“Indeed,” said Meeka, eyes gleaming.
After donning her hat, cloak and gloves and retrieving her bow, Persephone made her way down to the royal stables. By the time she arrived most of the ladies were already mounted and—to Persephone’s surprise—so were a goodly number of dandified gentlemen.
“Lady Bothwell!” cried tiny Lady Aurelia, as she cantered up on a dappled mare. “I’d begun to worry that you’d decided not to join the hunt after all! Do you like my hat?”
“I do,” murmured Persephone as she apprehensively watched a scrawny little stable lad hurry toward her doing his best to lead an enormous black mare that was stomping, snorting, tossing its head and glowering at everyone and everything in its path.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Lady Aurelia, her bright eyes shining. “Now, mount up as fast as you can! The Master of the Hunt will sound the horn any moment and I daresay that horse you’ve been given will join the fray whether you’re upon its back or not!”
Persephone smiled weakly at this, then looked uncertainly at the stable lad, who did not look nearly big and strong enough to help her into the saddle.
Lady Aurelia laughed shrilly. “Fear not, Lady Bothwell—you shan’t have to fly up into the saddle,” she said. “My ne’er-do-well brother Lord Atticus approaches, and if he can hold himself upright for long enough, I daresay he can help you onto your horse.”
Aghast, Persephone spun around to find herself face to face with the very same Lord Atticus who’d threatened to ravish her and Rachel three days earlier. Though not as drunk as he’d been then, he’d obviously been drinking, for his doublet was rumpled, he stank of ale and his close-set eyes were bloodshot and watery.
Swallowing hard, Persephone coolly introduced herself as “Lady Bothwell” and held out her hand for him to kiss. For one terrible moment, he scrutinized her face so closely that she was sure he recognized her and was about to denounce her. Then, abruptly, his gaze dropped to her bosom. With a smile that strongly resembled a leer, he then leaned over and pressed his fleshy lips against her glove until his saliva left a mark on the soft leather, just as it had done on poor Fayla’s glove. When he lifted his head, Persephone noticed that the vicious scratch Ivan had given him had begun to fester. Though she badly wanted to ask him how he’d come by the scratch—and what had happened to the creature who’d given it to him—she did not dare.
“So,” whispered Atticus, still gawking at her bosom as he slipped his hands around her waist and yanked her so close that she could feel the hardness of his codpiece pressed against her, “am I to understand that you would like to be mounted?”
Actually, what I would like is to turn the pitiful contents of your oversized codpiece into pig slop, thought Persephone fiercely. Out loud, in a voice as innocent as it was proper, she said, “Yes, my lord. That is what I would like.”
Persephone had just managed to crook one knee around the pommel of the sidesaddle and wedge her other foot into the uncomfortably tight stirrup when the Master of the Hunt blew his horn and the beaters brought out the hounds. They were the same slit-eyed, grey-black beasts she’d encountered previously, and at the sight of them, Persephone’s horse reared and lunged so abruptly that she nearly fell off its back. As soon as she recovered her balance, the horse stopped just as abruptly, causing her to fall forward and bang her nose into its neck so hard that her eyes watered. All the way out of the stable yard and through the palace gates it was the same thing, and whether she yanked on the reins, spoke kindly or issued stern commands, Persephone’s horse paid her even less attention than dear old Fleet generally paid Azriel.
By the time they reached the perimeter of the vast imperial parkland in which the hunt was to take place, Persephone—who could usually find something to love in any animal—was convinced that the giant, snorting beast beneath her was pathologically disagreeable, deaf and possible deranged. She was also convinced that if she attempted to ride it for very much longer, it would see that she paid dearly for it. Turning to Lady Aurelia, she was about to ask if there was some way she could trade in her horse for one that wasn’t demonically possessed when she was assailed by a stench so horrible that she began to gag. Quickly covering her mouth with her hand, she looked forward to see half a dozen human heads perched on pikes planted in the ground at the entrance to the parkland. Grey and flaccid, with ragged necks, open eyes and dribbles of black blood staining their gaping mouths, they instantly recalled memories from Persephone’s brief but terrible time in the Mines of Torodania—and the punishment meted out to anyone caught trying to sneak into or out of the dread place.
