The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  Persephone said nothing for a long moment. Then she bowed her head and whispered, “Do you promise?”

  “I promise,” he said fervently. “Will you come with me?”

  Persephone bit her lip and nodded wordlessly.

  “Do you promise?” he asked.

  With a tremulous smile, she looked up, leaned forward and gently pressed her mouth against his. “I promise,” she lied.

  If anyone had pointed out to Persephone the irony of the fact that she knew Azriel intended to hold to his promise when she had no intention of holding to hers, she’d have once again told them she had no choice in the matter.

  For she knew that even if she’d had a chance to tell Azriel what she really believed—namely, that he was not some lost royal twin—as soon as Cairn and the other Gypsies learned of the old woman’s dying utterances, they would believe it. They would excitedly point out that Azriel had the look of the king, that he knew not from whence he came, and that the Fates had not only guided him to the dungeon but had also seen to it that he escaped—not in pieces (or shortly to be chopped into pieces) but very much alive. No matter how fiercely Persephone might have protested that it was all foolishness, she knew that Azriel would become even more convinced that he was the Gypsy King—and she knew that his belief in this destiny would be his end.

  For even if it were true, there would never be any way to prove to the Erok people that he was the lost twin, and any attempt to forcibly take the throne from poor King Finnius would be treason. The punishment for treason was death, and though Persephone had once steeled herself to watch what she’d thought would be Azriel’s grim execution, she could not do it if he was going to run toward it.

  And since she’d feared that she would not have been able to resist his enticements if she’d told him that she meant to leave him, she’d had no choice but to lie.

  “Hurry and prepare yourself and the child to leave at once,” Azriel was saying now as he strode purposefully toward the door at the back of the room. “I’ll be back before you know it. I didn’t ‘borrow’ a sword earlier for fear that its disappearance would arouse suspicion, but I intend to do so now. There’s not a nobleman in the palace sober enough to notice the disappearance of his sword right now, and I wish to be properly armed to defend you and Mateo, come what may.” He stopped suddenly, ran back to Persephone, swept her into his arms and kissed her hard. “You won’t regret this,” he promised, kissing her again.

  I’m not so sure about that, she thought. But all she said was “Go.”

  The instant the door closed behind Azriel, Persephone forced him from her thoughts and focused on the task at hand. Flying to the wash basin, she scrubbed her hands and face clean of the soot that had been part of her dungeon-slave disguise. Then, after brusquely ordering the child Mateo to shut his eyes, she cast off her coarse brown robe and pulled on her favourite gown. Without the help of Martha and the sisters, she could not tighten the corsets or properly fasten the bodice but her travelling cloak would hide that. Throwing it about her shoulders, she pulled up the loose floorboard and tossed the auburn curl, the bit of lace and the rat tail into one pocket. Then, studiously ignoring the way Mateo’s eyes were following her every move, she slipped her dagger into the other pocket, snatched up the empty bread sack, hurried to her wardrobe and began throwing into the sack everything she thought she’d be able to carry—crystal hair pins and dancing slippers, silk stockings and lace gloves. A single, snow-white petticoat; what was left of the cake of fine soap. The necklace the Regent had given her that first day went around her neck for safekeeping.

  Once I am clear of the imperial capital, I will trade the vile thing for coin, she thought, and perhaps … perhaps someday I will use some of the money to buy myself a pretty little thatch-roofed cottage….

  Her preparations complete, Persephone lastly wrapped several days’ worth of bread and cheese in a linen napkin and laid this on top of the other things in the sack. Then she hefted the sack and whistled for Cur. Mateo—who’d slid from his perch at the table to kneel on the floor and hug the dog—made a soft noise of protest as Cur pulled away from him. Persephone was about to tell the child not to be afraid because Azriel would be back shortly when the servants’ door opened and Meeka walked into the room.

  Persephone froze as the buxom servant girl slowly took in the bulging bread sack on her back, the travelling cloak about her shoulders and the grubby little child on the floor at her feet.

  “You’re finished, then?” asked Meeka curiously.

