The Queen Cannot Act

The smell reached us before the king did, cutting through the fragrance of the roses with something sour and rotten. There was also the unmistakable metallic stink of blood, which made my fingers tighten around Leofric’s sleeve. I knew exactly who was approaching, but Lady Mereford was the first to spot the figure emerging from the shadows.

“Heavens! What is that?” she exclaimed.

“Behind you, Your Highness!” Lord Whitmoure shouted as the king in his filthy nightgown lurched out of the darkness and lunged at Leofric, his mouth opening unnaturally wide.

The prince stepped aside just as the man’s teeth snapped shut where his neck had been a moment earlier. Lord Whitmoure immediately seized the attacker’s arm and twisted it behind his back, throwing his weight forward until they both crashed onto the paving stones. I winced at the impact, but the stranger didn’t seem remotely bothered by it. He continued thrashing so violently that Whitmoure nearly lost his grip, forcing Leofric to kneel beside them and restrain his other arm.

“What in God’s name is wrong with this man?” Whitmoure demanded, struggling to keep the attacker pinned as his heels repeatedly struck the stones.

“Keep his mouth away from you!” I shouted when I saw the man’s head turn toward Whitmoure’s wrist.

The young lord glanced at me, and his grip loosened just enough for the stranger to snap at his hand. I nearly screamed when his teeth came within inches of Whitmoure’s fingers, but the lord managed to pull away in time.

“Who are you?” Whitmoure demanded, pressing his knee against the man’s shoulder. “Stop resisting!”

Unfortunately, the only response he received was a series of wet, guttural noises, followed by another attempt to bite him. I backed toward the well, watching the two men struggle to keep the creature restrained. I wanted to help, but there was hardly enough room for another person, and getting myself bitten would accomplish absolutely nothing.

Lady Mereford hurried toward the nearest wall and retrieved a burning torch from its bracket. She went closer to the now struggling king, holding the flame high enough to illuminate the king’s face, and they finally saw what had become of His Majesty.

His skin had turned a sickly gray, with dark veins spreading across his temples and neck. Dried blood crusted around his mouth and stained the front of his nightgown. Even with two grown men restraining him, he continued stretching his neck toward Whitmoure’s wrist, seemingly incapable of understanding why he couldn’t reach it.

Everyone around me gasped when the light revealed his features. Lady Mereford lowered the torch slightly, staring at the man beneath Leofric as recognition dawned on her face.

“Your Majesty?” she whispered, taking a step forward. “Your Majesty, can you hear me?”

I immediately caught her free arm before she could get any closer. “Don’t, my lady! Please stay away from his mouth!”

She turned toward me, visibly startled. “What are you doing? His Majesty is clearly unwell!”

That was certainly one way of describing a dead man attempting to eat his subjects. I tightened my hold on her sleeve as the king snapped his teeth at Whitmoure again, making the young lord curse and pull his hand away.

“Please, whatever you do, don’t let him bite you,” I insisted.

Lady Mereford looked back at the king, her expression wavering between concern and horror. Thankfully, she took a step away from him, and I finally released her arm. At least that was one death I’d managed to prevent, although I wasn’t about to celebrate while His Majesty was still trying to chew through his own son’s arm.

“Father?”

The word was spoken so quietly that I almost missed it. Leofric’s grip loosened, allowing the king to wrench his arm sideways and nearly break free. Whitmoure shouted for the prince to hold him, and Leofric immediately tightened his grip again, although his attention remained fixed on his father’s face.

“Father, what have they done to you?” he asked, his voice cracking.

The king turned toward the sound and snapped at his son’s forearm, forcing Leofric to recoil before grabbing him again. His hands were trembling now, and I could see tears gathering in his green eyes as he stared at the man beneath him. I had known this moment was coming, but watching him struggle to restrain his own father made me realize how little comfort my warnings had actually given him.

I took a step toward the prince, unsure what I could possibly say, when a familiar voice rang out from the garden entrance.

“Help! The crown prince has murdered the king!”

Queen Mahaut came rushing into the gardens with several palace guards following closely behind her. My father, Prime Minister Gautier de Vaucroix, entered alongside them, looking considerably less distressed than my sister, who continued screaming about the terrible crime Leofric and his vassals had supposedly committed.

I glanced at the king, who was still kicking and snapping his teeth beneath the two men.

Murdered him? His Majesty was making enough noise to wake half the palace.

My sister finally reached the edge of the torchlight and stopped so abruptly that the guards behind her nearly collided with one another. Her eyes went from the struggling king to Leofric’s sword, which was still resting untouched at his side. For several moments, she simply stared, her mouth opening and closing as though she’d forgotten the next line of her performance.

Apparently, the possibility of her supposedly murdered husband still being alive hadn’t occurred to her. Well, technically speaking.

“But Your Majesty said the crown prince had struck His Majesty,” one of the guards ventured, looking between my sister and the king, who was still very much capable of attempting to bite someone.

Mahaut glanced toward our father, clearly expecting him to handle the situation.

“You dare question your queen?” Gautier thundered, making several of the guards stiffen.

The sudden shouting caused the king to struggle harder, nearly throwing Whitmoure off balance. Leofric leaned against his father’s arm to keep him restrained, his long hair falling across his face as he fought to prevent those snapping jaws from reaching anyone.

My father continued berating the unfortunate guard while my sister attempted to recover her composure. Like in the novel, they had probably expected to find the king’s corpse lying in the gardens, with Leofric standing over him holding a bloodied sword and his head rolled over in the garden’s grass. Instead, their intended murder victim was still trying to eat people, which must have been rather inconvenient for their carefully rehearsed accusations.

Unfortunately, my father didn’t actually need the king to be dead to accuse Leofric of treason. He controlled the palace guards, and if the prince drew his sword and killed His Majesty, everything would fall neatly back into the original storyline.

I looked toward Leofric, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off his father’s face. Even after everything the king had done, the prince could barely bring himself to restrain him, much less strike him down. Back in my previous life, I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about this particular scene. I’d wished the nobles had escaped, that the king had never reached the gardens, and most of all, that Leofric hadn’t been forced to kill his own father.

Now, however, His Majesty was lying restrained only a few feet away from me, and I found myself considering a possibility I’d never been able to test while reading the novel.

What if someone other than Leofric killed the king?