The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  “Have you ever attended an execution, Lady Bothwell?” asked the Regent, who was watching her intently.

  Before she could choke out a suitable answer, an arrogant-looking man with a trim silver beard caught up with them. Introducing himself as Lord Bartok, he gave Persephone a wintry smile and briefly pressed his lips against her gloved hand. As she curtseyed in response, she tried in vain to remember where she’d heard his name before.

  “Lady Bothwell is here as my guest,” the Regent informed Lord Bartok as he laid a possessive hand over the hand of Persephone’s that had just been kissed.

  “I gathered as much when you were introduced together,” said Lord Bartok, watching Persephone most carefully as he added, “though I must admit that I was astonished to learn that old Bothwell had married, for I’d understood him to be both an invalid and a confirmed bachelor.”

  “Well, you were wrong,” said the Regent, clearly savouring the words.

  “So it would appear,” murmured Lord Bartok, who smiled before adding, “By the way, Your Grace, I must congratulate you on a fine night’s work. I understand that the slum has been reduced to a charred pile of sticks and bones, and that you, yourself, led the men to action.”

  Mordecai shrugged modestly, but his dark eyes glittered. “As His Majesty is fond of pointing out, I am far more than a skilled administrator,” he said, his words heavy with meaning that Persephone did not understand.

  The nobleman seemed to understand the meaning, however, because he nodded solemnly and said, “A capable man can rise far in this world.”

  Pale-faced and tight-lipped, the Regent stared at him for a long moment before replying, “A fool can fall even farther.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Lord Bartok easily. “Now tell me: are the rumours true? Did your men truly capture another Gypsy last night—here, in the very heart of Glyndoria?”

  “They did,” nodded Mordecai, with a sharp glance at Persephone, who’d begun to sway on her feet.

  “And are we about to have the pleasure of seeing—”

  “Excuse me, Lord Bartok,” said the Regent impatiently, “but as you can plainly see, Lady Bothwell is suffering from the heat and the glare. I must find her a seat in the shade at once, before she faints dead away.”

  Persephone—who was, indeed, on the verge of fainting dead away—did not see the speculative expression on Lord Bartok’s face as the Regent led her away, nor did she feel Mordecai’s claw-like fingers as they dug into her lower back, propelling her closer and closer to the scaffold. She hardly heard the boards rattle beneath her feet as she staggered up the steps of the nearby canopied gallery, barely felt the cushion beneath her as she collapsed into a chair in the very front row.

  Did your men truly capture another Gypsy last night—here, in the very heart of Glyndoria?

  They did.

  “Shall I have a servant fetch you to your room, Lady Bothwell?” asked the Regent, with more than a trace of irritation.

  And are we about to have the pleasure of seeing—?

  “No,” said Persephone in a faint but determined voice. If, in fact, it was Azriel they’d captured, and if they meant to force him up the steps of the scaffold to suffer a Gypsy’s dread death, she would be there for it. She would not have his last sight in this world be a crowd of jeering men and women not fit to touch the hem of his silly stolen doublet. As his bloody scalp was torn from his head and he collapsed upon the scattered straw to wait for his life to drain from his terrible wound, she would have him feel the warmth of her steady gaze and take what comfort he could from knowing that there was one in the crowd who cared.

  “No,” she repeated, with a fierceness that surprised her. “No, I do not wish to return to my room, thank you. It was only the heat and glare, as you said. Already I feel much improved.”

  Mordecai’s expression eased. “You are made of stronger stuff than most noblewomen,” he said in an approving voice.

  Persephone smiled tightly, then froze as a small band of New Men soldiers rounded the corner of a nearby turret. Led by a weasel of a man in a general’s hat, they marched in tight formation. Even so, Persephone could see among their shiny boots the dirty, dragging feet of their doomed prisoner.

  Leaning forward in her chair, she gripped the rail before her and prayed for courage.

