Part II

The days following the celebration are dull. A majority of the visiting nobles have started their long journey home in the wake of Marcus and his daughter. Some stay, however, finding that they fit seamlessly into the life of James’ court. The prince wishes to turn none of them away.

Spock, being sensible and also privy to the exact amount of gold in the royal coffers, requests that James join him one early afternoon to determine how they will continue to support an ever-increasing headcount. The prince suspects his steward will advise that everyone be put to work in some form or fashion so that they are earning their keep. Imagining some of the more arrogant lords in the castle wearing livery and mucking out the stables has become a great source of entertainment to James.

While laughing to himself he reaches to the usual spot for his boots and, to his surprise, discovers them missing.

“Pavel!” James calls after searching his wardrobe and under the bed for the missing boots.

His manservant hurries into the chamber, his good mood apparent for all to see. “Yes, sire?”

“My boots…” he says, looking around helplessly. “I think they walked off.”

“Boots do not valk themselves,” Pavel assures him. He disappears into the antechamber and comes back with a pair of boots in hand. “Yours are replaced!”

James accepts the new pair with wariness. They are hardly supple, not leather, and black as an adder. “What,” he asks Pavel, inspecting the strange soles of the boots, “was wrong with the old ones?”

“They are not ze fashion,” says the young man. After James steps into one boot, Pavel kneels down to adjust its fit on his foot. “It is better to vear zis style now. They are hard, da?” He raps on the toe.

James looks from his foot to Pavel’s feet and sees that Pavel is already wearing this supposedly better kind of boot. “So… all men in the castle will have them?” At least he won’t be embarrassed.

“And some of ze women!”

The prince sputters. “What?”

Pavel makes a face. “Though it does not look good with ze dresses. I think Lady Uhura wants to change zhem too. Lots of fabric is good in winter but is uncomfortable ze rest of ze year.” He forces James’ other foot into the second boot and laces it up. “Now, vhere I come from, it is cold all year and everyone vears fur. Even little ones.”

James is stuck at imagining a mode of female fashion which does not involve an abundance of brocade, lace, and ruffles. “What does Spock think?”

“He is smart. He says one does not have an opinion when ze ladies decide vhat zey are going to do.”

James turns his laugh into a series of coughs. Pavel stands up and retrieves a golden cloak, which he settles about the prince’s shoulders. James catches the clasp, shaped like an arrowhead, and fastens it at his neck.

“Thank you, Pavel. I had better go, or I will be late to meet my exceptionally smart steward.”

“Good luck,” offers the young man.

James pauses at the door. He looks down and stomps his left foot several times. “Huh. They aren’t as uncomfortable as they look. Send word to Sulu that these will be mandatory for guards too.”

“I can do zat,” declares Pavel, and follows the prince from the room.

~~~

Even constant companions can seem wholly unimaginative after a long period of time spent together. Thus James is walking the length of the castle by himself in search of unusual entertainment. In theory there should be no place he cannot go, so when he comes upon a hall of forgotten rooms far from the guest quarters, he has to know what is inside them. But none of the rooms prove to be as interesting as he had hoped, some containing old children’s toys, others completely bare. He walks on.

He finally encounters a door which he knows has a history behind it, courtesy of his having memorized the layout of the castle grounds. He rattles the handle of the door several times, for it is locked, and when that does nothing contemplates kicking it down.

Property damage, the prince nearly recalls too late, has to be reported. He lowers his foot, having no desire for yet another unfortunate conversation with Spock.

There is little choice: James catches a hold of the nearest footman and asks him where the key to the door is.

The footman does not seem to understand the question at first. He says, somewhat stupidly, “Sire?”

James tamps down on his frustration. “This door must be locked by mistake.”

The young man starts to nod.

“Therefore we will unlock it, and then go through it.”

The nodding quickly changes to head shaking. “Nobody uses that door!”

The prince narrows his eyes. “How else am I to make my way to the south tower?”

“But the south tower is condemned!”

“I have business at the south tower.”

“You couldn’t possibly!”

How many times must he explain his rationale to this poor man? “Listen—” James tries again, circling an arm around the man’s shoulders and drawing him closer. “Riley, right?”

“Kevin Riley, sire.”

“Riley, I understand your apprehension completely. The steward is a frightening man. He scares me too, especially when I think I’m all alone, and he steps out of a dark corner the way he loves to do.”

“He does that,” agrees Kevin. “A lot.”

“The truth is,” continues James, barely suppressing a wicked smile, “Spock’s hiding in that corner. His people are very shy by nature.”

Kevin eyes him dubiously. “Not that I’m claiming to believe you… but what does that have to do with breaking the rules?”

James grins. “Everything. Sometimes rules are made to be broken, especially the rules that make no sense. I don’t think Spock has a good reason to keep us out of the south tower. I think he’s simply avoiding what he doesn’t know. So what I’m going to do is this: take a peek, come back and report what I find. Then he’ll feel much better about it all.” James adds, after no sign of understanding appears on Kevin’s face, “Don’t you trust me?”

The footman nods. “Sure, I do. I just… the plan doesn’t seem… I mean, I don’t know what it is that bothers me,” he goes on to explain, “except that I have to wonder what will happen when your plan doesn’t work.”

“It will,” James says in his most confident voice. “Now get me that key.”

Footmen often aren’t given choices. They know this. Kevin sighs. “The Keeper would have it.”

“Then get me the Keeper,” the prince amends and releases his hold on the young man.

Shaking his head as if he cannot believe what he is about to do, Kevin runs off to complete his errand.

