Chapter 18: Loyal
The chill of the marble floor seeped through the soles of Eleanor’s slippers, a familiar counterpoint to the stifling heat of another pointless argument. Sunlight, fractured by the high stained-glass windows, threw splashes of jewel-toned light across the long council table, painting the grim-faced lords in patches of sanguine red and sickly green.
“The northern harvest was poor, yes, but the tariffs must hold,” insisted Lord Borrell, his jowls quivering. “Or we invite instability.”
“We invite starvation,” Eleanor corrected, her voice calm. She shifted the weight on her hip. Lucian, a warm, solid presence against her side, was occupied with a wooden badge he’d pilfered from a guardsman, gnawing thoughtfully on its edge. “Instability isn’t a future theory, my lord. It’s a mother in the lower city deciding which child eats tonight. Reduce the levy by half for the winter, and the crown’s coffers will recover in the spring from the increased trade. A living populace spends coin.”
The doors groaned open. Alistair entered, a shadow cutting through the colored light. The murmur of the council died instantly. He took his seat at the head of the table, his blue eyes scanning the assembly before settling, as they now always did, on his wife and son. A flicker, something unreadable, passed through them.
He said nothing, simply giving a curt nod for Borrell to continue.
The lord stammered, losing his thread. “As I was saying… the structural integrity of the treasury…”
“Is compromised by rigidity,” Eleanor finished, bouncing Lucian absently as he began to fuss. She reached for a wax tablet on the table, scrolling with her free hand. “Here. The figures from the last three lean years show a pattern. We tax heavily, trade stagnates, unrest grows, we spend more on the guards to quell it. It’s a circle of decay.”
Alistair leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Your alternative, Lady Eleanor?”
“Temporary, targeted relief. Not a blanket pardon. Let the people breathe, and they will work. And spend.” She met his gaze, unflinching. Lucian chose that moment to whack the tablet with his badge, sending a small chip of wax flying onto Lord Borrell’s ledger.
A beat of horrified silence.
Then, a sound so rare it took the room a moment to recognize it. A low, rough exhale from the head of the table. Alistair wasn’t quite smiling, but the severe line of his mouth had softened infinitesimally. “It seems your son has cast his vote. He finds the economics… hard.”
A nervous titter rippled around the table. Eleanor felt a surge of unexpected warmth, not towards Alistair, but for the bizarre, fragile normalcy of the moment. She plucked the badge from Lucian’s sticky hand. “His review is scathing, but his methods are messy.” She handed the badge to a servant. “Fetch the prince a crust of bread, please. Something he can critique with less collateral damage.”
The meeting meandered on, but the tension had shifted. Eleanor’s points, delivered with a child on her hip, carried a peculiar, undeniable weight. She was no longer just a defiant wife; she was a mother arguing for grain, a rooted, pragmatic force amidst the abstract politics of men.
Later, as the council filed out, Eleanor lingered, settling Lucian on the floor with his promised crust. She waited until the last lord had departed before she turned to Alistair, who was reviewing a solitary parchment.
“The report, Your Majesty,” she said, her tone neutral, routine.
He didn’t look up. “He took twelve steps unaided this morning. Chased a page’s hound across the solar. Said ‘no’ to his nurse three times, and ‘more’ when presented with apple compote. He napped for two hours. No fever. No fuss.”
Eleanor drank in the details, each one a tiny treasure. The steps. The word ‘more’. She nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”
She moved to gather Lucian, but Alistair’s voice stopped her. “He is strong.”
It wasn’t part of the report. It was an observation, stripped bare. She looked back. He was watching her now, the parchment forgotten.
“He is,” she agreed, her guard up.
“It is… a fortunate thing.” Alistair stood, rounding the table. He moved not with his usual predatory grace, but with a kind of weary purpose. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze dropping to where Lucian was now intently smearing bread mush on the leg of a chair. “The physician says his constitution is remarkable. A resilience he must get from his mother’s line. The Ashworths were always notoriously difficult to kill.”
The corner of Eleanor’s mouth twitched. “A trait I’m told is endlessly frustrating.”
“Indeed.” A long pause stretched, filled only by Lucian’s happy babbling. “You argue well in council,” Alistair said finally, the words seeming pulled from him. “The ledger from the Master of Coin. The one with the trade projections from the southern realms. You should review it. Your theory on spring recovery requires specific port agreements.”
Eleanor stilled. This wasn’t placation. It was an offering. A key to a locked door. “I would like that,” she said, careful, testing.
