The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

For a moment, Persephone just gaped at him, cursing herself for a fool. “O-oh,” she finally stammered. “Well, uh, I suppose there was just something about the way he was perched upon your arm. You know, as if … as if there was something wrong with him.”

  “There is something wrong with him, all right, and it is that he has a poor attitude,” said the king, surreptitiously coughing in the sleeve of his doublet. “Why else would a trained hunting hawk wilfully ignore such a fine meal in plain sight?” he asked, gesturing to the dead chick that lay on the ground not far from where Cur was sunning himself.

  “Perhaps he is so well trained that he disdains having his meals served to him,” suggested Persephone. “Or … perhaps he has been brought so low by his tether that he cannot bring himself to eat. Perhaps you would have more luck with him if—”

  “I removed the tether?”

  Persephone nodded.

  “You do not like the idea that this creature should be my captive,” observed the king shrewdly.

  “I do not,” admitted Persephone, with feeling. “Some creatures were meant to be free, Your Majesty, and I think he is one of them.”

  King Finnius looked at her for a long moment. Then he looked at Ivan. Then, wordlessly—and with infinite gentleness—he unlaced the tether that bound Ivan’s leg. Ivan blinked several times, screamed once at Persephone, then exploded into the air with such force that it would, indeed, have been impossible to guess that his wing had been pierced mere days earlier.

  As Ivan flew off with an air of great purpose, there came the sound of someone bellowing the name of “Lady Bothwell.” As one, Persephone and the king looked around to see Azriel sprinting around the corner of the nearby palace turret. Upon spotting Persephone, he raced toward her—eschewing the path in favour of nimbly leaping over ponds, hedges and flower beds that he might reach her the sooner.

  Skidding to a halt before her, Azriel was so obviously relieved to find her safe that for one heart-stopping moment Persephone thought he might sweep her into his arms and crush her against him as he’d done the previous night. Then he noticed her companion and, recognizing him as the king, quickly swept him a low bow.

  “Pardon, Your Majesty,” he panted, studiously ignoring Cur, who’d begun growling in earnest at the sight of him, “but when your Master of Horse sent word to my lady’s chambers that her mount had returned to the stables by way of the garden—and that she had not returned with it—I feared the worst and came looking for her at once.”

  “You are a most devoted slave,” said the king approvingly.

  “His name is Azriel and he is a eunuch,” said Persephone, for sheer devilment.

  “Really!” said the king, who seemed much pleased by this news. “Well, you needn’t have worried, Azriel,” he said. “Lady Bothwell did have a rather harrowing experience with a horse of ill repute but I have assured her that I am going to deal with the brute in a manner she won’t soon forget.”

  He and Persephone shared a private laugh at this. Azriel watched them laugh with the expression of one who’d just swallowed a bug.

  Then he let out an ear-splitting shriek as Ivan swooped down and dropped a dead rat on his head.

  “Ha!” cried the king excitedly, his blue eyes shining with delight. “Look what my hawk has brought me!”

  “Congratulations, Sire,” said Persephone, smothering a smile at the sight of Azriel’s own blue eyes bulging in outrage.

  The king hunkered down to get a closer look at his prize. “Of course,” he said, wrinkling his nose slightly, “black rats are not precisely the kind of game one hopes to bring down with a hawk, and one prefers to have the kill delivered directly to oneself, but still. It is a remarkable start, and I have you to thank for it, Lady Bothwell, for it was you who saw that this creature was meant to be free.”

  Persephone’s heart swelled at his words and at the sudden realization that she—a slave born and bred, an emptier of chamber pots!—was standing in the beautiful garden of the imperial palace listening to the king himself thank her for her advice on the subject of freedom.

  “Truly,” he continued with an enthusiasm that Persephone found inexpressibly appealing, “you are a most uncommon noblewoman and one whom I would like to know better. I will be dining in state this evening so that my subjects may see that I am well, and if it would please you, I should like to have you join me.”

