Chapter 6: A King's Cruelty, A Servant's Plea
The throne room felt like a gilded cage. Polished marble reflected the flickering torchlight, warping the stern faces carved into the pillars. High above, faded tapestries depicted forgotten victories, their threads dull against the oppressive weight of the present. The air, thick with beeswax and the cloying sweetness of incense, couldn’t mask the underlying tang of damp wool and fear. Kiran stood chained between the Enforcers, head bowed, the iron manacles cold and heavy on his wrists. The faint, earthy scent of sage still clung to him, a pathetic reminder of his momentary lapse. Barnaby stood a pace ahead, shoulders squared, but his usual insolent slouch was gone, replaced by a watchful tension. He tracked the King’s every move.
King Ewan Rex paced slowly before the massive oak throne. His crimson robe, embroidered with golden lions, swished with an angry rhythm. His boyish face was set in lines of hard satisfaction, a brittle mask covering the lingering horror from the solar. He stopped, turning to face them, his gaze sweeping over Kiran’s chains with undisguised relish. Connor hovered nearby, paler than the marble floor, his own fine breeches still bearing the ghost of yesterday’s disaster. He stared fixedly at a point on the wall, jaw clenched, the knuckles of his clasped hands white.
"Kiran of the Gardens," Ewan announced, his voice ringing unnaturally loud in the cavernous space. It held a thin veneer of regal authority, stretched taut over something raw. "You stand accused of blatant disregard for the Royal Decree of Solidarity. You sought relief not in the shared burden of endurance, nor even in the… humbling consequence of failure," his eyes flickered almost imperceptibly towards Connor, who flinched, "but in secrecy. In the soil of the King’s own pot." He drew himself up. "This is not mere disobedience. It is subterfuge. A deliberate flouting of the unity we strive for."
Barnaby shifted his weight. "Majesty," he began, his voice surprisingly level, "the pot was contained. It harmed no one. Saved the flagstones, even." He gestured vaguely towards Kiran. "Is efficiency now a crime?"
Ewan’s head snapped towards him. "Silence, scullion! Your 'begging' bought you an audience, not a pulpit!" The King’s nostrils flared. He took a step closer to Barnaby, his height suddenly imposing. "You find amusement in chaos, Barnaby. You revel in the discomfort my decree causes. You called it 'freedom'." He spat the word. "Very well. Let us see how free you feel sharing Kiran’s consequence."
Barnaby’s smirk vanished. Utterly. His eyes, usually dancing with mischief, widened with genuine alarm. "Sharing…?" He took an involuntary step back, his gaze darting to Kiran, then back to the King’s cold, triumphant face. Raw panic, stark and unfamiliar, tightened his features.
"Indeed," Ewan purred, the cruel satisfaction deepening, warming the brittle ice in his eyes. "Solidarity demands shared experience, does it not? Kiran sought private relief? He shall experience public consequence. And you, Barnaby, so fond of defying the spirit of my law under the guise of obeying its letter… you shall stand beside him. A day in the stocks. For both of you." He enunciated each word with chilling precision. "Displayed in the courtyard. In your current state." His gaze raked over Barnaby’s damp trousers, then Kiran’s. "Let the kingdom see the price of dissent… and the company it keeps."
The pronouncement landed like a physical blow. Kiran closed his eyes, a tremor running through him. The stocks. Exposed. For hours. The humiliation was unimaginable, worse than the Enforcers, worse than the chains. To be trapped, unable to move, while people stared… while his body inevitably betrayed him further… His knuckles turned white against the manacles.
Barnaby made a sound low in his throat, almost a whimper choked back. The color drained from his face, leaving his freckles stark. His earlier bravado was stripped away, revealing the frightened young man beneath. He looked at Kiran again, not with challenge, but with dawning horror at what his interference had wrought. "Majesty, please…" The word was ragged, stripped of all its usual insolence. A genuine plea.