“Is something the matter, Lady Bothwell?” inquired a smirking young noblewoman in a gorgeously plumed burgundy hat and matching riding cloak.
Persephone breathed shallowly through her mouth. “No … I just.…” Jerkily, she gestured toward the heads. “Who are—I mean, uh, who were they?”
“Do you not recognize them?” asked the noblewoman in a curious voice. “They’re the bandits who attacked you, of course.” She smiled slyly. “I heard that the Regent Mordecai was so distressed that your caravan had been attacked that he sent General Murdock out the very next day to hunt down and destroy the lowborn wretches responsible.”
Persephone could barely contain her horror at the fact that her lie had caused these terrible deaths. “But … but how did he know that these were the bandits who attacked me?” she gasped.
“Well, weren’t they?” twittered another of the young noblewomen, a large-nosed, thin-lipped girl in a richly embellished blue velvet dress—a girl who seemed to find terribly amusing the possibility that the General had executed the wrong men.
“Th-they were,” stammered Persephone, who had no wish to see more innocent men murdered on account of her lie. “I … I only wondered how he knew that they were.”
Lady Aurelia rolled her eyes. “Oh, what does it matter, Lady Bothwell?” she asked with sudden impatience. “The deed is done, so let us make haste to get past the stink of it so that we may enjoy the day at hand.”
Predictably, Persephone did not enjoy the day at hand. Never in a thousand years could she have imagined that the silly, fumbling lies she’d told the Regent would bear such terrible fruit. Her fateful actions in the alley that night may have saved Azriel, Rachel and one Gypsy orphan, but they’d cost six innocent men their lives. Seven, if one included the man brought down by the arrow intended for Cur.
Over the next several hours, while the beaters bellowed and crashed through the underbrush trying to scare up game, Persephone could not stop thinking about the dead men and their families—and about the fact that she was committed to rescuing another Gypsy orphan.
And she could not stop wondering what price would be paid this time—and by whom it would be paid.
By the time the dinner hour arrived, the beaters had still not managed to scare up so much as a mouse after which the bored nobles might give chase. Complaining loudly (and appearing drunker than he had that morning), Lord Atticus led the hunting party to a clearing. It was immediately apparent to Persephone that a small army of servants had arrived there long before they, for the clearing was set with ornately carved tables, priceless carpets, billowing canopies and numerous couches upon which weary riders might recline and receive goblets of wine and plates of food. It was as though one of the finer rooms in the palace had been transported in its entirety to the middle of nowhere, and it looked so inviting that Persephone couldn’t wait to get out of the saddle.
Just as she was trying to free her foot from the tootight stirrup, however, a fat hare shot between the legs of her horse, followed closely by two barking, bounding hunting hounds. Squealing loudly, Persephone’s horse reared and lunged as it had when it had first seen the dogs. This time, however, it didn’t stop there. Laying its ears flat against its head, it burst into a full gallop directly through the middle of the clearing, kicking clods of dirt all over the beautiful carpets, bringing down snow-white canopies, dodging couches and shriek
ing noblewomen before finally jumping clear over a whole hog roasting on a spit over an open fire. The horse’s back legs must have landed uncomfortably close to the flames because the instant its hooves touched down, it squealed even more shrilly than before and leapt forward into a gallop once more. Persephone—who, through it all, had clung to the horse’s mane like a flea to a shaking dog—now began desperately trying to free her foot from the stirrup. If she was thrown from the saddle she would almost certainly break her neck, but if she was able to jump she just might be able to control her landing well enough to only suffer several broken limbs. Unfortunately, however, try as she might she could not get free, and before she knew it, the horse had plunged into a thicket of trees at the edge of the clearing. With a gasp, Persephone ducked to avoid being knocked out of the saddle by a low tree limb and then ducked again to avoid being brained by an even lower limb. As the horse continued to pound along, somehow finding a path through the thicket, Persephone’s face was whipped by small branches, her hat was torn from her head and she abandoned all thought of trying to jump clear.
