The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  “Dead,” confirmed the Regent, forgetting to sound sympathetic.

  “And what of the others?”

  “The others?” said the Regent, not understanding.

  “The servants,” blurted Persephone. “There would have been dozens of them! What of them?”

  The Regent pursed his lips as though in annoyance. “All dead,” he said shortly. “But you needn’t fret about them, Lady Bothwell. As I’ve said before, servants are replaced as easily as—”

  “Smashed dinner plates. Yes … yes, I know,” gasped Persephone, who was suddenly having trouble breathing. Clawing at her constricting corsets, she staggered forward that she might sag against the wall instead of falling to the floor.

  Dead! All dead—because of her lies! Because of her lies—and because of the Gypsies’ preposterous prophecy. If not for that, Azriel would never have bought her from the owner. She’d never have come to Parthania, never have met the Regent, never have had to lie about who she was.

  Once, she’d believed the prophecy of the Gypsy King to be nothing more than the wishful thinking of a hunted people.

  Now she knew it was a death sentence for all those it touched.

  “My dear Lady Bothwell,” crooned the Regent now, as he shuffled toward her with his withered arms extended as though he meant to embrace her. “I am so terribly sorry for your loss. The night we met I warned you that a careless husband is soon deprived of a beautiful wife. Who could have known that it would be his own death that would deprive him of your charms? If there is anything I can do to comfort you at this difficult—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the chamber door flew open again and the king bounded into the room. Upon seeing Persephone—white-faced with shock and horror, on the verge of collapse—he rushed toward her, knocking the Regent aside in his haste to reach her.

  “The terrible rumours are true, then!” he cried, snatching up her hands and holding them against his chest as though to warm them. “When Moira told me what was being said in the servants’ quarters I did not want to believe it—indeed, I could not believe it, for I could not imagine that I would hear such news from servants before hearing it from my own trusted councillors!” Here, King Finnius paused to glance sharply at the Regent before turning back to Persephone. “But I see from your countenance that it is indeed true—your home is destroyed and your husband is dead!”

  “And my servants,” said Persephone faintly. “My servants are also dead.”

  The king nodded in sympathy. Then he released her hands and encircled her with his arms in a gesture that seemed wholly natural. “Lady Bothwell, I swear to you that I will send a delegation to punish the Khan for this atrocity,” he vowed, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. “Nay, I will send an army to punish them! And I will lead the army myself! By the time I am through with the Khan they will—”

  “No,” said Persephone, twisting out of his arms. “No, Your Majesty, you must promise me you will do no such thing. Whatever has happened, there is nothing to be gained by spilling more blood.”

  “But—”

  “No!” insisted Persephone. “Please! Promise me!”

  “All right, I promise,” said the king, reaching for her again.

  “No,” said Persephone for the fourth time, stepping away from him. “I need to be alone. To think and … and to grieve,” she added, not looking at the Regent for fear that he would see the loathing in her eyes. “Please go. Both of you.”

  “Certainly, Lady Bothwell,” began the Regent in a voice dripping with sympathy. “We will—”

  “Go,” said the king, cutting off the Regent without appearing to notice that he’d done so. “But if there is anything I can do to ease your suffering.…”

  “There is not,” said Persephone flatly. “Just—go.”

  Persephone moved not a muscle as the king and the Regent wordlessly filed from the room. Nor did she move when she heard Azriel quietly dismiss Meeta, nor when she sensed (rather than heard) him come up behind her.

  Only then did she turn to face him. He was standing near enough to touch, looking almost as distraught as she felt. For a long moment, she said nothing, only studied his beautiful face as though carefully committing each feature to memory. Then, looking past him toward nothing at all, she said, “It is strange, isn’t it? I’ve known for days that there would be a price to pay for continuing with my charade, and yet I dressed up in beautiful gowns and picnicked in the royal garden and played cards with the king and flirted with the Regent as though it was all a merry game. As though the only thing that mattered in the world was that I be charming to all.” She brought her gaze back to Azriel’s face before adding, “Charming, but not too charming.”

  Azriel blanched. “Persephone, I never meant—”

  “I know you didn’t,” she said, swaying a little for the pleasure of hearing her skirts swish one last time. “Don’t worry—I blame myself entirely for getting lost in the dream. For forgetting what is real. For forgetting what matters.”

  “If you had not stayed, the child’s life would be forfeit.”

  “The child’s life is probably forfeit anyway, Azriel,” she said, “and ours along with it.”

  “Not yours,” said Azriel swiftly. “For I would gladly die before—”

  “Seeing me harmed in any way,” she said with a wistful smile. “Yes, I know. Except I wonder who you would save if you had to choose between me and the child who might be your Gypsy King.”

  “I would not choose,” he said stubbornly. “I would save you both.”

  Persephone nodded a little sadly—as though she knew this was the only answer he could have given and was yet disappointed by it. Then, in the tenderest of voices, she said, “Unfortunately, your willingness to lay down your life is no comfort to me this time, Azriel.”

  He looked more hurt by this than she could have imagined possible.

