Forgiven, But Not Reconciled

I knelt before the Queen, not daring to meet her gaze. My sword, its comforting weight rarely far from my reach, had been surrendered with my horse a league from the palace. I had shed my armor and finery, donned on sackcloth, and walked in the presence of a company of her loyal knights, barefoot.

“Your Grace, I was wrong. I took up arms against you and your realm. I burned, I fought, I slew.” My voice, barely stronger than a whisper, still reverberated throughout the hall. I slid my ducal ring off my finger, offering it up. “I offer this back to you; I have forfeited the right to my lands.” A knight strode over, relieving me of it. “I am sorry.”

I heard the murmurs of many dozen of the nobility, some of whom had fought with me in the rebellion. An eternity passed before she spoke. I nearly recoiled with the bitterness and contempt she layered into her words. “You were my most trusted friend. You were my uncle's squire. I hosted you in many of my palaces and threw feasts in your honor. I lifted you from nothing to the heights of power. I should have had you executed. In truth, I don't know why I refrained from that; perhaps from some misplaced remnant of friendship. And you offer an apology, thinking that will set things right?”

The murmurs grew louder, with intermixed hisses joining their ranks.

“No, Your Grace.”

The hall went deadly silent once again. After a moment, I heard a light squeak emit from her high-backed golden throne. “No? You do not offer an apology? Explain yourself.” I gulped, but before I could start, she cut me off. “Look at your Queen.”

I reluctantly lifted my gaze. Her visage, ordinarily full of mirth, was twisted in rage and pain. I had never seen the intensity of her anger before. Not like this. Her gaze shattered the little that remained of my pride.

I trembled as I took a breath. “I do not know how to make it right. I do not know if it is possible to make it right, let alone restore any semblance of trust between us. I am more sorry than words can describe. I will bear any punishment you see fit.”

“I have pardoned many. I have jailed and worse to others.”

“I know, Your Grace.”

“You know what you are saying, then. You are putting everything, including your life, into my hands.”

I merely nodded, not trusting myself to speak. A lifetime of silence passed while her fingers drummed her armrest. My stare returned to the ground, my body inwardly bracing for her response.

“Why?”

She could no longer contain her even tone or her tears. Her voice broke into a half-sob and tears flowed down her face. I reluctantly met her gaze once again. The question, I knew, was not about my life.

“Because I thought someone else would have been a better monarch.”

Shouts of “traitor!” and “coward!” rang out as the assembled nobles jeered and mocked me. One of my rivals slapped me across the face with all his might, knocking me over. A knight shoved him away, but did not help me back up. I did not expect any. His slap was nothing compared to the grief and sorrow I felt in my heart.

“Enough!” She roared.

The nobles instantly went still. The Queen strode down the nine stone stairs in front of her throne. She took my hand in hers, pulling me up, before walking up and down the hall. “Many of you are exactly what you cast upon him: Cowards. Traitors. Oathbreakers. Many of you followed him, instead of me. In fact, had my brother and uncle not fallen in battle, I am certain I would have lost, been deposed, and in the same place as the accused is.”

The accused. Her verbal arrow pierced me to the quick.

“Many of you begged forgiveness, claiming you were blackmailed, tortured, bewitched, manipulated, or threatened. Others flocked to my banner only after the Battle of the Spur and my victory assured. Yet still some of you only found your courage in groups, not even daring to ask for my mercy alone. I hold all of you in contempt.

“The accused wrote to me in his own hand, stating his surrender. He did not come here in good dress or even shoes, let alone a horse. He walked barefoot for a league, not once asking for anything.” She fished out my letter to her from a pouch on her belt. “Not one of you is equal to one-fifth the respect I hold him, even now. He has neither lied nor sought to evade me. Unlike every single one of you, he has accepted the responsibility and weight of his actions, even publicly putting his life into my hands and surrendered his duchy to me without a thought.”

Pointing to my rival, she bellowed, “You, Lord Horatio, I find the most contemptible. You fought on my side not out of a sense of loyalty or fealty, but only for gain! You even disturb the peace within my hall!” No one dared to breathe, though a handful seemed to hate me even more. The Queen turned and faced me. “I understand why you joined the rebellion. Though you did not say it, I know it was an issue of honor and you truly believed that my brother would have made a better monarch for my realm.”

