The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Reuben heard the opening of the door. “Your Grace?” Dorothy sounded startled.

  “Is he awake?”

  “He was sleeping. The lad is sorely hurt. He needs to—”

  “But has he regained consciousness since he was delivered?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Boots scuffled on the wood floor and then the door closed. The old man, the bishop who had been at the fire, appeared through the archway, his burgundy and black robes looking as brilliant against the dull walls as a mallard duck on a gray pond.

  Why is the bishop visiting me? Does he think he needs to perform last rites? No, it would be a priest, not the bishop.

  “How are you feeling, son?”

  “Fine,” Reuben said cautiously. The pain was distracting, making it hard to think. The less he said the better.

  The bishop looked puzzled. “Fine? You nearly burned to death, my boy. Are you in pain?”

  “Yes.”

  The bishop waited, expecting more, then frowned. “We need to talk… Reuben, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you remember from the night of the fire?”

  “I saved the princess.”

  “Did you? What about before that? Braga said he found you and your father together. Is this true?”

  “Yes, I was trying to stop him.”

  The bishop pursed his lips and tilted his head back to look down the length of his long nose at him. “So you say. But you could just as easily have been helping your father.”

  “No, I fought him.”

  “Again, so you say.” The old man didn’t look at him but stared up at the ceiling. Reuben followed his sight just the same. The bishop had that effect; if he was looking at something, Reuben felt he should too. Perhaps his next question might be about the dried plants.

  The bishop dragged the spinning wheel stool over and placed it next to the bed, then sat down.

  “Is there something wrong?” Dorothy asked, peeking around the chimney. Reuben guessed they were speaking too softly for her to hear from the kitchen, or she could hear and just didn’t like what was said. The tone of her voice made him think it was the latter, and it was then he realized he liked Dorothy.

  “Please leave us,” the old bishop snapped.

  Reuben, however, did not like the bishop. He had not cared for how he tried to stop him from saving the princess, and he was not winning any awards by being short with Dorothy. Still, Reuben was too miserable to generate an emotion resembling anything close to hate or anger, and the old bishop didn’t look much better. His eyes were bagged with deep shadows, his face drawn and haunted as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

  The bishop reached out and placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward. “Reuben, I can’t help you unless you tell me everything. What exactly did your father say to you?” He leaned even closer. His eyes focused intently, his face tense. “Did he mention anyone he was working with?”

  Reuben thought. He closed his eyes. The bishop peering at him did not help his memory. He was a bit nauseous, and his skin felt as if it were still on fire, while overall he felt bizarrely chilled. His misery made focusing on even the events of the night before a challenge.

  Reuben shook his head. “But I think he was promised something in return for setting the fire. I got the impression he was angry at the king. Angry about the death of my mother. He said something about someone having convinced him he could make things right again.”

  “And how was he going to do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you certain? This is very important, Reuben. You must be absolutely positive.”

  “He never mentioned anything else.”

  The bishop sat back and let out a long sigh. “So you fought your own father to save the royal family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Many will find that hard to believe. The queen died in the fire, and the king’s mad with grief. He wants to punish someone. He nearly killed me a few days ago during a council meeting after I defended you.”

  “Defended me?”

  “Yes. I told him you were a hero for saving his daughter. I told him you ran in when all others refused.”

  “And?”

  “He attacked me with his sword. If it had not been for Count Pickering’s intervention, I would be dead. He hears the word Hilfred and he loses reason. Your father killed his wife, and you are guilty by relation of blood. It’s an old law. Close relations are put to death for such high crimes as treason.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is believed that what a man will do, so will his son or brother.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. I saved her. I went back for the queen. I nearly died.”

  “I know. I believe you. I was there, and I want to help you. But you must help me do that.”

  “How?”

  “Think very hard—are you absolutely certain your father never mentioned anyone else involved in a conspiracy to murder the royal family? Who was it that was going to help him make things right?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “You’re absolutely certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well.”

  “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, but will the king? More importantly, will he want to?”

  “What are you saying?”

  The old man reached out and laid a hand on Reuben’s, causing him to wince. “Someone has to pay for the murder of the queen, and your name is Hilfred.”

  Reuben suffered through a span of nightmares broken by brief bouts of agonizing consciousness. He drifted in and out until he found it hard to tell what was real. The one constant was the pain. In his dreams he was always dying, slowly burning to death. In one, Ellison and the Three Cruelties had him tied like a pig on a pole being slow roasted. They jeered and laughed as his skin split and sizzled. In another he was trapped in Arista’s bedchamber, unable to reach her, and together they burned—first her, then him. He would scream for the princess to wake up, to run, but his voice was so weak, so choked with smoke she never heard.

  Dorothy was always there when he woke. In the tiny house she likely heard his nightmares, but he began to suspect she simply stayed at his bedside. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw her looking back with a sympathetic smile.