  Persephone’s heart swelled again—the king himself was inviting her to supper! Then she remembered that she’d agreed to share supper and “amusements” in the Regent’s private chamber that evening.

  “Not to worry,” said the king, upon learning of her prior engagement. “I will invite the Regent to join us, and we shall all be merry.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “I DON’T KNOW WHY you agreed to accompany him to dinner,” said Azriel with more than a trace of complaint in his voice.

  Persephone sat before the looking glass, admiring the job that Martha and the sisters had done. They’d all been frankly horrified when “Lady Bothwell” had returned to her chambers trailing a smelly mongrel and looking like something the cat dragged in, and they’d wasted no time preparing a bath and setting about the business of making her look fit for a king. Persephone flushed hotly as she recalled the expression on Azriel’s face as he’d slowly emptied pail after pail of hot water into the claw-footed tub—half-amused that she’d been unable to come up with an excuse to entirely ban her Master of the Bath from the process this time, half-ready to explode with desire. Indeed, there’d been moments when she’d thought he’d fling the pail across the room and sweep aside the floating rose petals that were the only thing protecting her nakedness from his hungry eyes.

  Pinching herself hard to force her thoughts back to the moment, Persephone tugged on the long, puffed sleeves of her silvery gown and said, “I agreed to accompany King Finnius to dinner because he is the king, because I like him and because it gave me a ready excuse not to spend an evening alone with the Regent.”

  Azriel let out a loud, indignant huff. “I told you that I would come up with a plan to keep you out of the hands of the Regent.”

  “And what plan had you come up with?” she asked, twisting around to face him.

  Azriel, who was lounging in one of the chairs by the fire, rolled his eyes heavenward and sucked in his cheeks. “I was still working on it,” he muttered.

  Persephone tried not to smile. “And what of the plan to rescue your little kinsman?” she asked, turning back around and reaching for her wine goblet.

  “Figured out down to the last detail.”

  Persephone choked on her mouthful of wine. “Really?” she said in surprise, after she’d recovered.

  “Really,” said Azriel smugly. “Today, while you were out gallivanting with your noble friends and making moon-eyes at the king—”

  “I was not making moon-eyes—”

  “I learned that the dungeon is deep underground with a single well-guarded entrance—”

  “Everyone knows that,” said Persephone, not bothering to hide her smile this time.

  Azriel scowled at her before continuing. “I also learned that almost no one is permitted to enter the dungeon save for the prisoners who are condemned to it, the guards who patrol it, the Regent and his general.”

  Persephone frowned. “But if no one but them enters, how will we get in?” she asked.

  “I said almost no one,” replied Azriel even more smugly than before. “Every second day, a pair of kitchen slaves is sent down to distribute bread to the prisoners. They will go down this evening; two days hence—which Meeka informs me is the king’s birthday—we will go down in their stead, carrying their sacks of bread and dressed in their robes.”

  “Why would they let us do that?”

  “Because they dread and fear the task, and also because they will be stinking drunk on the fine wine that I will have given to them to drink.”

  “Where will you get fine wine?”

  “I will steal it,”
explained Azriel with exaggerated patience. “I’m a thief, remember?”

  “I remember,” said Persephone, bugging her eyes out at him before reluctantly picking up the amethyst necklace that the Regent had given her.

  “Once in the dungeon we will search until we find the child—”

  “They say the dungeon is a vast labyrinth,” said Persephone as she fumbled with the clasp of the necklace. “We could search forever and not find him.”

  Azriel—who’d silently come up behind her—lightly ran his hands along hers until he reached the clasp of the necklace, which he deftly closed. He then placed his hands on her shoulders, caught her gaze in the looking glass and said, “We’ll just have to hope that doesn’t happen, won’t we?”

  Feeling a little dizzy, Persephone nodded and rather breathlessly asked, “W-what if the guards who patrol the dungeon are familiar with the regular slaves? What if one of them notices that we aren’t them—or worse, recognizes me as Lady Bothwell?”

