They whisper about me. Johan was sure of it, although he had never been able to catch anyone at it; but then, of course they would be careful about it, for was he not King? King of Norway and Sweden, King of Scots, King in all but name of Finland, the Wends’ and the Goths’ King… They had damn well better be careful.

Sometimes, when the whispers that he could not quite catch got too much for him, or he caught a meaningful glance out of the corner of his eye, or someone’s laughter cut off a little too abruptly – sometimes, he would go down, down, down, deep into the bowels of Edinburgh Castle. Away from the fine tapestried royal quarters, lifted up to catch what sun Scotland could offer; down through the kitchens, the armories, the servants’ quarters, down to where the chambers were hewn into the living stone of Castle Rock itself, where the rough walls breathed cold dampness and only his lantern gave light – for who was going to waste expensive lamp oil or good torches on prisoners? Not this guid Scot, at any rate; and besides, the dark beyond the flickering circle from his lantern was soothing.

These weren’t the Infamous Dungeons built by Gilpatrick and given their fearsome reputation by Trond; those were in Norway, empty now that the seat of government had moved across the North Sea. But some of the machinery was the same, moved by Johan’s order. The rack was the one that Trond had used to extract Tormod Jarl’s confession of treason, and then to execute the man. The ancient, stiff leather belt hanging in a place of honour in the corner was said to be the one Gilpatrick had used to tame Queen Åsta, although after a hundred years that seemed unlikely to Johan. More likely his prison warder was lying to him, or had himself been lied to; at any rate there was probably a lie involved somewhere, for why would Gilpatrick have attached any importance to any particular belt? But it comforted Johan to think that it might be true; so he left the belt where it was.

There were no whispers down here, for who would willingly visit? Most preferred to forget that the dungeons existed, and that only the King’s whim stood between them and the unending dark. Here, at least, there was silence, and Johan savoured it. Here he could be sure that any whispers he heard were only in his mind; the rats and the spiders cast no accusing glances. Down here he could reassure himself that the soldiers didn’t really mutter “brother-killer” when he passed by; and knowing that the voice he heard saying so could only be in his head, he could believe it, at least for a while.

Damn Gregoras, anyway! Johan would have been perfectly content as Jarl of wealthy Sjælland, if only his brother had shown the least understanding of how to lead Norsemen. But no; he was besotted with his Greek literature and “advisors” – men who had been broken in their home country, and had had good and sufficient reasons for fleeing to the cold North that they so despised. But Gregoras – bah! Greger would suffice, damn him; a good Norse name before he had Hellenised it – thought them the equals of Alexander’s generals, and had given them honours and land. He had slicked back his hair with perfumed oils, as they’d taught him, and listened to endless recitations of the Odyssey and the Iliad in Greek, while his hirdsmenn sighed in open boredom and the skalds who might have had them thumping fists on tables in time to the Deeds of Ragnvald fumed in corners.

Greek boy-lovers, and perfumed oil, and foreign rot in place of the sagas! Johan had told the man, but would he listen? Not unless it was in Greek, and laid out in a syllogism, and preferably a thousand years old at that! And the jarls had risen, just as Johan had said they would, and all the bloody dreadful work of the Years of Wolf and Raven to be done over again, for the sake of Greek poetry! It was not to be borne.

Not to be borne… but Johan had not meant him to die! Not his older brother whom he’d admired from the time he was old enough to make out one blond head from another! Only he could not be King, that much was clear; he’d break the realm apart; but let him live, let him have the estates and the income and the broad acres, and yes, let him spend it all foolishly on Greek books and perfume and bad advisors if he chose. Only the kingdom, the realm, only that Johan could not bear to see shattered; and they’d made peace, and Johan had even thought there was some relief in Greger’s – bah, Gregoras’s then, let him have whatever silly name he chose for himself – Gregoras’s face when he knelt to acknowledge Johan as King of Scots, King of Norway and Sweden, the Wends’ and the Goths’ king, all the highest titles. But not the jarldoms, not the cities and estates and farms; Gregoras could keep those, and manage them however he liked, and the realm would not break apart from it. And then had come the messenger with the word, of the “accident” with the ship, and what could Johan say? It really had been an overenthusiastic subordinate, and no order of his, but who would believe such a tale in the mouth of the man who’d just made himself king? (*)

But dead was dead and eaten was eaten; there was nothing for it but to put the best face on things. He’d confirmed his young nephew in the estates; if the lad grew up his enemy, and took revenge for his father… well, perhaps that would be no more than Johan deserved. And he’d learned to bear the whispers without flinching, and the glances, and the way conversations paused when he came within earshot… and after all, perhaps he was merely imagining things. His hirdsmenn had all proven their loyalty, and the servants were not given to opinions on the quarrels of the great lords. Perhaps it was only his guilt that made him see accusers everywhere.

Sometimes he thought of firing up the braziers, heating the irons, and oiling up the rack, and seeing what truth he could wring from his servants’ tongues with that encouragement. Let them scream what they’d been whispering – let them scream loud enough for all the castle to hear, and still the ceaseless gnawing rats at the back of his mind. He felt sure he could be easy in his mind, whatever they were saying of him, if only he could be certain of it. Once he’d gone so far as to light the brazier; but when the iron glowed it was his own skin he’d brought it near, watching with a sick fascination as the red tip came closer, closer, as though wielded by someone else… until he could stand the heat no more and thrust it away, yelling; but the pain of his blistered flesh had soothed him, had silenced the ghosts riding his shoulder for a week and more.

Sometimes he thought of penance, of the old leather belt, perhaps – could it really be Gilpatrick’s? – playing on his skin until he cried out with the pain of it; but who would treat a king so, and not gossip of it, later? Perhaps his wife, if only he dared to ask her… but it had been long since he even visited her bedchamber, and she had grown cold towards him. To whom can the King speak, when he is troubled in his soul?

Such are the burdens of kings.

(*) I switched characters after surrendering, and forgot to check whether the AI had been plotting against me. So, yes, it wasn’t by any intent of mine that Gregoras died.