  “Listen to me, Persephone,” he pleaded. “I know you’re upset by what happened to the people of Bothwell Manor, but—”

  “I do not wish to speak of things we cannot change, Azriel,” she said, turning away. “Nor do I wish to hear you speak clever words of reason, for nothing you could say would make me believe that the deaths of those poor people were a fair trade for the lives of two little Gypsy orphans. Nothing. I do not believe that a Gypsy King is coming, Azriel, and I never have. I believe in things that are real.”

  “The child—” began Azriel.

  “Is real,” she interrupted, turning back to him. “He is no secret king awaiting his crown but he is real. And that is one of the reasons I will accompany you into the dungeon this night in an attempt to rescue him.”

  As slowly as if he were approaching a startled fawn, Azriel stepped close enough to slip a tentative hand around her waist. “What are the other reasons you will do so?” he asked.

  “If I refuse to help you now the child is certain to perish. Not only would his death be yet another upon my conscience, but it would mean that the unfortunates of Bothwell Manor died for nothing at all,” she explained, trembling with the effort it took to keep from wrapping her arms around him and pressing her cheek against the comforting warmth of his chest. “And besides all that, no one knows better than I what it is to be small and alone in a deep, dark, frightening place.”

  With his free hand Azriel reached down. With infinite gentleness, he lifted Persephone’s chin so that she could not help but gaze into his very blue eyes. “You are not small anymore, Persephone,” he whispered, “and there is no reason at all that you should ever be alone again.”

  Trying hard not to think about the pretty little thatch-roofed cottage with the yard full of scratching chickens, Persephone pressed the palms of her hands flat against his chest and, after a moment’s hesitation, slowly pushed herself away from him. “Go steal the wine, Azriel. Get the slaves drunk, take their sacks of bread and make what other preparations you must,” she said in a subdued voice. “I will spend this day within my ch
ambers playing the grieving widow. And I will try not to think about the many fates this night could bring that would be far more terrible than being alone.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  FOR HIS PART, after leaving Lady Bothwell’s chambers, the Regent did not waste another thought on those who’d perished in the fires at Bothwell Manor—unless one counted the thought that he’d profited precious little from the effort and expense that had gone into making Lady Bothwell a widow, and also the thought that the king would pay dearly for having knocked him aside, interrupted him and ignored him as though he were nothing more than a piece of furniture.

  Instead, Mordecai’s thoughts turned to the forthcoming meeting of the Council. It was his last such meeting as Lord Regent owing to the fact that at midnight that night the king would turn seventeen and the ceremony officially transferring the power to rule the realm to him would take place. When that happened, the great Regent Mordecai would become simply Mordecai, just one of many whose existence at court depended entirely upon the king’s favour. Simply Mordecai—unless he was finally able to persuade the Council to declare him the king’s heir, that is. Though the king would have the power to rescind the declaration, Mordecai did not think he would immediately do so, for to have a named heir that had the support of the great lords all but guaranteed the stability of the realm—an important thing for a young king new to power.

  And before he could consider reconsidering, he would be dead.

  Mordecai knew, of course, that not every nobleman supported his bid to be named heir, but in private conversations over the last few days he’d received the informal assurances of enough of them that he entered the sumptuous Council chamber with high hopes.

  Minutes later, his hopes were shattered utterly as each nobleman in turn assured him that although he, personally, would like nothing better than to see Mordecai named the king’s heir, no one had, as yet, been able to find any precedent that would allow a person of the Regent’s, well, ahem, somewhat less than noble birth to take the throne. They would keep searching the ancient texts for such a precedent, they all rushed to assure him—they would search just as hard as they possibly could!—but in the meantime, most regretfully, there was simply no way they could recommend him to the king.

  As he let his murderous gaze slide from one face to the next, Mordecai wondered if he’d be able to get away with having them all hacked to pieces where they sat. The first time they’d balked at supporting him, he’d choked down his rage in the hope that they’d come to see the error of their ways. As he sat listening to them repeat their meaningless assurances now, however, he realized that it had always been hopeless. All the trouble he’d gone to over the years to enrich these men—trouble he’d taken because he believed he was buying loyalty he’d be able to leverage when he made his final leap to the apex of power—it had all been a waste.

  Worse yet, they insisted upon adding insult to injury by mocking him with these charades of loyalty. It was as though they thought he was too stupid to see that they were merely stringing him along until the reins of power formally passed to the king.

  It was as though they thought he was nothing but a useless, crippled, lowborn imbecile!

  Shaking with hatred but feeling that, unfortunately, he probably couldn’t get away with having them all hacked to pieces where they sat, Mordecai abruptly dismissed them with the intention of immediately calling for General Murdock to arrange to have at least a few of them hacked to death at some point in the very near future.

  It was then, as he sat alone at the head of the long table fantasizing about revenge in the form of splatter and gore, that Lord Bartok slipped back into the room and sat down next to him.

  “What do you want?” Mordecai practically snarled.

  Lord Bartok hesitated, his distaste for Mordecai’s unseemly display of temper clear upon his smug noble face. “To propose an arrangement,” he finally said. “One that would see both of our deepest desires fulfilled.”

  “Oh?” muttered Mordecai, who was only half-paying attention.

