Thomas hastened into the house. The men had carried Phillip to one of the upstairs bedrooms and placed him in bed, under the direction of the housekeeper, who was shaking her head at the sight of the wound, which had started bleeding again. She ordered the maids to boil water and fetch clean towels.
“He needs a surgeon,” Thomas said to the housekeeper. “Is there one close?”
“Father Ramone, Your Highness,” the housekeeper replied. “I have sent the footman to fetch him.”
“He needs a surgeon, not a priest,” Thomas protested.
“Father Ramone is both,” said the housekeeper. She added with a sharp look, “And he is a friend of the family.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Thomas asked impatiently.
“It is four of the clock in the morning, Your Highness. Your friend has been shot. Father Ramone will keep quiet,” said the housekeeper.
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Thomas, berating himself for not having thought of the fact that the situation would look extremely suspicious. Constanza had trained her staff well, even if she did think they were spies.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Your Highness? Something to eat?” the housekeeper asked.
“I don’t want to leave him,” said Thomas, pulling a chair up to Phillip’s bedside.
The housekeeper said she would have food brought to him, and soon one of the maids returned with tea and sandwiches. The housekeeper cleaned the wound and sponged off the blood. Thomas had his first good look at Phillip in the light.
Thomas guessed him to be close to his own age, in his mid-twenties. He had white-blond hair and his face was frank and open and genial. The servants had removed his blood-soaked shirt, leaving him bare-chested, and Thomas was interested to see a large scar on his torso. At first Thomas thought the wound had been made by a sword, but then he realized the flesh had been burned.
Thomas was familiar with such wounds, which were made by the fiendish contramagic green-beam weapons of the Bottom Dwellers. Thomas himself had a similar scar on his back.
“So he fought in the war,” Thomas said to himself, drinking his tea. “Sir Richard said he was adventurous.”
Father Ramone arrived, carrying two bags, one containing his surgical instruments and another filled with herbs and potions in brown bottles. Thomas advanced to welcome him.
“Your Highness,” said Father Ramone, extending his hand. “I am pleased to finally meet you. Your mother has told me a great deal about you.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Thomas. “If you would see to my friend. He is restless and appears to be in pain.”
“Certainly, Your Highness,” said Father Ramone.
He was a short man in his middle years with gray hair worn in the traditional tonsure and plain brown robes. He went to work with an air of quiet confidence that did much to reassure Thomas. The priest examined his patient, listened to his heart and breathing, and studied the wound.
“I think he is feverish,” Thomas added.
“Yes, infection is setting in,” said Father Ramone. “I must remove the bullet at once. How did he come to be shot?”
“An affair of honor, Father,” said Thomas. “I was his second. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”
Dueling was against the law in Estara, as it was in most civilized nations. And, as in most civilized nations, the gentlemen of Estara continued to settle their differences with either pistols or swords.
Father Ramone nodded in understanding. Thomas guessed this was not the first bullet the priest had been called upon to remove in the dead of night.
“Your friend was very lucky, Your Highness,” said Father Ramone. “Either that or his opponent was a very bad shot. I will need some assistance, preferably from someone with a strong stomach.”
“I can assist you, Father,” said Thomas. “I am not in the least squeamish. I have seen far worse, I can assure you.”
The priest instructed the male servants to remove a door from its hinges to use as a litter. They carried Phillip to the kitchen, transferring him to a large table, much to the dismay of Cook, who began to protest. The housekeeper whispered something and nodded at Thomas. Cook flushed, dropped a curtsy, and offered to fetch more hot water, towels, and clean bandages.
Father Ramone began by running his fingers over the shoulder, murmuring to himself.
“Shouldn’t you be removing the bullet, Father?” Thomas asked impatiently. “You can take time to pray over him later.”
Father Ramone glanced at him with a smile. “Healing magic, Your Majesty. Very old. I am ensuring that your friend does not wake during the procedure. Also I find that if I use such magic prior to surgery, the wound is far less likely to putrefy.”