~~~

The Keeper is the slowest man in existence but he is also funny and makes James forget in an instant his ire at being kept waiting. The man shows up alone, no footman in sight.

“So ye be wanting to go in there?” he questions James, lifting up a large iron ring of keys into a slant of sunlight and sorting through the keys slowly. “Does the steward know about this by chance?”

James crosses his arms. “In other castles is a prince’s authority questioned so much?”

“Doubt it. Only yours,” the man replies.

The prince’s mouth twitches. “Was that a joke?”

“Wasn’t supposed to be.”

The men look at each other. One starts to chuckle. The other follows suit.

The Keeper extends a hand. “We’ve met before, ‘course, but it’s good to see ye again. You call me Scotty.”

James shakes the proffered hand. “Nice to meet you—again.”

“Same.”

James returns his arms to their formerly crossed position. “All right, Scotty, so where’s that key?”

“Well now, hold your horses!” The man mutters something under his breath about princes and bloody impatient as ever.

James chooses to ignore the complaint.

After Scotty locates the correct key and the door is unlocked, they still have to set their shoulders against it and push because the hinges are stiff from disuse. James sticks his head into the opened passageway and inhales the stale air. He look down, sees worn, chipped steps and dark beyond the stone. Along the inner wall is an old torch stick leaning sideways in a cobwebbed holder. He grabs it and brings it into the daylight of the larger corridor.

Scotty eyes the torch, shaking his head. “That cloth is too old. It’ll burn up ‘fore you can take three steps.” He opens a satchel attached to his belt and pulls out an instrument James has never seen before. They trade.

“What is it?” the prince asks, intrigued as he turns the object over in his hand.

“I fiddle with things in my spare time. It’s like a little lantern in your hand. Once the wick is lit, the mirror inside directs the light of the flame. Just point it where ye want to see.”

“That’s remarkable!” James exclaims.

Scotty looks pleased. “Aye.”

James use the fire from a taper in a nearby wall sconce to light the tiny lantern.

Scotty warns him, “Now be sure ye dinnae drop it or accidentally blow out the flame while mucking about in dark places. And dinnae,” the man emphasizes, “tell anyone I saw you off without an armed guard. I fancy keepin’ my head.”

When James points out that he used to be a captain of a guard and it’s very likely he knows how to take care of himself, Scotty snorts. The prince is not certain what is so amusing about the truth.

The Keeper gives him one last look, then jingles the ring of keys in his hand. “Well, what are ye waiting for, lad?” he asks, still amused. “Ye won’t get another head start!”

