The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  Roderic fought the impulse to hang his head. The two years of his regency had taught him more about men and leadership than he had ever thought possible to learn. He spread his hands flat on the tabletop of smooth glass which protected the ancient maps flattened beneath it. “Lord Senador—” He stopped, wet his lips and began again. “I understand your fear. And while I don’t discount what you say, I can assure you that the scouts report no more activity south of Loma than is usual in the spring, when the Harleys leave their winter camps.” He drew a slow line down one ancient border. What he said was the truth. It might not be sufficient to allay the fears of the Arkan lords, who had lived with the threat of the Harleys for generations, but it was the truth. So far, there was no evidence at all that the Harleys planned to take advantage of the dangerously chaotic situation to the east.

  “You listen to me, boy.” The old Senador leaned forward over the table with a snort. “The last time your father’s attention was diverted by a rebellion among the lords, the Harleys rose and ran all over the central Plains. It took years to push them out of Arkan, and more men than I care to remember died. The rivers ran red with their blood. It took more men than I can count to get the Kahn and his Riders out of Missiluse when that fool Eldred let them in. I’m old enough to be your grandfather, boy, and I’ve seen more battles than you’ve heard tell of. And I’m warning you that the whole country is on the brink of disaster. And what about your father, boy? Have you forgotten him?”

  “No, my lord,” Roderic answered quietly. “I have not. Why do you think I’m so sure of what I know about the Harleys? More men than I can count have combed Loma and Arkan for the last two years in search of my father.” He saw the old Senador’s eyes gleam. What little light there was reflected off the glass under his hands, and beneath it, the faded outlines of estates long vanished into history peered up at him, taunting him like silent accusing ghosts. If we can fade out of history, the old maps seemed to say, so can you. So can you. He moved his thumb, and a name caught his eye, raising the pale specter of hope.

  New York. Nourk. Phillip. Dandified, fat, rich Phillip. Abelard’s fourth son, whom he had married to the Senador of Nourk’s daughter, hoping to bring the independent estate more firmly into the sphere of Ridenau control. Roderic took a deep breath. Two years ago, at the Convening which confirmed Roderic’s regency, Philip had been less than eager to commit troops. And yet, Phillip was bound by the same Pledge of Allegiance all the Senadors swore, to uphold the kingdom and the King by any means at his disposal. Perhaps it was time to call him on it.

  Roderic’s gaze swept across the ancient map, glancing over territories vast and long forgotten. “Are you implying I’ve not spent enough men on the search for my father, Lord Senador?” He heard the bitter edge in his voice and forced himself to speak calmly. “But how many regiments do you expect me to send when they’re needed elsewhere? How many shall I devote?” Roderic met the old man’s eyes steadily, refusing to be intimidated. He was twenty-one on his next birthday, and he felt at least three times that old.

  Without waiting for an answer, he pushed away from the table and paced to stare unseeing out the window, knowing Gredahl watched his every move. “I am sorry for your losses. But the numbers you give me are no greater than they have ever been—the borders of Arkan and Loma are dangerous places even at the best of times, you know that. I can give you no guarantees, Lord Senador. Not even my father could give you a guarantee when it came to the Harleyriders. But I will tell you this. My kinsman, Barran, my brother Brand’s son, is in Dlas—commander of the garrison there. I will send a messenger to him tonight, warning him to watch the Harleys closely. If there are any signs that more than their usual raiding parties are approaching the border of Loma, he will alert my troops at Ithan. I will summon reserves from my brother in Nourk. Depending upon the number of his forces, I may be able to increase the garrisons. But more than that, Lord Gredahl, I cannot give.”

  Gredahl rose from the chair, his joints protesting audibly. “I mean you no disrespect, Lord Prince.”

  In the gloom, Roderic smiled. That was the closest thing to apology the old man was ever likely to offer. “You’ve been a good friend, Gredahl—I count on your influence in the Congress, even as my father did. I do not discount your concern. I will alert Obayana as well—between Ithan to the east, and Kora-lado to the west, if the Harleys invade Arkan, they will ride into a vise.”

