Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor

Blood. All in the line of duty, of course . . .
    The old dining hall in the East Wing hadn't been used for a major gathering in more than thirty years, and it looked it. A small army of servants was still scrubbing the floor, laying rush mats and lighting wall-torches as the main courses of the meal were being served. The Regent said nothing, and did his best not to notice the scurrying servants. He'd intended to use the dining hall in the North Wing, but at the last moment Prince Lewis's men had occupied it, and he hadn't felt like fighting a war to get it back. So here he was, presiding over a banquet at an ungodly hour of the evening in one of the dingiest parts of the East Wing. God knows what they'd been using the place for previously, but from the smell that still lingered on the air he should have ordered the hall fumigated first.
    Count William Howerd leant back in his chair and looked out over the crowd of nobles and courtiers and traders who sat packed shoulder to shoulder at the freshly scrubbed tables, filling the air with their chatter. There was more than enough wine for everyone, and the food was surprisingly good, under the circumstances, but William only picked at his. He had too much on his mind to allow for an honest appetite. He didn't really want to be there at all, but his presence was necessary to prop up the weaker elements, who needed to see him being calm and strong. As long as he didn't look scared or worried, they could convince themselves they weren't either.
    The Regent looked out over his supporters, and fought to keep a weary frown off his face. They weren't the kind he'd have chosen for his friends, but he needed these people if he was to establish his own power base. Whoever eventually ended up on the throne of Redhart, they were going to need help to govern the Kingdom, and the Regent intended there should be only one person able to give that help.
    Him. Let the Princes have their troops and their magicians. He would control trade, prices and politics.
    And at the end of the day, he could control the King, too.
    In a way, although he regretted King Malcolm's death, in the long run it was for the best. The royal line had grown weak and corrupt, distorted by their own power. Malcolm hadn't been a bad sort, all told.
    He'd just listened to too many stupid ballads about the honour and glory of the warrior's life. William had found a great deal of pleasure in Malcolm's company, when they weren't arguing politics, but their separate positions had meant they could never be the close friends they might otherwise have been. Still, William was determined to catch Malcolm's murderer, and see him hang. He could do that much at least for his friend.
    Even if it turned out to be one of Malcolm's sons. William stirred uneasily in his chair. They had to be the most obvious suspects, if only because they had the most to gain, but as yet no real evidence had turned
    up to incriminate any of them. Strange, that. You'd have thought something would have surfaced by now.
    Instead, they were busy gathering their forces and preparing for civil war, and he was trapped in this gloomy old hall, surrounded by chattering fools. Sometimes, William wondered if Malcolm hadn't been right after all about the joys of battle.
    Down below, at the end of one of the tables, some minor noble lurched to his feet and proposed yet another toast. William lifted his glass to his mouth and wet his lips with the wine. Everyone cheered, and went back to what they were doing before. William was getting fed up with toasts. There had been too many of them, and they were beginning to sound increasingly hollow. Someone else got to their feet, cup in hand. William grabbed the nearest wine goblet and threw it at the unsuspecting courtier before he could open his mouth. The solid steel goblet hit him square between the eyes, and he toppled over backwards. The gathering roared with laughter, and cheered William again. Perhaps it was only in his mind that the laughter sounded strained and forced. Gabrielle leant in close beside him.
    'My dear, that was a very nice throw, but I wouldn't do it again. One outburst they'll explain away as high spirits, but more than one would be taken as a sign of tension.'
    'I hate jesters,' growled William.
    'That wasn't a jester.'
    'Better safe than sorry.'
    Gabrielle smiled despite herself. William made a placating gesture with his hand.
    'I know, dear, it was a stupid thing to do, but I'm going crazy just