  “Finished what?” asked Persephone, hedging.

  “Pretending to be Lady Bothwell,” said Meeka.

  Even though some part of her had known the words were coming, Persephone could not keep from gasping aloud.

  “We’ve known from the start, you know,” continued Meeka easily. “No lady in the realm would be caught dead with feet as calloused and dirty as yours were the night you first arrived. Nor would a lady praise a bath that did not smell of rotten eggs, nor trouble herself to learn the names of her servants, nor invite those same servants to eat from her own table, nor show such an appalling lack of interest in needlepoint.” She shrugged. “You’re beautiful enough to be noble, and the airs come natural enough to you, but to those of us who’ve emptied your chamber pot each morning, you’ve given yourself away a hundred times over.”

  Nodding at the fact that Meeka and the others had figured out what she, herself, would have figured out in a trice if she’d been the one emptying the chamber pot, Persephone said, “You’ve known from the beginning and yet you never denounced me. Why?”

  “Besides the fact that you treated us with kindness and respect, it was clear to us from the start that you were playing with the Regent. It was not important to us what your game was, only that it caused him to suffer pain, frustration and humiliation. You see, it was he who cut out Meena’s tongue,” explained Meeka, who paused before adding, “She was eight years old at the time.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Persephone, not knowing what else to say.

  “Sorry won’t bring back her tongue,” said Meeka matter-of-factly. “May I ask you a question?”

  Persephone nodded.

  “He’s not a eunuch, is he?”

  Persephone smiled faintly. “No.”

  Meeka nodded as though Persephone’s answer agreed with her own careful study of the matter. Then, eyeing the bulging burlap sack on Persephone’s back once more, she said, “When he returns for the child, is there some message you’d like me to give to him?”

  Tell him I love him, thought Persephone suddenly and with a fierceness that frightened her.

  “Bid him good luck,” she murmured, pulling up the hood of her travelling cloak. “And tell him I’m sorry.”

  FORTY-TWO

  MEANWHILE, IN HIS SUMPTUOUSLY appointed private chambers, soon-to-be Simply Mordecai was raging over the fact that the little Gypsy, the big Khan and the Gorgishman had escaped the dungeon.

  “I want the drawbridge raised and the gates shut,” he frothed. “I want the watch doubled—no, tripled. No one leaves the palace grounds this night under any circumstances. Do you understand me, Murdock? Well, do you?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said General Murdock impassively.

  “Don’t you ‘yes, Your Grace’ me, you useless imbecile!” shrieked Mordecai, hurling a perfect golden pear at the General’s unusually small head. “My prisoners did not escape by themselves! Someone helped them to do so and when I catch the wretch I am going to make him wish he’d never been born. And so help me, Murdock, if you let the Gypsy culprit escape, I will make you wish the same thing!”

  “What makes you think a Gypsy was behind the escape, Your Grace?” asked General Murdock, who did not seem the least ruffled by either the flying pear or Mordecai’s threat. “The Khan and the Gorgishman are also gone.”

  “Yes, but they have been my guests from the beginning. Who would take such risks to rescue them now?” snarled Mordecai, wondering why h
e always had to think of everything. “The Gypsy prisoner was a new addition, Murdock, and that is why I know that this was the work of a Gypsy.”

  Murdock nodded thoughtfully. “But if the prisoners escaped through the trapdoor—”

  “Don’t be an idiot. A child would never survive a fall into the cold, fast-moving water that runs beneath the dungeon,” said Mordecai scathingly. “Why rescue the brat only to see him battered and drowned? No. Somehow, his rescuers found a way out of the dungeon and—”

  “Excuse me, Your Grace.”

  Eyes bulging in outrage, Mordecai snatched up another piece of fruit and was about to fling it at the intruder when he saw that it was none other than Lord Bartok.

  Breathing raggedly, Mordecai looked askance at him and muttered, “If you have come to discuss the betrothal of your daughter to the king, I can assure you that this is not a good time.”

  “I understand, Your Grace,” said the greatest of the great lords with a graciousness that made Mordecai want to scream. “As it happens, however, I have come because I have information I thought you might find … interesting.”