  Stepping away from her, Azriel began to pace the room. “Most New Men think almost as highly of themselves as noblemen do and therefore I sincerely doubt that any will have lowered themselves to familiarity with dungeon slaves. I also doubt their ability to see that which they do not expect to see, which is why I’m not overly concerned that they will recognize ‘Lady Bothwell’ covered in ashes and dressed in rags. Moreover,” he continued, “since the king has insisted that free food and wine be distributed throughout the city in honour of his birthday, and also that processions, contests and entertainments be held both within the palace walls and without, additional soldiers will be needed aboveground to maintain order among the revellers. Therefore there will be fewer guards on duty in the dungeon than usual—a circumstance that further reduces our risk.”

  “But what of the risk of waiting two days?” asked Persephone. “The risk to the child, I mean?”

  “It concerns me greatly but I can see no help for it,” said Azriel. “The palace guards have a separate kitchen with poison testers so there is no way to slip them a draught that will put them to sleep and allow us to sneak past them, and a frontal assault on the dungeon entrance would be suicide for us and certain death for the child. Waiting is a risk, but it is also our best hope.”

  Persephone nodded. “And what if someone else ends up paying the price of seeing that hope fulfilled?” she asked quietly.

  When Azriel looked at her uncomprehendingly, she continued. “Today I saw the bloody heads of six innocent men who were murdered because of the lies I told, Azriel. Those men’s children are fatherless because of me—”

  “Those men’s children are fatherless because their fathers were murdered by the Regent,” said Azriel flatly.

  “Because of my lies.”

  “Because the Regent is evil,” insisted Azriel. “Persephone, I am truly sorry those men died but I will not accept responsibility for their deaths, and I will not allow you to do so, either. Two days hence we will rescue the little boy in the dungeon. We will do everything in our power to ensure that no one dies in the process, and then we will leave this place and you will never have to see the Regent again.”

  Persephone nodded, not wanting to think about who else she might never see again after she left this place. “And what would you have me do between now and then?” she asked.

  “Pray for the child and be charming to all,” replied Azriel. Then, lifting an index finger high in the air, he solemnly amended his instruction.

  “Be charming to all,” he repeated, “but not too charming.”

  As agreed, that night Persephone dined with the king, the Regent and all those who’d come to the noisy Great Hall to partake of a royal feast and get a glimpse of their handsome young monarch seated upon his golden chair beneath his purple cloth of state. Kitchen servants—all of whom eagerly watched to see how much the notorious Lady Bothwell would consume—presented dish after dish to the king, who dutifully sampled the contents of each, praised the chef and gallantly offered the choicest morsels to Persephone before sending the dishes onward to be shared among the other tables. He was unfailingly patient and gracious to one and all—midway through the meal, when a pockmarked servant accidentally dropped the roast beef platter she was carrying, he even waved away the furious, red-faced Master of Hall who’d come charging forward to berate the poor woman for her clumsiness. He then followed up this kindness by announcing that he liked the smell of roast beef so much that, henceforth, his juice-splattered shoes would be his favourite pair. At this, the Great Hall erupted in sycophantic laughter so loud that Persephone nearly inhaled a mouthful of pheasant.

  After she recovered, she cast a sideways glance at the king and asked, “Do they always laugh at your jests, Majesty—even when they aren’t especially funny?”

  Delighted by her frankness, King Finnius threw back his head and laughed. “Always, Lady Bothwell,” he replied. “Always.”

  To Persephone’s relief, the Regent gave no sign that he was angry that his evening alone with her had been usurped, though Persephone was careful not to give him further cause to feel slighted. She conversed with him as often as she conversed with the king and even passed him some of the choicer morsels from her own plate. It sickened her to have to dote upon such a monster—and to have to pretend to be enchanted by all that he said and did—but with two full days of imposture still ahead of her, she dared not risk losing his favour.

