The Gypsy King (28 page)

A
S HE TROTTED ALONG, Mordecai's thoughts harkened back to the day in the dungeon when he'd vowed to Murdock that he'd show the great lords that the king was not the only one who could ride out among the people of Parthania looking like a majestic young god. He'd expected to put on a fine show, yes, but he'd never
dreamt
that it would be as fine as this! Indeed, he was now bitterly regretting the fact that he'd decided to destroy the slum at night. It was also unfortunate that the good citizens of Parthania felt compelled to stay indoors whilst it was happening for fear of being accidentally added to the lowborn transports. How glorious it would be for them to see him, their Lord Regent, astride this mighty steed with this young, beautiful noblewoman clinging to him like a rescued damsel! Nay, not like a rescued damsel— like a
lover
. For surely only a lover would cling with such unyielding ferocity. Indeed, his ribs were beginning to ache with the strength of her embrace.

The question was, why? He'd not been the least fooled
by the way she'd pouted prettily and referred to herself as “a mere woman”—or by the way she'd curtseyed with her breasts thrust upward and her eyelashes fluttering to set a man's loins afire. He'd known in that moment that she'd wanted something from him but he'd
thought
that it was mercy for that wretched old husband of hers, Bothwell.

What if he was wrong? What if years of having his tentative advances politely—but categorically—rejected by repulsed noblewomen had blinded him to the face of true desire? What if the thing that Lady Bothwell had wanted was
him
? It was almost inconceivable and yet … and yet … dressed in black as he was, he knew that his ruined body was all but hidden by the night. That meant that the only thing she'd really seen of him thusfar was his face. And he knew for a
certainty
that his was the handsomest face in the realm.

I am also the most powerful man in the realm
, he thought suddenly as he guided his horse to one side to avoid the body of the man killed by his soldier's arrow,
and women are attracted to power. Power and money—and I have both!

Mordecai's excitement grew as his thoughts turned to Lady Bothwell's comments that she cared about many things and that she was an unusual woman. What had she been trying to tell him with her strange, cryptic words? Had she been trying to tell him that she might be able to care for him in spite of his cruel deformities? Perhaps her tastes ran in perverse directions—perhaps she
especially
desired men of his ilk. After all, whatever she professed of her husband's health and vigour, he was unquestionably an old man—with an old man's shrivelled, shrunken body
and sallow, wrinkled skin; with an old man's cold hands and bony feet; with an old man's gross noises and disgusting smells. If she could desire
that
, why should she not desire him? And if she did, wasn't it entirely possible that even if General Murdock never discovered the Pool of Genezing that she might someday be willing to lie down beneath him that he might get a strong, healthy son upon her noble young body? And if
that
were to happen—if she were to allow her noble blood to be mingled with his own—isn't it true that the great lords of the realm would no longer be able to deny that he was a man worthy of being named the heir of his doomed Majesty King Finnius?

It was true. Truly it was!

Of course, he was getting far ahead of himself. Before he could get a son upon Lady Bothwell, he would have to marry her, for though a bastard would prove his virility, it would help him not at all where the great lords were concerned, for they cared only for legitimate heirs. And before he could marry Lady Bothwell, he would have to court her—and see to the death of her husband, of course. Well, no matter. He'd had plans for the old goat anyway, so irritated had he been to discover that a man as decrepit as Bothwell could get such a luscious, loyal young wife while he, himself, had to settle for occasionally groping servant girls too terrified to do anything but lie there unmoving and praying for it to be over quickly. He would send Murdock to dispatch Bothwell as soon as the business with Pembleton was finished. In the meantime, he would send a handful of soldiers beyond the city walls to hunt down the scum that had attacked Lady Bothwell.

He would give them orders to inflict slow and painful deaths upon the wretches—and while they were at it, to dispatch the strapping young fool who'd
dared
to hesitate when ordered to assist Lady Bothwell onto his horse. And speaking of the horse, he had half a mind to have the beast destroyed for the way its graceless movements had caused him such jarring pain throughout this long, exhausting evening.

There is always so much to do
, thought Mordecai with a sigh as he rode past several dozen small, grubby-looking children who'd been torn from their lowborn parents that they might be sent onward to toil alongside the Gorgishmen in the Mines of Torodania.
Truly, if I did not have hope that all this would one day be mine to rule, I do not know how I could find the strength to carry on.…

TWENTY-ONE

F
OR HER PART, Persephone's mind also began racing the minute the Regent's horse trotted away from the alley, though her thoughts were of a different nature entirely. Behind her, she knew that Azriel and Rachel were watching helplessly as their best hope of escaping the city unmolested—Persephone in her noble finery— was carried away toward the imperial palace. She'd saved them by stepping forward into the torchlight but at what price? And to what end? They were safe for the moment, yes, but as the Regent had said, there would be many unfortunates out this night seeking to wreak vengeance upon those who did not share their fate. Would Azriel be able to protect Rachel? Would he be able to protect himself? And what of Cur and Fleet— and what of the child they were meant to rescue? Forcing herself to look upon the horror of what was happening in the slum, Persephone saw black-clad soldiers tearing screaming children from their mothers' arms and unarmed, lowborn men desperately flinging themselves
at these same soldiers, only to be struck down again and again until at last they lay unmoving in slowly spreading pools of their own blood. Was the child they were meant to rescue there, among those poor creatures, or was he yet hidden? Or had he been left behind entirely by those who dared not risk the lives of their own children by being seen this night with a child someone might recognize as being a member of the murdered Gypsy family?

