Chapter 2: The Proclamation's Fallout
The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall boomed shut behind Connor, the sound echoing like a death knell in the corridor. The sealed proclamation felt like a live coal in his hand, radiating shame. He forced his legs to move, each step towards the Herald’s post a battle against the urge to turn back, to throw the monstrous decree into the nearest brazier. The scent of beeswax and stone dust from the King’s chamber was replaced by the warmer, busier smells of the lower levels – baking bread, woodsmoke, and the faint tang of manure carried from the stables. Sounds grew louder: the clatter of pots from the kitchens, the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith’s hammer, the murmur of voices. Normal sounds. Sounds that were about to be shattered.
He found the King's Herald, Baldwin, a portly man with a permanently surprised expression, adjusting his tabard near the archway leading to the main courtyard. Baldwin’s eyes widened further as Connor thrust the parchment at him.
"From His Majesty," Connor stated, his voice flat, stripped of all inflection. "To be read. At the Midday Assembly. To every lord, knight, and attendant within the precincts. Immediately."
Baldwin took it, his fingers brushing the still-warm wax seal with its imprint of the royal lion. He glanced at Connor’s rigid face, then back at the proclamation. "Connor? What is—"
"Just read it," Connor interrupted, the words clipped. He couldn’t explain. Couldn’t bear to see understanding dawn on Baldwin’s face. He turned on his heel and walked swiftly towards a shadowed alcove overlooking the courtyard, needing distance, needing to be unseen when the blow landed. His own thighs clenched instinctively, a phantom echo of the horror about to unfold.
The castle courtyard at midday was a sun-baked crucible. Flagstones radiated heat, making the air shimmer above them. Servants hurried along the colonnades, carrying linens or trays. Squires polished armour in patches of shade, their movements sluggish in the oppressive warmth. Knights drilled near the stables, the rhythmic clash of practice swords punctuated by sharp commands and the restless stamping of horses. Young noblemen in fine, lightweight tunics lounged near the fountain, flirting with maids or discussing hawking, their laughter bright and careless – blissful ignorance about to be shattered.
Kiran, the gardener, knelt by a bed of wilting delphiniums near the fountain’s edge. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his temples as he carefully loosened the dry soil with a trowel. The sun beat down on his back, a familiar discomfort. He preferred the quiet focus of the earth, the simple needs of the plants, far removed from the whispers and posturing of the court. He poured water slowly onto the parched roots, the sound momentarily drowning out the courtyard’s din. Peace.
Barnaby, emerging from the kitchen’s service door with an empty slop bucket, paused. He leaned against the warm stone arch, scanning the scene. His sharp eyes, usually alive with schemes, missed little. He saw the sheen of sweat on the knights’ brows, the way a young lord shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot near the fountain, the tight grip Kiran had on his trowel. A slow, sly smile spread across Barnaby’s face. Tense, he thought. Good. The air itself felt thick, expectant. He idly pressed his own thighs together, a deliberate, testing pressure, and felt a flicker of something darkly thrilling. Freedom in the breaking, he mused, dumping the bucket’s dregs onto the cobbles.
Baldwin the Herald appeared at the top of the steps leading down into the courtyard. He cleared his throat, the sound raspy and loud in the momentary lull between sword clashes. All eyes turned towards him – servants pausing in their chores, knights lowering their blades, the lounging nobles straightening up. Kiran looked up from his flowers, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his soil-streaked hand. Barnaby’s smile widened, anticipatory.
"OYEZ! OYEZ!" Baldwin’s voice, trained for projection, boomed across the open space, bouncing off the stone walls. "By order of His Majesty, King Ewan Rex, hear now this ROYAL PROCLAMATION!"
A hush descended, deeper than before. Connor, hidden in the alcove above, pressed his back against the cool stone, closing his eyes.
Baldwin unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the words. Connor saw the colour drain from the man’s face, saw his jowls quiver. Baldwin swallowed audibly. He looked out at the assembled crowd, a sea of expectant, slightly bored faces under the harsh sun.
He began to read. His voice, initially strong, faltered on the third sentence.
"...hereby decree that all able-bodied men of noble birth and of similar age residing within the court precincts…"
A ripple of confusion. Brow furrowing. Lords exchanged puzzled glances. Similar age? Nineteen?
"...shall, as a gesture of royal solidarity and shared experience…"
Barnaby’s breath hitched. Shared experience? Kiran frowned, his grip tightening on the trowel handle. Solidarity? With what?
"...refrain from using the toilets during daylight hours…"
Silence. Utter, profound silence. The clatter of a dropped horseshoe from the stables rang out like a gunshot. A dozen faces froze in disbelief.
