To describe the process of transporting the King from the drawing room to his bedroom would be an exercise in tedium and absent ceremony. The three bearers remained silent as they walked the halls, assuming familiar positions. Jon was at the head of the King, pushing the trolley, Matthew was at his feet, pulling it when needed and Emeline, in a complete deviation from her station, was there to open doors and support where necessary.
The major obstacle was having to take the trolley up a flight of stairs (sadly, the service lift only went from the servants’ quarters in the basement to the ground floor), but it was surprisingly uneventful. They used the stairs in the entrance hall, where the King often greeted his guests. The food trolley got caught on the tartan rugs of the hall, but that was the only thing of note. The head of a stag, killed by the King himself up in the wilds near the castle, watched them from the wall as they prepared themselves.
Given that the staircase was wide and carpeted, with stairs slowly ascending, and the King was light, being thin and wiry, the three of them could easily lift the trolley off the ground and maneuver the thing upwards. The bend in the stairs was an incredible nonissue – providing a short respite for Jon, who was out of breath, despite the veritably light load. It was hard to recall, even for him, that he had been up since the early hours, working his heart out to prepare a dinner – a dinner that had now been grimly upstaged. It almost seemed ridiculous the amount of importance it had had on his life just this morning.
There was one thing that reminded Jon of the energy he was exuding, however. His limbs, his head, and his gut were all slowly throbbing in unison, trying to get their host to slow down. Jon wondered what the doctor would say if he could see him now – having been on his feet for over twelve hours, with no end in sight. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.
The odd procession came to the King’s bedroom soon enough, and entering without the express permission of the man seemed a foreign concept. Jon almost wanted to shout, refusing Emeline entry (as even a princess should knock) as the young woman opened the door. There was no exclamation from within, no raking over the coals for entry without admittance.
Matthew pulled the trolley across the shag carpet of the bedroom – a track it was never meant to be on – before stopping at the head of the four-poster bed. ‘Right then,’ he said grimly, and looked to his aunt, who was white with the knowledge of what they were to do. ‘You don’t have to do this. Jon and I can manage.’
Emeline shook her head, almost angrily at the thought that she would suffer the journey but not partake in the main event. She was crying softly – maybe she had never stopped.
‘Alright,’ Matthew said.
The three of them raised the King much as before, Emeline taking Crockley’s place, and carried him to the bed. When it was clear that Matthew and Jon could indeed handle the King’s weight on their own, Emeline went to the bed and pulled back the covers while Jon and Matthew placed him on it then covered him, so when they were done it almost was as though the King had merely slipped away in his sleep – if not for his expression. Once the job was done, the three of them stood there, somewhat haphazardly, looking to the King, as if this act was meant to give some clarity as to what to do next. Of course no revelation came – the King did not reveal to them a path forward. The situation was still cloudier than the marshes and colder than the deep snow piling outside.
Emeline’s sobs started to become audible – a pitter-patter of mourning softer than summer rain. ‘May I have a moment alone with my father, please.’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ Jon said, and Matthew nodded his head, adding a sadness to the motion that should not have been possible. The two of them made their way to the door, and whereas Matthew seemed eager to leave (merely a different method of grief), Jon paused at the door and chanced a look back.
Emeline had silently moved to the King’s side – her hand placed on his forehead as if checking him for a fever. She was openly crying now. Jon somehow knew exactly what Emeline was thinking – as it had just come to him too. In the transporting of the King, the three of them had ended Eric Windsor’s story. Whatever would happen now, on this most cursed of days, Eric himself would have no part in it. He had uttered his last dialogue, performed his last action – he was done. He could rest now.
Eric Windsor’s legacy would carry on forever. The mourning of the country had not even begun. The funeral would be grand and viewed worldwide. However, that did not matter to anyone in the room. They were something more – family, a friend, a mentor. No one else’s grief beyond these walls could touch any of the sorrow within.
‘Goodbye, Daddy. Thank you for everything,’ Emeline muttered at his side, before whispering something in his ear, filling his head with secrets and tears.
Jon left her alone to say her goodbyes as she should have been allowed. He went out into the corridor and shut the door as quietly as possible, but not before the Princess came into view one last time. There was something odd in her face now that she thought she was alone. Jon did not know what it was – and grief was a complex emotion. However, if Jon were forced to describe the look on Princess Emeline’s face, looking down at her dead father, he might even say it was one of relief.