Clearly this Scotty is a man after his own heart, James thinks. He hurries through the open door and begins his exploration of forbidden ground.

~~~

James stays on the main passageway although it branches on occasion into tiny alcoves and other darker side passages. When he begins to question how much farther he has to go, he comes to a set of stairs that fan out from a central core of stone and circle upward. He climbs them slowly, panting a bit, until he meets a door. It isn’t locked or barred from the inside.

The tower chamber is empty, covered in a thick layer of dust. He stirs some of it up as he moves forward. In the corner lies a disheveled pallet, as if the person who used it had had to abandon it suddenly. The linens are yellow with age.

A single window overlooks the hillside and lower rampart. For a reason no one can discern, the south side of the hill barely has grass, looking for all intents and purposes like it bears a permanent scar from a long-ago battle. James doesn’t linger at the tower window, feeling like a trespasser in an old story. He blames his uneasiness on the cold wind that whistles through the gaps in the stone.

The mystery here is no more interesting than the other forgotten rooms. James stirs the pallet with his boot, disappointed. A mouse scurries out. He starts back toward the open door.

Something stops him by giving a light tug on the back of his doublet.

Breath caught in his throat, James stays very still for a long time. Finally, when nothing else happens, he forces himself to turn around and lifts the little lantern chest-high. The room is empty, save the pallet and the mouse. James shivers without meaning to.

It had to have been the wind or his imagination. Maybe some combination of both.

He releases his breath and strides to the doorway. His feet have barely touched the threshold when he feels the distinct depression of a hand into the center of his back. He leaps forward with a yelp, unthinking, and misses the first and second stair, landing to totter on the edge of the third.

Clinging to the stone wall with stiff fingers, he rights his footing and prays more fervently that whatever is behind him—the ghost (because it had had a hand, a hand!)—doesn’t push him down the remainder of the stairs.

He starts to edge downward one step at a time until his sense of urgency is too great to ignore and plunges the rest of the way to the base of the tower. There, he leans in the passageway and just breathes, arms and legs shaking.

It’s a foolish thing to believe in supernatural forces, he has always thought. Yet now, faced with little possible explanation for his experience, he doubts he could ever think that way again. No wonder the south tower has been abandoned!

“I have a haunted castle,” he half-laughs, half-giggles.

Adventure over, James cradles Scotty’s lantern in both hands and hurries back the way he came along the passage. To his great relief, he soon hears the sound of people approaching from the opposite direction, or what he hopes are living people, and calls out, “Here!” He knows his assumption is right when he sees the faint glow of a torch.

A group of guards come into sight, Sulu leading them. The fire of their torches deepens the red of the dye of their new uniforms. Sulu lowers his sword and quickens his pace when he recognizes James.

“Sire!” Sulu calls out, voice sharp. “Are you all right?”

James assures the man he is and admits, chagrined, “I would love to get out of here. I think I met a ghost.”

One of the guards almost drops his torch. He starts looking around a bit wildly.

Sulu’s grim expression turns grimmer. “You shouldn’t have come here alone, not without someone for protection.”

James is ready to agreed for the sake of speeding the conversation along when Sulu adds, “Spock has reassigned me as your personal guard. From now on where you go, I do too.”

He bursts out with “No!”, appalled by the idea that they want him leashed like a wayward child.

Sulu says, “It’s done.”

All emotions flee James except one: a deep, fiery anger. “It isn’t done,” he says in a tone that has some of the guards recoiling, “because I’m recalling the order.”

Before anyone can argue, the prince pushes past the group and stalks toward the end of the passage and the door he had been foolish enough to open.

Spock, that utter fool.

Who is the highest-ranking? Who is the commander of the men? Who holds the ultimate responsibility for every life given into his service?

The prince does, and no amount of rule-citing or righteous logic will change that!

He doesn’t realize he has been muttering to himself in his fury until someone catches at his arm and halts his progress through the castle.

“What?” James snaps in the guardsman’s face.

He and Sulu are alone. If anyone sees them squaring off in the middle of the corridor, they go back the way they came.

“You’re angry,” Sulu says, an obvious statement which prompts causes James’ nostrils to flare at the insult. “I tried to tell you before, you don’t understand the rules we’re operating under. It’s Spock’s job to keep you safe, as it is mine.”

“Do you think I’m a child?”

“No.”

“Then what,” James grates out, “is the problem? I have been tolerant of the excessive concern and the fragile treatment and even the vague explanations that accompany both. I have allowed the distractions. But if each of you feels you must continue to act this way, then I am not your liege.”

Sulu’s mouth flattens in distress.

“You would never treat a man you respected that way. You would never cage me,” James finishes, and walks away.

This time Sulu does not follow him.

~~~

The prince takes his meals in the privacy of his room for the next two days. Pavel looks at him with a troubled expression, which means word has spread quickly of his public outburst. That may be the reason the steward keeps his distance for the time being, or it may be that Spock intends to see how long James can bear his grudge.

He swears he will bear it forever.

A prince’s duty, however, will not wait that long. On the third day he dresses in his best outfit for the weekly council meeting he has taken to attending on his own. He is prepared to face the surreptitious glances and whispering behind hands.

But he is not prepared to be told the meeting is cancelled.

“What?” he says, astonished, after being informed.

