The Bastard Prince

by Patty Jansen

  Nellie collected a pretty teapot and made the “fucking” tea in the midst of the chaos. She put the pot and a dainty cup on a tray and walked up the stairs, dodging servants coming down with empty trays, dodging drunks stumbling through the foyer, and breathing the fresh—if biting cold—air that came in through the open front doors. She pretended not to notice the young couple who stood hidden in the shadow of a pillar, their mouths glued to each other. A Guentherite monk—not Gerard—walked across the hall, money jingling in his pocket. He sauntered out the front door and relieved himself down the side of the steps.

  But by the time Nellie reached upstairs in the Regent’s private quarters, the noise had quietened to a background murmur, occasionally punctuated with a crash of tableware or loud laughter.

  She couldn’t wait for this whole circus to be over. The palace stood stiff with tension, people disliking each other, people accusing each other, people yelling at each other, people behaving badly. Something awful was bound to happen before sunrise.

  She knocked on Madame’s door.

  “Excuse me, here is your tea.”

  For a while, nothing happened. Nellie got angry that she pandered to this woman whose aim seemed to be to make the servants understand how little their time was worth.

  But then the door opened.

  Madame Sabine herself looked out. “Oh, it’s you. Come in.” She opened the door further.

  Nellie wasn’t sure what she had expected.

  Part of her expected to find Madame in tears about the events downstairs, whatever the Regent had said to her that had made her run out, with her face blotched and eye liner running down her cheeks.

  Another part expected Madame to have taken off the red dress and be in need of assistance with the corset.

  She had definitely not expected Madame to be dressed in a man’s chemise and trousers and a long coat, with her hair tied back so it looked as if it were short.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “Put the tea down and help me pack this chest.”

  Nellie crossed the room, sidestepping discarded clothes and piles of other items. Boots, a man’s hat, a raincoat.

  She set the tray on the table and helped pack the clothes and other items from the bed into a travel chest that stood on the floor.

  “Are you going for long?” And where was she going, anyway?

  Madame Sabine looked at her. “Tell me this—Cornelia, wasn’t it? If you had a husband like mine, would you feel inclined to stick around when he and his friends got drunk?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Of course you know, everyone knows. Don’t you think I haven’t heard the talk on the streets? My husband cares about me not a bit.”

  Nellie didn’t believe she had ever heard of Madame Sabine mingling with the citizens, let alone hearing the talk on the streets.

  Sometimes she rode her white horse through the streets, usually after dark. That horse would pull her coach on the rare occasions she went out during the daytime.

  “When my husband invites his fawning nobles and ridiculous priests to get drunk at the expense of this pathetic country that can’t afford it, I don’t want to be around, and he doesn’t want me around either. I wait out the debauchery out of town. I don’t want to have anything to do with my husband’s business or the nobles who fall on their knees to beg him for favours. Do they have no pride? Don’t they see that my husband himself is under the influence of these priests?”

  “But people will gossip about you.”

  “Let me tell you a secret: I don’t care. I don’t care about this town and the stupid nobles. I never asked to come to this ruddy palace.”

  Nellie stared into the fire, afraid to say something out of place.

  “You wonder why I came then, don’t you? I was happy in Burovia where I was not too far away from my family in Lurezia and could visit them. We have a nice comfortable house on a hill where we can see the deer darting at the forest edge. I have friends and business contacts there. But one day my dear husband comes along to say we’re moving to this place Saardam. I told him: who goes to Saardam? It’s a backward place. I asked him why and he said he’d been made Regent and it was a great opportunity for us. Well, what a great opportunity it has been. My husband still doesn’t get he’s a puppet leader. He says the nobility loves him. They do, but only when he feeds them. I bet as soon as he stops giving parties, they’ll turn around and kick him out. Those nobles get no say in the matter anyway.”

  No, ultimately, the decision about succession lay with the church, and they were taking their sweet time with it.

  “I have seen the letter from this shepherd where he said they wanted someone to step in while they figured out who was the most rightful heir to the throne. It wasn’t my husband, that has always been made clear, but the position was too hot for any of the real contenders to allow their rivals to take it. So: this stupid oaf who happens to be my husband takes it. Because he likes the pomp and the parties. He likes pretending. I don’t know why he still thinks the church will make him king. They have told him subtly and less subtly that they are not going to. But they’re also not making headway in picking a new king. Prince Clement from Burovia is married to a friend of mine. He’s one of the first in line, but he’s heard nothing about the succession. There are some Scandian royals claiming the throne because of Queen Cygna, but they’re not going to get in. Rumours are that the church can’t find the documents that Cygna signed that she and her family forfeited the right to lay claim on Saarland’s throne and assets—not that there are any of those. That’s the excuse those priests use, anyway. That they can’t find the documents. That they need ten years to search for them. Yet my husband can’t see that this is ridiculous. Why does he even want this town, in which every second person you meet in the street stinks of manure and every woman who calls herself civilised can only ogle at me? There is no culture here. Everyone is buttoned up to the chin, and so many women wear these ridiculous bonnets.”

  “Is my bonnet ridiculous?”