Her voice, despite the shaking and the infinite depth of pain, was full of resolve. “If that was your only crime, I might have pardoned you and restored you to your place at Court and in my council. I can forgive you for standing on what what you believe to be right and true, even against the Crown and a friend.” Her gray eyes swam in tears. “But your greatest crime was your treachery against a friend. You have lost my trust. You were my greatest confidant. You were my closest friend, but you became my gravest threat. For your actions, the law demands that you be drawn and quartered before being burnt at the stake. Yet I forgive and I pardon you.”

I was so shocked that it took me a few seconds to find my voice. “Your Grace, I do not deserve your mercy or your forgiveness.”

“No, you don't,” she agreed. “It is one week from Christmas, however, and I will do as Christ commands: to forgive.” She paused, weighing her words carefully. “But we are not reconciled. By the second Monday following the New Year, you are no longer welcome in my realm. The duchy you held in my name shall pass to your eldest son on the condition that he swears an oath of loyalty to me. I will make arrangements for you to live well for the rest of your years. Let this be your punishment: knowing that you have my respect and that I will provide a generous annual allowance for the rest of your years, but barred from my realm and with the knowledge I will only grant your children leave to visit you for a few weeks every year at Christmas.”

The pig-faced Lord Horatio's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. “Your Grace, you are rewarding him! You are encouraging others to do the same!”

Her mocking laugh rang throughout the hall. “Lord Horatio, you again betray your stupidity. Are you revealing that your loyalty is fickle? That you might try to rebel against my throne?” She waited a moment for his reply, but none came. “I forgive him because it allows me to move on. His apology is genuine and he has shown his honest contrition. We are not reconciled because the trust is broken and I will never be able to take him into my confidence once more. Nonetheless, his family is innocent and shall not suffer harm. Shall I investigate yours, Lord Horatio?”

The day of my departure, my eldest son swore his oath to the Queen, assuring he would uphold her laws and defend the realm. Despite my sorrow at being forced to leave, my heart swelled with pride knowing my son succeeded me. My life would be plainer, quieter, and duller, but I would at least be able to see him and write letters.

Decades later, the duke received leave from Her Grace to visit his father in summer. He was in poor health and declining quickly. The voyage, while smooth and quick, barely reunited the pair in time. The day after the son had come, the father drew his last breath. The duke made his way into his father's private study and sat in the high-backed, fine leather chair his father had. Absentmindedly, the Duke pulled out a drawer from the mahogany desk.

Thousands of letters were stuffed in the drawer, all addressed to the Queen. All were unopened and stamped with the same red message: “Rejected by Her Majesty the Queen. Return to sender.”

A lump formed in the duke's throat. His father never once spoke ill of Her Grace and admonished him for disagreeing with her judgment. His eye caught a parchment envelope under the desk. Unlike the others, it was unsealed. Taking the letter out, the duke read the last letter his father meant to send to her:

Your Grace,

The last many years have been agonizing. A more cruel punishment would have at least spared me this infinite suffering.

Your pardon and allowance have built the most elegant and unendurable prison. I deserve this pain and if not for Your Grace's mercy in letting me see my children once yearly, I suspect I would have walked into the sea by now.

I continue to pray for reconciliation with you. I accept your refusal to see my letters. I only wish to return and die in the land of my father and forefathers, where my children still dwell.

A lump formed in the duke's throat. His father never betrayed the depths of this pain that was with him daily. Whenever he joined his father for Christmas and the New Year, every dinner started with a toast to Her Grace's health. No slight or criticism of the Queen was ever tolerated. His father never betrayed the pain he must've felt, except for the tears silently shed as their ship cast off, ready for the voyage home.

The same sort of tears welled up in the son's eyes. For the first time in many years, he let himself lose control as undignified sobs racked his frame. His father, a joyous titan, a man spoken of with respect by all, was never free of the guilt he felt, was never free of the pain.

Forgiveness without reconciliation, the duke realized, was a half-life. Living life without restoration of friendship, the bond of trust, was torment.

He prayed his father's spirit found rest in the afterlife.