The Gypsy King (44 page)

THIRTY-SIX

F
OR HIS PART, after leaving Lady Bothwell's chambers, the Regent did not waste another thought on those who'd perished in the fires at Bothwell Manor—unless one counted the thought that he'd profited precious little from the effort and expense that had gone into making Lady Bothwell a widow, and also the thought that the king would pay dearly for having knocked him aside, interrupted him and ignored him as though he were nothing more than a piece of furniture.

Instead, Mordecai's thoughts turned to the forthcoming meeting of the Council. It was his last such meeting as Lord Regent owing to the fact that at midnight that night the king would turn seventeen and the ceremony officially transferring the power to rule the realm to him would take place. When that happened, the great Regent Mordecai would become simply Mordecai, just one of many whose existence at court depended entirely upon the king's favour. Simply Mordecai—unless he was finally able to persuade the Council to declare him
the king's heir, that is. Though the king would have the power to rescind the declaration, Mordecai did not think he would immediately do so, for to have a named heir that had the support of the great lords all but guaranteed the stability of the realm—an important thing for a young king new to power.

And before he could consider reconsidering, he would be dead.

Mordecai knew, of course, that not every nobleman supported his bid to be named heir, but in private conversations over the last few days he'd received the informal assurances of enough of them that he entered the sumptuous Council chamber with high hopes.

Minutes later, his hopes were shattered utterly as each nobleman in turn assured him that although he, personally, would like
nothing
better than to see Mordecai named the king's heir, no one had, as yet, been able to find any precedent that would allow a person of the Regent's, well, ahem, somewhat less than noble birth to take the throne. They would keep searching the ancient texts for such a precedent, they all rushed to assure him—they would search just as hard as they possibly could!—but in the meantime,
most
regretfully, there was simply no way they could recommend him to the king.

As he let his murderous gaze slide from one face to the next, Mordecai wondered if he'd be able to get away with having them all hacked to pieces where they sat. The first time they'd balked at supporting him, he'd choked down his rage in the hope that they'd come to see the error of their ways. As he sat listening to them repeat their meaningless
assurances now, however, he realized that it had always been hopeless. All the trouble he'd gone to over the years to enrich these men—trouble he'd taken because he believed he was buying loyalty he'd be able to leverage when he made his final leap to the apex of power—it had all been a waste.

Worse yet, they insisted upon adding insult to injury by mocking him with these charades of loyalty. It was as though they thought he was too
stupid
to see that they were merely stringing him along until the reins of power formally passed to the king.

It was as though they thought he was nothing but a useless, crippled, lowborn
imbecile
!

Shaking with hatred but feeling that, unfortunately, he probably
couldn't
get away with having them all hacked to pieces where they sat, Mordecai abruptly dismissed them with the intention of immediately calling for General Murdock to arrange to have at least a
few
of them hacked to death at some point in the very near future.

It was then, as he sat alone at the head of the long table fantasizing about revenge in the form of splatter and gore, that Lord Bartok slipped back into the room and sat down next to him.

“What do you want?” Mordecai practically snarled.

Lord Bartok hesitated, his distaste for Mordecai's unseemly display of temper clear upon his smug noble face. “To propose an arrangement,” he finally said. “One that would see both of our deepest desires fulfilled.”

“Oh?” muttered Mordecai, who was only half-paying attention.

“Before midnight tonight, I will see to it that the
great lords declare you the king's heir,” said Lord Bartok, as though it were the simplest of matters. “In return, you will this day convince the king to become betrothed to my daughter, Lady Aurelia. When Aurelia eventually bears a child, you will, of course, be required to give up your position in the line of succession, but until then, you will be heir apparent with the full support of the great Bartok Dynasty behind you.”

Heart slamming against his thin chest, Mordecai— who was suddenly paying attention with every fibre of his being—stared down the length of the Council table, unable to believe what he was hearing. Was Bartok
really
such a fool that he did not see the flaw in his plan—namely, that there was nothing to prevent Mordecai from murdering the king
after
he'd been named heir but
before
the king was able to get a child upon Lady Aurelia? And that even if he was not able to prevent conception, there was nothing to prevent him from murdering Lady Aurelia while she was pregnant? Or to prevent him from murdering the child at birth?

Such things had been known to happen, after all.

One quick look into Bartok's pale eyes told Mordecai that the nobleman knew exactly what he was doing—and that he had no intention of allowing Mordecai to live long enough to make trouble. He would use Mordecai to get what he wanted, eliminate him as soon as he could thereafter and then sit back to await the birth of his royal grandchild. And if by some chance these plans went awry, there was no royal grandchild and the king died without an heir of his body—well, at least Bartok would be able to
rightly claim that he was the first and greatest supporter of the new monarch:

King Mordecai.

“I … favour this arrangement,” said Mordecai in a choked voice.

Smiling coolly, Lord Bartok said, “I thought you might.”

