The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  A fraction of a second later, a human shriek from that same direction told them all that the arrow had found a mark—though not the intended one.

  Heedless of both the shriek and Persephone’s cry, the soldier notched another arrow. Before he could release it, however, the Regent ordered him to leave off and return to his horse so that they could be on their way.

  “Lady Bothwell,” called the Regent, as they trotted briskly toward the torch-lit chaos of the slum, “I must tell you that I find it odd that you would show concern over the fate of a miserable cur.”

  “I care about many things, Your Grace,” blurted Persephone, who was unable to loosen her death grip on his twisted body for fear that she would slide backward off the horse.

  The Regent, who was clearly revelling in the feel of her strong, young arms around him—gave a shuddering sigh and said, “That is … an unusual attitude for a woman of your station.”

  “I am an unusual woman,” replied Persephone, who could think of nothing else to say.

  “Indeed,” breathed the Regent Mordecai.

  TWENTY

  AS HE TROTTED ALONG, Mordecai’s thoughts harkened back to the day in the dungeon when he’d vowed to Murdock that he’d show the great lords that the king was not the only one who could ride out among the people of Parthania looking like a majestic young god. He’d expected to put on a fine show, yes, but he’d never dreamt that it would be as fine as this! Indeed, he was now bitterly regretting the fact that he’d decided to destroy the slum at night. It was also unfortunate that the good citizens of Parthania felt compelled to stay indoors whilst it was happening for fear of being accidentally added to the lowborn transports. How glorious it would be for them to see him, their Lord Regent, astride this mighty steed with this young, beautiful noblewoman clinging to him like a rescued damsel! Nay, not like a rescued damsel— like a lover. For surely only a lover would cling with such unyielding ferocity. Indeed, his ribs were beginning to ache with the strength of her embrace.

  The question was, why? He’d not been the least fooled by the way she’d pouted prettily and referred to herself as “a mere woman”—or by the way she’d curtseyed with her breasts thrust upward and her eyelashes fluttering to set a man’s loins afire. He’d known in that moment that she’d wanted something from him but he’d thought that it was mercy for that wretched old husband of hers, Bothwell.

  What if he was wrong? What if years of having his tentative advances politely—but categorically—rejected by repulsed noblewomen had blinded him to the face of true desire? What if the thing that Lady Bothwell had wanted was him? It was almost inconceivable and yet … and yet … dressed in black as he was, he knew that his ruined body was all but hidden by the night. That meant that the only thing she’d really seen of him thusfar was his face. And he knew for a certainty that his was the handsomest face in the realm.

  I am also the most powerful man in the realm, he thought suddenly as he guided his horse to one side to avoid the body of the man killed by his soldier’s arrow, and women are attracted to power. Power and money—and I have both!

  Mordecai’s excitement grew as his thoughts turned to Lady Bothwell’s comments that she cared about many things and that she was an unusual woman. What had she been trying to tell him with her strange, cryptic words? Had she been trying to tell him that she might be able to care for him in spite of his cruel deformities? Perhaps her tastes ran in perverse directions—perhaps she especially desired men of his ilk. After all, whatever she professed of her husband’s health and vigour, he was unquestionably an old man—with an old man’s shrivelled, shrunken body and sallow, wrinkled skin; with an old man’s cold hands and bony feet; with an old man’s gross noises and disgusting smells. If she could desire that, why should she not desire him? And if she did, wasn’t it entirely possible that even if General Murdock never discovered the Pool of Genezing that she might someday be willing to lie down beneath him that he might get a strong, healthy son upon her noble young body? And if that were to happen—if she were to allow her noble blood to be mingled with his own—isn’t it true that the great lords of the realm would no longer be able to deny that he was a man worthy of being named the heir of his doomed Majesty King Finnius?

  It was true. Truly it was!

