The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  Persephone struggled harder, twisting and kicking with all her might, but it was no use.

  There were too many of them and they were too strong.

  I am lost, she thought despairingly, and Azriel and the child along with me.

  Then she heard it.

  The wonderful, beloved sound of salvation.

  CLIP, CLOP, CLIP, CLOP, CLIP, CLOP.

  Persephone craned her head, and her heart leapt at the sight of Fleet galloping down the hill on the other side of the moat—a look of horsey determination on his face, Rachel clinging to his back and a horde of shouting soldiers at his rear.

  “Fleet!” screamed Persephone hoarsely. “Rachel! Over here! I’m over here!”

  Without slowing or even hesitating, Fleet—the broken-down old nag with the pathological fear of water who’d never liked getting his feet wet—leapt high in the air and landed with a splash in the very middle of the moat. Whinnying at the top of his lungs, he thrashed his way to shore, scattering and trampling the soldiers before rearing up on his hind legs and clobbering Lord Atticus in the side of the head with a pawing hoof.

  The drunken nobleman crumpled to the ground without a sound.

  “Quick!” cried Rachel, who was clutching Fleet’s mane with one hand and reaching out to Persephone with the other. “Up!”

  Backing up three paces to give herself a running start, Persephone dashed forward without hesitation and, using the crumpled body of Lord Atticus to give herself a boost, scrambled up behind Rachel and looked around for a means of escape.

  One quick glance at the swarming soldiers on the other side of the moat told her they could not go back the way Fleet and Rachel had come.

  “This way!” she urged, pointing back the way she, herself, had come. “Go!”

  “Stop!” cried a voice.

  As one, Persephone and Rachel looked around to see that a very young soldier was poised to hurl his deadly pike—and that the weapon was aimed directly at Fleet’s big heart. Persephone opened her mouth to scream, but even as she did so, she heard a wet snarl and saw a flash of glossy fur and the tattered remains of a pink bow. As Cur knocked the surprised soldier to the ground, Ivan arrived from above to scratch out the eyes of anyone left standing. Persephone drove her heels hard into Fleet’s flanks. Leaping forward (most likely in annoyance), Fleet ignored Persephone’s urges to head for the deserted garden and instead galloped straight toward the royal stables.

  He probably smells turnips! thought Persephone in despair as she heard several soldiers in the courtyard give a cry of recognition and begin running toward them.

  Sliding to the ground before Fleet was halfway through the stable door, Persephone dragged Rachel out of the saddle, grabbed a brimming bucket of cut turnips and ran through the side door that led to the corral. Hastily scanning the several dozen high-strung thoroughbreds that were snorting and pawing the ground in agitation at the noisy goings-on beyond the corral fence, Persephone saw what she’d hoped to see.

  Giving Fleet a quick kiss on the muzzle, she shoved the bucket of turnips at Rachel, pointed at Lucifer and said, “Do you see that enormous, ill-tempered black beast over there?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The instant I open the corral gate, I want you to fling these turnips in the direction of the beast and then step aside. With luck, Fleet will chase after his snack with such gusto that he’ll start a stampede and I’ll be able to use the ensuing chaos to reach the palace and find the king.”

  “Why do you need to find the king?” asked Rachel, wide-eyed at the prospect.

  “So that I can get down on my knees and beg,” said the slave girl who’d never begged for anything in her life. “Beg for the lives of Azriel and the child we rescued from the dungeon.”

  “And if the king refuses?” asked Rachel, who did not know what on earth was going on but who knew enough to know this was the important question. “If he orders you arrested, too?”

  “I cannot believe he would do that,” said Persephone, edging toward the gate of the corral. “Anyway, I have no choice. Find somewhere to hide but be ready, Rachel, for if the king fails us and we somehow manage to fight our way out, we’ll be running for our lives.”

  Persephone’s plan to start a stampede worked better than she could have hoped. Dodging trampling hooves and bellowing soldiers, she dashed through the dust-filled chaos of the courtyard, into the palace and through the doors of the Great Hall, where the king’s birthday festivities were well underway. Azriel and the child were nowhere in sight.

  What if I am too late? Persephone thought wildly. What if they are already dead?

  Forcibly choking down her rising panic, she scanned the crowded hall until she spotted the king on the far side. He was sitting upon his throne looking pleasantly dishevelled—his sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly mussed, a lopsided grin on his handsome face. Even as she watched, he rose to his feet and joined the dance.

  Heedless of the stares and whispers and giggles of those who’d taken note of the recently arrived Lady Bothwell’s bedraggled appearance, Persephone plunged into the crowd, elbowing and shoving her way toward the dancing king. When she was close enough to touch him, some instinct made her glance over her shoulder.