  When the meal was over, the tables were pushed back against the wall, musicians were summoned and the ladies and gentlemen of the court were called to dance. Persephone—who hadn’t seen the traditional dances performed since she was a child living in the master’s house—declined to join in, giving the excuse that she was still bruised from her fall from the horse. Instead, she sat quietly by the Regent, doing her best to memorize the names and steps of each dance and smiling at the flushed king whenever he glanced her way.

  “Are you sure I cannot persuade you to dance, Lady Bothwell?” he asked breathlessly, staggering over to her after one particularly vigorous set.

  “I am sure,” she said, laughing at his bright-pink cheeks.

  The king grinned like the boy he was. “Another time, perhaps,” he suggested.

  “Another time,” she agreed.

  “Promise?” he asked, turning his head to cough into the sleeve of his doublet.

  Flustered, flattered and pleased, Persephone tucked her clasped hands beneath her chin, smiled and said, “Promise.”

  The king beamed at her and the next moment was swept back up in the dizzying twirl of dancers. Persephone’s eyes trailed him until she felt the Regent’s cold black eyes upon her. Turning to him at once, she smiled dazzlingly and shrugged as if to say, What could I do but humour him? He is the king. The Regent stared at her for a moment longer before visibly relaxing, patting her hand with his own withered claw and calling for more wine.

  Nigh about midnight, the visibly exhausted king formally took his leave of the court. As soon as he was gone, the Great Hall began to clear out—the married ladies retiring to their chambers, their husbands retreating into the shadows to talk business and intrigue, and the drunk and merry young people drifting toward smaller common rooms or out into the night to seek mischief under the cover of darkness.

  Bidding the Regent good night before he had a chance to suggest that she do other than retire to her chamber like the proper married lady she was, Persephone quickly made her way toward the back of the Great Hall. About halfway across the room, as she was manoeuvring around a silver fountain in the shape of a goddess, she heard several young noblewomen on the other side of the fountain gossiping about the morning’s hunt.

  “… I thought I would die from laughter. I really did!” giggled one.

  “So did I,” said another. “Did you see the look on her face when that beast she was riding jumped the spit hog?”

  More giggles.

  “I’m just sorry the saddle didn’t slip,” chirped a third, one that Persephone inst
antly recognized as the tiny, birdlike Lady Aurelia. “I thought you were going to see to it that that half-wit groom loosened the buckle.”

  “He wouldn’t do it,” replied the first. “Not for a gold sovereign—not even for a kiss!” Several small screams of unkind laughter. “The fool said that if she were to break her neck in a fall that had been deliberately caused, his life wouldn’t be worth two strings of cat gut.”

  “As if it’s worth more than that in any event,” said the second.

  More laughter. And then, slyly, “How do you suppose the Regent enjoyed sharing his married lady friend with the king this evening?”

  “Not at all, I’m sure, but she played it well.”

  “Of course she played it well,” snapped Lady Aurelia. “She’s a whore—that’s what whores do. Honestly, did you see the way she simpered at the king?”

  “If he’s the king,” interjected the lady who’d spoken second. “I mean, the true king.”

  “He is the true king,” insisted Lady Aurelia. “It is treason to suggest otherwise.”

  A burble of laughter. “You only say that because your great and powerful father means to marry you to him. My father says that someday a witness to the events in that birthing chamber will be found, and when that happens—”

  “It will not happen,” said Lady Aurelia flatly.

  “Well, then perhaps Lady Bothwell will find some way to free herself from that decrepit old husband of hers so that she can marry the king,” suggested the second lady coyly.

  “That will not happen either,” snapped Lady Aurelia, “for within five minutes of meeting her, my father had dispatched men to the Ragorian Prefecture to find out all that he could about her. If there is dirt, they will find it; if there is not, they will make it up. Either way, if she makes a single serious move toward the king, my father will have what he needs to destroy her utterly.”

  “Oh, Aurelia, you are such a charmer…,” laughed the first lady as the three of them drifted away, leaving Persephone badly shaken and wondering just how long she had before Lord Bartok’s men arrived back with something far more devastating than dirt: