A March of Kings - By Morgan Rice Page 0,49
on each one. He could not help but feel as if each new matter was raised secretly as a rebuke to him, as a way to foil him, to highlight his lack of knowledge. He realized too quickly that he did not have the acumen or judgment of his father, or the experience to rule this kingdom. He was woefully unqualified to be making these decisions. And he knew, even as he made them, that all of his decisions were bad ones.
Above all, he found it hard to focus, knowing the investigation was still ongoing into his father’s murder. He could not help but wonder if, or when, it might lead back to him—or to Firth, which was as good as leading to him. He could not rest easy on the throne until he knew he held it securely. He prepared to set into motion a plan to frame someone else. It was risky. But then again, so was murdering his father.
“My Liege,” another council member said, each one looking more grave than the next. It was Owen, his father’s treasurer, and he looked down at the table as he spoke, squinting at a long scroll. The more he unrolled it, the longer it seemed to get.
“I’m afraid our treasury is near bankrupt. The situation is grave. I warned your father of this, but he did not take action. He did not want to raise a new tax on the people, or the Lords. Frankly, he did not have a plan. I presume he thought that somehow it would all work out. But it has not. The army needs to be fed. Weapons need to be repaired. Blacksmiths need to be paid. Horses need to be tended, and fed. And yet our treasury’s nearly empty. What do you propose we do, my lord?”
Gareth sat there, his mind swimming, wondering what to do. He had absolutely no idea.
“What would you propose?” Gareth asked back.
Owen cleared his throat, looking flustered. It seemed as if this were the first time a king had asked him his opinion.
“Well…my liege…I…um… I had proposed to your father that we raise a tax on the people. But he had thought it a bad idea.”
“It is a bad idea,” Earnan chimed in. “The people will revolt with any new taxes. And without the power of the people, you have nothing.”
Gareth turned and looked at the teenage boy seated to his right, not far from him. Berel, a friend of his, who he had grown up with, someone his own age; he was an aristocrat with no military training, but who was as ambitious and cynical as he. Gareth had brought in a small group of his own advisers, his friends, to help balance out the power here, and to have some advisers his own age. A new generation. It had not gone over well when they had arrived with Gareth, upsetting the old guard.
“And what do you think, Berel?” he asked.
Berel leaned forward, arching an eyebrow, and without pausing, said, in his deep, confident voice: “Tax them. Tax them triple. Make the people feel the yoke of your new power. Make them fear you. That is the only way to rule.”
“And how would you know what it means to rule?” Aberthol called out to Berel.
“Excuse me my liege, but who is this person?” Brom called out, equally indignant. “We are the King’s Council. And we never sanctioned any new councilmen.”
“The Council is mine to do with as I wish,” Gareth chided back. “This is one of my new advisers. Berel. And I like his idea. We will tax the people triple. We will fill our coffers, and even more, we will make the people suffer under the burden of it. Then they will understand that I am King. And that I am to be feared—even more so than my father.”
Aberthol shook he said.
“My Liege, I would caution against such a harsh response. Everything in moderation. Such a move is rash. You will alienate your subjects.”
“My subjects,” Gareth spat. “That is exactly what they are. And I will do with them as I wish. This matter is ended. What other matters are before me?”
The council members turned to each other and exchanged troubled glances.
Suddenly, Brom rose.
“My Liege, with all respect, I cannot sit on a council that does heed our advice. I sat on this council for years for your father, and I am here to serve you out of deference to him. But you are not my King.