  Her blood ran cold at the sight of the Regent Mordecai entering the Great Hall with a broad smile on his face— and Azriel, held between two vicious-looking soldiers, at his side.

  Azriel, but not the child.

  Frantically, Persephone reached out and tugged on the back of the king’s shirt.

  “Your Majesty—”

  “Lady Bothwell!” he cried a little drunkenly, his handsome face shining with delight at the sight of her. “I had thought you would not feel up to joining the festivities but I see that I was wrong!”

  “You were not wrong, Your Majesty—” began Persephone.

  “You’re missing a sleeve!” coughed the king, his slightly bleary blue eyes widening as though in amazement.

  “Yes,” said Persephone. “Majesty, I must speak with you—”

  “Very well,” said the king, sweeping her into his arms, “but first you will dance with me.”

  Persephone tried to extricate herself from his arms that she might fall down on her knees and start to beg, but his grip on her was too firm and he was spinning her too fast. There was nothing she could do but follow his lead and try not to stomp on his toes. With every spin, the music seemed to play louder and faster, and then the great lords and ladies of court were falling back to encircle the spinning pair, stomping their feet and clapping their hands and shrilly crying out that they’d never before seen such a dancer as the king, never!

  “Your Majesty!” shouted Persephone, desperately trying to make herself heard above the din. “Please, Your Majesty! I must speak with you.”

  The king stopped spinning so abruptly that Persephone nearly fell over. It wasn’t her words that had caused him to stop, however—it was the sight of the “eunuch” Azriel being kicked to his knees.

  And the sight of the gleaming knife in the hand of the soldier who stood ready to scalp him.

  “Mordecai,” panted the king, who still had Persephone clasped tightly in his arms as if he meant to take her for another spin any moment. “What … what is the meaning of this?”

  Before the Regent could reply, a crash and a scream caused every person in the Great Hall to jump.

  It was the pockmarked servant who’d dropped the roast beef platter at the king’s feet a few days earlier. This time, however, instead of looking flustered or terrified, she was staring at Persephone as though she’d just seen a ghost.

  Which, in a way, she had.

  For what she’d seen was Persephone’s whiplash scar—the one that criss-crossed the outside of her left arm almost to the elbow. The one that Cookie believed had been caused by a burn of some kind, inflicted upon Persephone when she was but a tiny infant; the one that Persephone had always believed, inexplicably, had been given to her for good reason, by so
meone who’d loved her very much.

  What she’d also seen was that Persephone’s whiplash scar exactly matched the scar that the king carried on his bare right arm. Wherever the scar ended on Persephone’s flesh, it began on the king’s; wherever it ended on the king’s flesh, it began on Persephone’s.

  There was only one possible explanation for why their scars matched so perfectly.

  And the clumsy, pockmarked servant knew exactly what it was.

  FORTY-FOUR

  MOVING WITH SURPRISING SPEED and agility for one so clumsy, the pockmarked servant spun around and starting running from the Great Hall as though her life depended on it.

  Which, indeed, it did, for she was not the only one who’d seen the matching scars. Her scream had drawn everyone’s attention to them—the king, the woman who was not Lady Bothwell, the great lords and ladies of the land.

  And, of course, the Regent.

  “Stop!” he bellowed.

  But the pockmarked servant paid no heed, for she knew that to stop was death.

  For her part, Persephone only dimly heard the Regent’s shout, so transfixed was she by the sight of the matching scars. Logic told her that she and the king must have been scarred at the very same time, in the very same way.

  But I’ve had this scar for as long as I can remember! she thought wildly, looking up at the king, who looked equally stunned. That could only mean—

  CRACK!

  Jerking her head away from the sight of her arm pressed against the king’s arm, Persephone saw that Azriel had used the distraction to jump to his feet, yank his arms free of the soldiers who held him and elbow them both in the face. Blood from their mangled noses was splattering nearby noblewomen, who were shrieking and fainting and adding to the general chaos of the situation. Even as Persephone watched, Azriel shoved the Regent so hard that he fell to the floor. Then he ran over to her, snatched up her hand and began dragging her through the crowd in pursuit of the pockmarked servant.

  Mordecai slammed against the blood-flecked marble floor hard enough to knock out of him what little breath had been left in his lungs.

  It is impossible! he thought as he frantically tugged his robe down over his thin, crooked legs and awkwardly pushed himself to his hands and knees. Impossible! I was so careful—so thorough. I was sure I’d tied up all loose ends! I used trusted men, I ordered the disposal of the queen, the midwives, the attendants, all those of consequence who might have sought to cause trouble with the truth. And then, of course, there was the matter of the child—

  “Mordecai, what is the meaning of this?” demanded the king, who looked very pale and more sober than he’d ever looked in his life. “W-why does Lady Bothwell share the scar I’ve borne since infancy?”