  On the morning of the third day after his waking, he felt better. Nowhere near good, but somewhere between excruciating and terrible, which was a significant step up. He was able to drink and keep it down, and Dorothy could apply a soothing cream to his skin without having to listen to him scream.

  By midday, he could smell soup or stew and found he was hungry. Before the meal came, he heard the sound of coach wheels and then shouts. The voices outside were harsh and unfriendly.

  “Make way for the king!”

  At this, Reuben heard Dorothy drop a pan. He hoped it wasn’t the soup.

  “Open in the name of His Majesty King Amrath!”

  The door did not creak when opened as usual, but it practically cried as it was abruptly pulled back.

  “The king has come for Reuben Hilfred.” The voice was loud and powerful.

  “He’s done nothing wrong!” Dorothy cried.

  “Out of the way, woman.”

  Reuben braced himself as best he could. The whole thing struck him a bit funny, which in itself was amusing. How many people could laugh about being executed for a crime they did not commit? He should have died in the castle. He had accepted his passing then but managed to gain several more days that were filled with excruciating pain. Dying now—while absurd—was not a great hardship. Given his state of agony, death was less his enemy and more a sympathetic acquaintance. His only regret was that he would not taste the soup that smelled so wonderful.

  He could smell again! Reuben had only a second to revel in this accomplishment when soldiers entered the room. How would they do it? A hanging most likely, or perhaps a beheading. It would be ironic if they
burned him at the stake, but he assumed everyone had enough of burning. He changed his mind an instant later, thinking the king might want an exact revenge. To do to him what his father had done to the queen.

  The soldiers ducked their heads and moved out of the way as the king entered. With him came the prince and Arista. They were all dressed in black, with the princess wearing the same gown as when Lady Clare died. None looked good, their faces tired and pale, except around the eyes where the skin reddened. Still Arista looked more sullen than the rest, her stare fixed on the floor.

  Reuben had never seen His Majesty this close. The man was huge, and as Reuben looked up, he seemed a giant with his rich bristling beard. He appeared as tired as the rest, but in his eyes was a storm.

  “Your Majesty,” one of those in the corners said. “This is Reuben Hilfred, son of Richard.”

  At the sound of the name, he saw the king wince. Perhaps there would be no burning after all. Maybe the king would kill him there in his bed. At least he was able to see the princess again. She was safe.

  Thank you, Maribor, for that parting gift.

  “Do you know the penalty for lying to your king?”

  “Death?” Reuben guessed.

  “Death,” the king confirmed. “Did you leave your post without permission the night of the gala?”

  “I did.”

  “That is dereliction of duty at best—desertion at worst. Do you know the penalty for desertion?”

  “Death.” Reuben knew that one.

  “Death.” The king nodded gravely.

  “Were you ordered by anyone to leave your post? Told by anyone to enter the castle?”

  “No.” Reuben noticed a subtle change in the king’s eyes but had no idea what it meant.

  “Then knowing it was death to desert your post, why did you?”

  “The castle was on fire. The princess and the queen were inside, and no one else was trying to save them.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They were all just standing around. The chancellor gave orders—”

  “It was chaos that night.” Reuben heard Lord Braga’s voice as he pushed into the room from the kitchen. “The darkness, the flames, all those people trying to get out.”

  “Finish what you were going to say, boy,” the king commanded.

  “The chancellor gave orders that no one was to go inside.”

  “Is that true?” Amrath asked Braga.

  “Yes, but it was an order issued to prevent the further loss of life. The doors were sealed. There was nothing that could be done.”

  “Is it true you fought your own father?” the king asked.

  Reuben lowered his eyes to look at his bedcovers. “Yes.”

  “When did you learn your father planned to murder my family?”

  “I didn’t. I guessed it when I found the door to the residence chained. My father told me to leave. He said he posted me at the gate for my own protection. That’s when I knew he had set the fire—that he had chained the door.”

  “Braga asserts that he fought and killed your father—is that true?”

  Reuben nodded.

  “Speak up to your king,” Braga demanded.

  Amrath raised a hand. “He’s fine. Tell me, boy, how did you get the chain off the door? After the fire, the lock was found but it hadn’t been snapped or cut.”

  “My father had the key on his body. I took it from his belt.”

  “So you unlocked the door and went to Princess Arista’s room?”

  Reuben nodded again.

  The king turned to his daughter. “Is this the boy who carried you out?”

  Arista said nothing. She didn’t even look up.

  “I asked a question. Answer me.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Arista, look at him.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  The king petted his daughter’s hair. “Why?”

  “I hate him.”

  “You hate… but he saved your life, didn’t he? Carried you from the castle? Others have testified they saw him with you in his arms coming out. Are you saying that isn’t true?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Then why—”

  “He didn’t save Mother. He let her die! He lived and she died! He’s a coward, a vile, awful…” Arista broke down in tears and with a wave from the king was led out.

  Reuben thought he couldn’t feel worse and hated himself for his naivety. Everything could be worse. He felt tears forming and struggled to hold them back. He didn’t want to cry in front of all those men.

