A March of Kings

was still made, his father’s clothes still draped across it, his mantle still hung in the far corner, his boots by the fireplace. The window was open, a sudden summer breeze rushed in, and Godfrey felt a chill; he felt his father standing there, right with him. The breeze billowed the linens hanging over the four-poster bed, and he could not but help think it was his father speaking to him. Godfrey felt overwhelmed with sadness.

Gareth walked the room, feeling a chill as he realized this is where his father was murdered. He did not know what he was looking for exactly, but he sensed that here, where it happened, would be the place to start. Perhaps there was some small clue overlooked that could help spark an idea. He assumed that the council had already combed over this room. But he wanted to try. He needed to try, for himself.

But after minutes of scouring, he saw no clues that jumped out at him.

“Godfrey?” came a woman’s voice.

Godfrey spun, caught off guard, not expecting anyone else in here with him. He saw, standing there, his younger sister, Gwendolyn.

“You scared me,” he said, and breathed. “I did not know anyone was in here with me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “The door was open. I did not expect to find you in here, either.”

He narrowed his eyes, studying her. She looked lost, troubled.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same,” she responded. “It’s too early in the day. You must have been driven here. Like myself.”

Godfrey looked in all directions, looking for signs of anyone watching or listening. He realized how paranoid he had become. Slowly, warily, he nodded back.

Godfrey had always cared for Gwen. Of all his siblings, she was the only one that he felt did not judge her. He’d always appreciated how sensitive and compassionate she was. He had always sensed that, of all of his family members, she might be the only one willing to believe in him, to give him a second chance. And he felt he could tell her anything without fear of reprisal.

“You are right,” he responded. “I do feel driven to be here. In fact, I can think of little else.”

“I feel the same,” she said. “His death was too sudden. And too violent. I find it hard to relax, to enjoy life, until I know we’ve caught his murderer. I had a terrible dream. And it drove me here.”

Godfrey nodded. He understood.

He watched Gwendolyn as she walked about the room, taking it all in. He could see the anguish in her face, and he realized how painful this must be for her, too. After all, she was closest to their father. Closer than any of them.

“I thought that perhaps by coming here I might find something,” Godfrey said, as he walked about the room again himself, looking through every corner, under the bed, through every detail. “But nothing is apparent.”

She surveyed the room herself, walking slowly.

“What of these stains?” she asked.

He turned and hurried over to where she was looking. On the floor, against the dark stone, there was the faintest outline of a stain. They walked towards the window, following the trail, and as they entered the sunlight, he could see it more clearly: a bloodstain. He felt a chill. The stains covered the floors, the walls, and he realized they were his father’s.

“It must have been a violent struggle,” she said, following the trail throughout the room.

“Awful,” he said.

“I don’t know exactly what I was hoping to find here,” she said. “But I think perhaps it was a waste of time. I see nothing.”

“Nor do I,” Godfrey said.

“Perhaps there are better places to look,” she said.

“Where?”

She shrugged. “Wherever it is, it’s not here.”

Godfrey felt another cold breeze, and felt a chill that would not leave him. He was overcome with a desire to leave this room, and he could see in Gwen’s eyes that she felt the same.

As one, they turned and headed for the door.

But as Godfrey was heading towards the door, suddenly something caught his eye that made him stop.

“Wait,” he said. “Look here.”

Gwen turned and looked, following him as he walked several steps across the room, towards the fireplace. He reached up, and fingered a blood stain on the wall.

“This stain, it’s not like the others,” he said. “It’s in a different part of the room. And it’s lighter.”

They exchanged a puzzled look as they both examined the wall more closely.

“It could be from the murder weapon,” he added. “Maybe he tried to hide it in the wall.”

Godfrey touched the stones, feeling for a loose one, but he could not find it. Then Gwen stopped and pointed towards the fireplace.

“There,” she said.

He looked, but did not see anything.

“Beside the fireplace pit. Do you see it? That hole in the wall. It’s a chute. A waste chute.”

“What of it?” he asked.

“Those stains, from the dagger. They surround it. Look at the ceiling of the pit.”

They got down on their knees and looked closely, and he was amazed to realize that she was right. The stains led right to the chute.

“The dagger came this way,” she deduced. “He must have thrown it down the chute.”

They both turned and looked at each other, and knew where they had to go.

“The waste room,” he said.

*

Godfrey and Gwendolyn wound their way down the castle’s narrow stone, spiral staircase, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the castle, deeper in fact than Godfrey had ever been. Just as he was beginning to get dizzy, they reached an iron door. He turned to Gwen.

“This looks like the servants’ quarters,” he said. “I assume the waste room is behind these doors.”

“Try it,” she said.

Godfrey reached up and slammed on the door, and after a wait, he heard footsteps. Finally, the door opened. A long, solemn face stared back blankly.

“Yes?” asked the older man, clearly a lifelong servant.

Godfrey turned to Gwen, and she nodded back.

“Is this the waste room?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man answered. “And also the prep room for the kitchen. What business have you here?”

Before Godfrey could respond, the man narrowed his eyes, looking at them with sudden recognition.

“Wait a moment,” he added. “Are you the king’s children?” His eyes lit up in deference. “You are,” he answered himself. “What are you doing down here?”

“Please,” Gwen said softly, stepping forward and placing a hand on his wrist. “Let us in.”

The man stepped back and opened the door wide, and they hurried inside.

Godfrey was surprised by this room he had never been in, although it was in the structure he had lived in all his life. They were all in the bowels of the castle, in a vast room, dark, lit by sporadic torches, filled with burning fire pits, with wood prep tables, and huge bubbling cauldrons hanging over pits. Clearly this room was mean to hold dozens of servants. But other than this man, it was empty.

“You’ve come at an odd time of day,” the man said. “We have not yet begun the breakfast preparations. The others will arrive shortly.”

“That’s OK,” Godfrey answered. “We are here for another reason.”

“Where is the waste pit?” Gwen asked, wasting no time.

The man stared back, baffled.

“The waste pit?” he echoed. “But why would you want to know this?”

“Please, just show it to us,” Godfrey said.

The servant stared back, with his long face and sunken cheeks, then finally turned and led them across the