After supper, there were pre-birthday entertainments—performances by jugglers, tumblers and fools, recitations by poets and songs sung by rosy-cheeked choirboys. It was very late by the time Persephone finally returned to her chambers. Soundlessly, so as not to disturb the slumbering Azriel, Martha and the sisters helped her out of her silvery gown and into her filmy nightgown, brushed out her stiff curls and tucked her into bed. After they’d tiptoed out of the room, Persephone yawned hugely, snuggled down beneath the covers and closed her eyes.
Exactly one minute later, a loud, petulant voice from the floor by the fire announced, “I don’t like him. And what’s more, I don’t trust him!”
“Who?” mumbled Persephone, who was almost asleep.
“The king,” said Azriel darkly. “He knows you have a husband—what game is he playing, wooing you?”
“He’s not wooing me,” murmured Persephone.
“Of course he is. He’s just being especially crafty about it—spending time with you, joining you in simple pleasures, laughing at your jests, treating you with kindness and respect.”
“You’re right. He’s a monster.”
“He should not be courting you as if you were a marriageable maid,” insisted Azriel.
“He’s not courting me,” she yawned. “He barely knows me!”
Azriel rolled his eyes. “Don’t be naive, Persephone. I see the way he looks at you.”
More or less awake by this point, Persephone propped herself up on her elbow so that her wild, dark hair tumbled onto the pillow and her nightdress slipped down to reveal one bare shoulder. “How does he look at me?” she asked, unable to resist the hint of provocation in her voice.
Azriel, who had rolled onto his side to face her, and who was likewise propped up on one elbow, stared at her for so long and with such heat that Persephone’s heart began to pound, and she began to fear what she had started.
“It is very hard to describe the way he looks at you,” Azriel finally said in a low, husky voice, “but I know what I see. And what I see is a great royal fool wooing a beautiful noblewoman who is already spoken for.”
“King Finnius is not a fool,” said Persephone shakily. “He is sweet, and I think he will be a good ruler.”
“Really?” said Azriel, rolling onto his stomach and hunching his broad shoulders in a manner that was all the more provocative for its carelessness. “What makes you think so—the fact that he is handsome and gallant and pays you the kind of attention that is sure to drive the other women at court mad with jealousy? The fact that his kitchens throw away more food in one day than most lowborn families see in a year? The fact that he wears cloth of gold, fills his idle hours with tender amusements and knows nothing of the hardships his subjects suffer? Tell me, Persephone—what has your precious king ever said or done to make you think that he will be a good ruler?”
“I … have seen him be kind to his servants,” she said lamely.
“I do not think the fact that he is not cruel to those few who serve him is the same as being a good ruler to all,” said Azriel.
Persephone did not think so either, but to say so would have felt like a betrayal of the king, whom she liked very much and whom she was certain did not deserve the criticism that Azriel was heaping upon him.
And so, leaning forward just enough to torture the one-time chicken thief, she gave her wild, dark hair a toss and said, “Do you know what I think, Azriel? I think you are jealous of King Finnius.”
Azriel returned the favour by giving her a smile that sent a ripple of desire through her body. “You are right,” he said softly, surprising her. “But so am I.”
The conversation with Azriel bothered Persephone for the rest of that night and all the next morning.
“You seem distracted,” said the king that afternoon as the two of them sat on a blanket in the garden sharing plates of bread, cheese, fruit and fowl, while Persephone’s self-appointed chaperone hovered nearby like a brooding, broad-shouldered spectre.
“It is nothing important,” she assured the king with a smile.
King Finnius smiled back and gallantly declared, “Lady Bothwell, if something is bothering you, it is important to me.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Persephone saw Azriel roll his eyes.
Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at him, she turned to the king and said, “Nothing is bothering me, Your Majesty. It is just that … I have been thinking how dreamlike our lives are and how easy it is to get lost in the dream.”
Moira—who was likewise chaperoning—glanced up from her knitting.