  “Before midnight tonight, I will see to it that the great lords declare you the king’s heir,” said Lord Bartok, as though it were the simplest of matters. “In return, you will this day convince the king to become betrothed to my daughter, Lady Aurelia. When Aurelia eventually bears a child, you will, of course, be required to give up your position in the line of succession, but until then, you will be heir apparent with the full support of the great Bartok Dynasty behind you.”

  Heart slamming against his thin chest, Mordecai— who was suddenly paying attention with every fibre of his being—stared down the length of the Council table, unable to believe what he was hearing. Was Bartok really such a fool that he did not see the flaw in his plan—namely, that there was nothing to prevent Mordecai from murdering the king after he’d been named heir but before the king was able to get a child upon Lady Aurelia? And that even if he was not able to prevent conception, there was nothing to prevent him from murdering Lady Aurelia while she was pregnant? Or to prevent him from murdering the child at birth?

  Such things had been known to happen, after all.

  One quick look into Bartok’s pale eyes told Mordecai that the nobleman knew exactly what he was doing—and that he had no intention of allowing Mordecai to live long enough to make trouble. He would use Mordecai to get what he wanted, eliminate him as soon as he could thereafter and then sit back to await the birth of his royal grandchild. And if by some chance these plans went awry, there was no royal grandchild and the king died without an heir of his body—well, at least Bartok would be able to rightly claim that he was the first and greatest supporter of the new monarch:

  King Mordecai.

  “I … favour this arrangement,” said Mordecai in a choked voice.

  Smiling coolly, Lord Bartok said, “I thought you might.”

  Later that afternoon, as he lurched to a halt outside the king’s chambers, Mordecai recalled the amazing encounter with Lord Bartok. Feeling a surge of excitement that was almost sexual, he breathlessly ordered the idiot guard with the unsightly birthmark to announce him. While he waited for the fool to return, he paced before the door, refining his strategy. Given the mood of the young king these days—and the fact that he would very shortly rule in his own right—it wouldn’t serve to burst in and order him to marry the Bartok female. However, King Finnius might be convinced to do so if Mordecai were to point out to him that a union with the most powerful family in the realm would go far toward bringing the great lords under his control. Or, better yet, if he were to suggest that the absence of such a union could cause such instability in the realm that the very poorest, most defenceless of the king’s subjects would surely suffer terribly for it.

  Yes, that is the way I shall approach it, decided Mordecai as he slouched into the king’s chamber. I will tug on the strings of his peasant heart, and after he is betrothed and I am named heir, I will slash those same strings, cut out the heart and—

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” called the king, who was staring out the window with his feet shoulder width apart and his hands loosely clasped behind his back.

  “Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” replied Mordecai, who was pleased to see that the insufferable cow was nowhere in sight. “I pray you are well?”

  “I am,” replied the king without turning around.

  “I am glad to hear it,” murmured Mordecai. “And are you looking forward to the commencement of your birthday festivities?”

  “I am,” repeated the king.

  “Excellent,” said Mordecai. “Majesty, I’ve come to discuss—”

  “Mordecai, do you know what I used to see when I looked out this window?” interrupted the young king, turning his head aside to cough.

  “The royal garden?” suggested Mordecai, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt.

  “Yes, exactly,” replied the king in a tone that informed Mordecai that he’d answered just as the king had expected he would—and that the
king was not terribly impressed by his answer. “That is what I used to see, Mordecai. Do you know what I see now?”

  “No,” said Mordecai flatly.

  “I see walls, Your Grace—walls that separate me from my subjects, walls that prevent me from seeing for myself if my kingdom is truly a place where peace and prosperity reign for all people.”

  Though Mordecai’s heart leapt at this perfect opening to begin plucking upon peasant heartstrings, he was nevertheless wary of the odd direction the conversation had taken—and the reasons for it. “What a coincidence, Your Majesty,” he said, treading carefully, “for earlier today at the Council meeting I found myself wondering what you might be able to do to ensure stability in the realm, and I think—”

  “Lady Bothwell thinks that I should travel among my people at least occasionally,” mused the king. “She thinks that the best way to ensure contentment within the realm is for all subjects to see and know and love me—and for me to not only see and know and love them, but also to make it my business to ensure that justice and mercy are granted to the very least of them.”

  Mordecai felt an instant of white-hot rage toward Lady Bothwell but recovered from it almost immediately. Obviously, she had only been telling the king what she thought he wanted to hear, and the fool had been too blind to see it. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but as we’ve discussed many times, the risks to your health—”

  “Would not be of such concern if I was married and had a child,” interrupted the king.

  Mordecai blinked in surprise. “That is true,” he said cautiously. “And since you are finding yourself giving thought to such matters—”

  The king turned to face him. “I am finding myself giving thought to such matters, Your Grace, I am,” he said, his blue eyes shining. “Before today, I would never have presumed upon my friendship with Lady Bothwell— would never have dreamt of dishonouring her in any way but now that—”

  “Wait a moment,” spluttered Mordecai. “What are you suggesting? Are you suggesting that you are thinking of marrying Lady Bothwell?”