The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  “No?” he said, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “I left word you were not to be disturbed.”

  She shrugged a little, her eyes fixed on the coverlet. “Vere came to talk to me.”

  “Vere? What did he want with you?” Roderic paused in the removal of a boot.

  “He came to ask me to go with him to the College of the Muten Elders.”

  “Go with him?” Roderic gave a soft snort. “I hope you told him it was out of the question. I would sooner face the Muten hordes alone than allow you to leave the safety of these walls.”

  “Actually—” She came around to the other side of the bed and stood before him, wondering why she felt like a child asking permission. “I told him I would talk to you about it.”

  “Talk to me? What is there to talk about? I can’t let you leave Ithan—do you have any idea how many enemies surround us? Harleyriders to the west, Mutens to the east, Atland’s sons to the south, Amanander out there the One only knows where, still itching to get his hands on you, likely as not. Annandale, are you mad?”

  “No,” she said coolly. “I am not mad. And I wish you would at least listen.”

  Roderic heaved a sigh. “Listen to what? Madness? Lady, do you have any idea what we face?” He ran his hand through the shock of hair that fell across his forehead. “My lines are stretched to the limit and beyond. There are no reserves here. If Obayana and Rissona don’t honor their pledge and deliver up some troops, and if supplies don’t come from the Western lords, there is a very good possibility right now that Meriga will splinter.

  “It looks to me that Amanander is putting together a cohesive force and the One be with us all if I am right. The connections are there—and you and I both know he would do anything, anything at all to win this throne. Including using the Magic.” Roderic broke off and shook his head. “By the One, lady, you must be mad.”

  “Roderic, you haven’t even listened to me.”

  “I heard you.” He picked up a goblet of water on the bedside table and took a long drink.

  “How dare you dismiss me like this?”

  “Dismiss you?” He set the goblet down with a thud. “I am not dismissing you. You don’t seem to have listened to me, either.”

  “I am well aware of the current situation. You only repeated what we both already know. What I have to tell you is crucial to the success of your campaign.”

  He sighed again. “How?”

  “You know Amanander’s going to use the Magic—he already has. How do you intend to fight that?”

  He dropped his eyes. “I-I don’t know.”

  “Your mind’s been so full of strategy and logistics and men and animals and supplies that you forgot what started all this in the first place. Vere believes that Ferad or Amanander or both of them have discovered a new way to use the Magic, one without devastating repercussions. If Vere is correct, then both of them will be able to use the Magic where and when they please, and Deirdre’s loss of three hundred men will seem like a grain of sand in a desert. You have no way to fight that, Roderic, and the Muten Elders are willing to help fight Ferad—”

  “He told you that? Vere said that?”

  “Well…” It was her turn to drop her eyes. “No…”

  “What makes you think they will help me? You know what they think of me.”

  She twisted her fingers in the fabric of her gown. “You know they will do anything to fight Ferad. And with my help—they can use their Magic against him. At least it will keep the Magic from being directed at you.”

  “By the One.” He rose and paced to the window, then back again. “How can you expect me to let you go out there—with Vere, of all people?” He gripped her by the shoulders and stared down into her eyes.

  She met his gaze fearlessly, staring back with the full force of every ounce of will she possessed, and inexplicably, his face changed as a shadow clouded his eyes. He pushed away from her, dropping his hands by his sides, and she felt him recoil.

  “Lady,” he whispered. “Who are you?”

  “What?” She looked back at him, puzzled, for he stared at her with an unreadable expression. The emotion which she sensed was clearly suspicion, under which was an inexplicable current of disgust. The sudden change confused her. “You know who I am.”

  “Who are you?” he repeated. “Your eyes—just now— who—who—” He grabbed the candle on the bedside table and held it up to her face, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. “Who was your father?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No—no man ever claimed me.” She glanced sideways, wondering how to answer an impossible question.

  “I know that. But you had a father—and I think you know who he was. Rumor says it was Phineas—but it wasn’t Phineas, was it?”

