Charles could see over and over again the strange youth Henry appeared to kill. Like the most frighteningly tangible depths of a dream, the memory persisted with haunting reality. In his mind, the day King Henry sailed from Dunkirk had not diminished in its cold clarity. Was he being obsessed? Would a rational man turn aside? No, he thought no rational man could see what he had seen and ignore it. The duke closed his eyes and pressed hard against his forehead with his fingertips. His young wife had traveled all the way from Orleans for the occasion, but even she was turned away with nothing more than a distracted grunt when she called to him softly from the doorway. What passed for dignitaries in Dunkirk would no doubt be in the keep’s great hall wondering why the town’s conqueror was not yet in attendance at the evening’s festivities, and yet Charles felt no desire to join them. Setting aside the cryptic book in his hands, he rubbed on his thigh in an effort to revive the muscles, and he glanced at the fire thoughtfully. He had been reading for so long that the fire that had done such a dismal job of warming the chamber had gone out, and his legs were growing stiff and cold. He considered himself a literate man, but the letters on the parchment seemed perfectly designed to confound his senses, and the books were impenetrably dense. Alone in a small room, Charles was pushing with miserable determination through the scrolls and books piled on the desk. When any peasant of Dunkirk had cause to step onto the freezing streets, he would glance in terror at the star and hurry on his way.Ī squat keep near the harbor kept watch over the fearful town, its exterior covered with stale banners that gripped the stone in patches of icy azure or frozen gold, and within the unfortunate tower sat Charles, the Duke of Orleans.
The other stars seemed to shy away from that patch of sky, and none dared shine brighter than the sickly yellow prince. One such star glinted with a dull yellow light, and it winked and flickered gloomily low on the horizon. Icicles encrusted anything they could, making the houses of the town grin with frosty menace, and high above the sky was black except for the rare spot where a star twinkled through. Snowflakes fell in fragile silence, caking the cottages with a white so impermanent and clean that it seemed even speaking in its presence would sully its purity. Killing, a Throne let loose in a sea of menĬhristmas came to the port of Dunkirk like a secretive whisper, with the barest hint of fog crawling in from the sea. Draped on pale moonlight, and there you are