  “Everyone out,” the king ordered.

  “But, Father,” Alric protested. Reuben noticed then that the prince had two swords, one in his hands and one on his belt. The one he held Reuben recognized as his own sword that the prince had given him, the sword he had lost in the fire. “You can’t listen to her. He’s innocent. He saved Arista’s life. He tried—”

  “I said out!” The king’s voice finally boomed and everyone retreated. He waited for the door to close. It was just the two of them then. Reuben and the king. Even Dorothy was gone.

  Imitating the bishop, the king sat on the spinning-wheel stool beside the bed. He didn’t say anything at first and Reuben didn’t dare look at him. He kept his eyes on the dried plants hanging from the ceiling.

  “The castle was on fire,” King Amrath began, his voice low, soft. “Leaving your post would result in severe punishment, maybe not death, not to a boy who was serving his first day, but a whipping at least. You knew that.” The king paused, stroking his beard. “You were ordered not to enter the castle by the chancellor and your own father.” He paused again, licked his lips, and exhaled loudly. “Even discounting everything else, you ran into an inferno when everyone else was running out. Reuben, that doesn’t sound sane to me. So explain—why did you?”

  “To save Arista.” The words came out of his mouth, but they were born somewhere deeper, and having said them a tear slipped and fell. This time he did not notice it hurting; the pain from his burns was secondary to this new agony. He looked at the pommel of the king’s sword and wished he would draw it, wished he would kill him. His life was a waste. Born unwanted by both parents, he killed his mother and drove his father to murder and treason. Now the only girl he would ever love hated him. He wanted to be dead. The fire had cheated him. How much better if he had burned to death believing in ignorance that he had finally done something right.

  “I see.” The king nodded. The tempest in his eyes was gone. All that remained was sadness.

  “I tried to save the queen,” Reuben offered. “I went back, but I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die in there. I know I failed you. I know I’m worthless. I know you all hate me. So, please, just do it.” Reuben was crying openly now. He no longer cared.

  “Do what?”

  “Kill me.”

  “Is that what you think? You think I came to execute you?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Why would I punish the one man in my kingdom who did his job? The one man who risked his life for my family? Who knowingly sacrificed himself for the ones I love the most? Reuben, I am not in the habit of executing heroes.”

  “But your daughter…”

  “She just lost her mother. She hates everyone right now, me included. I can’t blame her. I almost killed the bishop myself for speaking the truth. Maybe your father was a traitor, but you are not. I owe you a great debt. I’m not going to execute you, Reuben. I’m going to reward you. I could knight you for bravery, but I don’t need another knight. As a knight, you would leave the castle, and I can’t have that. The coming days will be dark ones, I fear, and I am frightened for the safety of my family. I need men to protect them. All the gold in my treasury couldn’t buy a better protector for my daughter.”

  The king stood up. “You need to get well quickly, Reuben. I will be arranging for proper combat training, as my son tells me you are less than able with a blade, and I need you
as skilled as a Pickering.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As of this moment, you are now, Reuben Hilfred, royal sergeant at arms and the personal bodyguard of the princess. You will go where she goes, never letting her out of your sight. And as far as her protection is concerned, you act with the power of the king. That means you have my permission to kill any man who threatens her—I don’t care what rank or position he holds. Do you understand?”

  Reuben nodded.

  “From now on, you answer only to my daughter and to me. Never let anyone tell you not to protect her again.”

  “But the princess hates me.”

  “She’ll get over it.” The king turned to leave, then paused. “Of course, I think we’ll wait at least until you’re healed and have learned how to use a sword before I break the news to her. She has a temper, that one.” He walked for the door, but paused once more before opening it. “Thank you, Reuben.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wasn’t alone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In the fire. When I went back for the queen, I wasn’t alone. Someone else was with me. I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t see anything. Just a voice; she told me which way to go, how to get out, and when I finally reached the stairs, she told me to jump. Only no one else could have been in there with me, could they?”

  “There was no one else. You alone braved the fire.”

  “I think it might have been my mother. I think she wanted to help me—see that I survived—and now she has.”

  The king stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I think everyone may have underestimated your mother’s love for you. Me included.”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE ROSE AND THE THORN

  Hadrian watched as snow began to fall on the dirt. It melted faster on the newly turned soil, causing the little grave to stand out. The rough rectangle clean of any leaves, rich and dark, looked too small. It could be a child’s grave. He remembered her from that night—her face so young, so frightened. She was hardly more than a child. He pictured her under all that dirt and his stomach tightened. Gwen had dressed her in a gown of white and surrounded her in the last roses the vendors had left. Then they had nailed the box shut and settled it into the hole. Gwen had paid for the plot; she never said how much. All the ladies had pitched in for the headstone. There was a place outside the city for undesirables, but after Chancellor Braga’s announcement that the ladies of Medford House were under the direct protection of the king, no one protested. Not able to use her name, the headstone read GRACE FLOWERS.