  Of course, he was getting far ahead of himself. Before he could get a son upon Lady Bothwell, he would have to marry her, for though a bastard would prove his virility, it would help him not at all where the great lords were concerned, for they cared only for legitimate heirs. And before he could marry Lady Bothwell, he would have to court her—and see to the death of her husband, of course. Well, no matter. He’d had plans for the old goat anyway, so irritated had he been to discover that a man as decrepit as Bothwell could get such a luscious, loyal young wife while he, himself, had to settle for occasionally groping servant girls too terrified to do anything but lie there unmoving and praying for it to be over quickly. He would send Murdock to dispatch Bothwell as soon as the business with Pembleton was finished. In the meantime, he would send a handful of soldiers beyond the city walls to hunt down the scum that had attacked Lady Bothwell.

  He would give them orders to inflict slow and painful deaths upon the wretches—and while they were at it, to dispatch the strapping young fool who’d dared to hesitate when ordered to assist Lady Bothwell onto his horse. And speaking of the horse, he had half a mind to have the beast destroyed for the way its graceless movements had caused him such jarring pain throughout this long, exhausting evening.

  There is always so much to do, thought Mordecai with a sigh as he rode past several dozen small, grubby-looking children who’d been torn from their lowborn parents that they might be sent onward to toil alongside the Gorgishmen in the Mines of Torodania. Truly, if I did not have hope that all this would one day be mine to rule, I do not know how I could find the strength to carry on.…

  TWENTY-ONE

  FOR HER PART, Persephone’s mind also began racing the minute the Regent’s horse trotted away from the alley, though her thoughts were of a different nature entirely. Behind her, she knew that Azriel and Rachel were watching helplessly as their best hope of escaping the city unmolested—Persephone in her noble finery— was carried away toward the imperial palace. She’d saved them by stepping forward into the torchlight but at what price? And to what end? They were safe for the moment, yes, but as the Regent had said, there would be many unfortunates out this night seeking to wreak vengeance upon those who did not share their fate. Would Azriel be able to protect Rachel? Would he be able to protect himself? And what of Cur and Fleet— and what of the child they were meant to rescue? Forcing herself to look upon the horror of what was happening in the slum, Persephone saw black-clad soldiers tearing screaming children from their mothers’ arms and unarmed, lowborn men desperately flinging themselves at these same soldiers, only to be struck down again and again until at last they lay unmoving in slowly spreading pools of their own blood. Was the child they were meant to rescue there, among those poor creatures, or was he yet hidden? Or had he been left behind entirely by those who dared not risk the lives of their own children by being seen this night with a child someone might recognize as being a member of the murdered Gypsy family?

  A sudden vision of little Sabian thus abandoned to a fiery death struck Persephone with the force of a blow to the head. She gasped once, then gasped again as the horse beneath her shifted so abruptly that she nearly lost her balance. Clutching the Regent harder, she looked down to see a spread-eagled man with an arrow through one dead eye. The arrow had been meant for Cur, and while she was grateful that it had not found him, she grieved for this man who’d died in his stead.

  The Fates never give but that they take away, she thought fiercely, wishing she were far away from the sights and sounds of this terrible night. To her surprise, she also found herself wishing that it was Azriel’s warm, well-muscled body she was clinging to instead of the crooked, withered torso of the man who’d caused all this t
error and pain. She’d heard the lust in his voice earlier—indeed, out of desperation she’d played to it. Now, however, she feared that she would be trapped by her own game.

  For she knew the ways of men well enough to know that when aroused, they could twist the most innocent glance or touch to feed their deluded fantasies.

  And if those fantasies belonged to a man as powerful as the Regent, she knew it was only a matter of time before he’d find a way to turn them into reality.

  And as quick as she was with a dagger, once trapped behind the thick, heavily guarded walls of the imperial palace, Persephone did not see how she’d ever be able to gut him like a fish and escape with her life.

  “Your chambers, Lady Bothwell,” murmured the Regent with an ungainly bow.