Then she saw it.
Directly ahead, beyond the trees, was a narrow cliff top—and far below it, the sparkling blue waters of the sea.
The out-of-control beast beneath Persephone did not see the edge of the cliff, did not understand what it meant or did not care. Covered with sweaty foam and breathing raggedly, it continued to gallop as hard as it could.
There was nothing Persephone could do. She couldn’t make the horse stop and she couldn’t get free of it.
They were going over.
And with the fleeting thought that she’d never imagined it would end this way, Persephone twined her fingers deeper in the horse’s mane, hunkered down and prepared to die.
THIRTY
ALL AT ONCE, a fearsome, filthy, four-legged creature with bared teeth and matted fur leapt out of the trees. With a wet snarl, it planted itself directly in the path of the horse’s deadly, pounding hooves.
“Cur!” screamed Persephone, her heart bursting with terror and joy.
The deranged horse emitted a shrill squeal, swerved to the left and continued to gallop hard, dangerously close to the crumbling edge of the cliff top. Far below, jagged rocks and a pounding surf promised death to the unlucky, but Persephone was not afraid, for she had never felt luckier in her life. Narrowing her eyes against the biting wind, she tossed her wild, dark hair out of her face and laughed aloud with the happy knowledge that Cur had come back to her.
Abruptly—and possibly inspired by the fact that Cur was hot on his heels—the horse veered away from the edge of the cliff and plunged back into the thicket. There, it thrashed about wildly for some time before finally slowing to a plodding walk and making its way back to the open parkland on the other side. Beyond the trees at last, Persephone was surprised (and extremely relieved) to see that they’d somehow backtracked nearly the entire distance the hunting party had covered that morning and that the palace gates were close at hand.
“This way,” she commanded, trying to lead the horse to a nearby path.
Ignoring her completely, it ploughed through a patch of thorny brambles that further shredded the hem of her once-beautiful gown. It then clip-clopped over the drawbridge, through the watchtower passageway and past the open-mouthed, staring guards.
“This way,” Persephone commanded again, trying to lead it to the royal stables.
Again ignoring her completely, it turned in the opposite direction, toward the immaculately trimmed hedge that encircled the vast royal garden. Upon reaching it, the horse stood patiently waiting for Persephone to work her boot out of the stirrup, and as soon as she’d done so, it tossed her over the hedge and wandered away.
As luck would have it, Persephone landed unhurt in a thick bed of fragrant white lilies. The next moment, Cur (who’d crawled beneath the hedge) was upon her, licking her face and wriggling like a puppy. Hugging him close without a care for who might see, Persephone stroked his matted fur, scratched his smelly ears and thanked him profusely for saving her life.
Then, feeling more like herself than she had in days, she stood up, shook out the tattered skirts of her destroyed gown, ran her fingers through her horribly tangled hair, pinched the cheeks of her branch-whipped, mud-splattered face and began searching for a way out of the deserted garden. Since the hedge over which she’d arrived was impassable (unless she wanted to wriggle beneath it on her belly, which she did not), she turned and followed the path that lay before her.
The carefully tended flower beds on either side of the path were filled with exotic blooms, and trees dripping with ivy provided perches for a host of vividly plumed little songbirds. Bushes cunningly shaped into porpoises and sea turtles and mermaids overlooked tiny bridges spanning ponds inhabited by emerald-green frogs and little darting fish whose rainbow scales flashed in the sunlight.
Persephone was enchanted. Deeper and deeper into the garden she strolled with Cur, her purpose entirely forgotten in her delight at the thought of what might be waiting for her around the next bend in the path.
Then she rounded a bend and saw a sight that not only stopped her dead in her tracks but very nearly caused her heart to stop beating as well.
It was Ivan! Her Ivan—dear, brave, funny Ivan! And he was alive!