  Suddenly, Lord Pembleton—the dishevelled-looking man with the round, red face—broke from the noble crowd that was now assembled upon the green before the scaffold. Stumbling and tripping, he ran at the soldiers with his arms outstretched beseechingly. As soon as he was within range, one of the soldiers stepped out of formation and, holding his poleaxe chest high with both hands, shoved the nobleman backward with such force that he fell to the ground. It happened quickly, but before the soldier returned to his place beside his comrades, there was time enough for Persephone to get a glimpse of the prisoner in their midst—an unconscious man with straight brown hair.

  Not curly. Not auburn.

  Not Azriel!

  Her relief was so intense that she didn’t even notice Lord Pembleton fight his way back through the crowd to fall at the feet of the Regent.

  “Please, Your Grace, please!” he cried, gesturing wildly to the young man who was even now being dragged up the steps of the scaffold. “Have mercy on my son! He is a good boy—a father himself! He has been falsely accused. Spare him—I beg you!”

  With mounting horror, Persephone stared down at the sobbing father and then up at the son. In addition to being filthy and dressed in rags, the young man had clearly been brutalized—his lips were torn, one eye was nothing but bloody pulp, his limbs were scored with burns and all of his fingers and toes were swollen and blue and bent in unnatural directions.

  Roughly, the soldiers hauled the young man to the front of the scaffold, where they held him aloft. When he failed to lift his head, the hooded executioner shouldered his axe, stomped forward and gave one of the young man’s broken fingers a sharp squeeze. Pembleton’s son gave a sudden, gasping cry of pain, and his head jerked up as if by the pull of a string. He stared uncomprehendingly at the silent, staring crowd for a long moment before peeling apart his scabbed lips. “Good … people,” he whispered hoarsely, mindless of the fresh blood that had begun to trickle down his chin. “Know that I did all that I have been accused of and … and more. Know that … I deserve far worse than this death I am about to receive.” Here, he turned his head slowly and fixed his one remaining eye on the Regent—and on Persephone, who sat beside him. “My eternal gratitude,” he concluded raggedly, “for the great mercy my Lord Regent and His Majesty the King have shown in not exacting vengeance upon my family as further punishment for my … most grievous crimes.”

  Halfway through this speech, Persephone turned to ask the Regent the nature of the crimes to which the man referred—and possibly even to beg mercy for him, if only for the sake of his father—only to see that the Regent was nodding slowly, his eyes alight with obvious pleasure, his lips silently mouthing the young man’s words.

  No, not the young man’s words, realized Persephone with a jolt. Averting her eyes so that she’d not have to look upon the Regent’s happy countenance or watch the soldiers manoeuvre poor Lord Pembleton’s son to his knees and force his head down upon the well-used block, she thought, They were the Regent’s words! There is no hope for—

  THUD.

  Persephone jumped in her seat and her gaze jerked forward just in time to see the executioner place his heavy boot on young Pembleton’s shoulder in order to free the blade of the axe, which had badly missed its mark and was now buried deep in the groaning man’s back.

  Please, prayed Persephone desperately as she lifted her chin and fixed her warm, steady gaze upon him. Let him know that there is more than one in this overdressed mob that cares.

  And please, she added silently, let him die quickly.

  At least one of Persephone’s prayers was not answered. To the delight and amusement of many in the crowd, it took twelve strokes to se
ver young Pembleton’s head.

  “W-what was he accused of?” stammered Persephone, as the executioner snatched up his gory trophy by the hair and held it aloft for all to admire before unceremoniously dumping it into a nearby bucket.

  “What does it matter?” shrugged Mordecai, rising to his feet. “As you, yourself, heard, Lady Bothwell, the wretch confessed to everything.”

  Numbly, Persephone nodded. “And is that all?” she asked, licking her bone-dry lips. “Is there no more … entertainment to be had this day?”

  Mordecai burst out laughing, a merry sound that contrasted horribly with the noises poor Lord Pembleton was making as he lay atop the headless body of his dead son. “Oh, Lady Bothwell,” he chortled, “wasn’t that enough?”