"...and shall instead urinate in their pants if they cannot hold it…"
Gasps. Sharp, involuntary. A young page clapped a hand over his mouth. A knight dropped his sword with a clang.
"...or otherwise, at least once per day."
Baldwin’s voice was a trembling whisper now, barely carrying over the sudden, low hum of shock. He rushed through the final clause.
"...fourteen days… commencing immediately…"
He finished. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Heavy with disbelief, then a dawning, collective horror. Baldwin stood frozen, the parchment trembling in his hands.
Chaos erupted.
"Preposterous!" Lord Cedric, a barrel-chested man with a florid face, roared, surging forward. "Is this a jape? A sick jape!"
"Urinate... in our...?" Sir Gareth, young and proud, stammered, his face purpling beneath his helm, his hand instinctively moving towards his groin. "By the gods!"
"Shared experience?" another young nobleman shrieked, his voice cracking. "Share what?"
Laughter burst out – harsh, incredulous, bordering on hysterical. It came from a group of grooms near the stables, quickly stifled under the furious glares of their betters. But it had happened. The dam had cracked.
Kiran hadn't moved. He remained kneeling by the delphiniums. The trowel fell from his fingers, clattering onto the flagstones. He stared at the wilting blue flowers, their vibrant colour suddenly garish under the relentless sun. His face was expressionless, a mask carved from pale stone. Solidarity, he thought, the word tasting like ash. Because the King had an accident? A furious heat, different from the sun's, bloomed in his chest. He closed his eyes, focusing on the dry scent of the earth, trying to block out the rising tide of panic and outrage around him. Just tend the garden, he told himself. Just tend the damn garden. But his hands trembled in the dirt.
Barnaby pushed off the archway, a predator entering the fray. He sauntered into the sunlight, his grin wolfish. The fear, the outrage, the sheer, humiliating absurdity – it was electric. He watched a young lordling, barely older than himself, shift from foot to foot, his face ashen, eyes darting around wildly as if searching for an escape route that didn’t exist. Barnaby deliberately walked close to him. "Bit warm for wool, isn't it, milord?" he murmured, his voice dripping with false sympathy. The lordling flinched as if struck, his hand flying to his thigh. Barnaby chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Solidarity, eh? Quite the… binding experience." He saw the flash of terror in the young man's eyes, the dawning realization that this was real, immediate, and inescapable. Barnaby felt a jolt of pure, dark exhilaration. He pressed his thighs together more firmly, a deliberate, almost sensual pressure. Let it begin.
High above, hidden in the alcove, Connor watched the scene unfold like a nightmare. He saw the fury, the panic, the disbelief. He saw Kiran’s silent, broken protest in the discarded trowel. He saw Barnaby’s predatory amusement. And he saw the King.
Ewan stood on the secluded balcony overlooking the courtyard, partially obscured by a heavy velvet drape. Connor could just make out the tense line of his shoulders beneath the fine linen tunic, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the stone balustrade. The late morning sun glinted off the gold circlet on his brow, but it illuminated only the pallor of his face, the haunted look in his eyes fixed on the chaos below. He’d done this. Unleashed this tidal wave of shame.
Connor’s gaze dropped to Ewan’s own light-coloured summer breeches. Even from this distance, Connor’s trained eye saw the faint, tell-tale dampness darkening the fine fabric high on the inner thigh. Barely visible. But there. A fresh stain. The ‘accident’ recurring, just as Tobin said it might. Ewan stood rigid, bearing his own visible shame while forcing it upon a hundred others. The king flinched, his hand twitching towards the damp spot before clenching back on the stone. His face contorted – a fleeting glimpse of the terrified, humiliated boy beneath the crown before the mask of resolve slammed back down, harder, colder.
Barnaby, scanning the upper windows, saw it too. A flicker of movement, a glimpse of gold. His sharp eyes narrowed, then widened with vicious delight as they deciphered the king’s posture, the subtle tension radiating from him even at this distance. He followed Connor’s line of sight, saw what Connor saw on the king’s breeches. A low whistle escaped him, lost in the courtyard's din. He nudged the ashen-faced lordling beside him, nodding almost imperceptibly towards the balcony. "Looks like His Majesty’s already leading by example," he breathed, his voice ripe with malicious glee. "Quite the… dedicated monarch." The lordling whimpered, his own bladder tightening in sympathetic, horrified spasms. The courtyard stewed in a miasma of outrage, panic, and the sharp, sour scent of rising fear-sweat under the unforgiving sun. The lion’s decree was law. The humiliation had only just begun.