“I beg your pardon, Father,” said Thomas. “I am not a crafter, as you can no doubt tell.”
The priest dug the bullet from the shoulder, with Thomas standing by to mop up blood so that he could see what he was doing. Father Ramone held the bullet up to the light.
“Perhaps your friend would like to keep it as a good-luck charm,” he said. “He could wear it on his watch chain.”
“Give that to me, Father,” said Thomas.
He washed off the blood and studied the bullet closely. He could tell by the impressions on the bullet that it had been fired from a Freyan rifle, a long gun with a rifled barrel, a type of firearm that had been introduced during the war. He tucked the bullet in his pocket.
Father Ramone stitched up the wound, treated it with ointment from one of his jars, then bandaged the shoulder and placed Phillip’s arm in a sling. Finally, he passed his hand over Phillip’s forehead, whispering as he did so. The lines of pain faded from Phillip’s face. He seemed to fall into a restful sleep.
The servants carried Phillip back to the bedroom. Thomas remained downstairs with the priest, receiving instructions.
“He will sleep for some hours now,” said Father Ramone. “When he wakes, I have no doubt he will want to be up and about, but he should remain in bed for several days. Otherwise he could reopen the wound and it will start bleeding. He is to have a diet of beef broth, to replenish his blood, and milk toast. Nothing more.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Thomas gratefully. “A prayer would also be welcome now.”
“I will pray for him and for you and your cause, Your Highness,” said Father Ramone.
Thomas was about to laughingly say he doubted if God took much interest in his cause, but recalling his thoughts during the flight, he kept silent.
“You should get some rest yourself,” Father Ramone advised. “I will visit our patient tomorrow afternoon to change the dressing.”
Thomas thanked the priest. He would have sent him back in a carriage, but Father Ramone said that the way was not far and he would enjoy the walk.
By this time the sun was rising. Thomas yawned until his jaws ached. He suddenly realized he was exhausted. He retired to his room, leaving instructions that he should be wakened if Phillip needed anything, and was immediately asleep.
* * *
Thomas woke late in the day and went to check on his patient. He found Phillip sitting up in bed, eating eggs and bacon and tearing off hunks from a large loaf of bread.
“I gave strict orders to Cook to serve you beef broth and milk toast, Your Grace,” Thomas said, trying to look stern.
Phillip shuddered. “The stuff brought back such horrifying memories of old Nanny Pritchard that I feared I might sucumb to my wounds, and I sent it away. Will you have something?”
“I usually skip breakfast, thank you. I won’t ask how you are feeling,” Thomas added. “I can see for myself. By the way, may we dispense with the formalities? I feel uncomfortable being called ‘Your Highness.’ My friends call me Tom.”
“My friends call me Pip,” said Phillip.
The two shook hands. The maids removed the tray and carried away the food, leaving the two gentlemen alone.
“The truth is,” said Thomas,
“I don’t much like being ‘Your Highness.’ I need to be honest with you, Your Grace—”
“Pip, Your Highness,” said Phillip.
“And I’m Tom, Pip,” said Thomas, smiling. “The truth is that I think all this talk of ‘my cause’ and me being the anointed of God, destined for the throne, is like the plot of some yellow-backed novel. It has no basis in reality. I suppose I may have some claim to the Freyan throne—”
“Some claim!” Phillip interrupted. “My dear Tom, don’t you know your own family history? You have undisputed claim and Her Majesty knows it. I admit it’s all very complicated, but your thrice great-grandfather James the First was the son of the anointed king, and Queen Mary’s foul ancestor, Alfred, was a blackguard cousin who rebelled against his ruler. If you want any proof that the queen is afraid of you, consider that she sent the Freyan navy to try to stop me from reaching you.”
“Her Majesty did go to great lengths to try to keep you and your money,” Thomas said with a smile.