“It will be sent to your chambers.” He crouched down, slowly, until he was level with Lucian. He didn’t touch him, just observed. The boy looked up, eyes wide and blue as his father’s, a blob of mush on his chin. He offered Alistair a soggy fistful of bread.
Alistair looked at the offering, then at Eleanor. For a fleeting second, the ruthless King of Eldoria was gone, replaced by a man utterly out of his depth. He did not take the bread. He simply gave a single, slow nod. “Finish your… negotiations, then. The ledgers will arrive by dusk.”
He rose and left, his boots echoing in the vast, empty chamber.
Eleanor sank into a chair, her legs suddenly weak. She pulled Lucian into her lap, burying her nose in his soft, milky-smelling hair. Her heart was a drum against her ribs. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t reconciliation. It was a crack in the fortress wall, a single thread of common purpose spun from reports on nap times and debates on grain.
That evening, the promised ledger arrived. It was thick, bound in aged leather, and heavy with the scent of dust and ink. Nestled between its pages, like a forgotten bookmark, was a single, crisply pressed oak leaf. She held it for a moment, the veins stark against the lamplight, before setting it aside on the windowsill.
Then, she opened the book, and began to work.
The ledger's figures swam before her tired eyes, the columns of numbers blurring into grey streaks in the candlelight. She worked late, cross-referencing port manifests with harvest yields, her notes sprawling in the margins in a sharp, angry script. Four nights passed this way, the only sounds the scratch of her quill and the distant change of the guards.
On the fifth morning, a different kind of missive arrived with her breakfast tray. It was not a report, nor a ledger. The parchment bore the King’s seal, but the message inside was penned in his own stark hand.
The physician is to assess Lucian’s progress at the tenth bell. In the nursery. Your presence is requested.
Not commanded. Requested. The word felt like a trap, its edges too smooth. Eleanor’s spine went rigid. The council chamber was a battlefield she understood, a space of words and logic where Lucian was a silent, warm anchor. The nursery was unknown territory, a private sphere fraught with raw, unscripted feeling.
She almost sent a refusal. Her hand hovered over a fresh sheet of parchment. But the memory of the oak leaf, crisp and deliberate, stayed her. This was another ledger, of a sort. Another text to decipher.
At precisely the tenth bell, she stood outside the carved oak door to the royal nursery, her fists clenched in the folds of her emerald gown. She smoothed her expression into one of detached courtesy and entered.
The room was sun-drenched and chaotic. A large, patterned rug covered the floor, strewn with wooden blocks and a stuffed horse missing one ear. Lucian, clad in a simple linen tunic, was staggering with fierce determination after a rolling copper ball. The physician, an elderly man with a kind face, was observing from a chair in the corner.
Alistair stood by the fireplace, his imposing frame out of place among the tiny furniture. He watched her, not the child.
“He’s walking earlier than most,” the physician noted cheerfully. “Strong legs. Excellent balance.”
Eleanor nodded, her throat tight. She remained just inside the door, a statue. This was not her domain. The nurse, a plump woman with a gentle smile, gestured to a low bench. “Would you care to sit, my lady?”
“I am fine here.”
Lucian reached the ball, grabbed it, and promptly fell onto his padded bottom. He blinked, his face crumpling for a second, then he saw her. His features cleared, replaced by open, gummy curiosity. He raised the ball towards her in a chubby fist.
“Go on, then,” Alistair’s voice cut through the quiet, softer than she expected. “He’s offering you his prize. It’s considered poor form to refuse a royal gift.”
The challenge was there, laced with a thread of something else. She met his gaze, saw the expectation, the testing. Swallowing the hard knot in her chest, she stepped forward. Her skirts whispered across the rug. Slowly, she lowered herself to the floor, the blocks digging uncomfortably into her knees.
She was level with him now. His green eyes, so like her own, studied her intently. He thrust the ball forward again.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice strange to her own ears. She took the cool metal sphere. His little hand patted her knee, leaving a faint damp print.
“He likes you,” the nurse said softly.
A pain, sharp and sweet, lanced through Eleanor’s ribs. She glanced at Alistair. He was watching the scene, his face an unreadable mask, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mantelpiece.
The physician proceeded, checking Lucian’s limbs, his responsiveness. He asked the boy to bring him a block. Lucian looked at Eleanor, then toddled unsteadily to the scattered toys. He selected a red one and carried it, not to the physician, but back to her, depositing it in her lap with a solemn grunt.
