The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  “You’ve not offended,” said Persephone quickly. “I just … I’m sorry, what is your name?”

  “My name?” said the girl blankly.

  “You know—the particular handle by which people address you,” said Persephone, who could not help smiling slightly as she recalled the words of a certain handsome chicken thief.

  The girl gave Persephone the kind of look that she, herself, used to give the owner when she thought he was being an especially thick-headed boor. Insolent, but not so insolent that the fool could be certain she was being insolent. “I know what a name is, m’lady,” said the girl with exaggerated patience, “and mine is Meeka.”

  Persephone nodded as though this was the very answer she’d been hoping for. “Well, Meeka,” she said briskly, “the fact is that I should like to undress myself and then I should like to personally bundle my clothes into a clean sheet so that they may be burned to ashes without delay.”

  Though it was clear that Meeka considered this a bizarre and foolish request, she nodded without offering comment and bustled off to fetch the clean sheet. As soon as she was gone, Persephone hurriedly peeled off her gloves, pulled off her jewels, kicked off her boots, wriggled out of her dusty, mud-splattered gown and petticoats and surreptitiously hid her dagger in its scabbard, the rat tail, the bit of lace and the silky auburn curl beneath a loose floorboard. Then she stepped into the bath, which was so thick with floating rose petals that she felt sure that Meeka and the others would not be able to see her nakedness. Leaning back, she closed her eyes.

  “Mmm,” she sighed, inhaling deeply. “This doesn’t smell at all like rotten eggs.”

  “Why would it smell like rotten eggs?”

  Embarrassed, Persephone opened her eyes to find Meeka staring down at her with a fresh sheet in one hand, a jar of something in the other and a quizzical expression on her face.

  “It shouldn’t smell like rotten eggs,” said Persephone loftily. “That’s exactly my point.”

  Meeka smiled pleasantly—the way one might smile at a simpleton or a lunatic. Then she went to help the tall, skinny girl and the little scrawny girl who’d just returned with more hot water.

  “My older sister, Meena, and my younger sister, Meeta,” announced the plump girl as she helped little Meeta dump her large pail of water into the tub. “Meena is a mute and Meeta only has three toes on her left foot.”

  The woman servant—who’d disappeared after handing Persephone over to Meeka—now returned carrying several more jars, a fine-toothed comb, four fresh sponges and a cream-coloured nightgown and matching robe of such a fine weave that they were almost translucent in the warm light of the fire. After nervously introducing herself as Martha, the woman carefully draped the nightgown and robe over the back of a chair near the fire.

  So that they will be warm for me when I emerge from the bath! thought Persephone giddily. She had not forgotten the horrors of this night—or the fact that her companions were still out there in the cold, dirty, dangerous darkness—but she knew that there was nothing she could do about that at the moment and nothing to be gained from refusing to enjoy the fulfillment of one of her most cherished childhood dreams.

  And so she relaxed and slipped a little lower in the water as Martha and the three sisters quietly took their places around the tub and gently began to bathe her. The jar that Meeka had been holding contained soap— not the slimy brown homemade variety, but a fragrant, creamy cake speckled with petals and herbs—while the jars that Martha had brought contained various oils and scrubs. While Meeka and little Meeta each took a hand and began carefully sponging Persephone from bare shoulder to ragged fingertip, Meena wordlessly tended to her embarrassingly grimy, torn feet. Martha, meanwhile, removed the crystal hairpins from her now-dishevelled hairdo, combed the tangles out of her thick, luxurious mane and began working richly scented oils through it.

  “Scars,” murmured little Meeta as she tenderly traced the whiplash scar on Persephone’s forearm.

  “And calluses,” said Meeka in surprise when she turned Persephone’s hand over to sponge the palm.

  “Yes,” muttered Persephone. “I, uh, like to do my own gardening.”

  “As does our King Finnius,” grinned Meeta.

  “How fares the king?” asked Persephone, glad for a change of subject. “I heard he suffered a frightful coughing fit this night.”

  “Yes. Sad, isn’t it?” said Meeka, without looking up from Persephone’s soapy hand. “When the rich and powerful suffer as a result of the terrible things they do to lesser creatures.”