“I am the wealthiest man in Freya,” said Phillip in a cheerful, matter-of-fact way. “Given Freya’s current deplorable financial situation, I could probably buy the country. Instead, I would much rather spend my money placing my country into better hands.”
He leaned forward eagerly. “I can fund your cause, Tom. I can pay for soldiers, weapons, ships, supplies…”
“But won’t the Crown seize your assets or whatever it is crowns do to punish … uh…” Thomas hesitated, not wanting to say the ugly word.
“Traitors?” Phillip said. “I do not consider myself a traitor, since my country is currently being ruled by the descendant of a traitor. I have placed my fortune in foreign banks. The Crown cannot touch it. And, I’ll tell you this, Tom. I am not the only noble who backs your cause. I have friends who will watch out for my interests.”
“I met one such gentleman,” said Thomas. “Sir Richard.”
“Sir Richard who?” Phillip asked. “Perhaps I know him.”
“I wasn’t told his last name,” said Thomas. “My mother loves intrigue. She sees spies hiding under the tea cozies.”
“She is right. You cannot be too careful,” Phillip observed, sounding serious.
“I suppose,” said Thomas. “What do you know of my family history?”
“I’ve made quite a study of your family,” said Phillip. “When the newspaper stories about you began coming out—”
“Those were my mother’s idea,” Thomas said hurriedly. “You can’t believe half of them.”
“I know what to believe and what not,” said Phillip, smiling. “I did my research. The story about the Battle of San Estevan was true.”
He grew more somber. “I fought the Bottom Dwellers myself, Tom, and I can only imagine the hell you endured. You took command of the company and held that fort for three days against an overwhelming force. Half your number died in the first assault—”
Thomas cut him short. “We did what we had to do,” he said, loath to remember those brutal three days, and uncomfortable hearing such praise. “I can tell you that I did not, as the story claims, kiss my dead comrade on his bloody forehead and then draw my crimson blade and shout, ‘On, friends, on to victory or death!’”
“What did you say to rally your troops?” Phillip asked.
“I think it was something on the order of ‘It’s either them or us,’” Thomas said with a rueful grin.
“Pithy and to the point,” said Phillip. He was silent a moment, then said, “I tell you straight out, Tom, I have not been happy about the situation in Freya for a long time. The country teeters on the edge of disaster. Since the death of the crown prince, God rest him, Queen Mary wants to make her sister queen. The woman is married to a Rosian merchant, for God’s sake!”
“I could be married to a Rosian,” said Thomas. “I don’t suppose your people would like that in their king.”
“What?” Phillip asked, looking worried. “Who?”
“The Princess Sophia. My mother is negotiating with some countess.”
“The princess? Oh, she’s different,” said Phillip. “She is a Rosian, but my people adore her. She came to study at the university following the war. Everyone loves her, except you, apparently. You don’t seem enthused.”
“I’ve never met her,” said Thomas. “And I am to have no say in the matter.”
“The fate of princes, I fear,” said Phillip, sympathetic.
“Go on with the history lesson,” said Thomas. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Where was I? Oh, yes, I studied the reign of King James and became convinced you are the true heir. Don’t you know the story?”
“I know what my mother told me,” said Thomas. He stood up, thrust his hands into his pockets, and began to pace restlessly. “I never really believed her account. To hear her tell it, my ancestor was a saint who walked the palace grounds bathed in a glow of heavenly light. And that there seem to be a great many Oswalds.”
“That part about the Oswalds is true,” Phillip said, laughing. He watched Thomas pace the room with some concern. “You seem upset. Are you sure you want to talk about this?”
“I don’t,” said Thomas with a sigh. “But go ahead.”
“The War of the Cousins, as it became known, started over two hundred years ago when King Frederick was forced by the nobility to abdicate in favor of his younger brother, Oswald the First,” said Phillip. “All was fine until fifty years later when Oswald’s grandson, Oswald the Third, suffered a disastrous defeat at the hands of the Rosians in the Blackfire War.