  “And I will return to my people and prepare for war. It may never come, Lord Prince, but better to be prepared.”

  “As you say, Lord Senador.” Roderic watched the old man haul himself heavily across the room, limping from the effect of wounds and age.

  At the door Gredahl paused. “There is no word of the King?”

  Roderic shook his head before he realized that in the faded light, the Senador might not be able to see the gesture. “No. It is as if the earth opened and swallowed him whole. There has been no sign of him in two years.”

  “Lord Prince,” Gredahl began awkwardly.

  Pity warred with respect for the old warrior as Roderic held up his hand. The Arkan lords were tough and proud and bent the knee to few, but they had always been utterly loyal to the king. “If I could give you more than those assurances, Gredahl, I would.”

  The old man’s shoulders heaved once more, dark against the darker outline of the door. “As you say, Lord Prince.” There was a rustle of clothing as the old man bowed his head, and then he was gone.

  Roderic turned back to the window with another sigh. The gray weather did nothing to lift his mood. It was nearly time for dinner—through the glass he heard the muted orders of the guards upon the walls as the watch changed. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass, and for a moment, his shoulders sagged.

  Oh, he had loyal supporters, all right—his brothers Brand and Alexander, Vere and Reginald at Atland garrison, Everard who governed the northern peninsula with a fair and even hand, the Senadors of Kora-lado, Tennessy Fall, and Atland. And of course there was Deirdre of the Settle Islands, who even now, alone of all the Senadors save Tennessy, was in the field. The thought of Deirdre made him smile. Alone among all the Senadors, she had offered him troops when he needed them last summer, even if what she demanded in exchange was slightly unorthodox. But Deirdre herself was unorthodox—one could not apply ordinary standards to such a woman.

  He wished he could send Alexander back to the garrison at Spogan before more time passed. But Alexander was not much better than he had been last summer. Roderic raised his head and stared at the flickering points of torchlight on the walls. Over the winter, Alex had seemed to improve, but lately—there was a sickly yellow cast to Alex’s skin, and deep pockets under his eyes. His dark beard was streaked with gray. He was only thirty-five, but he had the appearance of a man near death. There was little chance that Alexander would be able to return to his garrison on the shores of the Western Sea this spring, and that left the contentious Chiefs and the lords of Mondana without a buffer.

  And Amanander, his nemesis and Alexander’s twin, lay in his unnatural sleep three stories above, just as he had for the last ten months, a latent, ever present reminder of the forces which threatened the regency.

  Roderic flexed his cramped shoulders, massaged the back of his neck. His stomach rumbled, reminding him of the time. He would go to Annandale, and lay his head upon the round mound of her belly, and feel their child kick beneath the taut skin. Her time was almost here; the midwives said the child would be born any day. The thought of Annandale, her gentle smile, her healing touch, acted like a balm. Yes, she was what he needed. He would go to her, eat, and then speak to Phineas, who seemed to grow more frail with every passing day. But Phineas, old and lamed and blind though he might be, was still the King’s Chief Councilor, the one man in Meriga whom Abelard had never failed to consult. Without Phineas’s advice, Roderic knew he would never have held his father’s throne for as long as he had. He was sure Phineas would approve of his decision to cont
act Phillip in Nourk.

  In the corridor outside his rooms, he nearly collided with the servant who was coming to light the lamps. “I’m finished in there for the evening,” he said to the startled man. “Go to Lord Phineas and tell him I’d like to speak with him after I’ve eaten with my lady.”

  The servant took off down the corridor. Roderic pushed against the door to his chambers. To his surprise, it was barred. With gritted teeth, he pounded for admittance. Finally, his eldest sister, Tavia, opened the door. She wore a short white kerchief over her head, and a large white apron, stained in places with what looked like blood. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with Amanander? And why am I locked out of my own rooms?”

  “Shhh, Roderic, you’ll upset her.”

  “Annandale? What’s wrong?” He tried to push past Tavia, to see through the outer chamber into the bedroom, but that door too was tightly closed.