Later that afternoon, as he lurched to a halt outside the king's chambers, Mordecai recalled the amazing encounter with Lord Bartok. Feeling a surge of excitement that was almost sexual, he breathlessly ordered the idiot guard with the unsightly birthmark to announce him. While he waited for the fool to return, he paced before the door, refining his strategy. Given the mood of the young king these days—and the fact that he would very shortly rule in his own right—it wouldn't serve to burst in and order him to marry the Bartok female. However, King Finnius might be convinced to do so if Mordecai were to point out to him that a union with the most powerful family in the realm would go far toward bringing the great lords under his control. Or, better yet, if he were to suggest that the
absence
of such a union could cause such instability in the realm that the very poorest, most defenceless of the king's subjects would surely suffer terribly for it.

Yes, that is the way I shall approach it
, decided Mordecai as he slouched into the king's chamber.
I will tug on the strings of his peasant heart, and after he is betrothed and I am named heir, I will slash those same strings, cut out the heart and—

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” called the king, who was staring out the window with his feet shoulder width apart and his hands loosely clasped behind his back.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” replied Mordecai, who was pleased to see that the insufferable cow was nowhere in sight. “I pray you are well?”

“I am,” replied the king without turning around.

“I am glad to hear it,” murmured Mordecai. “And are you looking forward to the commencement of your birthday festivities?”

“I am,” repeated the king.

“Excellent,” said Mordecai. “Majesty, I've come to discuss—”

“Mordecai, do you know what I used to see when I looked out this window?” interrupted the young king, turning his head aside to cough.

“The royal garden?” suggested Mordecai, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt.

“Yes,
exactly
,” replied the king in a tone that informed Mordecai that he'd answered just as the king had expected he would—and that the king was not terribly impressed by his answer. “That is what I
used
to see, Mordecai. Do you know what I see now?”

“No,” said Mordecai flatly.

“I see
walls
, Your Grace—walls that separate me from my subjects, walls that prevent me from seeing for
myself
if my kingdom is truly a place where peace and prosperity reign for all people.”

Though Mordecai's heart leapt at this perfect opening to begin plucking upon peasant heartstrings, he was
nevertheless wary of the odd direction the conversation had taken—and the reasons for it. “What a coincidence, Your Majesty,” he said, treading carefully, “for earlier today at the Council meeting I found myself wondering what you might be able to do to ensure stability in the realm, and I think—”

“Lady Bothwell thinks that I should travel among my people at least occasionally,” mused the king. “She thinks that the best way to ensure contentment within the realm is for all subjects to see and know and love me—and for me to not only see and know and love them, but also to make it my business to ensure that justice and mercy are granted to the very least of them.”

Mordecai felt an instant of white-hot rage toward Lady Bothwell but recovered from it almost immediately.
Obviously
, she had only been telling the king what she thought he wanted to hear, and the fool had been too blind to see it. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but as we've discussed many times, the risks to your health—”

“Would not be of such concern if I was married and had a child,” interrupted the king.

Mordecai blinked in surprise. “That is true,” he said cautiously. “And since you are finding yourself giving thought to such matters—”

The king turned to face him. “I am finding myself giving thought to such matters, Your Grace, I
am
,” he said, his blue eyes shining. “Before today, I would never have presumed upon my friendship with Lady Bothwell— would never have
dreamt
of dishonouring her in any way but now that—”

“Wait a moment,” spluttered Mordecai. “What are you suggesting? Are you suggesting that you are thinking of marrying
Lady Bothwell
?”

“Yes,” smiled the king, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Though I've known her only a very short while, I
feel
as though I've known her my whole life. And though I'd thought that I only cared for her as a friend with whom I had much in common, this morning, upon learning that she'd been widowed, I suddenly realized that I'd only been keeping my true feelings at bay. I love her, Your Grace, with all my heart. She is beautiful, spirited, kind and caring—the perfect royal consort. I wish to have her by my side always, and that is why I intend to ask her to marry me.”

“
No
,” snarled Mordecai, who was so incensed that for an instant he forgot to disguise his tone.

“Excuse me?” said the king, visibly suppressing a cough.

Fearing that he would not be able to mask the hatred in his eyes, Mordecai quickly bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said through his teeth as his mind raced for a way to avert this disaster. “It … it is just that I do not wish to see you humiliated.”

“Humiliated?” said the king in surprise.

“By being turned down,” clarified Mordecai, cringing to emphasize to the fool just how mortifying such a rejection would be. “Lady Bothwell has only just learned of the violent death of her beloved husband. She is
grieving
, Your Majesty, and however
flattered
she might be by your proposal, I am quite sure that she is nowhere
near
ready to share another husband's bed.”

Instead of being crushed by this sad news, the king laughed. “Fear not, Mordecai, for I am not such a boor that I would insist upon wedding and bedding the lady while she is still wearing widow's weeds!” he exclaimed. “I shall not propose to her—or, indeed, even make her aware of my true feelings—until it is apparent that she has fully recovered from her grief.”