  Persephone flushed. “I only meant—well, you said that, um, a Gypsy had been captured and.…”

  The Regent’s eyes gleamed as her voice trailed off. “My, but you are a bloodthirsty little flower, aren’t you?” he whispered huskily as he picked up her hand and lifted her to her feet.

  Persephone flushed deeper still. “No, I only—”

  Reaching out, the Regent pressed a cool finger against her lips, stilling them. “Shhh,” he murmured. “No more talk of blood and vermin. Let us go inside and feed one of your less … unorthodox appetites.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE FEAST WAS VAST but nauseating—thin slices of rare beef swimming in their own bloody juices, jellied meats that shivered at the touch, entire hogs’ heads boiled to the colour of bruises, eggs with yolks like blood-blisters, long, pale sausage skins stuffed with some kind of smelly, lumpy curd, lukewarm soup swimming with grinning fish heads, raw oysters served directly from the still-warm body cavities of freshly slaughtered peacocks. And for dessert: rich red velvet cake drizzled with honey the colour of old blood. Worst of all was the great silver fountain—still in the shape of a man, but now with its head removed and red wine rhythmically pumping from the neck.

  Had the Regent insisted that Persephone sit by his side throughout the meal, she might very well have been undone by her inability—indeed, her stubborn refusal— to let one morsel or drop of that sickening spread pass her lips. However, as luck would have it, upon entering the hall the Regent apologetically informed her that esteemed though she was, regrettably, he could not allow her to sit at the high table with him. He was not afraid of giving offence to the great lords of the kingdom, he explained in confidential tones; rather, he felt it would be impolitic to do so until such time as they had given him that which he both desired and deserved.

  “Things will be very different then,” he whispered as he deposited her at a silver-set table and turned away.

  Feeling chilled by his cryptic words, Persephone watched him lurch to his own seat at the right hand of the empty throne. Then she turned to see that every other person at her table was a noblewoman about her own age—and that all of them were staring at her with cold distaste, as though they were beautifully plumed carrion birds and she, a verminous carcass unworthy of their sharp little beaks. Instinctively, she tensed and her hand drifted to the place where her dagger should have been. Even as she did so, however, the girls’ stony faces melted into simpering smiles. So, she was Lady Bothwell, was she? Esteemed guest of the Regent, yes? How had this curious thing come to pass? Were the two of them quite as intimate as they looked? What would her husband think if he knew? Where was her husband now? Was he really an old man? Did he smell of death, were his feet quite grotesque to look upon? Was it very horrible to lie with him?

  Well, was he rich, at least?

  Though Persephone’s nerves were drawn tight as a bowstring, and though it was obvious to her that the young noblewomen were amusing themselves at her expense, she answered every one of their questions. However, she took such care to avoid saying anything that might heap ridicule upon the hapless Lord Bothwell that the noblewomen eventually grew bored and ignored her in favour of discussing in minute, gory detail the execution of Lord Pembleton’s son and all the deliciously horrifying rumours they’d ever heard about the dungeon in which he’d passed his final days.

  The dungeon in which Azriel might—at this very moment!—be languishing in pain and darkness.

  After a few moments of this gruesome chatter, the tiny, bright-eyed girl upon whose every word the other noblewomen seemed to hang, chirped, “They say there are only two ways out of the place: in pieces, through one of the trapdoors that opens to the underground river running beneath the castle, or intact, shortly to be chopped into pieces.”

  The other noblewomen screamed with mirth at this witticism and the girl—Lady Aurelia—basked in the glow of their appreciation until she noticed that Persephone was not joining in the fun.

  “You do not find my words amusing, Lady Bothwell?” she asked, her sharp little features pinching together in displeasure.

  Persephone hesitated. Though she longed to tell this cold-blooded creature exactly what she thought of her and her words, she knew that her own situation was too precarious to risk offending anyone. So she clenched her teeth together and forced herself to mumble, “I’m terribly sorry, Lady Aurelia. I was so busy admiring your beautiful hat that I’m afraid I didn’t hear your words.”