  “Meeka!” hissed Martha with a wary, darting glance at Persephone. “You’ve no business criticizing your betters or passing judgment on their actions! And even to imply that you do not pity His Majesty his poor health is to come dangerously close to wishing him ill—which, as you well know, is tantamount to treason!”

  At this most dread word, Meena’s mouth fell open to reveal her gruesomely amputated tongue and little Meeta froze with terror. Persephone stared perplexedly at them, unable to understand why they should be so frightened when there was no one else but her in the room.

  They think I am the Regent’s creature, she realized with a jolt. They fear I will report Meeka’s words to him!

  Awkwardly, she placed her soapy hand over Meeta’s bony little one. “As it happens, I agree with your sister that it was a terrible thing done this night,” she confided. Then she smiled as disarmingly as she knew how and said, “Now, enough chatter. Help me finish bathing, so that I may eat my supper without fear of falling asleep with my face in a platter.”

  Despite her expressed desire to hurry to sup, Persephone lingered in the tub until the water was quite cold. At that point, she earned another odd look from Meeka when, upon remembering that she still had marks on her back from the whipping she’d received at the hands of the owner, she refused assistance getting out of the tub, slipped on a puddle of soapy water, and then refused assistance getting up off the floor. When at last she managed to knot her old clothes up in the sheet and slip into the beautiful nightgown and robe, she was delighted to discover that they skimmed her delicate curves as though they’d been made just for her.

  Which, of course, they had not.

  “I cannot say for a certainty where the Regent found these things, m’lady, but judging by the quality and craftsmanship, I’d guess they once belonged to the dead queen,” said Martha matter-of-factly as she carved another slice of roast pheasant for Persephone.

  “The dead queen!” spluttered Persephone, choking on a sip of wine so potent she was already feeling woozy.

  “I’d guess the same thing,” agreed Meeka, who was gazing at the roast pheasant with ill-disguised longing, “for it is common knowledge that in the days following poor Queen Fey’s death the Regent had her possessions inventoried and thereafter took many of the finer things into his own keeping.” She hesitated a moment before sliding her gaze to Persephone’s face and deliberately adding, “It is a well-known fact that our Lord Regent has an eye for fine things, m’lady—and a burning desire to possess them at any cost.”

  Persephone shivered at these last words and tried to finish the food on her plate, but it was no use. A hot bath, a dead woman’s clothes, a rich feast, a cup of strong wine, the stress of things past and the dread of things yet to come had all conspired, finally, to sap her of her last vestiges of strength. Waving her hand wearily at the stillheaping platters, she told Martha and the sisters to help themselves.

  “Do you mean we’ve permission to eat from your very own table?” squeaked Meeta, who was positively pop-eyed with excitement at the prospect.

  Realizing that she’d made a significant blunder—but not having the heart to correct it—Persephone nodded. Then she tiredly pushed her chair away from the table and padded across the room to the mountainous canopy bed. Martha and the three sisters eagerly chased after her intent upon performing their final duties of the evening—Meena to help Persephone out of her robe, Martha to hel
p her into her nightcap, Meeta to fetch the footstool she needed to scale the bed and Meeka to arrange the pillows and blankets to her satisfaction. When they were done, they all lined up at the foot of the bed and eyed Persephone so expectantly that she began to grow alarmed.

  “Are we dismissed then, m’lady?” prompted Meeka at length.

  “What?” blurted Persephone. “Oh, uh, yes, of course.”

  Bobbing curtseys, the four servants eagerly drew the plum-coloured curtains around the bed and then scurried over to the table like four little mice that had just discovered a hole in the granary wall.

  Persephone smiled to hear their whispered exclamations and giggles, then her smile faded as her thoughts drifted to Azriel and Rachel—and Fleet and Cur.

  And, of course, the child.

  Tomorrow I will find an excuse to go into the city and look for them, she thought drowsily as she drifted off to sleep. Upon finding them I will do what I can to see them safely beyond the city walls, and then I will turn my thoughts back to escape—and freedom to live my own life.

  Whatever the risk, whatever the cost.