The little man, a scholar, who delivered the news blinks at him from behind owlishly round glasses. “Sir, I mean, sire, a thief stole into the stables last night and let loose all the horses. Took two of the best breed.”

James sucks in a breath. “Why was I not told of this?”

The scholar gives a halfhearted shrug. “I’m sorry. I have no clue. I only know our meeting is postponed while the steward and the captain of the guard investigate the matter.”

James goes to the steward’s study. It is empty. Then he goes to the guard house. No one can give him a direction in which to pursue Sulu. Frustrated, he heads to the stables. Everything appears in order, except that the horses restlessly shake their manes after having their freedom curtailed. There is little else to do beyond returning to his chambers.

He does, and there he paces. His manservant abandons whatever chore he was doing to watch the prince stalk back and forth across the room.

“Vhat can I do?”

“Nothing,” James tell him, reply too terse to be considered polite. Immediately, he regrets his tone and amends, “I just, I would rather be alone to think.”

Pavel’s gaze drops to the floor.

James bites the inside of his cheek and adds, “But not that I mean to kick you out.” An idea comes to him. “Would you do me a favor?”

The young man brightens. “Yes!”

“Go to the library and fetch me a book on…” He doesn’t want a book and looks around the room for a subject. His gaze falls on the view beyond the balcony, and he finishes with “Maps! A book of maps.”

Pavel bows, although his expression means he believes this to be a somewhat dubious task, and leaves to do as asked.

James waits until the moment he feels Pavel must be far enough away, then steals some of the young man’s garments from the antechamber and disappears into the corridor himself.

