by Lily Blake
“Is anyone there?” she yelled, wondering if someone in the palace could hear her. “I need help. I’m lost. Please!”
No one answered. Mary ran, faster and faster, her breaths shallow. The longer she stood in one spot, the further she was getting from finding her way. She was running so fast, she didn’t see the crack in the stone in front of her. Her right foot caught on it and she tripped, the torch flying from her hands. It rolled along the damp floor, the fire going out. The tunnel was suddenly dark.
Mary reached for it just as the last embers died. “Please, no…” she whispered, her voice close to breaking. “This can’t be happening.…”
It was pitch-black now. She couldn’t see even two inches in front of her face. She took a step forward, then another, but on the next one she met only air. She hadn’t seen the staircase carved into the wall. She lost her balance, tumbling feetfirst down the slick, mildewed steps.
Her whole body hurt. She grabbed onto the bottom step and picked herself up, wincing with every small movement. Her dress was torn and filthy, her hair tangled. There was a sharp, shooting pain in her right hip. She reached down, feeling the blood that spilled from her elbow.
She limped a few steps, but it was useless. Her ankle was starting to swell. Her hip was throbbing. Exhaustion took her, the weight of it pulling her back to the ground. She sat on the stone floor, pulling her knees to her chest. She had been so stupid to come here alone. She could barely walk, let alone find her way through the complicated maze of tunnels. Every corridor looked the same. The passages were endless, with no obvious sign of a way in.
She closed her eyes, wishing more than anything that she could go back. Back to the last morning when she had woken up in a soft bed next to Francis, his leg draped over hers, his hand lost in her hair. He’d buried his face into her neck. He’d landed kisses along her collarbone, stopping at the tender spot just below her throat, looking up at her. Whispering that he loved her. That he was so lucky that she was his wife.
She wanted to go back to that perfect moment before the letter had arrived from Lola, before her lie was exposed. Back to the peace before the plague. Back before the prophecy…
She curled into a ball, shivering against the stone. Her head was spinning. She just needed to close her eyes, to let herself slip away, so she could awake and start fresh. She’d get some sleep, then find her way. She could only hope that in a few hours things would be easier, her path finally clear.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Francis turned his head, catching a glimpse of Lola on the back of the horse. She sat sidesaddle, holding his chest with one arm and the baby with the other. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I’m trying to keep an even pace. I can go slower.…”
Lola shook her head, unable to speak. Every movement of the horse made her hurt. She’d never been so tortured, the sharp stabbing pains shooting through her midsection. A dip in the uneven ground, a small jump over some rocks—all of it was excruciating.
She knew that Francis was right, that they’d had to leave. She peered down into the sleeping face of her son, swaddled close to her chest. She tried to remind herself it would be worth it. She had him to think about—and he was the only thing that mattered now. If they stayed in that house, they’d risk exposure to the plague.
“We’ll be all right.…” She tried to make her voice sound calm. “We’re fine.”
“We’re almost to the village,” Francis said, urging the horse on. “As soon as we’re clear of it, we’ll ride south toward the palace. If we make good time, we should be there in two days’ time. If…”
Lola looked up from the baby. “If what?”
They had reached a clearing in the woods. Francis pointed ahead of him, out at the road that led back to the village. There were piles of bodies blocking their way. A gray-haired man moved among the dead, picking items from their coat pockets, pulling the rings from their cold, lifeless hands.
The wind shifted and suddenly it was upon them—the sick, stinging scent of rotting flesh. Lola brought her shirt to her face, trying to block the smell. “Lord have mercy on us.…”
“It’s here,” Francis murmured, crossing himself. “It’s spreading faster than I thought.”
The village was just a hundred yards off. They had to pass through it to get back to the palace. Francis urged the horse on, moving to the right, down a steep bank, away from the bodies. He steered the horse through the trees.
“Please, Francis,” Lola said, turning back to the road. “We have to get out of here. As quickly as we can.”
“I’m trying… it’s just…” Francis muttered, pulling at the reins. The horse was on edge. Champion was moving slower than before. He could feel Francis’s fear, his uncertainty, and it was making him skittish. Francis steered him away from the bodies on the road, only to find a mass grave just a few yards into the woods. They hadn’t even covered the dead with dirt.
Lola stared down at the children on top of the pile. A little girl in a blue dress was laid beside two others. Their eyes were still open, the pupils covered with a thin gray film. “It’s too awful,” Lola said. “This suffering… No one should die this way.”
Francis maneuvered Champion to the left, behind a squat row of houses. Two young boys were perched in one of the back windows. They called out to Francis as he passed. “Please, sir! Wait!” they yelled, waving their arms. Their faces were drawn and thin. Even though neither of them could have been more than eight, they looked old—their shoulders hunched forward, their bodies frail. “Please help. Our mother is dying. She needs medicine.… We need water. Please, please help us.”
Francis stared out at the children, feeling his heart wrench. He couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like if one of them was his—his son. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “Forgive me. I’m sorry—”
He snapped the reins, riding past the boys, who reached out behind him, their faces on the brink of tears. He steered the horse around the next grave, then moved left again, farther into the trees. Was this happening in the next town over and the next? How far had the plague spread? Was there no end to it?
He pulled the cloak around the bottom half of his face, hiding his nose and mouth. He glanced back, making sure Lola had done the same. “We have to try to keep ourselves from getting it,” Francis said. “After how far we’ve come… after everything you survived… I won’t lose the two of you—not now.”
Lola nodded, then pulled her shawl over the baby, careful to give him room to breathe. “Francis,” she said, leaning forward, “I can’t bear it. All this death… all this pain…”
“I know,” Francis said. “It’s horrible. When we return to the palace, we can try to help these people. But we can’t do anything from the back of a horse.”
