It was a thunderclap to his senses. I’m in Mercia. Baldy and Castell were still arguing, but their voices sounded tinny and distant, as if he were hearing them from a great distance. There was a distant buzzing in his ears and so Harold took great big breaths, inflating his diaphragm until it pressed against his ribs. With each breath, he felt his heart slow down and the rush of blood against his temples subside. With this newfound calmness came a second revelation.

I’m not in my own body.

He had missed it earlier in the darkness and commotion, but he was sure that he had never been quite so muscular. Or so tall. The little aches and pains- the slackening of the waist- the unease in his lower back- they were gone. And what had that knight called him again? 'Your highness'?

The Mercian court referred to princes with that appellation but never to a king. So Harold was in the body of one of the king's paternal relatives. Or an in-law who'd married into the family? Well, Harold considered, that placed him before the start of his novel as by then most of the royalty had been dead for years. Which did explain why he hadn’t recognized Sir Castell or even the clan by that name. The Castells must be minor nobility, then, one of the faceless many that made up the prized ranks of Mercian knighthood.

Harold couldn’t help the grin that drew itself across his new face. How many times had he daydreamed about situations like this? Now even the universe agreed that he was meant for more than rotting away, mired in debt and regrets. But, first, I should figure out exactly when in the timeline I am.

He picked himself up off the maid, taking a moment to help her preserve her modesty. The guards had formed a semi-circle behind Sir Castell and Baldy. Harold thought they looked for all the world like idle spectators to a schoolhouse brawl. At least they aren't egging for a fight.

It was a small mercy, because it looked like a fight was going to erupt regardless. Sir Castell had his hand on the pommel of his sword, his grip tight and bloodless. Baldy seemed unarmed, but Harold spied his hand creeping towards a leather pouch. They were still speaking; Baldy was baiting the young knight until Harold felt the latter might do something rash.

“Silence.” Harold spoke, but neither Baldy nor Castell noticed, so intent were they on each other. The guardsmen, too, either didn't hear or chose to ignore his command. All save one blond, who nodded and began jostling through the crowd to try and get to his feuding leaders.

Harold saved him the effort. “Silence!” he shouted, and there was nothing regal in his voice. Still, it had the desired effect: Castell and Baldy shut up. Harold hoped they would realize what a disgraceful display they'd been putting on.

Really, Harold grimaced, what the hell was the former owner of his body doing?  He, at least, knew the importance of discipline and a clear chain of command. If the leaders were lax and argumentative, then the rank-and-file would be too. His royal bodyguards being so sloppy didn’t bode well for his life expectancy.

The command was as if he had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over both Castell and Baldy. Both men turned and kneeled, slamming their fists against the cool stone floor. Harold found himself nodding. At least they-

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“As your Highness commands!” shouted Sir Castell.

“As your Highness commands!” repeated Baldy, not to be outdone.

Never mind. Harold sighed, resting his face against his palm. Looks like they have problems following even simple orders. I need to do something about this, pronto, before I end up dead. Or worse. He had half a mind to dismiss them from his service right then and there, but instead waved his arm. “Leave.”

They trooped out without protest. With them left the torches, and Harold found himself alone, save for the maid.

“You, maid.”

Harold could feel her flinch. “Your highness?” Her voice was high and unsteady, wobbling on the edge of tears. He couldn’t blame her.

Harold hadn't lain a finger on her with any malicious intent. But by sundown tomorrow, everyone would know of their alleged tryst. Optimistically, eavesdroppers and spies would leak this salacious bit of gossip. Far more likely, someone from his sorry excuse for a royal guard would blab.

And Harold did mean everyone. If this was anything like the Mercia that he’d created, then the news would spread like wildfire from the lowliest scullery maid to the high ministers of state.

Anything that could undermine a possible contender for the throne usually did.

“I apologize. I had mistaken you for an armed assailant.”

The maid remained silent. Harold knew why and his brain added the sarcastic ‘yeah right’ that she hadn’t said. That she couldn’t say, unless she fancied having her head chopped off in front of a jeering crowd for insulting his dignity and honor. The silence stretched.

“Maid?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“What is my name?” There was a bit of a pause, and Harold could picture the question marks flying about her head. Was she wondering whether he had gone mad? Or perhaps she thought this was some sick game?

She replied gamely, “Your highness is Prince Dieter. Son of the maiden Merriam, may her spirit forever frolic with the gods.” Aha! thought Harold. So he was in the body of his main character. He had suspected as much, given his last thoughts before waking up in this world. There was another pause, but Harold let it go on, hoping for her to spill more details. “Your highness is the grand-nephew of his Majesty King Priam IV, the-”

Lord above, I’m completely screwed.

Harold didn’t hear the rest. His mind reeled as he put the pieces together and realized when he had transmigrated into this other body. Priam IV had seized the throne after the death of Dieter’s father. The old man's reign had been brief and tumultuous and its end had sparked a succession crisis unparalleled in brutality and bloodshed. This era, called the Reign of Blood, had been so devastating to the Mercian royal family that none had survived except Dieter, his siblings, and his childless uncle. 

Harold felt a bitter lump in his throat. Dieter and his brothers had survived the Reign, yes, but they’d survived because they hadn't fought- they had fled. Their childless uncle had sheltered them. The man was shiftless and unambitious, but his one virtue was his love for family.  And so they had waited out those dangerous years, watching impotently as their dynasty cannibalized itself in an orgy of blood and slaughter. With the ascension of the tyrannical Victor I, there had been hope for peace. For healing desperately needed. But the Tyrant instead chose to tear apart the battered kingdom, hunting foes both real and imagined. Then had led to the fateful day, when rebellious nobles offered to make their uncle a king.

Was it any wonder that Mercia had fallen? Ruled by a usurper, chaos, a tyrant and a dunce, a once-proud kingdom had become easy pickings. 

That was why Harold knew he couldn't follow in the footsteps of his main character. Couldn't let his character's brothers talk him into waiting out the coming storm. The Reign of Blood had done much to weaken Mercia. More, in Harold's opinion, than the devious schemes and plots of opportunistic powers.  If he was serious about being a great king, this would have to be his crucible. But did he value that over his life?

“You are dismissed,” he said finally, and the maid took it as her cue to curtsy and hurry away, leaving him to think in the somber darkness.