The King entered and sat on the throne. The boy Prince entered as well a bit later. His eyes red and puffy, no doubt from crying in shame. The poetic justice here didn’t escape me. The real killer staring me down, but I couldn’t accuse the Prince of the murder he committed. I was a perfect scape-goat for Cyrus.
They would tar and feather me for even suggesting that. Prince Cyrus’ eyes met mine, and a smirk raced across his face. He knew he was getting off free for this and I was to take the fall. A thought of breaking the chains and strangling the boy shot through me, but I dismissed it.
“How do you plead?” The King asked, making me jump. My nerves frayed and I heard Helga yell an instant later,
“He’s guilty! My boy and I saw him murder a child! It’s not the first man he’s murdered, your highness.” That bitch. The wound from losing my brother had still yet to close, and here she was rubbing salt in the wound.
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At everyone willing to listen.
“Quite! Both of you, or else I’ll start lopping off heads.” As threatening as this sounded, it seemed as if this bored the King. I was about to die and the King, bored.
“Cyrus, this boy was your friend, was he not? What would you have me do with, oh what is your name again? Gerard?” The King looked over at his son. I didn’t deign to correct the King on the pronunciation of my name when my life hung in the balance. He could call me Bertha if it meant I was free to leave.
“I’d have him hanged father.” Panic shot through me at Cyrus’ squeaky