“James, the great-grandson of Frederick, claimed that his cousin, Oswald the Third, was not fit to rule, because his grandfather, Oswald the First, had deposed the true and rightful king, James’s great-grandfather, Frederick. Since Oswald the First had no legitimate right to the throne, his grandson, Oswald the Third, had no right. Follow me so far?”
“I told you there were a lot of Oswalds,” Thomas growled.
“The upshot was that James declared himself king and sought to depose Oswald the Third. The civil war lasted twenty years. At the end, James defeated his cousin. He imprisoned Oswald and his two sons and claimed the crown. The story goes that Oswald refused to acknowledge James as his king and James, in a fit of rage, ordered one of his knights to murder Oswald and his two sons in their prison cells.”
“My mother maintains that James was innocent,” said Thomas drily. “A saint, as I said.”
“James wasn’t a saint,” Phillip said. “But your mother is right. He did not kill his cousin Oswald.”
Thomas stopped, interested. “How do you know?”
“The late crown prince, Jonathan, discovered the truth when he came across some old letters. Oswald was murdered by his younger brother, who wanted to be king and hoped to implicate James to turn public opinion against him.”
“Why was your Crown Prince Jonathan studying the reign of King James?” Thomas asked, frowning. “Did he hope to discredit me?”
“Quite the contrary,” said Phillip. “Prince Jonathan was a scholar and, like every true scholar, interested only in the truth. He used to infuriate his mother. The queen once accused him of trying to prove you had a better claim to the throne that he did.”
“I am sorry,” said Thomas, seeing Phillip look downcast. “Apparently I misjudged him. Did you know him?”
“We were in school together. Jonathan was a good friend,” said Phillip. “You would have liked him, Tom. The two of you have much in common.”
“Meaning he didn’t want to be king either,” said Thomas. He regretted the words the moment they were spoken, and he turned to Phillip, who was regarding him with an air of gravity. “I am sorry, Pip. I shouldn’t have said that. Especially after you nearly got yourself killed for my sake. You must think me a whining, ungrateful wretch!”
“You are not what I expected, Your Highness,” Phillip admitted. “But I have to say I admire your candor. Honestly, I don’t see why any rational man would want to b
e king, knowing the weight of the burdens he must shoulder.”
“Such as James being accused of a murder he didn’t commit,” said Thomas. He had shared too much of himself and he wanted to change the subject, talk about something else.
Phillip took the hint and resumed his story.
“James was consumed with guilt. He didn’t know the truth about who killed Oswald and his sons. He had not ordered their deaths, but he thought his supporters had taken it upon themselves to kill them in his name. When one of James’s sons died soon after, he believed he had been cursed by God for having killed an anointed king.
“Matters went from bad to worse for poor James after that. I’m sorry to say, Tom, but your ancestor wasn’t a very good ruler,” said Phillip. “He turned a blind eye to corruption and let priests and nobles run the country. Oswald’s nephew, Alfred, and his own powerful backers led the rebellion to overthrow James. One could almost make the case that they had no choice. Once again, Freya was plunged into civil war.”
“My mother failed to mention most of that,” said Tom. “According to her, James was a paragon of nobility and virtue.”
“If it is any comfort, James may not have been a good king, but he was a gallant soldier. He died on the field of battle, leading his troops, when he could have stayed behind, safely ensconsed in his castle.”
“I’m at least glad to know James wasn’t a coward. But you left out the prophecy,” said Thomas.
“A prophecy!” Phillip exclaimed. “I never heard of a prophecy. Tell me. Unless it’s a family secret.”
“No secret. My mother is happy to relate this tale to all and sundry,” said Thomas. “According to family legend, the usurper Alfred sent men to arrest Queen Lucia and her children. Her priest held the soldiers at bay in order to give the queen and her children time to escape. Alfred had the priest arrested and tortured, then executed. Before the priest died he said that the true heir would return. The exact wording was ‘A male child will return with the sign of the seven, to save Freya from an ancient evil.’”
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