  “N-no,” she choked out.

  “Then who, lady? Who was your father?”

  “My father—” She paused and gathered her courage like a cloak. “Was the King.”

  He glanced at the bed, horror plain on every line of his face. “By the One.” His face drained of color and sweat beaded his forehead. His mouth worked and he looked as if he might vomit.

  “No,” she cried, reaching for him. “No, there is no blood between us. What we’ve done—it isn’t wrong.”

  He paused, his breathing fast and shallow, his eyes wary as a hunted animal. “What are you saying?”

  She gave a deep, sobbing breath. “You are not the son of the King, Roderic. There is no blood between us— we’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “What are you talking about? I am not the King’s son?”

  “You are the Queen’s son, Roderic. Not the King’s.”

  Disbelief twisted his face into something unrecognizable. “You lie. How is that possible?” He backed away from her, reaching for his shirt. “For two years and more now, I have fought to preserve this nation, I have held this realm together with little more than sweat and tears and the blood of my men. I have led men into battle and to their deaths in my name—the name of the rightful heir of Meriga—and now you say this isn’t true? If I am not the son of the King, then who is? Amanander? I have spent these years fighting for something that isn’t mine at all? Sent men to die for no good reason? You lie!”

  He bolted from the room, grabbing his cloak and his tunic as he went. With a little sob, she sank onto the bed, staring after him as the candles guttered in his wake.

  Roderic pounded down the shallow steps, her words reverberating through his tired brain. Not the King’s son. Not the son of Abelard Ridenau. Not the rightful ruler of all Meriga. Not the King’s son at all.

  Through the hall he stormed, his boots clicking on the worn wooden floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Deirdre jolt upright by the fire, watching him with narrowed eyes as he stalked out of the hall. Through the quiet ward he stormed, past piles of supplies and equipment, past sentries who recognized him in the light of the flickering torches. He pushed open the door of the stables and the wooden frame quivered as horses nickered in their stalls. Sleepy stable boys peered from their nests of straw, but Roderic ignored them all.

  He grabbed a saddle, went to the nearest stall, and threw it over the back of the horse, heedless of whose animal it was. The horse whickered and stamped as he led it out into the courtyard.

  He leaped onto the horse’s back and lashed at its side with the reins. The animal jumped forward. At the gate, the sentries looked at him in disbelief.

  “Open it, now.”

  “Lord—Lord Prince—?” The sentries clustered together, peering up at him in the wavering torchlight.

  “Open it now, or you’ll do double duty tomorrow.”

  They needed no more urging than that. They fumbled at the crossbar, raising it enough to let the heavy gates swing open to let him out, and without a backward glance, Roderic took off at a gallop.

  Through the rows of tents and makeshift dwellings, he rode like one possessed, fleeing from a demon. The s
tallion’s hooves echoed in the still night beneath the silent moon. Finally, breathless, the horse slowed of its own volition to a trot.

  Not the King’s son. The rhythmic gait of the horse’s hooves pounded it over and over like a litany. Not the King’s son. Who was he then? Nameless, fatherless, got when Abelard was away at war, most likely. What kind of woman had the Queen been? Abelard had never named another heir—both of them were bound by their vows—could she not have waited to take another man? What sort of man had caught the Queen’s eye and made her forget the vows she had sworn to the King? Rage simmered through every conscious thought.

  The horse’s breath was a long white plume in the chilly night. The road wound down into a village, a little tavern at the crossroads. He tied the horse to the cross bar of the fence before the door and went inside. A lone barmaid was behind the bar, wiping the long wooden counter with a damp rag.

  She looked up with fear on her face when she saw his disheveled appearance.

  “Ale,” he barked. He threw himself into a chair by the banked fire.

  “Sir,” she whispered, “we’re closed for the night—it’s late. All decent men are abed—”

  With two long strides he was behind the bar, his arm around her. “What makes you think I’m a decent man?”