“His cognition is advanced,” the physician chuckled. “He understands tasks. And displays clear preference.”
The visit continued, a blur of small triumphs and observations. Eleanor stayed on the floor, her careful posture melting inch by inch into a sideways lean against a stuffed chair. Lucian brought her things—a block, a cloth dog, a wooden ring. Each offering was placed in her lap with grave importance. She thanked him each time, her voice growing steadier.
She did not play. She did not coo or sing. She simply received his world, piece by piece, and held it.
Finally, the physician packed his bag. “A robust, healthy boy. You have every reason to be pleased.”
The nurse excused herself to fetch a fresh tunic. Suddenly, the sunlit room contained only the three of them. The quiet was immense.
Alistair moved from the fireplace. He didn’t approach her, but crouched again, a respectful distance away, to look at his son. Lucian, tired from his exertions, had crawled into the space between Eleanor’s bent legs and the chair, leaning his warm back against her.
“You held steady,” Alistair said, his voice low.
Eleanor looked at the treasure hoard in her lap—the ball, the block, the dog. “It was a different kind of council.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. The motions are unfamiliar. The stakes are… terrifyingly clear.” She dared to look at him. “The ledgers were useful. The port master’s figures were fabricated. I have proof.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Of course they were. I expected you’d find it.” He watched Lucian’s eyelids droop. “He brings you toys. Not me.”
The statement held no accusation, only a raw, clinical observation. It hung in the air between them, fragile as a soap bubble.
“You’re the king,” she said finally, not unkindly. “You’re not on the floor. He can’t hand a treaty to a mountain.”
Alistair considered this, his blue eyes lingering on the sleepy child, then lifting to meet hers. For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sound was Lucian’s soft, rhythmic breathing.
Then, he stood. He offered no hand, made no move to touch their son. He simply nodded, once, a decision solidifying behind his eyes.
“Come to the council tomorrow,” he said. “Bring your proof. And afterward,” he paused, his gaze sweeping the cluttered, sun-warmed room, “the floor here could benefit from a… strategic review. If you are requested.”
It became routine. Alistair and she would stand side by side in the council chamber, conferring with his councils, and then walk to the nursery. Eleanor’s afternoons melted into building blocks and toy horses.
The walk itself was a silent, negotiated treaty. He matched his longer stride to her slower, deliberate pace through the sunlit western corridor. No one spoke of it. The guards’ eyes remained fixed ahead, but the castle’s rumor mill, a beast with a thousand whispering mouths, churned tirelessly nonetheless.
One such afternoon, a week into this unspoken arrangement, she entered the nursery to find Alistair already there. He was on the floor, his back against the same stuffed chair, long legs bent at an awkward angle. Lucian was attempting to stack a block upon the toe of his father’s polished boot.
“He’s testing structural integrity,” Alistair said, not looking up. His voice was a low rumble. “A relentless engineer.”
Eleanor lowered herself to the rug, the layers of her skirt billowing around her. “A better use for that boot than kicking down trade agreements,” she said, surprising herself.
A grunt. Not quite a laugh. Lucian succeeded, his chubby hands pressing the block down. It stayed. He blinked, then gave a shout of pure, triumphant joy.
“See?” Alistair said. The word was soft, meant for the boy. He looked at Eleanor then. “The port master has been removed. Your proof was… elegantly vicious.”
She felt a flush of satisfaction, warmer than the sun from the window. “He was incompetent. And a thief.”
“Most are.” Alistair watched as Lucian, bored with stability, swatted the block off. It clattered against the leg of a small table. “The new appointee is young. Arrogant. He’ll need watching.”
“Send me the ledgers,” she said, automatically. Then she caught herself. It wasn’t a command she had the right to give.
He nodded, as if she did. “They’re already on your desk. The man has terrible handwriting. You’ll hate him.”
She almost smiled. Instead, she reached for a toy horse, running her thumb over its one remaining ear. Lucian immediately crawled into her lap, claiming it. He smelled of soap and the faint, milky sweetness that was already fading.
“He’s getting heavy,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.
“You’ll adapt.” Alistair shifted, stretching one leg out with a faint sigh. “Soldiers carry heavier packs. Diplomats carry heavier fools. This is just another kind of weight.”
The following Tuesday, the routine fractured. They entered the nursery to a scene of minor chaos. Lucian was wailing, his face a furious red, gripped in the firm, worried hands of the physician. The nurse hovered, wringing her apron.