  Thin chest heaving, Mordecai wiped some flecks of frothy spittle off his chin with the back of his hand. “What information?” he asked rudely.

  “Some days ago, I sent several of my men to the Ragorian Prefecture to make inquiries with regard to the Lady Bothwell,” said Lord Bartok.

  Mordecai’s dark eyes bulged in their sockets. “How … how dare you,” he said, stammering with rage. “Lady Bothwell is—”

  “Not who she says she is.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. And then, “What do you mean?” breathed Mordecai.

  Lord Bartok shrugged elegantly. “Your Grace, there is no Lady Bothwell and hasn’t been since the recently deceased Lord Bothwell’s mother died in childbirth fiftythree years ago.”

  Another silence. And then, “But that is impossible,” spluttered Mordecai, whose thin chest had begun to heave once more. “If that was so, General Murdock and his men would have discovered it when—”

  “They burned Bothwell Manor to the ground?” said Lord Bartok, wincing as though pained by Mordecai’s inability to grasp the facts. “Unfortunately, Your Grace, my men inform me that the General and his men did not think to make inquiries before they set the fires.”

  Mordecai went pale beneath his beautiful olive complexion. “Is this true, Murdock?” he demanded.

  “You ordered us not to make inquiries, Your Grace. You said such inquiries would start unwelcome rumours,” reminded Murdock, taking care to leave unsaid the humiliating fact that Mordecai had not wanted rumours started because he’d feared they might harm his burgeoning romantic relationship with the lovely Lady Bothwell.

  “Not making inquiries … that was an unfortunate decision,” said Lord Bartok, wincing again, “for it has given the woman who calls herself Lady Bothwell—and the man who calls himself her eunuch—much time to make mischief.”

  “But he is probably not even a eunuch!” gasped Mordecai in sudden horror.

  “Probably not,” agreed Lord Bartok solemnly. “He is probably her lover.”

  A vivid image of his Lady Bothwell writhing naked in the arms of the handsome wretch who was not a eunuch made Mordecai want to vomit up his guts. She had played him and the king for fools—but he, Mordecai, was sure to bear the brunt of the ridicule, once the truth got out. For it was he who’d brought her to the palace, he who’d escorted her so proudly, he who’d—

  A thought struck Mordecai so hard and so suddenly that he stiffened abruptly, causing his poor, crippled body to shriek in protest.

  …It has given the woman who calls herself Lady Bothwell— and the man who calls himself her eunuch—much time to make mischief.…

  Indeed, what greater mischief could there be than to steal a Gypsy out from under Mordecai’s very nose?

  And who would steal a Gypsy but another Gypsy—or two?

  The whore had shown up the same night the child had been captured; her lover, the day after. The two Gypsy cockroaches were probably lying together right now, celebrating their great victory over him and laughing.

  The place in Mordecai’s chest that had turned cold grew colder still, so cold that it felt as though it would never be warm again. Clenching his beautiful teeth, he ordered General Murdock to set every soldier at his disposal to the task of finding the so-called eunuch, the Gypsy brat and the woman who called herself Lady Bothwell.

  “And what shall we do when we find them?” asked General Murdock, sucking at a piece of food caught between his long front teeth.

  “Bring them to the Great Hall where the king is even now enjoying his birthday feast,” ordered Mordecai. “Let his first task as true, ruling monarch be to order and preside over the immediate execution of the handsome nobody, the defenceless child and the whore who tricked us all.”

  FORTY-THREE

  PERSEPHONE AND CUR made it down to the main floor of the palace and out into the moonlit courtyard without running into Azriel or any courtiers who might wonder why Lady Bothwell was going riding at this time of night when she was supposed to be sitting quietly in her rooms mourning the death of her husband.

  Halfway to the stables, however, Persephone noticed something that made her wonder if her luck had run out.

  Pairs of torch-bearing armed soldiers—and lots of them—were hurriedly entering and exiting outer buildings, looking behind trees and stabbing their deadly pikes into bushes too thick to otherwise penetrate.