  Persephone gave him a strained smile then returned to staring at the beautifully carved door before her. Though not more than half an hour had passed since she’d left Rachel and Azriel hiding in the alley, it seemed like an eternity. By the time she, the Regent and his men had reached the moat surrounding the palace, the air had been thick with black smoke and with the roar of the flames devouring the dry timber of the slum’s hovels. Then, just as the guard in the watchtower had bellowed the order to lift the heavy wrought-iron gate on the far side of the drawbridge and make way for the Lord Regent, the first shrill screams of those being burned alive had pierced the air. Persephone had not been able to keep herself from shuddering violently when she’d heard them, and even the Regent had gasped and stiffened as though in mortal agony. Persephone had thought it a strange reaction from the man who’d ordered the atrocity, but she’d barely had time to ponder this contradiction before she’d been whisked through the watchtower passageway and into the bustling, torch-lit palace courtyard.

  There, in addition to drunken young noblemen, milling soldiers, shouting groomsmen and small boys running to and fro under foot, Persephone had noticed a flock of vulturine old men in black capes and hoods hurrying toward the palace. The grizzled old groomsman who’d deftly lifted her off the Regent’s horse had explained that they were physicians come to tend the king, who’d suffered a frightful coughing fit on account of the smoke that billowed thicker with each passing moment. Upon hearing this news, the Regent had cursed someone named Moira for being such a fool as to leave His Majesty’s windows ajar on a night such as this. Then, muttering and wincing terribly, he’d lurched off without a backward glance at Persephone. She’d hoped that perhaps tending to the needs of the sick young king would cause the Regent to forget about her and thus give her a chance to somehow escape and return to the others, but he’d returned for her after only a few moments, and now here she was, standing by his side on the threshold of “her chambers.”

  “Well, Lady Bothwell?” inquired the Regent, who was watching her closely. “Will you not even inspect the rooms to see if they are to your liking?”

  At the sound of his voice, Persephone nearly leapt out of her skin. “Yes—yes, of course I will!” she blurted as she flushed nervously under his inspection. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am not usually so lacking in graciousness, but it has been a rather long and trying day, and to say that I do not feel like myself right now would be an understatement of rather monumental proportions.”

  “I understand completely,” murmured Mordecai soothingly. “I only pray that you will find some solace in the humble comfort of your accommodations.”

  With another bow, the Regent flung open the door and stepped back to allow Persephone to be the first to cross the threshold.

  Tentatively, she stepped forward … and nearly fell over in amazement.

  For the room that lay before her was bigger than the owner’s entire cottage had been. Perhaps bigger than his entire farm had been!

  High-ceilinged and glowing with the soft, clear light of quality candles, it was far and away the finest room Persephone had ever seen. The wood floor was polished so smooth that it gleamed in the firelight, and the dark panelled walls were hung with thickly woven tapestries depicting ancient tales of heroism and love. Against one wall of the vast room was a canopied bed hung with plum-coloured velvet curtains and piled high with pillows—a bed so enormous that Persephone couldn’t see how a person would possibly be able to climb into it without the use of a stepladder. Against the opposite wall, beneath a row of shutters that had been closed tight against the smoke outside, lay a table groaning under the weight of more food than Persephone would have been able to eat in half a lifetime. A whole roast pheasant artfully redressed in its own brilliant feathers; a joint of meat and a platter of fish; several loaves of bread and an assortment of cheeses; bowls piled high with exotic-looking fruits and candied sweetmeats; three kinds of pastries and a jug of what Persephone presumed to be wine or ale. She stared at the mouth-watering bounty for what was probably an indecent length of time, and when she was finally able to tear her eyes away from it, she noticed a door along the back wall. Even as she wondered where it might lead, it was flung open and a woman and two older girls wordlessly filed into the room.

  Startled, Persephone glanced back at Mordecai in mild confusion.

  In response, he smiled broadly and said, “I told you that servants could be replaced as easily as smashed dinner plates, didn’t I, Lady Bothwell?”

  Not knowing what to say to this rather horrible statement, Persephone nodded uncomfortably and turned back to continue her examination of the room.

