The Gypsy King (49 page)

“And what shall we do when we find them?” asked General Murdock, sucking at a piece of food caught between his long front teeth.

“Bring them to the Great Hall where the king is even now enjoying his birthday feast,” ordered Mordecai. “Let his first task as true, ruling monarch be to order and preside over the immediate execution of the handsome nobody, the defenceless child and the whore who tricked us all.”

FORTY-THREE

P
ERSEPHONE AND CUR made it down to the main floor of the palace and out into the moonlit courtyard without running into Azriel or any courtiers who might wonder why Lady Bothwell was going riding at this time of night when she was supposed to be sitting quietly in her rooms mourning the death of her husband.

Halfway to the stables, however, Persephone noticed something that made her wonder if her luck had run out.

Pairs of torch-bearing armed soldiers—and lots of them—were hurriedly entering and exiting outer buildings, looking behind trees and stabbing their deadly pikes into bushes too thick to otherwise penetrate.

All of them were looking for something … or someone.

Well, I suppose that makes sense
, thought Persephone uncertainly as she slowed to a halt.
By now the Regent will have discovered that his prisoners have escaped from the dungeon and he will be looking for.…

“There she is!” boomed a voice.

Persephone jerked her head toward the sound, and her
heart leapt into her throat when she saw that the huge, hairy, pike-wielding soldier who'd bellowed was running straight for her….

And that there were half a dozen others just like him at his heels.

Ordering Cur away from her, Persephone dropped the bulging bread sack, whirled about and began to run. Her hope was that she could make it to the palace gates, cross the drawbridge and disappear into the streets that were crowded with noisy revellers enjoying free meat and drink in celebration of the king's birthday. She could hear the pounding footfalls of the guards close behind her. They were bigger and stronger than she was but she was swifter and stronger than she looked, and no matter how hard they ran, they were unable to close the gap. Casting one final, frantic look over her shoulder, Persephone was about to plunge into the shadowy watchtower passageway that led to the drawbridge when two things happened. The first was that she noticed that the drawbridge was up. The second was that another half-dozen soldiers poured out of the watchtower passageway toward her, their pikes at the ready.

Without slowing down, Persephone made a hard left and plunged down the gentle hill that led to the deep and treacherous water of the filthy moat.

I'll swim if I have to!
she thought desperately as she fumbled for the clasp of her travelling cloak.
I'd rather drown than—

Before she could finish her thought she saw it:

An ancient rowboat floating nearby.

Gathering up her heavy skirts in both hands, she leapt for it, landed and nearly capsized. Instinctively hunkering down to find her balance, she pulled out her dagger and frantically began sawing at the rope that tethered the boat to the shore.

A quarter of the way through the rope … halfway through … three quarters—

“Gotcha!”

Several pairs of rough hands dragged her, spitting and snarling, out of the boat. There was a cry as Persephone bit one soldier hard enough to draw blood and another cry as she elbowed a second soldier in the face. Yanking her dagger hand free, she slashed the air wildly, causing the others to leap back in alarm.

Breathing hard, Persephone panted, “Stay back! I w-warn you, I'll … I'll—”

A high-pitched drunken laugh cut her off.

Lord Atticus.

Shouldering aside the nearest soldier, he stepped close enough to slit from belly to stern. Before Persephone could have the satisfaction of doing so, however, the young lord shoved his leering face into hers and whispered, “
We've got your lover and the brat
.”

Persephone was so horrified that she froze, the blade in her hand momentarily forgotten. The next instant they were upon her, pinning her dagger arm behind her back. One of the soldiers pressed the point of his pike between her shoulder blades, forcing her back to arch and her breasts to be thrust upward.

Lord Atticus grinned and licked his lips. “According to
the Regent, your lover and the brat shall shortly be scalped for the king's entertainment,” he informed Persephone as he unsteadily leaned forward to inhale the perfumed skin of her bosom. “You will too, of course, but not before I've had my own entertainment.” Reaching out, he abruptly tore one of the sleeves from Persephone's gown, exposing the bare flesh of her arm to the chill of the night. “That is why I am out here instead of inside drinking my fill of the king's fine wine,” he explained, breathing his sour breath in her face. “For you see, when my father told me you were nothing but a Gypsy whore in disguise, I suddenly remembered where I'd seen you before. You were one of the twins.” He grinned again. “I was going to pluck the two of you like a pair of green apples, remember?”

In response, Persephone stopped struggling for just long enough to lift her chin and spit in his face.

Bellowing in outrage, Lord Atticus gave her a vicious backhand.

“You'll pay for that, you stupid cow!” he shrieked as he tore off his gilded codpiece and reached for the laces of his tight velvet breeches. “You'll pay for it several times over, and when I am through using you, I'll give you to these stinking, lowborn soldiers, and when
they
are through using you, I will cheer as your scalp is torn from your pretty head and then I will use it to make a collar for my dog!”

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!