“What do you mean?” asked the king interestedly as he took a sip of wine from his golden goblet.
Persephone smiled again. “Only that life within the palace walls is so filled with comfort, beauty and delights that if I’d not seen with my own two eyes the hard, harsh world beyond the walls I would scarcely believe that it exists.”
The king made a face. “I cannot believe that the world outside is that hard and harsh, Lady Bothwell,” he objected, “for it is well known that peace and prosperity reign within my realm.”
“You’ve borne witness to this peace and prosperity?” asked Persephone innocently.
“Well, not myself I haven’t,” replied the king, a trifle impatiently. “I am a young monarch without a named heir, Lady Bothwell. Naturally, my councillors fear my exposure to the dangers posed by ruffians and the diseases of my lesser subjects.”
Persephone nodded slowly. “And … are you sure that is all they fear your exposure to?”
“What do you mean?” asked the king.
Feeling Moira’s eyes upon her, Persephone hesitated. “I mean only that it seems strange to me that your councillors would not encourage you to travel among your people at least occasionally, Your Majesty,” she said, “for I would think that the very best way to ensure contentment within the realm would be for all subjects to see and know and love their king—”
“I make regular appearances upon the Grand Balcony,” put in King Finnius.
“And for their king to really see and know and love them—and to make it his business to ensure that justice and mercy are granted to the very least of them.”
The king gazed at Persephone in silence for a very long time. “You do not think I can trust my councillors to see to this on my behalf?” he asked at last.
“I do not know if any of them has a heart as good as yours,” she said, reaching for his gloved hand. “For you are the sweetest, kindest, most—”
Behind them, Azriel cleared his throat so loudly that it sounded as though he were violently retching.
Turning to him with a raised eyebrow, the king said, “Yes, Azriel? Is something the matter?”
“Forgive me, but I was suddenly seized by a terrible concern for Your Majesty,” he mumbled humbly. “You’ve been up and about for hours already after being desperately ill just a few days ago, and with your delicate constitution, I worried that—”
The king flushed. “I was not ‘desperately’ ill and I do not have a delicate constitution!” he protested with a darting glance at Persephone.
“Of course you don’t, Your Majesty,” agreed Azriel in a soothing voice as he subtly rolled his powerful shoulders. “I only meant that you are somewhat frail—”
King Finnius was on his feet in a heartbeat. “You think I am frail?” he cried. “We will wrestle right here and now, you and I, and we shall see who is frail!”
Azriel stepped forward at once.
“Azriel!” said Persephone sharply.
“Do not interfere, Lady Bothwell,” said the king quickly, without taking his eyes off his opponent. “Your slave has besmirched my honour and I mean to put him in his place!”
“Your Majesty, how is this a matter of honour?” asked Moira, as her knitting needles continued to click away. “He only said—”
“You shall not interfere either, Moira,” commanded the king in a ringing voice. “This is a matter to be settled between m
en!”
“But he’s not a man—he’s a eunuch!” spluttered Persephone in the hope of putting a stop to this ridiculousness.
But it was too late. The king and the “slave” had begun to circle one another. After several feints, they suddenly fell to grappling with a will. Around and around they went—blazing blue eyes locked on blazing blue eyes— while Moira looked on with mild interest and Persephone inwardly seethed at Azriel and cursed the existence of manly pride in general.
“I … should … warn you,” gasped the king, after some minutes, “I have never … before … been beaten.”
“Well … Your Majesty,” grunted Azriel, “there is … a first time … for everything.”
With that, he yanked the king forward unexpectedly, pulling him off balance so that he was able to grab him by the front of his doublet, swing him around and trip him using an outstretched leg. With a very surprised look on his face, the king fell backward and slammed to the ground. Azriel promptly dropped on top of him, pinning him like a bug.
For one terrible moment, the king did not move and Persephone thought that Azriel had killed him.
