river Bere before the land shifted moving the course of the river further south, dividing the forest from her homelands, the steppes.
There it was! The hart’s white antlers caught in the dim light as it moved through the undergrowth in the shadows of the gorge. Its head turned, looking over its shoulder at her. She definitely had made too much noise, but luckily not enough to startle the hart into flight. In fact, it seemed quite calm as it slipped away through the undergrowth towards the rock wall, vanishing again into the darkness. Duana tried to nock an arrow as she moved towards her prey, but the string was ruined from the water, so she slung the bow over her shoulder and drew her knife. She would have to be careful of those antlers, and the hart’s feet too for she would not be the first to be killed by the powerful kick of a deer. Blade ready, she moved in for the kill...

Rill knew this shot was true the moment the arrow flew from his fingers. How the hunter had managed to avoid the last one he didn’t know. The savage had ducked at the exact moment the arrow shot towards him, missing by inches and whistling into the darkness beyond.
This time however, he caught the hunter unaware as he ducked towards the hart, knife raised. The Vyran was knocked forward suddenly by the impact and then stumbled to the ground, staring at the pointed shaft sticking through his chest.
Just yards from death, the hart stared first at the stricken savage and then turned to watch Rill as he approached, unusually calm for a deer, until he was almost within touching distance. Then the beast took one last look at the hunter laid on the floor, killer knife still in hand before turning and gracefully walking away. Rill watched until the hart had slipped from sight before kneeling at the side of the figure lying groaning at his feet.
Something caught in his throat. This was a woman; no, a girl even. Slight as she was, now he was close enough to see clearly, those curves were definitely those of a girl, though somewhat hidden by the loose hides she wore. All Vyrans wore their hair long, many of the men’s longer than their wives and daughters, so the short ponytail had given no clues to the hunter’s gender.
‘Would you have shot her if you knew she was a girl?’ he thought. He would, of course he would. His first duty was to protect the animals of the Kingswood. The property of the throne was no one else’s. Certainly no Vyran had any right to hunt here, not this site of the river, man or woman.
Or girl. A gasp escaped her lips, a young voice, a girl’s voice as she tried to move. Her face moved into the dim light of the moon, contorted in pain.
“Easy, stay still.” He tried to make his voice calming; her large, dark eyes were full of fear as she gazed up at him. “You were hunting in the Kingswood. You are not allowed here.” Did she understand common speak? Some Vyrans did, some didn’t. “Do you understand me?”
In an instant the fear turned to something else. Her liquid eyes glistened in the dark.
“I understand you all too well vitchek.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer as she spat out the last word. One that Rill understood to mean dog in their vulgar language. “Kill me and be done with it.” She gasped again, her sneer turning into a grimace of pain as she tried to rise again.
“Very well.” he said as he pulled his short sword free. He had no intention of using it; the girl would be taken back to Wood House and tended to before being returned to her side of the river with a warning for her fellow Vyrans: several scars from the seven lashes she would receive for trespass on the King’s property. It was more for a man, and more still if they discovered scars from a previous lashing. Consistent poaching resulted in imprisonment, but few Vyrans returned once they had tasted his father’s whip.
He just meant to frighten the girl a little. Taking the fight out of her would mean an easier passage for him back to the lodge and then to the manor. But her eyes were looking over his shoulder.
“To kill one of the fairer sex is bad form, especially when she is already hurt and harmless.” The words spoken behind him were phrased warmly, but the tone in which they were said was icy cold.

Rill rose as he turned, slowly. There was no need to provoke who ever had crept up on him into sticking steel in his back. The newcomer had the advantage here.
Stepping from the bushes against the cliff wall was a man of middling height and build. Perhaps ten years older than Rill’s ten-and-nine, it was difficult to tell in the moonlight, but his hair looked as black as the night sky. His deep set eyes were shadowed below a strong brow and his square jaw completed what Rill would imagine to be an attractive face to the opposite sex. He was dressed well, in a long dark coat, well fitted and with boots of dark leather.
Rill looked behind the man, as the branches of the undergrowth swung back into place. There was a hole or hollow of some sort in the rock face. A cave? He looked again at the man standing before him, appraising Rill and the injured girl lying on the grassy floor. With his dress, his manner and his stance, the man certainly did not seem like a bandit hiding in a cave.
“Who are you?” Rill still had his short sword drawn. The man had lost the advantage now Rill and he were stood face to face. The stranger appeared unarmed.
“I was about to ask you the same question. Are you in the employ of the Whitehand?” The stranger raised gloved hands to show them empty. “Put down your blade. I mean no harm. I was asleep in the cave.” He nodded towards the girl. “Do you mean to leave her there, or should we aid her?”
Rill kept his sword between them, but knelt again at the girl’s side. She was breathing hard. The arrow had taken her in the right shoulder, possibly piercing a lung. “I am Rill Whitehand, son of the Lord Whitehand and a warden of these woods. You didn’t answer my question.”
The man stopped mid-step towards them. Rill still couldn’t see his eyes, lost in the deep recesses beneath his brow, but he saw the furrows of a frown appear on the man’s face. “I know Rill Whitehand and you are not he. Not unless young Rill has grown tremendously in the last year.” He saw the stranger glance at his blade, and then his arms lower to his waist as though feeling for his own weapon. One that wasn’t there. “Rill Whitehand is six years old and…”
“I think you are mistaken, stranger.” Rill interrupted as he stood and pointed at the man with his short sword. “I am arresting you for trespass. I want you to pick up the girl and carry her for me. I am taking you back to the lodge for…”
It was his turn to be interrupted, by the stranger laughing out loud. “I think you are mistaken, my friend.” There was genuine mirth in his voice now.
Rill did not share his amusement. The stranger did pick up the girl though. She whimpered weakly in pain, as he carefully lifted hefted her up and onto his shoulder. He turned back to Rill who still stood, sword levelled.
“Which way Warden Whitehand?” he asked with merriment still in his tone. When Rill pointed away up the hill, the man headed off in the direction indicated, being careful to move gently as the girl moaned with every step. “I look forward to speaking with your father, Rill. I hope he is still at the manor?”
Rill was getting annoyed with the fellow’s manner. His temper flared but he swallowed the anger down. “For the last time stranger, Who are you? Tell me now or I will put an arrow through your heart and carry the girl back myself.”
The man did not pause or even stiffen at the heat in Rill’s voice. “You are a fool to pretend to be someone you are not. And an even bigger fool to threaten me.” They were walking across the middle of the Faeries’ Glade when he said, “I am Niccorm Birdewayer, Prince of Beretra.”
Time for Rill to laugh. The man was mad. He had his bow drawn by now, arrow nocked and he almost dropped it as he chuckled, “Prince Niccorm died fourteen years since, my friend. It seems we are both not who we say we are. Carry on.” The man had stopped suddenly bringing another gasp of pain from the girl over his shoulder. He muttered an apology to her before turning slowly and gazing intently at Rill, looking him up and down as though seeing him for the first time. Again, it was difficult to tell much in the pale blue light of the clearing, but Rill thought the man looked confused. And possibly frightened. Then he turned and continued on towards the lodge, the way made obvious by the light of the lantern Rill had left on the roof, fluttering in a sudden cool breeze which swept through the wood. Rill followed, questions forming in his mind, questions without answers.

From the shadows at the far side of the Faeries' Glade, a man dressed all in white watched them walk away towards the wooden shack that the gamekeeper's boy called a lodge. He pulled up his pale hood, covering the long silver hair that trailed in the sudden breeze, but his eyes, one green and one grey still shone as he smiled, in the light of the hunter's moon.