  “She’s fine, Roderic. It’s just time for the baby to come.”

  “Is she all right?” Through the door, he thought he heard a low groan, like an animal in pain. All the cares of his day vanished.

  “She’s fine—”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since early morning—”

  “And why wasn’t I told? I want to see her.”

  “You’ve been busy all day—everything is fine. There’s no need to bother you.”

  “Bother me?” He stared down at Tavia with all the disdain he could muster, and the sound came again. This time he pushed past her successfully.

  “Roderic, we didn’t think you—”

  He paused with his hand on the door and looked at Tavia over his shoulder. “She is dearer than life to me.”

  In the bedroom, four or five women clustered around the bed looked up with shocked expressions at his entrance.

  Roderic strode to the bedside. Annandale lifted her head. Her hair was matted and damp, her face pale, and beneath her eyes, dark smudges marred the delicate skin of her face. She was lying on her side, a pillow wedged between her thighs, her arms clenched around another. “Roderic?” Her voice was a harsh whisper through cracked lips.

  “My love?” He knelt beside her, brushing the curls away from her forehead. “How is it with you?”

  She managed a little smile. “As well as it can be, they say.”

  “How much longer?”

  “I don’t know.” Her face contorted and she clenched the pillow-as a spasm of pain gripped her. He tightened his hand on her arm and started as a twinge of pain, like an echo, filtered down his spine, flickering through his lower belly like a dying flame.

  “There’s nothing you can do for her, Roderic,” said Tavia. “We are doing all we can.”

  He glared at his sister, who had drawn back into the tight circle of the other women. They were muttering amongst themselves. The pain shivering through his gut gave him an idea. He turned again to Annandale, who had rolled half over onto her back, and spoke in a low voice so only she could hear him. “We shared our desire when we made this child. Is it possible—?” He broke off, biting his lip as her face contorted once more, and she groped for his hand desperately. He twined his fingers in the tendrils of her hair, smoothing it off her damp face.

  “You would help me bear this pain?” she whispered when she could.

  “Is it possible?” he murmured close to her ear, so the others would not hear.

  “You must accept it—totally and completely. Can you do that?”

  “You know I would do anything for you.”

  She took a deep breath. “Get behind me. Help me sit up.”

  He positioned himself behind her, taking her weight against his chest, supporting her so that she half-reclined against him. The midwives eyed them suspiciously. She took his hands and guided them to the low swell of her belly. “Are you ready?” she murmured, close to his ear.

  For answer, he hugged her tightly, and in the very pit of his abdomen, a great hand seemed to slowly clench into a great fist, then gave a shattering wrench. He gasped involuntarily at the depth of the pain.

  “All right?” she whispered.

  “That’s what you’ve been feeling? All day?”

  “Together, we can bear it.”

  An hour passed, and then another, as the great fist opened and closed with increasing intensity and sometimes wrenched two or three times before it eased. More than once, he had to bite his lips and hide his face in the heavy fall of her hair. Finally, he felt a pressure at the base of his spine, and Annandale grunted, shifting away so that he almost lost his grip.

  The women hovered closer. “She needs to push, Lord Prince.” They were all business now, having decided that since he was obviously immovable, he should be made to help in some way. “Move her here, over the edge.”

  Sweat stained his tunic and beaded his forehead as the two of them moved as one. The midwife gently placed Annandale’s heels on the edge of the bed, so that her knees were bent, her legs wide and spread apart. The hard, driving pressure began to grow, and she twisted his arms, her nails digging into the flesh of his forearms. As though his own flesh responded to the sensation of the infant’s passage, a growing weight burned between his legs as though it would split him in half. He stifled a moan and tried not to hug her too hard, peering over her shoulder. Annandale gave a final cry, and in a gush of clear fluid, the crown of the infant’s head emerged. Almost at once, the pressure was gone.

  “There, there, lady,” crooned the midwife, kneeling between Annandale’s thighs, “that’s fine, easy now, no need to bear down. Let him come.”