  He released her and nodded at the row of kegs behind the bar. “Ale.”

  Reluctantly, she reached for a clay mug and slowly filled it with foamy ale. She set it on the bar before him and nodded. “There.”

  She raised her chin and stared him in the eyes. “Two coppers.”

  Something in the lift of her chin, the boldness with which she met his eyes, something about the aspect of her defiance, roused him, sparked the rage which simmered. “Two coppers,” he repeated. “Two coppers.”

  She looked at him with fearful, questioning eyes. “Don’t I know you?” she murmured. “Haven’t I seen you?”

  He saw fear leap into her eyes, and he twined his hand in her hair, jerking her to him again, and roughly he kissed her, bending her back over the bar so he could feel her round breasts strain against his chest as he pressed down upon her. She struggled, futilely, and he felt her soft thighs spread, as he thrust his knee between them. Someone would answer, he thought, someone would pay. The Queen had betrayed the King, and now, all these years later, Amanander was the rightful heir—any of the brothers had a better claim—Brand the oldest, Vere the runaway—Reginald the traitor—yes, someone would pay. He fumbled at the hem of her dress, pulling up her skirts as she fought, squirming like a child against his body.

  She went limp beneath him, her hand on his chest. “Please,” she whimpered, “are you not the Prince? The Prince of all Meriga? Isn’t that who you are?”

  At her words, he raised himself away from her, and his rage shriveled into shame. He closed his eyes. He was no Prince. His actions here had proved that. The woman lay utterly still beneath him. He heard the door open and close with a slam. A heavy hand come down on his shoulders, and a familiar voice shouted: “By the One, Roderic, have you gone mad completely?”

  Chapter Twelve

  He turned to see Deirdre behind him. He released the girl and Deirdre swung at him with her right fist. She connected with the side of his head, and for a moment, his vision clouded. He shook his head to clear it, lowered his head, and she turned, grabbed his arm, and neatly flipped him over her shoulder. He found himself lying on the floor looking up at her, her dagger held to his throat.

  “Now. Are you going to explain yourself and your shameful actions? Or shall I punish you the way we take care of men who’re caught in such an act in the Islands?”

  His breathing slowed. He could hear the snap and hiss of the low fire, the girl’s ragged sobs. He could see the pulse which throbbed in Deirdre’s throat.

  “Is this the way the Prince of all Meriga behaves?”

  He looked away, then, tears welling inexplicably in his eyes. “Let me up. I’ll not touch the girl again, I swear it.”

  “Your word as the Prince of Meriga?”

  He looked away, shutting his eyes tightly. “For all that that’s worth… yes.”

  Deirdre backed off his chest, rose slowly to her feet. “You, girl. Are you all right?”

  The girl nodded, wiping her tears with the rag.

  “Get us some ale and something to eat… anything. I think we need to talk, Lord Prince.” As the girl scurried to obey, Deirdre looked around for logs. She threw a couple on the fire and stirred it to new life. As the flames leapt higher, she looked back over her shoulder. “Get up.”

  He rose to his feet and slowly sank into a chair beside the hearth. “How did you find me?”

  “You took my horse.” She drew a deep breath. “For rape we take a man’s balls. For horse thieving we take his head.” She looked down at him, and then at the girl who gingerly sat trays of cheese and dried apples on the bar. “Go to bed, lass. We’ll pay for this and be gone by morning.”

  Deirdre took the ale and the plate and set them on the table next to Roderic. “Now. Do you want to tell me what all this is about?”

  “No.”

  “That’s not the answer I was looking for. Care to try again?”

  “No.”

  Deirdre plucked her dagger from its sheath and carefully began to slice thin pieces from the block of cheese. “Let me explain something to you. I have you in rape and horse theft. I could throw this dagger at you, and kill you, and be well within my rights to do it. Now, I probably won’t do that, you see, since it would do nothing for the country were I to kill the Prince of Meriga—”

  “Stop it!”

  She stared. “Stop what?”