  Madame Sabine whirled around. “Yes!”

  Nellie gasped from the sudden outburst. She raised her hand and touched the offending piece of clothing. “Really?”

  “I understand why you wear it in the kitchen, because we would not want hair in our food, but when you go to the markets? You all look like you came from a nunnery. This town does not appreciate style. This town is a nunnery. You’re all so obsessed with this stupid church you can’t see you’re living like you’re dead already. Where is the colour, where is the music, where is the fun—no, don’t answer that. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I do understand.” Nellie knew she shouldn’t get angry—mind, she had told her young helpers this many times: don’t get involved, don’t answer back, they’re rich people and they are always right, even if they’re wrong. But she couldn’t help herself. “You’ve been here only a few years; you don’t know anything about us.”

  Madame Sabine gave her a shocked look. “What was that?”

  Nellie’s heart jumped. What had she done now?

  Madame Sabine took a step closer. “What did you say?”

  “I’m sorry. I . . .”

  Nellie wanted to run out of the room, down the stairs and back to the safe kitchen. Madame was still the Regent’s consort and what she said was law in the palace.

  Madame Sabine said slowly, “Your words were: you don’t know anything about us.”

  Nellie nodded and cringed. She had to force herself to look up from the floor. “I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “But you did. That is the first time any of you have said anything that’s not ‘Yes, Madame, I will do it immediately, Madame.’ It is astonishing, how a town such as this accepts a stranger like my husband, because the church makes it so.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologising! I like it. There is life in you yet.”

  “There is plenty of life,” Nellie said. “We ha
d many different people in Saardam. There even used to be a Belaman Church in town. We had the only office of the Eastern Traders in the lowlands, and our people traded with every country up the river.”

  “Where are all those people now? I’m not seeing them. When I go out into town, I’m seeing dreariness everywhere. I’m seeing closed shops, I’m seeing beggars.”

  Nellie knew she was right. “After the royal family was killed, the shepherd made a rule that outlawed magic. Many people got scared and left.” The Eastern Traders and the Anglian trade office nextdoor had closed. Li Fai and Christopher Fossey had been good friends. The pastor of the small Belaman Church, a pretty and ancient building in the middle of the commercial quarter, had left. The river trading family of Master Deim from Gelre, who were rich and generous, had also left. The list included several gifted modistes from Lurezia who made outrageous dresses that all the noble women gossiped about, and a wine seller from Burovia whose wines were so expensive that no one could figure out who bought them. There even used to be a Phenician spice trader in town who sold spices that turned food vivid yellow or bright red. They were all gone.

  “Yes, there you are. The church said it. They made all these people leave. They killed the life in your town. When did the last ocean ship come into port?”

  “There have been some.”

  “Only the ones owned by people in Saardam, and even they have found it hard to compete against the much better-financed ships leaving from towns further down the coast.”

  That was true, Nellie knew.

  “It’s all because of this ridiculous church and the churchman, who comes to talk to my husband and insists on talking to him alone, who puts ideas into his head and mouth and who has all of you dancing like little puppets on a string.”

  Nellie gasped. “You should stop talking about shepherd Wilfridus like that! He’s a good man.”

  “Is he? I suggest you banish all that church claptrap from your mind for just a few minutes and look at what he does.” She met Nellie’s eyes with an intense expression.

  Nellie was too angry to think. How dare this foreign harlot speak like this about her country?

  Madame Sabine snorted. “Anyway, I’ve had enough of my husband’s partying. Since neither he nor my sons appear to realise the damage they’re doing to their own reputations, I’ll make myself scarce while he attempts to get any of the local clique that calls themselves nobles to put a knife in his back. When that happens, don’t come running to me because I’ll tell you, ‘I told you so,’ because I did tell you so. I don’t want to be here when it happens. I’ve told the boys to get the horses ready.”

  “Won’t your husband be angry that you’re leaving?” Nellie didn’t know what to think. A wife’s position was to support her husband, wasn’t it? Queen Johanna would never leave King Roald by himself for an occasion like this, and he was just as likely to say or do stupid things, even if he never touched any wine.

  What a strange and selfish woman was this.

  Madame Sabine flapped her hand. “Nah. Believe it or not, my husband enjoys these parties. It keeps him busy. He won’t even notice I’m gone, and he knows I hate them and the people who come to them and those people hate me, so it suits us both for me not to be present.”

  There was a knock on the door and a man’s voice said, “Madame?”

  “Here we are. The horses are ready.”

  Madame Sabine went to open the door.

  A male voice said something that Nellie didn’t hear.

  Then Madame Sabine said, “No, I didn’t hear that. Is it serious?”

  That didn’t sound like it was part of the preparations.

  “He fell ill not so long ago.”

  “Is there anyone with him?” Madame asked. Her voice sounded concerned now.

  “Not at the moment. We have called for a physician, but they are hard to find after dark when everyone is drunk.”

  “No word from Graziela?”

  “I’m afraid not, Madame.”

  “Don’t let any of my husband’s men near him. Especially anyone from the church.”

  “It’s not my place to deny people entry,” the man said. “I can’t deny entry to people ordered to come by your husband.”