  The shoulders turned of their own accord, and as he looked over Annandale’s shoulder, he saw the squashed, grayish-blue face of the infant. The woman gently drew the baby out. The long cord which bound him to his mother was blue and pulsing. The baby waved his fists and the little mouth opened, and sounds, like a mewling kitten escaped. He turned blindly, sputtering.

  “Is—is he all right?” Roderic wasn’t quite sure what to think of the weird, gray-blue skin. The crown of the infant’s head was covered with a little thatch of dark hair, and some white, creamy stuff covered most of the damp, little body. There was blood on his ears.

  Annandale held out her arms, and the woman placed the squirming infant in them. Roderic was relieved to see the baby turning red.

  “Oh, he’s fine, Lord Prince. A bit small, but he’ll grow. He’ll pink up soon enough.”

  Annandale cradled the baby close, and then grimaced.

  “What’s wrong?” Roderic wrapped his arms over hers.

  “Just the afterbirth, Lord Prince,” answered the midwife. “Easy now, lady, this isn’t like that head, you know. Ah—there.” With a soft swish, the afterbirth slithered from between Annandale’s legs and was caught by one of the waiting women. Another woman pressed a wad of linen between her legs.

  “All right, Lord Prince,” said the senior midwife, “lay her back against the pillows. Here, do you want to cut the cord?”

  She handed him a pair of silver scissors. Roderic looked down at the baby, now eagerly sucking at a nipple which looked much too large to fit into the tiny mouth. Annandale nodded. “Go ahead, love.”

  Roderic bent and carefully snipped. The infant did not notice. He was as greedily attached to his mother as ever.

  Annandale smiled up at him, her face radiant, and it did not seem possible that she had spent the last ten or twelve hours racked by such pain. His hand hovered over the child, hesitant. “Touch him, Roderic. You won’t hurt him.”

  Tentatively, he placed three fingers over the baby’s back. The child seemed impossibly small, his head no larger than Roderic’s fist, his back smaller than the span of Roderic’s five fingers. His legs looked like a frog’s.

  “What shall we call him?” Annandale asked.

  Roderic brushed the soft down on the baby’s head with the back of his hand. “I was thinking we should name him for the first of the Ridenau Kings. Rhodri. Rhodri Ridenau—my fathe
r’s grandfather, who first restored the Estates of Meriga and made it whole.”

  Annandale smiled. “Rhodri Ridenau—I like it. What do you think, Tavvy?” She looked up at the woman hovering at Roderic’s arm.

  “It’s a fine name. But you—” Tavia tapped Roderic firmly on the shoulder. “You must go. Send us all something to eat.”

  With a sheepish glance at his sister, Roderic picked up Annandale’s hand and pressed a kiss into the palm. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” She met his eyes with a look full of meaning. “Go, let them finish here. When he’s been cleaned and dressed, you can hold him.”

  Roderic traced a finger over a tiny ear, loathe to leave the presence of such a new and beguiling being. The baby squirmed, turning his head against Annandale’s breast, his skin reddening even as Roderic watched. Roderic bent to look at him more closely, and incredibly, the child opened his eyes and focused. Abelard’s eyes looked out of the tiny face, and in that moment, Roderic understood why he would fight with his last breath to preserve his father’s kingdom. Not for himself, not for his missing father, but for this fragile being, who had existed only moments before as anonymous lumps beneath his mother’s belly, and now who lived and breathed and moved as independently as he. And with a pang of wonder, Roderic realized that when this infant was grown to manhood, and fathered children of his own, those children would live to see a time and a place he could never know. He had a sense of past and present and future, of the link from grandfather to father to son to generations yet unborn. He felt at once both humbled and exalted.

  Roderic bent and kissed Annandale’s mouth again. He had no words to express what he was feeling, but his eyes met hers, and he had the uncanny sense she understood. She nodded and closed her eyes, lying back against her pillows, her face suddenly white with exhaustion. “Rest, love,” he murmured. At the door, he paused once more and looked at the bustling women. “Thank you all.” He kissed Tavia’s cheek. “I’m sorry I was rude.”