  TWENTY-TWO

  HOURS LATER, in an even more sumptuously appointed chamber, the servants were not giggling or whispering or feasting. They were standing in the cold shadows with their backs pressed against the walls, staring straight ahead and struggling not to yawn or shiver or otherwise do anything to suggest that they were human beings and not pieces of furniture.

  In the chair before the fire, the Regent Mordecai slouched unmoving. Though it had been a long, difficult day, he could not sleep for thoughts of Lady Bothwell. Why had she not invited him to dine with her even though one look from him had set her trembling like a bride on her wedding night? Was it because she was embarrassed by her admittedly bedraggled state? Was it out of some misplaced loyalty to that decrepit old husband of hers? And what of the kitchen servants’ reports that she’d eaten every last morsel of food on the table! The only time he’d ever heard of a noblewoman having such an appetite was when she was with child. But Lady Bothwell couldn’t possibly be with child—even an idiot like Bothwell wouldn’t be stupid enough to let his wife travel so far in such a delicate condition.

  No, Lady Bothwell was not a woman with child—she was simply a woman of strange appetites.

  Appetites that he, Mordecai, intended to press to his full advantage.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “GOOD MORNING, M’LADY,” sang a lilting voice.

  Feeling none of the apprehension she usually felt when unexpectedly woken from a sound sleep, Persephone lazily opened her eyes to see Meeta’s elfin face framed by the velvet bed curtains. “Good morning, Meeta,” she said sleepily. “What time is it?”

  “Time to rise,” replied Meeta, her face vanishing abruptly.

  The next instant, the bed curtains were unceremoniously yanked open. With a yelp, Persephone jerked her head to one side and threw up her arm to shield her eyes from the blinding sunlight.

  “’Tis a beautiful day, m’lady,” declared Meeta, smiling broadly.

  Still squinting, Persephone smiled back. “Where are Meeka, Meena and Martha?” she inquired.

  On cue, there was a knock at the door. Persephone nodded to Meeta that she should open the door, and the next thing she knew a veritable parade of servants—led by Meeka, Meena and Martha—was marching into the room carrying plates of eggs and meat, baskets of sweet buns, silver pots full of thick clotted cream, glass bowls of fruit preserves and honey, more pies and more cheeses and more ale.

  Blankets pulled up to her chin so that none of these strangers would see her in the dead queen’s nightclothes, Persephone stared, wide-eyed, as the table by the nowopen shutters was once again loaded down to the point of groaning. She then self-consciously nodded acknowledgment to one servant after another as they respectfully presented themselves at the foot of her bed before filing out of the room.

  In the wake of their departure, Persephone cast a rather forlorn look at Martha and asked, “Why are they feeding me so much?”

  At this, Meeka, Meeta and even mute Meena dissolved into giggles.

  Martha glared at them before clearing her throat and saying, “Well, m’lady, it appears that when last night’s platters were returned to the kitchen picked clean, uh, the kitchen servants assumed, that, well.…”

  “That I ate it all by myself?” cried Persephone, flopping back onto the goose-down pillows.

  The three sisters giggled some more.

  “Not to worry, m’lady,” soothed Martha as she hurried over to the table to prepare a tray for Persephone. “You just have a bite to eat and then we’ll get you dressed for your outing with my Lord Regent.”

  Persephone’s heart plummeted twice—once at the thought of her “outing” with the Regent, and a second time when she realized that the previous evening she’d ordered burned to ashes every stitch of clothing she had. She didn’t regret having given the order—for to have done otherwise would have meant having the items taken away to be washed, sprigged, starched, ironed, mended and otherwise restored by untold numbers of servants who would thereby have been exposed to the Great Sickness (which she, luckily, did not appear to have caught)—but it meant that she now had nothing whatsoever to wear.

  Even as she considered this awkward fact there was another knock at the door and another parade of servants marched into the room. This time, each of them was carrying something fine to wear. In addition to at least half a dozen richly coloured gowns made of the finest cloth and generously embellished with ribbons, lace, embroidery, brocade and gemstones, there were dozens of crisply starched petticoats, an assortment of silk undergarments, two pairs of gloves (one pair made of nothing but fine lace), three riding cloaks (one lined with real cloth of gold and another trimmed in actual ermine!), two pairs of high-heeled dancing slippers, a pair of riding boots (with real silver buckles) and a dazzling array of jewelled hair accessories. Without meaning to, Persephone sighed at the sight of all those beautiful things, none of which— presumably—was soaked with a sickness that could mean hideous death to anyone.