A sudden vision of little Sabian thus abandoned to a fiery death struck Persephone with the force of a blow to the head. She gasped once, then gasped again as the horse beneath her shifted so abruptly that she nearly lost her balance. Clutching the Regent harder, she looked down to see a spread-eagled man with an arrow through one dead eye. The arrow had been meant for Cur, and while she was grateful that it had not found him, she grieved for this man who'd died in his stead.

The Fates never give but that they take away
, she thought fiercely, wishing she were far away from the sights and sounds of this terrible night. To her surprise, she also found herself wishing that it was Azriel's warm, well-muscled body she was clinging to instead of the crooked, withered torso of the man who'd caused all this terror and pain. She'd heard the lust in his voice earlier—indeed, out of desperation she'd played to it. Now, however, she feared that she would be trapped by her own game.

For she knew the ways of men well enough to know that when aroused, they could twist the most innocent glance or touch to feed their deluded fantasies.

And if those fantasies belonged to a man as powerful as the Regent, she knew it was only a matter of time before he'd find a way to turn them into reality.

And as quick as she was with a dagger, once trapped behind the thick, heavily guarded walls of the imperial palace, Persephone did not see how she'd ever be able to gut him like a fish and escape with her life.

“Your chambers, Lady Bothwell,” murmured the Regent with an ungainly bow.

Persephone gave him a strained smile then returned to staring at the beautifully carved door before her. Though not more than half an hour had passed since she'd left Rachel and Azriel hiding in the alley, it seemed like an eternity. By the time she, the Regent and his men had reached the moat surrounding the palace, the air had been thick with black smoke and with the roar of the flames devouring the dry timber of the slum's hovels. Then, just as the guard in the watchtower had bellowed the order to lift the heavy wrought-iron gate on the far side of the drawbridge and make way for the Lord Regent, the first shrill screams of those being burned alive had pierced the air. Persephone had not been able to keep herself from shuddering violently when she'd heard them, and even the Regent had gasped and stiffened as though in mortal agony. Persephone had thought it a strange reaction from the man who'd ordered the atrocity, but she'd barely had time to ponder
this contradiction before she'd been whisked through the watchtower passageway and into the bustling, torch-lit palace courtyard.

There, in addition to drunken young noblemen, milling soldiers, shouting groomsmen and small boys running to and fro under foot, Persephone had noticed a flock of vulturine old men in black capes and hoods hurrying toward the palace. The grizzled old groomsman who'd deftly lifted her off the Regent's horse had explained that they were physicians come to tend the king, who'd suffered a frightful coughing fit on account of the smoke that billowed thicker with each passing moment. Upon hearing this news, the Regent had cursed someone named Moira for being such a fool as to leave His Majesty's windows ajar on a night such as this. Then, muttering and wincing terribly, he'd lurched off without a backward glance at Persephone. She'd hoped that perhaps tending to the needs of the sick young king would cause the Regent to forget about her and thus give her a chance to somehow escape and return to the others, but he'd returned for her after only a few moments, and now here she was, standing by his side on the threshold of “her chambers.”

“Well, Lady Bothwell?” inquired the Regent, who was watching her closely. “Will you not even inspect the rooms to
see
if they are to your liking?”

At the sound of his voice, Persephone nearly leapt out of her skin. “Yes—yes, of course I will!” she blurted as she flushed nervously under his inspection. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am not usually so lacking in graciousness, but it has been a rather long and trying day, and to say that I do
not feel like myself right now would be an understatement of rather monumental proportions.”

“I understand completely,” murmured Mordecai soothingly. “I only pray that you will find some solace in the humble comfort of your accommodations.”

With another bow, the Regent flung open the door and stepped back to allow Persephone to be the first to cross the threshold.

Tentatively, she stepped forward … and nearly fell over in amazement.

For the room that lay before her was bigger than the owner's entire cottage had been. Perhaps bigger than his entire
farm
had been!

High-ceilinged and glowing with the soft, clear light of quality candles, it was far and away the finest room Persephone had ever seen. The wood floor was polished so smooth that it gleamed in the firelight, and the dark panelled walls were hung with thickly woven tapestries depicting ancient tales of heroism and love. Against one wall of the vast room was a canopied bed hung with plum-coloured velvet curtains and piled high with pillows—a bed so enormous that Persephone couldn't see how a person would possibly be able to climb into it without the use of a stepladder. Against the opposite wall, beneath a row of shutters that had been closed tight against the smoke outside, lay a table groaning under the weight of more food than Persephone would have been able to eat in half a lifetime. A whole roast pheasant artfully redressed in its own brilliant feathers; a joint of meat and a platter of fish; several loaves of bread and an assortment
of cheeses; bowls piled high with exotic-looking fruits and candied sweetmeats; three kinds of pastries and a jug of what Persephone presumed to be wine or ale. She stared at the mouth-watering bounty for what was probably an indecent length of time, and when she was finally able to tear her eyes away from it, she noticed a door along the back wall. Even as she wondered where it might lead, it was flung open and a woman and two older girls wordlessly filed into the room.