"No." Connor’s voice was a broken whisper, yet it cut through the heavy silence. He hadn’t moved, still staring at the wall, but his whole body trembled. "Ewan… no." He used the name, not the title. A quiet, devastating intimacy.
Ewan whirled on him, fury flashing. "You dare countermand me, Connor? In my own court?"
Connor slowly turned his head. His eyes, red-rimmed and filled with a profound exhaustion, met the King’s. There was no anger there, only a deep, soul-weary sorrow. "I remember," Connor whispered, his voice cracking on the words. "The summer storm. The thunder shook the west tower. Young Tomas, the stable boy… he was terrified. Hid in the hayloft. You…" Connor swallowed hard, the tremor in his hands visible now. "You climbed up there. Told him stories about thunder being just the gods moving furniture. Shared your lemon cakes. Stayed until he fell asleep."
The memory hung in the air, vivid and unexpected. A glimpse of a different Ewan. A kind boy.
"That boy," Connor continued, his broken whisper gaining a sliver of steel, "wouldn't have done this." He gestured weakly towards Kiran and the petrified Barnaby. "He wouldn't sentence two young men to public degradation for… for this. For wetting themselves?" His voice hitched, the absurdity and the cruelty crashing together. "This decree… it twists you, Ewan. It twists everything. It started with shame, I understand that. But this?" He looked at the King, not as a servant to his lord, but as one young man to another, his eyes filled with bewildered betrayal. "This isn't justice. It's vengeance on the world for seeing you vulnerable. That boy who comforted Tomas… he wouldn't recognize the man giving this order."
Ewan froze. The cruel satisfaction bled from his face, replaced by a sickly pallor. Connor’s words, spoken with such quiet devastation, struck deeper than any shout. He saw not Connor the servant, but Connor kneeling shattered in the solar’s puddle. He saw his own stained breeches. The memory of Tomas’s tear-streaked face, trusting him completely. The boy who cried over thunder wouldn't have understood any of this. The throne room, vast and imposing, suddenly felt suffocating. The weight of the crown pressed down, not with authority, but with a crushing shame amplified a hundredfold. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He stared at Connor, his eyes wide, vulnerable, the boyish face beneath the crown utterly lost.
Connor swayed slightly. The effort of speaking, of confronting his King with that memory, seemed to have drained the last of his strength. His breath hitched, a wet, ragged sound. "Please, Ewan," he whispered, his voice barely audible now. "Don't be this. Sit down… before you fall."
Before the King could react, Barnaby found his voice again, hoarse with terror. "The stocks? But the… the inevitability! Hours? Kiran, he… I…" He looked wildly between the stricken King and Kiran’s ashen face. The reality of helpless exposure, of losing control completely and publicly, stripped away all remnants of his rebellion. It was just raw, animal fear. The Enforcers shifted, taking the King’s earlier command as standing orders despite the interruption. They moved to seize Barnaby’s arms.
"Take them," Ewan rasped, the command devoid of its earlier force. He didn’t look at the prisoners. He stared only at Connor, a maelstrom of confusion, shame, and dawning horror churning behind his eyes. His hand rose vaguely, then dropped.
Kiran didn’t resist as the Enforcers turned him towards the great doors. He walked with rigid dignity, head high, though his face was a mask of despair. But as he passed Connor, his gaze, for a fleeting second, met the manservant’s. A silent acknowledgment. Gratitude for the attempt. Then he looked straight ahead, steeling himself for the courtyard.
Barnaby, however, struggled as the Enforcers grabbed him. "No! Wait! Kiran!" he yelled, his voice cracking. He twisted, trying to break free, his eyes wide with panic, fixed on Kiran’s retreating back. The fear wasn’t just for himself. It was for the gardener he’d dragged into this, whose quiet dignity was about to be pulverized. "Kiran!" The name tore from him, raw and desperate, echoing in the vast, silent throne room, as the heavy doors began to swing shut behind them. Connor swayed again, closing his eyes. Ewan stood frozen, looking impossibly young and very alone before the monstrous throne, Connor’s devastating words echoing in the sudden, ringing silence.