  “That’s not who I am.”

  “What are you talking about? Roderic, have you gone daft with it all?”

  He leaned forward, into the light of the leaping flames, his face set and grim, feeling infinitely older than his years. “Listen to me. And then tell me how I should feel. Tonight I learned that I am not the son of the King. I am not a Prince of Meriga. I have no right to either the name of Ridenau, nor the title of Regent.”

  It was Deirdre’s turn to sit back and stare. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ask Annandale. Ask my wife. She’ll tell you. She’s the daughter of the King she said—I’m but the son of the Queen. Not the King. Get of a groom for all I know… a scullion… a musician who caught the lady’s eyes while the King was off at war…” His voice trailed off as he stared into the flames.

  “Listen to what you just said,” Deirdre whispered.

  He shook his head tiredly. “What?”

  “If she is the daughter of the King, and you are the son of the Queen—Roderic, do you think your marriage happened by accident?”

  With a start Roderic stared at Deirdre. “The letter.”

  “What letter?”

  “My father left me a letter—wrote it the day I—we both—Annandale and I were born. He wanted me to marry her—but he never said why—”

  “Maybe he never wanted you to know.”

  “Never wanted me to know I wasn’t his son?”

  Deirdre shrugged. “Did he ever treat you as if you weren’t? Ever by deed or word indicate that you were anything less than the son of his body?”

  “No.” Roderic stared into the fire.

  “Or maybe—” Deirdre leaned forward. “Maybe he never wanted anyone else to know either.”

  Roderic slid his eyes over to her face. She raised one brow and stared at him. “But why? My father—the King had—has many sons. Why would he make me heir if he knew I wasn’t really his?”

  “Have you any idea who fathered you upon the Queen?”

  Roderic drew a deep breath and sighed. “Annandale said no blood—no ties between us—so that would mean someone… anyone…”

  “No.” Deirdre shook her head. “This was planned. There was no accident to it. The Queen knew—but she’s dead. The King knew—but he’s gone. Annandale— would she know?”

&nb
sp; “She might. Her mother would have known… if this was a plan.”

  “Her mother? Nydia? She’s dead, too.

  “Then there’s only one person left who really knows what happened. And that’s the man who fathered you.”

  “If he’s still alive.”

  “Go to your lady and ask her, Roderic. It’s the only chance you have to make peace with this. You may not be the son of the King’s body, but you are the Prince of Meriga, and there is no way this country will hold together unless you assume the command the King left you. You can’t fall apart like this—none of us can afford for you to do that. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

  He dropped his eyes and stared at the backs of his hands, at the scars and nicks which crisscrossed the skin like the pattern of Deirdre’s plaid. “Do you understand at all how I feel?”

  She sat back, her arms folded across her chest. “In a land where a man’s whole identity is based upon his clan, his chief, his father—yes. Of course I know how you must feel. But you must put that aside. We have a kingdom to keep—for your son.”

  Rhodri. The thought of the infant brought him back. Those eyes, so like Abelard’s, so like Annandale’s… now he understood, he thought. Now he realized what it was about her that had seemed so familiar to him at first. It was her resemblance to his father. “Her eyes,” he muttered.

  “What?” asked Deirdre sharply.

  “It was her eyes that made me realize who she was,” he said. “She came to me tonight and wanted to leave Ithan, to go with Vere—”

  “I think you should let her go.”

  “Let her go?”

  Deirdre nodded. “She has another place in this, Roderic. There is more to this tale than you or I understand. I’ll take her myself. But go on—”

  “She looked at me with such determination—the expression was his when he had his mind made up— that’s how I knew. No one ever looked quite like my fath—like the King when he was angry.”

  “You have to stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Correcting yourself. He was—is—your father. If he’s ever found he’ll tell you that himself, I have no doubt. But for now—” She uncrossed her long legs and got to her feet, feeling in her pouch. She pulled out a gold coin, and laid it on the bar. “That should be sufficient payment for the trouble which you caused.”