“A fever, Your Majesties,” the physician said quickly. “It came on suddenly after his noon meal. Not uncommon, but we must be vigilant.”
Eleanor’s blood turned to ice. She was across the room before she realized she’d moved, her council-room poise shattered. She knelt, her hands hovering, not daring to touch. “How high?”
Alistair didn’t move from the doorway. His voice cut the air, cold and clear. “Causes.”
“Perhaps a tooth. Perhaps a chill. It is too early to say, sire.”
“Then say nothing until you know.” He strode forward, his shadow falling over them. He looked down at his son, who cried pitifully, reaching for nothing. Alistair’s jaw was granite. “Treat him.”
The afternoon light grew long and thin. The physician applied a cool cloth, measured a tiny dose of willow bark tincture. The nurse prepared a bath. Eleanor sat in the rocker, Lucian a hot, limp bundle against her chest, his crying faded into whimpers. She rocked, a steady, metronomic motion.
Alistair did not sit. He paced the perimeter of the room, a silent predator circling a campfire. He stopped occasionally to stare at the fire in the grate, or out at the darkening sky. His silence was a physical pressure.
When the nurse brought the bath, Eleanor began to undress the listless child. Her fingers fumbled on the tiny linen ties.
“Let me.” Alistair was there. He didn’t ask. His large, capable hands, which she had only ever seen wield a quill or a sword, gently worked the knots. He lifted Lucian, whose head lolled against his shoulder, and placed him in the shallow, lukewarm water.
He knelt beside the tub, one sleeve darkening with splash. He didn’t speak, just held a hand steady behind Lucian’s back as the boy sat, confused and miserable.
Eleanor watched, her throat tight. This was not part of the routine. This was a raw, terrifying digression.
Hours later, the fever broke. Lucian, exhausted, fell into a deep, damp sleep in his crib. The physician pronounced the worst over, likely just a sharp, passing thing.
The nursery was still, lit by a single lamp. Eleanor stood by the crib, her fingers lightly touching the blanket. She felt hollowed out, scraped raw.
A glass of amber liquor appeared in her line of sight. She took it. Alistair stood beside her, looking down at their sleeping son, his own glass in hand.
“He’s strong,” Alistair said, echoing his words from weeks ago. They sounded different now. Not an observation, but a prayer he’d been repeating in his head all afternoon.
“He is,” she whispered. The liquor burned, a welcome anchor.
“This,” Alistair said after a long silence, his gaze fixed on the crib. “This is what they never write in the histories. The treaties, the battles, the lines on a map… you can control those. Or burn them.” He took a drink. “This you can only endure.”
Eleanor looked at his profile, etched in the low light. The control was still there, but it was strained, showing cracks of sheer fatigue. “I prefer ledgers.”
That finally made him look at her. A flicker in the blue depths. “I know.” He finished his drink. “The new port master’s first report arrives tomorrow. It’s a mess of blotted ink and rhetorical flourishes. You’ll despise it.”
The mundane promise of bureaucratic annoyance was a lifeline. She grasped it.
“Good,” she said, her voice finding its strength again. She placed her empty glass on the mantel. “I look forward to tearing it to pieces.”
The next day, and the day after, the routine resumed. The walks, the blocks, the toy horses. But the air in the nursery had changed. It held the memory of fear, a shared, silent understanding that made the ordinary moments feel less like a strategy and more like a refuge.
One afternoon, Alistair didn’t leave after the council. He followed her in, shed his formal jacket, and sat on the floor. He picked up a block, turning it over in his hand.
“The report,” he said, as Lucian piled blocks into Eleanor’s lap. “Your critique was correct. He’s using three words where one would suffice.”
“It’s insecurity,” she said, capturing a block Lucian tried to throw. “He’s covering a lack of substance with style.”
“Hmm.” Alistair placed his block carefully on the rug. “And how would you address it?”
“A direct question. Force him to use a single sentence. If he can’t, he’s useless.”
Lucian, bored with their talk, lunged for the stuffed horse. He missed, toppling forward into the space between them. Instinctively, both their hands shot out to steady him. Eleanor’s fingers brushed Alistair’s.
They both pulled back, but slowly. Lucian righted himself, clutching the one-eared horse, oblivious.
Alistair cleared his throat. “Do that,” he said, his eyes on their son. “Draft the question. I’ll send it.”
He didn’t move to get up. The sunlight pooled on the rug between them, warm and ordinary. Eleanor watched a dust mote spiral through the beam, her mind already crafting the perfect, devastating sentence.