  Mordecai thought quickly as he staggered to his feet, for he knew that he would lose more than the title “Regent” if the king and the court were ever to learn the truth.

  He would lose everything.

  “I do not know why that woman shares your scar, Majesty,” he said tersely, “but I do know that she is not a lady at all. She is an imposter!”

  “An imposter!” exclaimed the king, with a harsh, wet cough. “No, I don’t believe it—”

  “It is true,” insisted Mordecai. Brusquely, he ordered two of his soldiers to escort the king back to his rooms and to let no one enter or exit, upon pain of death. “It is for your own safety, Majesty,” he assured King Finnius, “for I have reason to fear that the entire palace is riddled with Gypsies and that they intend to murder you this very night.”

  The coughing king looked aghast. “But how do you know—”

  “It is my business to know,” said Mordecai. Then, after ordering everyone in the Great Hall to stay where they were, he turned to the two bleeding soldiers, pointed in the direction that the pockmarked servant, Persephone and Azriel had fled and said, “After them.”

  The pockmarked servant was fast, but in her terror she made a mistake. Instead of turning left into a passageway that would have led her out of the palace, she turned right into a passageway that led to what appeared to be the office of a minor clerk.

  It was a dead end.

  Whirling around as Azriel and Persephone came bursting into the room after her, the terrified woman threw up her hands as though to ward off a blow. “Please don’t kill me!” she cried.

  “No one is going to kill you,” said Azriel as he swiftly barred the door. “We only want to talk to you.”

  “Azriel, where is Mateo?” asked Persephone. “Atticus told me that the Regent had you both!”

  “Like you, he lied,” said Azriel, giving her a look that plainly showed his hurt and anger that she’d lied and run away from him—again. “Mateo is safe—with Meeka.” Grabbing Persephone by the wrist, he roughly dragged her over to where the servant stood trembling with her back against the wall. “Tell us what you know about this,” he demanded, thrusting Persephone’s scarred, bare arm up under her nose.

  As the woman opened her mouth to reply, someone hammered hard on the other side of the barred door.

  “In the name of the Regent Mordecai, I order you to open the door at once!” bellowed a voice.

  “Forget that,” ordered Azriel, pushing Persephone’s scarred arm up under the poor woman’s nose once more. “Tell us what you know about this!”

  The woman’s eyes darted from Persephone to Azriel and back again. Then she thrust her clasped hands at Persephone. “May the gods forgive me, I did not want to do it!” she sobbed. “I was only a frightened child and the poor queen begged so piteously!”

  “OPEN THE DOOR!”

  “What did the queen beg you to do?” asked Azriel, holding Persephone so that she could not back away.

  “There was so little time,” panted the woman, who’d suddenly begun to speak so rapidly that she was tripping over her own words. “The Regent had gone to fetch someone to murder and dispose of the infant, but the queen had hope. Hope that her firstborn might somehow survive to someday return and claim her inheritance. But for that to happen, the infant had to be marked in some way.” The woman’s eyes widened at the memory. “So the queen slipped from her neck the golden necklace that had been a gift from her own mother and she asked me to dangle it in the heat of the fire. And when she deemed it hot enough, she had me bring it to her side, where her two babies lay nestled. And … and … may the gods forgive me, while she held your tiny arms together, I looped the necklace around and held it in place until the air was filled with the smell of your newborn flesh burning. And then the soldier with the mismatched eyes came and took you away.”

  THUD, THUD, THUD.…

  Ignoring the sound of something ponderous being pounded against the door, Persephone wrenched her wrist out of Azriel’s grasp and grabbed the pockmarked servant by the arms. “But I don’t understand!” she exclaimed. “Why did the Regent want to get rid of one of the babies?”

  The woman smiled hollowly. “The Gypsy Seer had promised the king a son and Mordecai had been named Regent of the unborn boy child. But the clever Seer had said nothing about a girl child—and certainly nothing of a girl child born first. Regent of the second born is Regent of nothing.”

  Her mind reeling, Persephone asked the question she knew Azriel wanted to ask but would not. “And … and did the Seer perchance mention what any of this had to do with the coming of a great Gypsy King?”

  THUD, THUD, THUD.…

  Out of the corner of her eye, Persephone could see the heavy bar across the door beginning to splinter, but the pockmarked servant paid no heed. Dropping to one knee, she looked up at Persephone with a reverence bordering on awe and said, “I know nothing about what the Seer may have said about any Gypsy King, Your Highness. I know only that you are the lost royal twin and rightful heir to the Erok throne.”

 

 

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