‘This is how a good king deals with his people,’ Borin whispered to him. ‘Face to face, in their own setting.’
He was repeating what his mother had told him that morning. Queen Fayre was an excellent puppeteer, and Borin seemed content being the puppet—for now.
Men stood in groups watching the exchange between Borin and the merchants representing them. It was clear by their body language that they had not forgiven the king for the lockdown which had taken so much from them. Hundreds of merchants had died from lack of food and illnesses stemming from it. To make matters worse, Borin had then trapped the merchants in the square and instructed his men to shoot them, naively believing his father’s killer would miraculously reveal himself.
The killer still had not been found.
Astin had a bigger problem at present. In the year since Borin’s coronation, there had been four attempts on the king’s life, ranging from poisoning to an attempted drowning in a bathtub. The problem with hatred of that kind is that it has the ability to seep through walls.
‘I really do not understand the problem here,’ Borin said, his chest expanding. ‘There has been more meat in the merchant borough sinceIbecame king. Plus there are fewer people to feed now.’
Astin winced. The fact that there were fewer people should have been a matter of shame.
‘That shows you how little there was before,’ replied the man, ‘not how plentiful it is now. I’m a butcher. I can’t even speak directly with the farmers I’m to buy from.’
‘That wall needs to come down,’ said another. ‘Or at the very least the gate should be opened for business.’
Borin’s lips pinched as he looked between the men. ‘I must balance the needs of the entire kingdom, not one borough.’ He scoffed. ‘You should be thanking me for what you have. Instead, you hold out your hand while complaining. You are free to buy directly from the sea merchants who come each month, because the wall you complain about protects our livestock from the diseases you will inevitably introduce. We have built something unique here, something that is the envy of many.’
The merchants stared back at him, brows creased and mouths downturned.
‘Something unique all right,’ said a man at the back. ‘A prison camp.’
The merchants’ hands twitched at their sides, signalling that it was time to go.
‘Let’s end it there,’ Astin said quietly, all the while scanning their surroundings. If it were up to him, he would have come with a small army or not at all. He was by no means a fan of the king, but he took his responsibility to keep the man alive seriously.
Borin glanced at his bodyguard, then nodded. ‘I believe the matter to be sorted.’
The merchants exchanged a look that would melt iron. One of the men went to follow the king.
‘That’s far enough,’ Astin said, stepping in front of him. He remained there until Borin was safely on his horse, then looked around before following him.
‘The famine is not over yet—for anyone,’ Borin called. ‘If you think the rest of Wales is fairing any better, you are wrong. Carmarthenshire is a muddy wasteland of skeletons.’
It was true that other kingdoms under King Edward’s rule were no better off. Many people foolishly travelled to Chadora seeking refuge from the famine, then died waiting to be let in.
Astin mounted his horse and gestured for the king to start moving.
‘You’re killing us, one by one,’ someone shouted after them. ‘We were better off when Aymer de Valence controlled this land—and that’s saying something.’
Astin shot the man a warning look, conscious that Borin was easily set off by the slightest suggestion that both he and his father were not superior to the 2ndEarl of Pembroke in every way. Their rivalry was the reason Pembroke became Chadora upon the earl’s exile.
‘You’re not fit to be king!’ the other shouted.
Astin blinked. ‘Just keep riding.’
Borin turned in his saddle, mouth agape. ‘Are you going to let them speak to me like that?’
‘They’re just blowing off steam. They’re not real threats.’
‘Go on, run back to your castle,’ the man called, walking after them. ‘You think you’re safe there?’
And there it was. A threat to the king’s life—punishable by death. Not a quick death either but the slow torturous kind, where by the time they were actually strung up on the wall, their own family did not recognise them.
Astin dismounted and marched over to the man, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and throwing him to the ground with such force that the air left him in one violent gasp. Making a fist, he punched the man in the face, ensuring he broke his nose for effect. Blood poured freely as the merchant writhed on the ground, cursing and blinking away tears.
The bodyguard prayed it was enough to satisfy the king.