  Even to Persephone’s ears, her reply sounded appallingly insincere, but instead of getting angry, Lady Aurelia laughed shrilly. “Very good, Lady Bothwell, very good!” she cried, clapping her little hands in apparent delight. “Oh, do say you’ll join us at tomorrow’s hunt, for I should like to know what you think of my riding hat.”

  At this, the other noblewomen twittered behind their gloved fingers.

  Persephone smiled thinly and was about to decline when she realized that the invitation would give her the perfect excuse to get past her guards and roam the palace grounds without the Regent lurching alongside her, watching her every move. How she would get from roaming freely to finding and rescuing Azriel from a dungeon from which people only ever left in pieces (or intact, shortly to be chopped into pieces) she had no idea, but she was a step closer to doing so than she’d been one minute earlier.

  It was a start.

  Smiling sincerely for the first time since witnessing the execution, Persephone said, “I should like to go hunting with you, Lady Aurelia. Indeed, you cannot know how I shall look forward to it.”

  The thought that she’d made a start sustained Persephone through the long evening of entertainment that followed—through jugglers and jesters, demonstrations of swordplay and wrestling, recitations, singing and dancing. However, by the time she was delivered back to her rooms by one of the Regent’s lackeys (the Regent himself engaged in serious conversation with a morbidly obese nobleman whose attention kept drifting to the last of the curd-filled sausage skins) Persephone was utterly spent. Pushing past the stony-faced guards outside her chamber door, she slipped inside to find Martha and the sisters sitting by the fire, sewing and murmuring quietly together. The warm, companionable sight was in such stark contrast to all that she’d seen and learned and endured over the last hours that it was all Persephone could do not to burst into tears.

  Her distress must have been plain to see, however, for Martha and the sisters were by her side at once. They asked no questions—indeed, said not one word—but quickly led her to the warmth of the fire. There, Meeka helped her out of her high-heeled slippers and peeled the bloody wadding from her heels, Martha unlaced her gown and corset, Meeta scampered to fetch her nightgown and robe and Meena thrust a hot poker into the wine jug. Humming softly, the mute girl handed Persephone a goblet of warmed wine and then gently began to brush out her stiff curls, pausing once to allow Martha to help Persephone step out of the last of her petticoats, and a second time to allow Meeka to slip the warmed nightgown over her head.

  When the last of the heavy pomade had been brushed away and Persephone was snugly wrapped in her robe and comfortably curled in one of the heavy chairs by the fire, she thanked Martha and the girls for their kindness and dismissed them with
assurances that she was feeling much improved and would be able to get herself settled in bed in due course.

  After they reluctantly departed for their own quarters, Persephone tiptoed over to the loose floorboard and withdrew her dagger and other things. She knew she’d have to hide them again soon enough, but she badly needed to see them now—to touch them and to draw strength and courage from the memory of those to whom they’d once belonged. Returning to her chair, she curled her sore bare feet up beneath her and, setting the dagger, lace and rat tail in her lap, placed the soft auburn curl in the palm of her open hand.

  Azriel’s curl, she thought as she stroked it with the very tip of her finger and watched it shimmer and glint in the firelight, Azriel, who might even now be—

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

  Persephone leapt to her feet so fast that the things in her lap fell to the floor. Closing her fingers around the curl, she pressed her fist to her hammering heart and stared at the chamber door. She could think of only one person who would dare to come knocking at such an hour and with such insistence—as though he was owed something for which he hungered and would not be denied.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

  Swiftly, Persephone tossed the rat tail, lace and curl into the hole beneath the loose floorboard, slipped her dagger, hilt first, up her sleeve and hurried across the chamber floor. Whatever the consequences might be, she would not allow that monster to force himself upon her, she would not—

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

  Silently bounding the last few steps to the chamber door, Persephone took a deep breath to steady herself, then threw back her shoulders and flung open the door to find not the Regent, but two filthy, blood-splattered New Men.

  And standing between them—shorn, fettered, shirtless, singed, battered, bloody but very much alive: