The Broken Crown

Chapter 44

Thomas

The battle might be won, but the war is far from over.

It was a saying that was favoured at the court of Etheron these days. The dead bodies lined in the grand courtyard seemed a mocking reminder of this fact. There were far more of them, the common people who had risen against their king, but the loyal soldiers of the Royal Army had fallen as well. And not only soldiers.

Amongst the dead counted Sir Edward Delroy. It was strange, how this man had in life been so much more than his soldiers, yet when he died, he was just one more dead.

“How could this happen?” Raphael had exclaimed, guilt written on his tired, young face when he heard the news. “What kind of king rages war on its own people?”

The moment those words left his mouth it was obvious that victory was impossible. One thing was to rage war on one’s people; to see it as a victory when they lost was another entirely. The commoners could win the war, they could win and set another king upon the throne, but Raphael could only end the war.

“It’s not unheard of,” Henri Lamarck said supportively. “It’s happened before.”

“That’s not what I need to hear.” Raphael was sitting on his throne, his crown upon his head. By his side stood Lucretia. “I need to hear how I change this. I need to know what I can do to do my people justice.”

“Your people almost killed you,” Lucretia reminded him. “They killed a member of the King’s Council, they declared war against their king. Justice would be to kill them all.”

“Mother, please.” The King’s voice was strained, and for the first time Thomas could think of him as their king without chuckling to himself. “The fact that they felt the need to attack their king is what should worry us.”

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, I agree with your son.” His nod in the King’s direction was one of respect. “We need to understand the people’s reasoning, not so that we can win, but so that we can end the feud.”

“Sir Baker, you are the Representative of the People,” Raphael said. “What do you suggest?”

With a shrug, he said, “Listen.”

“Would that not be a little too late?” Tristan Kent suggested. “The war has begun, surely it is too late.”

“This is not a way like any other,” Thomas reminded him. “This is a civil war, a war of the people. The war cannot be won, but it can be lost. We need to end it before that happens.”

“But how?” Raphael looked lost, and had it not been for the age that war and loss had written in his face, he would almost have looked childlike. “They will not listen to me, or to my mother or brother. Gods know why, but they loved my father in a way they will most like never love me.”

The room fell silent, all men in deep thought. The answer was being shouted at them, but seemingly Thomas was the only one who heard. He could not be the one to say it, though. It needed to be someone else, someone who was not he or Jonathan. No matter how close the war had brought them, there was still an opposition against the pair.

He had expected someone to hear, to speak, but never had he expected Lucretia to be the one. However, she was the one who stood. “They love the Queen.” Her voice was not fragile or hesitant; it was strong and resonated in the walls surrounding them.

It was clear to all that she was right, and Thomas smiled to himself as mutters of agreement spread, nods of appreciation were exchanged and slowly, an idea settled.