  And that was when she saw it, partially hidden behind an ornate screen not far from the merrily crackling fire:

  A great, claw-footed bathtub half-full of steaming water.

  As she gazed upon it in wonder, a scrawny servant girl about eight years of age stumbled into the room lugging yet another pail of steaming water.

  “Careful, you!” snarled Mordecai as a wave of water sloshed over the lip of the pail. “That water is meant for the lady’s bath, not for washing your filthy lowborn feet!”

  “Yes, Your Grace!” squeaked the child. Quaking with terror and grunting with exertion, she somehow managed to hoist the pail high enough to tip the water into the bath. Then, curtseying to Mordecai and Persephone, she hastily exited the room—presumably to get more hot water.

  After she’d gone, Persephone turned to Mordecai. “It is all … quite satisfactory,” she said, trying not to sound as overcome as she felt.

  Eyes gleaming as though he hadn’t noticed how lukewarm her praise had been—or as though he’d not seen her true feelings reflected in her wide, violet eyes—the Regent took a lurching step forward as though he meant to join her on the other side of the threshold.

  “In fact,” continued Persephone as she quickly moved to block his way, “when my loving husband and I are reunited, I will be sure to tell him how kindly and respectfully you treated me in my hour of need.”

  Her words stopped Mordecai in his tracks. Slowly, he lifted his bobbing head until his fathomless eyes were once again boring into her. Once again, she found herself unable to move or speak, unable to do anything but pray that her facade would not crumble and that her trembling legs would not give way beneath her.

  “You do that,” said the Regent softly, “and also remind him that, one way or another, a careless husband is soon deprived of a beautiful wife.”

  Hearing an unmistakable threat in his words, Persephone swallowed hard. “And yet … I am safe here, under your protection, am I not, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “You are indeed,” he declared, smiling as though considering some private joke. “Sleep well, my lady. I shall return upon the morrow that you may accompany me to view a spectacle that I believe you will find most entertaining.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” said Persephone.

  Then she curtseyed deeply—this time taking great care not to thrust her breasts forward or bat her eyelashes—and carefully closed the door on the Regent’s still-smiling face.

  After shutting the door, Persephone stood rigid with her hands clenched at her sides, listening intently for the
sound of the Regent departing. For an endless moment, she heard nothing except (she imagined) the sound of his heavy breathing. Then, at last, she heard a soft grunt and the uneven rhythm of his gait as he lurched off down the hallway.

  Closing her eyes, she sighed with relief.

  “Bath, m’lady?” came a voice directly behind her.

  With a distinctly un-noble yelp, Persephone whirled around to see the woman servant gazing at her with the expressionless eyes of one who’d long since learned how to mask her true feelings.

  “Bath, m’lady?” she repeated. “Or would you prefer to dine first?”

  Famished though she was, Persephone nearly laughed aloud at the suggestion, for who could possibly eat knowing that there was a tub full of clean, steaming-hot water just waiting to be soaked in? Trying hard to contain her sudden, guilty excitement at the prospect, Persephone calmly informed the woman of her preference to bathe first. The instant she did so, the woman looked over her shoulder at the girl servants, both of whom looked to be about Persephone’s age. The taller, skinnier of the two bobbed a hasty curtsey and hurried out the door at the back of the room, while the shorter, plumper one bustled forward.

  “Don’t worry, m’lady,” she said heartily as she hustled Persephone over to the warmth of the fire and deftly began unlacing her gown. “We’ll have you out of these travel-worn things soon enough!”

  Feeling acutely embarrassed by the prospect of being stripped naked by a complete stranger, Persephone was nevertheless prepared to submit herself to it until she suddenly remembered that the clothes she was wearing were soaked with sickness.

  With a horrified gasp, she wrenched her body away from the nimble fingers of the startled servant girl. “Get away from me!” she cried, flapping her hand at the girl. “Don’t touch me!”

  Work-worn fingers poised in mid-air, the girl eyed Persephone cautiously. “Apologies, m’lady, if in some way I have offended—”