As he paced and paced, the night growing late, finally, slowly, he began to calm. Just as he was beginning to feel himself, preparing to settle in for the night, there came a sudden crash, and he turned to see his door burst open. In burst Firth, wide-eyed, frantic, rushing into the room as if he were being chased.
“He’s dead!” Firth screamed. “He’s dead! I killed him. He’s dead!”
Firth was hysterical, wailing, and Gareth had no idea what he was talking about. Was he drunk?
Firth ran throughout the room, shrieking, crying, holding up his hands—and it was then that Gareth noticed his palms, covered in blood, his yellow tunic, stained red.
Gareth’s heart skipped a beat. Firth had just killed someone. But who?
“Who is dead?” Gareth demanded. “Who do you speak of?”
But Firth was hysterical, and could not focus. Gareth ran to him, grabbed his shoulders firmly and shook him.
“Answer me!”
Firth opened his eyes and stared, with the eyes of a wild horse.
“Your father! The King. He’s dead! By my hand!”
At his words, Gareth felt as if a knife had been plunged into his own heart.
He stared back, wide-eyed, frozen, feeling his whole body go numb. He released his grip, took a step back, and tried to catch his breath. He could see from all the blood that Firth was genuine. He could not even fathom it. Firth? The stable boy? The most weak-willed of all his friends? Killed his father?
“But…how is that possible?” Gareth gasped. “When?”
“It happened in his chamber,” Firth said. “Just now. I stabbed him.”
The reality of the news began to sink in, and Gareth regained his wits; he noticed his open door, ran to it, and slammed it shut, checking first to make sure no guards had seen. Luckily, the corridor was empty. He pulled the heavy iron bolt across it.
He hurried back across the room. Firth was still hysterical, and he needed to calm him. He needed answers.
He grasped him by the shoulders, spun him, and back-handed him hard enough to make him stop. Finally, Firth focused on him.
“Tell me everything,” Gareth ordered coldly. “Tell me exactly what happened. Why did you do this?”
“What do you mean why?” Firth asked, confused. “You wanted to kill him. Your poison didn’t work. I thought I could help you. I thought that was what you wanted.”
Gareth shook his head. He grabbed Firth by the shirt and shook him, again and again.
“Why did you do this!?” Gareth screamed.
Gareth felt his whole world crumbling. He was shocked to realize that he actually felt remorse for his father. He could not understand it. Just hours ago, he’d wanted more than anything to see him poisoned, dead at the table. Now the idea of his being killed struck him like the death of a best friend. He felt overwhelmed with remorse. A part of him had not wanted him to die after all—especially not this way. Not by Firth’s hand. And not by a blade.
“I don’t understand,” Firth whined. “Just hours ago you tried to kill him yourself. Your goblet plot. I thought you would be grateful!”
To his own surprise, Gareth reached back and smacked Firth across the face.
“I did not tell you to do this!” Gareth spat. “I never told you to do this. Why did you kill him? Look at you. You are covered in blood. Now we are both finished. It is only a matter of time until the guards catch us.”
“No one saw,” Firth pleaded. “I slipped between the shifts. No one spotted me.”
“And where is the weapon?”
“I did not leave it,” Firth said proudly. “I’m not stupid. I disposed of it.”
“And what blade did you use?” Gareth asked, his mind spinning with the implications. He went from remorse to worry; his mind raced with every detail of the trail that this bumbling fool might have left, every detail that might lead to him.
“I used one that could not be traced,” Firth said, proud of himself. “It was a dull, anonymous blade. I found it in the stables. There were four others just like it. It could not be traced,” he repeated.
Gareth felt his heart drop.
“Was it a short knife, with a red handle and a curved blade? Mounted on the wall beside my horse?”
Firth nodded back, looking doubtful.
Gareth glowered.
“You fool. Of course that blade is traceable!”
“But there were no markings on it!” Firth protested, sounding scared, his voice trembling.
“There are no markings on the blade—but there is a mark on the hilt!” Gareth yelled. “Underneath! You did not check carefully. You fool,” Gareth said, stepping forward, reddening. “The emblem of my horse is carved underneath it. Anyone who knows the royal family well can trace that blade back to me.”
He stared at Firth, who seemed stumped. He wanted to kill him.
“What did you do with it?” Gareth pressed. “Tell me you have it on you. Tell me that you brought it back with you. Please.”
Firth swallowed.
“I disposed of it carefully. No one will ever find it.”
Gareth grimaced.
“Where, exactly?”
“I threw it down the stone chute, into the castle’s chamber pot. They dump the pot every hour, into the river. Do not worry, my lord. It’s deep in the river by now.”
The castle bells suddenly tolled, and Gareth turned and ran to the open window, his heart flooded with panic. He looked out and saw all the chaos and commotion below, mobs surrounding the castle. Those bells tolling could only mean one thing: Firth was not lying. He had killed his father. He could scarcely believe it.
Gareth felt his body grow icy cold. He could not conceive that he had set in motion such a great evil. And that Firth, of all people, had executed it.
There came a sudden pounding at his door, and as it burst open, several royal guards rushed in. For a moment, Gareth was sure they would arrest him.
But to his surprise, they stopped and stood at attention.
“My Lord, your father has been stabbed. There may be an assassin on the loose. Be sure to stay safe in your room. He is gravely injured.”
The hair rose on the back of Gareth’s neck at that last word.
“Injured?” Gareth echoed, the word nearly sticking in his throat. “Is he still alive then?”
“He is, my lord. And god be with him, he will survive, and tell us who did this heinous act.”