Then the king began to laugh. With a look of surprise almost identical to the one the king had worn just moments earlier, Azriel stood up and held out his hand.
The king reached for it. “By the gods, you’ve beaten me!” he laughed breathlessly as Azriel helped him to his feet. “There’s not a nobleman in the realm who’d have dared to humiliate me so!”
“There is no humiliation in being fairly beaten, Your Majesty,” said Azriel. “How are you ever to prove yourself a great ruler if you never have to fight for any victory you achieve?”
“Yes! Yes! That is exactly what I have told Mordecai!” cried the king excitedly, pounding Azriel on the back in his enthusiasm. Hastily brushing the grass from his royal backside, he coughed into his sleeve, crouched into the ready position and said, “Come, Azriel, let us wrestle again! I am quite sure I will beat you this time!”
“Your Majesty—” began Persephone in dismay.
“Not now, Lady Bothwell,” interrupted the king, flapping his hand at her, “for I am about to begin the business of proving myself a great ruler.…”
THIRTY-FOUR
“IT IS DONE, Your Grace,” said General Murdock.
Mordecai said nothing. For the last quarter hour he’d been standing at a window watching the king wrestle with Lady Bothwell’s eunuch—and laugh every time he got thrown. It was an outrage—worse, even, than when that insufferable cow of a nursemaid had taught him to play cards. King though he may be—for now—Finnius was clearly a peasant at heart. Not fit to rule the kingdom and certainly not a fit companion for Lady Bothwell. What could he possibly know of her appetites—and how could he ever hope to fulfill them? He, Mordecai, was the only one who truly understood and yet … and yet … however strange her appetite, even Mordecai had a hard time believing that she would prefer a cripple to a king.
“Your Grace?” said General Murdock.
“I said—” “I heard what you said,” snapped Mordecai, gripping the window ledge hard. “There were no witnesses?”
“None that lived,” replied Murdock, reaching up to give his unusually small head a dainty scratch.
He is repulsive, thought Mordecai with a swell of satisfaction. “Good,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, I shall inform poor Lady Bothwell of her change in circumstances.”
“I certainly hope she appreciates your taking a personal interest in the matter,” murmured General Murdock, pressing his thin lips together.
Mordecai said nothing, only watched as the lady in question was forced to degrade herself by hopping about the grappling pair, cringing and grimacing and shouting words of encouragement to the coughing but still infuriatingly strong and vital young king. “The Khan Barka knows something of the Pool of Genezing,” said Mordecai abruptly.
Murdock ran his tongue across his long yellow teeth. “Your Grace,” he said carefully, “we have questioned that particular prisoner many times over the years—”
“And in your absence I questioned him again!” bellowed Mordecai, glaring at Murdock over one stooped shoulder before turning his attention back to Lady Bothwell. “Now, more than ever before, I am convinced that he knows something of the pool’s secret location. We must do whatever it takes to break him once and for all, and we must do it soon, Murdock, for I swear to you that I shall not suffer to be a cripple much longer.”
“I understand, Your Grace,” said General Murdock impassively. “And what of the Gypsy prisoner?”
“I am through playing games with Gypsy blood,” said Mordecai flatly. “Kill him.”
From a different window, in a dirtier, meaner room of the castle by far, a woman smiled as she watched the young king, his sweetheart and her handsome eunuch. She watched the king whenever she could, for she had a special affection for him—an affection born of the fact that she’d been there the night the desperate young queen had clung to the sheets tied to the bedposts and strained to expel the contents of her womb. Absently fingering her pockmarks, the woman recalled that though she’d been terribly frightened by the violent, bloody birth, it was nothing compared with the fear she’d felt in the moments that followed. Mute with terror, she’d stood half-hidden behind a tapestry and listened while the enraged Regent ordered everyone else from the room before making his terrible pronouncement. She’d watched the exhausted queen beg for the life of her child and then weep with grief when, after calmly refusing her, the Regent had left the room to find someone to dispose of it.