  Madame let out an audible sigh. “Fine. Wait here.” She came into the room, pulled the tie out of her hair so that her curls danced over her shoulders, she took off the coat and put her dressing gown on over her shirt and trousers, and gestured to Nellie. “Come with me. You know about herbs and remedies.”

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  NELLIE FOLLOWED Madame Sabine out the door with dread in her heart. She needed to return to the kitchen. Dora would wonder where she was and Els and Maartje would have to work that much harder the longer Nellie stayed away. Moreover, she didn’t want to go where Madame Sabine was taking her. Sure, she knew about a few herbs and remedies, but was nowhere near as well-versed in them as someone like Graziela.

  The man outside was a young fellow from Lord Verdonck’s party. He wore leather trousers and a jacket with fur lining and tall boots that suggested he was a coachman.

  He led them down into the foyer.

  The kissing couple was gone. A few guards lined up on either side of the door. Henrik was one. His eyes met Nellie’s, full of concern.

  From the bottom of the stairs, the coachman turned right, towards the guest quarters. They walked past the quiet recovery rooms which were empty except one where a woman sat on a bench fanning herself.

  At the start of the guest quarter corridor was a short passage that led to a small room where brooms and buckets and other cleaning equipment was stored.

  Inside the passage, half-hidden from the light of the lamps, stood two people. The long golden plait belonged to Els, and she was talking to a young man in a dark brown robe: the monk, Gerard.

  Neither of them looked up. What was Els doing with him in a place where few people would notice them?

  With a monk, who was supposed to be unaffected by the attractions of female flesh.

  And Els wanted juniper berries for my mam because, clearly, whores had nowhere better to turn to end unwanted pregnancies than the herb cabinet of the palace servants’ quarters.

  Nellie, that girl has well and truly led you up the garden path.

  The young coachman knocked on the door of Lord Verdonck’s room, meeting another man inside.

  “How is he?” the coachman asked.

  “No better, I’m afraid.”

  Nellie guessed the second man to be in his late twenties. He was tall, but broad in the shoulders as if he’d been trained in swordcraft. Like Madame Sabine, he wore travel clothing: a long cloak, a plain shirt and leather trousers for riding.

  She didn’t know this man, but presumed that it was Lord Verdonck’s son, Adalbert, or another noble from the lord’s party.

  Madame Sabine ran into the room. “Ronald!”

  She dropped to her knees next to the four-poster bed.

  The man who lay back in the pillows, with sweat glistening on his face, was Lord Verdonck. Blood dripped from a cut on his forehead and had seeped into the collar of his white shirt.

  The air was stifling hot from the fire and laced with the sour stench of vomit.

  “What happened?” Madame Sabine asked. She sat on the bed, using a cloth to wipe the Lord’s face.

  He whispered, “My dear, I am so sorry. I seem to have fallen ill.”

  Well, that was . . . revealing. And it explained a lot of the strange happenings, like why this man, a dissenter against the church, was still employed as the Regent’s advisor.

  “My lord says he felt unwell before dinner,” the young coachman said to Nellie. “We were getting ready to leave, but he collapsed in the hallway and cut his head. We carried him inside, but he’s in a right state.”

  “I’ve brought you a herb woman,” Madame Sabine said in a soft voice, stroking Lord Verdonck’s face.

  Everyone in the room looked at Nellie, includ
ing the lord, whose eyes were bloodshot and watery and whose skin was pale as death.

  Nellie’s courage sank. Whatever herbs she could offer, this man was too ill to benefit from them.

  They’d need someone with herb magic, someone far more skilled than she.

  She didn’t want to be in this room. Whatever plot these people had hatched, it was against the Regent and against the church, and she wanted no part in it.

  If the Regent found out she was here, there would be hell to pay.

  But she had no choice.

  The stench of illness hung around the bed like a cloud. The lord’s shirt was drenched with sweat. There were specks of vomit on his shirt as well as bloodstains.

  A cup of water stood untouched on the bedside table while the contents of the bowl that stood next to him amounted to nothing more than some yellowish slime.

  Clearly, he’d been vomiting for quite some time.

  Where to begin? Clean up the mess, she supposed.

  “Does your head hurt?” she asked.

  “My stomach.” He placed both his hands over his lower belly. His voice sounded raw. “The cramps are something terrible.”

  By the Triune, what to do about that? She knew about simple remedies, but had no idea how to treat serious illnesses.

  Nellie bent down to look at the wound on his forehead. It was dirty with dust and dried blood; she could at least clean that up. The table next to the bed only held a night lamp and an old, square bottle of gin with a goat on the label. She could use it to stop the rot in the cut, but it was empty.

  She asked for water, and when it turned up, wiped his face. Then she tore a clean length of fabric from a rag in her pocket and wound it around his head.

  Through all of this, the lord hung apathetic in the pillows. He appeared to want to vomit when Nellie moved his head forward—his hair was soaked through with sweat—but nothing came out except a dribble of dark slime that ran down his chin.

  This man wasn’t just unwell; he had been poisoned.

  “What caused this?” she asked.