  “The only thing missing is something sparkly to wear at your throat!” grinned Meeta, after the last of this batch of servants had been dismissed.

  Once again, there was a knock on the door. This time, however, only a single servant entered the room—an impeccably groomed man who stood as rigid as a statue and who stared straight ahead as though he saw nothing of the world around him. Upon his upturned palm lay a dark-blue velvet pillow trimmed with gold tassels—and upon the pillow lay an exquisite silver necklace hung with an amethyst as big as a goose egg. The beautifully cut gemstone was the very colour of Persephone’s eyes, and there were earrings to match.

  A small token of my esteem said the accompanying note, written in an impeccable hand and signed by the Regent Mordecai himself.

  “It seems our Lord Regent has developed a great fondness for you,” observed Meeka neutrally, after the manservant had bowed crisply, turned on one heel and departed.

  “Yes,” said Persephone, trying not to sound as troubled as she felt, “it seems that he has.”

  Persephone took her breakfast in bed—a luxury that rivalled the bath she’d taken the previous evening but one that she could not enjoy nearly so much owing to the fact that, as she was now entirely refreshed and restored (indeed, more refreshed and restored than she could ever remember feeling in her life), her thoughts were consumed by Azriel and the others—how to find them and how to rescue them.

  If, indeed, rescue was still possible.

  “So,” she said, waving a half-eaten sweet bun in the air, “what news of last night’s events?”

  “Whatever do you mean, m’lady?” asked Meeka, her eyes following the sweet bun as though it were a ball at a royal tennis match.

  Persephone took a dainty bite of the bun. “Well,” she said carefully, in between chews, “I mean was there any report of … unusual or unexpected happenings?”

  Meeka
’s gaze drifted away from the bun and settled squarely on Persephone’s face. “As m’lady surely knows, official news of great import is rarely reported to the likes of us,” she said.

  Persephone’s mouth flew open and then snapped shut again when she realized that Meeka had not necessarily meant to include her in “the likes of us.”

  “However, we tend to hear a great deal of unofficial news,” continued Meeka placidly, “and there was no unofficial news of last night, save the expected: that a handful of notorious criminals were captured or killed, that many families mattering to no one of consequence were torn apart for the greater good of the kingdom and that the street cleaners will be busy for some days to come clearing away the ruins of the wretched hovels those families once inhabited—and the charred remains of their loved ones who dared to remain behind.”

  Persephone nodded wordlessly and tried not to imagine sturdy, rosy-cheeked little Sabian as a tiny, blackened corpse lying beneath the rubble. Feeling suddenly as though she might vomit—or even cry—she flung the half-eaten sweet bun down onto the tray and shoved the tray aside. “There was no other … unofficial news, then?” she asked in a voice that sounded almost harsh.

  “Sometimes no news is the best news,” offered Meeka.

  And sometimes it isn’t, thought Persephone.

  “Fetch me the footstool,” she said, throwing off the covers. “I wish to get up.”

  Getting dressed was as much of a production as bathing had been, and there was no way Persephone could hide the marks on her back because she had to have her corsets tightened by someone standing behind her. However, as no one mentioned the marks, Persephone let herself hope that perhaps they hadn’t been noticed—or, if they had been, that it had been assumed that she’d been beaten by her husband, a common enough occurrence among couples of all classes.

  After she’d hung onto the bedpost and had Martha haul on the corset strings until she was sure she felt her ribs crack, Meeka helped her into her petticoats and then into a gown of shimmering yellow shot through with silver thread. Its generous overskirt was pinned up into deep swoops along the hem to reveal the thickly pleated ruffles of her underskirt and petticoats, its tight-fitting, lace-trimmed sleeves hung almost to her fingertips—admirably hiding her whiplash scar—and its bodice was cut so low that Persephone was afraid to breathe too deeply for fear that her dangerously straining bosom would spring free entirely.