It was then, in those few precious moments before he and his strange-eyed henchman returned that she’d somehow found the courage to tiptoe out from behind the tapestry behind which she’d hidden. Her intent had been to offer what comfort she could to the poor queen, but the queen had wanted much more than comfort, and though she’d been shocked by what she’d been asked to do, she’d done it for the love of her beautiful, dying queen—and for the sake of her doomed child.
Feeling the old burn marks at the tips of her fingers, the woman recalled how she’d just barely managed to do what had been asked of her and scurry back to her hiding place behind the tapestry before the Regent had returned to the room.
She realized now, of course, that she needn’t have worried about hiding.
For the Regent hadn’t even noticed her—both a servant and a child, she’d been twice as much of a nothing as the others in the room had been. To him, it was as though she didn’t exist.
But she did.
THIRTY-FIVE
“YOU’RE NOT STILL ANGRY with me, are you?” asked Azriel the next morning as he stood at attention next to Persephone’s chair at the head of the long table in her chambers.
“Of course not,” she replied, sawing at the ham on her plate so vigorously that she rammed her elbow into his crotch several times before he managed to leap out of range.
Obviously, she was still angry with him. In her considered opinion, the previous afternoon had been a complete fiasco. Azriel and the king had wrestled until the king could wrestle no more. At that point, instead of shooing Azriel back to his spot in the hot sun and once more focusing his full attention upon Persephone, the king had invited Azriel to sit with them—as though he were a person of noble blood and not a lowly eunuch slave! The fact that he was not a lowly eunuch slave any more than she was a person of noble blood was not the point at all— the point was that Azriel had had no business ruining her lovely afternoon with the king!
“I know you probably didn’t find it especially interesting listening to the king and me discuss our favourite wrestling moves and compare our sweat stains, m’lady,” continued Azriel, his lips twitching with amusement in spite of the recent elbow attack on his privates, “but if it helps, I’ll have you know that I’ve come to agree with you that he would be a good ruler. In spite of having exceedingly good reasons to despise him, I find that I cannot help but like him. He is—”
A knock a
t the door cut him off. Cur barked once. Quieting him with a gesture, Persephone nodded at Meeta, the only servant left to her after the panicked pastry chef had earlier commandeered Martha, Meeka and Meena to help turn out pies for the king’s birthday feast that night. Meeta bobbed a curtsey and then scampered over to open the door. She’d hardly done more than turn the knob when the door flew open in response to a hard push from the other side and the Regent Mordecai slouched into the room.
“Lady Bothwell,” he said in a sonorous voice.
“Your Grace!” she said, rising to her feet and hurrying toward him with a delighted expression on her face in spite of her inward alarm at the chilling looks he was casting toward Azriel. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Flushing at the word “pleasure,” Mordecai seemed to forget all about Azriel. Gazing deeply into Persephone’s eyes, he rearranged his handsome features into an expression of deepest sympathy and said, “My dear Lady Bothwell, I’m afraid I have most upsetting news.”
Persephone pressed her hand against her chest. “It isn’t the king, is it?” she blurted without thinking.
The Regent’s features hardened to cold marble for just an instant before melting back into oozing sympathy. “No, my dear, it isn’t the king,” he murmured. “It is your beloved husband.”
For half a heartbeat, Persephone had no idea what he was talking about. Then she remembered: “Lord Bothwell?” she said.
The Regent nodded mournfully. “I am terribly sorry to be the one to tell you this but … he is dead.”
“Dead?” echoed Persephone blankly.
The Regent nodded again. “My reports tell me that the cowardly Khan of the mountains perpetrated a sneak attack in the middle of the night,” he sighed. “They raided and then set fire to Bothwell Manor and all its outer buildings.”
Persephone—who’d heard stories of the bloodthirsty Khan, but who didn’t believe for an instant that they’d been involved in the attack on Bothwell Manor—whispered, “And my husband—”
The Gypsy King Page 28