If there is a thief on the grounds, he will catch him!

~~~

Slipping out of the castle unnoticed is more difficult than James anticipated. He has to bribe a pretty chambermaid named Janice with a kiss on the cheek so she won’t say she saw the crown prince sneaking down the back stairs of the servants’ quarters. He causes a ruckus in a vegetable patch after tripping over a hog (who is also not supposed to be among the vegetables) and has to run away from a kitchen harpy with a broom, cloak thrown over his head to disguise his face. Finally he manages to find a gap in a hedgerow between the patch and an outer garden mainly used to grow herbs.

He notices the sky is a solid gray, and the air has a hint of rain. He had better hurry then.

James is near the rampart, inspecting the ground for hoof-prints, when two guards come into sight. James turns his back to them, suddenly aware of how suspicious a man on his own may look to already paranoid people, and searches about desperately for a reason to be where he is. Farther along a stone path is a cluster of casks, most turned onto their sides. He knows that each morning kitchen boys roll them to the well for water.

Drawing up the hood of his brown cloak, he hurries to one empty cask and starts rolling it across the open ground in the direction of where he thinks the well should be. It isn’t long before his muscles burn from the exertion and he has to slow his pace to catch his breath. The guards stride past his panting, struggling form as if he is invisible. In that moment James has a new respect for the kitchen boys.

He finishes rolling the cask to the well, thinking that there is good in saving someone half the task and a great deal of lower back pain. Limping now, he moves toward the gate opening to the lower grounds, which house the market well as a few inns and taverns for travelers. It is quite not a town, but it has a distinct ebb and flow of its own.

James doesn’t remember it.

He hears the rattle of a wagon behind him and moves out of its path, expecting it to pass him by. Instead the wagon stops, and its driver leans around the reins in his hands to ask, “Need a ride, son?”

James nods, and he is told to hop into the wagon bed, which he does, trying his utmost not to dislodge any turnips or cabbages. He keeps his head bowed low as they pass through the gate. At one point, the wagon halts again and the driver has an amiable conversation with a guard. The way they speak to each other, casual and friendly, implies they are acquaintances, maybe friends. James has to wonder if the driver is a farmer of an outland who delivers every season to the royal kitchen. It could possibly explain why the guard forgoes a close inspection of the wagon and its strange occupant. But whatever the reason, he is grateful not to be questioned.

James calls, “I’ll get off here,” when the wagon rolls abreast of a tavern and without waiting for a reply jumps down from the bed.

The horse neighs as the driver pulls the wagon up short; he turns, his weathered face beneath his hat showing surprise, no doubt at having lost his guest so soon. Then the man shakes his head, somewhat sadly. “Don’t waste all yer coin,” he admonishes James, and picks back up the reins. The wagon lurches and goes on its way.

If only his days were as simple as spending too much money in a tavern, James thinks. He snorts, vaguely amused, and lifts his head as much as he dares to get a good look at his surroundings.

Now where would a horse thief on the run from royal guards hide? Most places seem too obvious. James walks a little ways.

He is beginning to think he has set himself on a wild goose chase until he spies a structure in the distance that gives him pause. If the thief is clever—and thieves usually are—it would be the perfect spot to go to ground. Pleased with his deduction, James heads in that way.

The chapel is ramshackle, the walls and altar inside unadorned. There is a single wooden bench on either side of the open room, and the only clean spot is a strip of stone floor in front of the altar where people go to kneel in prayer.

James perches on the end of a bench and faces the altar, huddling into his cloak like a beggar would in the rain. He had not expected the chapel to be empty and tries to guess at the whereabouts of its caretaker. Is there a side room? A small stable? A cellar under his feet?

The chapel is too plain to have any of these things. This may have been a mistake after all.

James’ thoughts turn gloomy, as they had in his bed chamber while Pavel watched him pace.

He can think of only one reason why Spock did not tell him of the theft, and that is because Spock thinks he has no value in such situations. To catch this thief would have proven otherwise, or so he had convinced himself.

“What have I ever done,” he whispers to the altar, “to become this… this useless figurehead? Is it that I don’t know who I am, and they do and seek to change what they know?”

“I never thought of you as a praying man,” a voice says from behind him. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, given all you’ve been through.”

James stills in the motion of turning around, realizing that his face must not be seen. He clears his throat and faces forward again, bowing his head in a manner he hopes does pass for praying.

He feels a shock course through him when the newcomer sits down right beside him.

“I had wondered if you would come.”

“Oh?” James murmurs, wondering what the trick is. “If you know me, then you must also know I am usually late.”

The man chuckles, but the chuckle doesn’t sound right, happy.

Beyond the curve of his cloak’s hood, James can see a pair of hands, one of them bearing a ring on the smallest finger. The clothes and boots are nondescript, hinting at no profession or social class.

James is fairly certain he has never encountered this person before.

“Jim,” the man says abruptly, “don’t you know it’s me?”

He can’t answer to someone else’s name, so he stays quiet.

“Jim,” the voice grows sharper, more urgent, “please. Say something!”

“My name,” he mutters, “is James.”

There is a sharp inhale. Then, “I was afraid you would say that.”

A tingle starts across the back of James’ neck, causing the fine hairs to stand on end.

“You know,” the man continues on, as if silence is an invitation to speak, “memory loss is more common than you think when… when a traumatic event happens.”

What? James struggles not to voice his disbelief that he’s been identified so quickly. Goosebumps rise around his arms.

“The brain has to cope somehow. Combined with lack of oxygen, shock, prolonged pain, radiation—”

“I want you to stop talking,” James orders more flatly than he intends.

The words stutter to a stop.

“In a moment I will stand up, and I will leave this place. You will not follow me.”

As if his command hadn’t had the makings of a threat, a hand drops down to cover the top of James’, colder than his own. He reacts belatedly, jerking away and jumping to his feet, wishing with a sudden fierceness he had brought some weapon, even hidden a small dagger in his boot. James takes a step away from the bench and the man and mentally prepares himself to fight.

Except the person does not move.

James looks down at him and sees the stranger’s face for the first time.

The eyes hold too much sadness, too much raw pain—and too much knowledge of who James really is.

“I’ve been waiting a long time,” he says, and James is unable to look away. “Please, Jim, don’t go.”

“Who are you?”

The man does not answer, only inhales as if he cannot believe the prince does not know.

“Who?” James asks again.

“Leonard,” the man answers at last. “Leonard McCoy.” He sounds defeated. “There’s no easy way to say this…”

James fists his hand against his chest, where his heart suddenly starts pounding. “Don’t tell me,” he blurts out.

Sympathy is in those eyes now, along with the sadness and the pain. “Kid, I’ve got to.”

He’s going to throw his hand over the man’s mouth. He’s going to hit him. He’s going to—

“You’re—”

He doesn’t have to do anything. The door to the chapel flies open.

A shadow spills in, reaching to the altar and beyond. A second shadow appears, and then another. Beyond the doorway, the world is drenched in rain.

“Sir,” Spock says, standing at the front of a group of men, “you are needed. We found the thief.”

James starts forward at the news, forgetting his panic. He demands, “Where?”

Sulu joins Spock at the door. “He was escorted to the dungeon. There will be a trial.”

“We need you,” they reiterate.

James draws in a breath and nods, walking toward them. He is almost free of the chapel when he remembers to turn back to the bench and Leonard.

But he need not have. No one is there.

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