Alive—but tethered and perched on the arm of a tall, dark-haired man. She could not see the man’s face, for his back was turned to her, but she could clearly see that he was trying to command Ivan to do something that he did not want to do.
Incensed at the sight of her proud friend alive but enslaved, Persephone all but flew at the man, who was as yet blissfully unaware of her presence.
“In the name of the Regent Mordecai I order you to let that creature alone this instant!” she shouted recklessly and so loudly that she badly startled Ivan, who responded by pecking the man hard in the side of the head. “Are you such a beast that you cannot find other amusements for yourself but that you must torment the poor thing?” continued Persephone, as the man grunted and hopped about in obvious pain. “Can you not see that he is wounded and suffering? Is it not obvious from his bearing that he is not meant for such sport in any event? Stop your tiresome theatrics and show yourself, sir, that I may know what low manner of person has offended me so!”
At this, the man—whose head appeared to be bleeding rather badly—began to laugh so hard that he drove himself into a coughing fit. When it finally subsided, he bravely turned to face Persephone and her wrath.
Luckily for him, her wrath evaporated the instant she laid eyes upon him. About as tall and as old as Azriel, and with eyes nearly as blue, there was something strangely compelling about him—something that made Persephone think she should know him.
“I am the king,” he said helpfully, after a moment.
Mortified to the point of horror, Persephone gasped, clapped one hand over her mouth and dropped into a curtsey so low that her legs promptly gave way beneath her.
With Ivan still perched on one carefully outstretched arm, the smiling young king reached out his free hand to help her up. Cur—who was watching from nearby— growled softly.
“Your Majesty!” squeaked Persephone as she staggered to her feet. “I apologize for—”
“Calling me a beast?” he suggested. “Chastising me for my ‘tiresome theatrics’? Causing my new bird to peck me in the head?”
Persephone felt herself blush. “I am terribly sorry about all of those things, Your Majesty,” she mumbled. “It’s just that … well.…”
“Yes?” said the king, leaning closer.
Looking up into his blue eyes, Persephone felt a sudden desire to touch his cheek. “Forgive me,” she murmured, tucking her hands behind her back, “but you really ought not to use this particular bird for hunting.”
King Finnius gaped at her. “You run at me in my own garden—unkempt, unchaperoned, in the company of a flea-bitten mongrel, and now—knowing that I am your king—you still seek to correct me?�
�� he said incredulously. “Madam, who are you?”
Lifting her chin, Persephone made a fine show of smoothing her filthy, shredded skirts and plumping up her tangled hair. “I am Lady Bothwell of the Ragorian Prefecture,” she said with great dignity. “Some weeks past, my dear husband gave his blessing that I might travel to Parthania. There were troubles along the way that I do not wish to dwell upon. This morning, I joined a noble hunting party. For reasons unknown, this ‘flea-bitten mongrel’ saved my life when the horse I borrowed from Your Majesty’s stables went berserk and tried to kill me.”
The king’s blue eyes widened at this. “Was this horse you speak of a mare?” he asked, punctuating his inquiry with the touch of his hand to her elbow. “Was she large, black, disagreeable and deaf?”
“Yes,” said Persephone, who rather enjoyed the warmth of his touch. “She was also deranged.”
The king nodded as though this confirmed his suspicions. “Her name is Lucifer,” he said.
“That is a boy’s name,” said Persephone.
“And yet it suits her remarkably well,” said the king. “I have never warmed to her, myself, and had left orders that none should ride her. Rest assured that I shall find out from my Master of Horse how she came to be saddled for you—and that I shall personally see to it that Lucifer receives a stern lecture on the subject of her behaviour.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” smiled Persephone, thoroughly charmed by the image of this richly dressed young monarch perched atop a weathered milking stool delivering a fiery harangue to a deaf horse.
The king smiled too. “Now, tell me how you knew that my ‘early birthday surprise’ was wounded,” he said, “for I would hardly have known it myself if Lord Atticus hadn’t told me so when he gave it to me.”
The Gypsy King Page 25