  All of them were looking for something … or someone.

  Well, I suppose that makes sense, thought Persephone uncertainly as she slowed to a halt. By now the Regent will have discovered that his prisoners have escaped from the dungeon and he will be looking for.…

  “There she is!” boomed a voice.

  Persephone jerked her head toward the sound, and her heart leapt into her throat when she saw that the huge, hairy, pike-wielding soldier who’d bellowed was running straight for her….

  And that there were half a dozen others just like him at his heels.

  Ordering Cur away from her, Persephone dropped the bulging bread sack, whirled about and began to run. Her hope was that she could make it to the palace gates, cross the drawbridge and disappear into the streets that were crowded with noisy revellers enjoying free meat and drink in celebration of the king’s birthday. She could hear the pounding footfalls of the guards close behind her. They were bigger and stronger than she was but she was swifter and stronger than she looked, and no matter how hard they ran, they were unable to close the gap. Casting one final, frantic look over her shoulder, Persephone was about to plunge into the shadowy watchtower passageway that led to the drawbridge when two things happened. The first was that she noticed that the drawbridge was up. The second was that another half-dozen soldiers poured out of the watchtower passageway toward her, their pikes at the ready.

  Without slowing down, Persephone made a hard left and plunged down the gentle hill that led to the deep and treacherous water of the filthy moat.

  I’ll swim if I have to! she thought desperately as she fumbled for the clasp of her travelling cloak. I’d rather drown than—

  Before she could finish her thought she saw it:

  An ancient rowboat floating nearby.

  Gathering up her heavy skirts in both hands, she leapt for it, landed and nearly capsized. Instinctively hunkering down to find her balance, she pulled out her dagger and frantically began sawing at the rope that tethered the boat to the shore.

  A quarter of the way through the rope … halfway through … three quarters—

  “Gotcha!”

  Several pairs of rough hands dragged her, spitting and snarling, out of the boat. There was a cry as Persephone bit one soldier hard enough to draw blood and another cry as she elbowed a second soldier in the face. Yanking her dagger hand free, she slashed the air wildly, causing the others to leap back in alarm.

  Breathing hard, Persephone pa
nted, “Stay back! I w-warn you, I’ll … I’ll—”

  A high-pitched drunken laugh cut her off.

  Lord Atticus.

  Shouldering aside the nearest soldier, he stepped close enough to slit from belly to stern. Before Persephone could have the satisfaction of doing so, however, the young lord shoved his leering face into hers and whispered, “We’ve got your lover and the brat.”

  Persephone was so horrified that she froze, the blade in her hand momentarily forgotten. The next instant they were upon her, pinning her dagger arm behind her back. One of the soldiers pressed the point of his pike between her shoulder blades, forcing her back to arch and her breasts to be thrust upward.

  Lord Atticus grinned and licked his lips. “According to the Regent, your lover and the brat shall shortly be scalped for the king’s entertainment,” he informed Persephone as he unsteadily leaned forward to inhale the perfumed skin of her bosom. “You will too, of course, but not before I’ve had my own entertainment.” Reaching out, he abruptly tore one of the sleeves from Persephone’s gown, exposing the bare flesh of her arm to the chill of the night. “That is why I am out here instead of inside drinking my fill of the king’s fine wine,” he explained, breathing his sour breath in her face. “For you see, when my father told me you were nothing but a Gypsy whore in disguise, I suddenly remembered where I’d seen you before. You were one of the twins.” He grinned again. “I was going to pluck the two of you like a pair of green apples, remember?”

  In response, Persephone stopped struggling for just long enough to lift her chin and spit in his face.

  Bellowing in outrage, Lord Atticus gave her a vicious backhand.

  “You’ll pay for that, you stupid cow!” he shrieked as he tore off his gilded codpiece and reached for the laces of his tight velvet breeches. “You’ll pay for it several times over, and when I am through using you, I’ll give you to these stinking, lowborn soldiers, and when they are through using you, I will cheer as your scalp is torn from your pretty head and then I will use it to make a collar for my dog!”