Francis snapped the reins, urging Champion on. The horse finally responded and they picked up speed, moving fast through the dense woods behind the village. Within a few minutes they had cleared the town. They were back, out on the open road, riding hard for home.
“I think this will do for the night,” Francis said as he looked around the small, well-kept house. It had been abandoned in a rush. There was still bread in the larder. Dishes and bowls were strewn about the kitchen, all caked with moldy food. A pair of beaten shoes sat beside the bed, as if someone had just taken them off.
“They must have left when they heard the plague was coming,” Lola said. She looked around, bouncing the fussy baby in her arms. He’d cried and cried as the day turned to night, and Francis had presented her with their options. They could keep riding in the dark, or they could stop and find shelter, though it would ultimately delay their arrival.
Lola was just as eager as he was to get back to the palace, but she worried about moving through the woods after sunset. Francis had told her about the pagans who swept the forest, looking for innocents to sacrifice. It would be hard to pass unnoticed with a crying baby. Besides, she could tell that Francis was exhausted. She was tired herself. The baby
had to be fed, and she felt better knowing he’d be sleeping somewhere indoors, warm and dry, on his second night in this world.
Lola could barely admit it, even to herself, but there was one other reason. As much as she wanted to be at home, as much as she wanted to be safe inside the palace walls, she knew that once they arrived it would all end. Francis and she would almost never see each other. They would go back to the roles they played at court. He was Mary’s husband. She was Mary’s friend. All the feelings she had toward him, they would have to be pushed down, managed. She’d have to make it all disappear.
She wanted just one more night where she could still pretend. In this place—in this house—they could be a family. She knew it was wrong, but she needed just a few more hours before the reality of the rest of their lives set in.
“It’s perfect,” Lola said, looking around. There was a small bedroom in the back, and for the most part it was clean—something that seemed miraculous after being on the road all day. The baby let out a whimper, and Lola knew she only had a few minutes before it would turn to full-blown crying. “I’m just going to feed him,” she said as she walked to the back bedroom, holding on to the wall to steady herself.
“I’ll get the fire started,” Francis said as he headed back outside.
A half hour later, Lola felt like a new person. She’d bathed with some well water, and borrowed a dress from the wardrobe in the back room. It was clearly meant for someone much shorter and rounder than she was, but she was just grateful it was clean.
Now the baby was sleeping. She’d fed him and changed the soiled diaper for a new one, this time fashioning it out of an old shirt. She’d swaddled him in a shawl, covering his head to keep him warm.
When she came back out into the living room, the fire was roaring. The table was set with a modest helping of bread and cheese. “I like your dress,” Francis said, grinning.
“I know… it’s a bit ridiculous,” Lola said, laughing. She glanced down at her outfit. In addition to being too short, the embroidered frock was horribly out-of-date. The sleeves puffed out around the wrists and there were buttons from the hem all the way up to the neckline. Even her stuffiest aunts wouldn’t have worn it.
“Well, I think you might start a new court fashion trend.” Francis pulled out a chair for her. He took her arm, helping her to sit. “Just wait until they see you when we get back.”
He’d said it as a joke, but the words hung in the air between them. He couldn’t keep smiling, even though he tried. The mention of court was a reminder that things between them would be different. There would not be this casual intimacy. They couldn’t stop and talk to each other in the hall, would never be allowed in the same room alone. This here, now, was a stolen moment—nothing more.
“We’ll see how far my fashion influence extends,” Lola said, finally breaking the silence. She tried to smile, but her face felt stiff, her expression false. She reached for the cheese and bread, relieved to have something to focus on.
“May I hold him?” Francis asked, nodding at the baby nestled in her arms.
“Please,” Lola said as she handed him over. “I’m famished.”
Francis looked down into his son’s sleeping face. The baby yawned, opening up his blue eyes for a moment. He waved his tiny fist around before settling back to sleep. “He’s fine,” Francis said, responding to Lola’s look of concern. “Little Reginald is fine.…”
“We’re not calling him Reginald,” Lola said with a laugh as she reached for another piece of bread. “Are you mad?”
“Perhaps a name from antiquity, then?” Francis asked, his tone light. “I think he looks like… an Achilles. Or an Agamemnon.”
“Stop it,” Lola said. “You can’t be serious. Agamemnon?”
“How about Zeus?” Francis laughed. “Hercules?”
“You don’t get a say in this,” she said, her green eyes bright. The firelight cast lovely shadows on her face. It was hard for him to look away from those full lips, those high cheekbones.
“Oh, don’t I?” Francis rocked the baby. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this. It had been far too long. “My son, if you would like your name to be Hercules, don’t wake up.”
He looked down at the sleeping baby for a minute, then up at Lola. “See? There. He’s named!”
Lola chuckled, but then her expression grew somber. She looked past Francis, her gaze settling on the fire.
“What is it?” he asked.
Lola reached out and brushed her fingers over their son’s head, ever so gently. “I just can’t help but think,” she said, “what if my brother hadn’t been such a terrible gambler?”
Francis knew at once what she meant. “What if I hadn’t been in Paris at that moment?” he asked, continuing her thought.
“What if you had come a day later? What if you hadn’t picked the right card? All of this…” She looked down at the baby. Francis could see tears welling in her eyes.
Realizing the baby was sleeping soundly now, she took him from Francis and laid him down on the chaise in the corner. She arranged the pillows and blankets to make sure he was secure. She could feel Francis’s eyes on her the entire time.
“Would you change anything?” He looked up at her as she returned to the table. “If you could go back and do it again? Would you change any of those things you just mentioned?”
Lola glanced at the baby, then shook her head. “How could I? Our son… he’s so perfect. I didn’t even know you could love someone so completely so quickly. I wouldn’t undo anything. Not a single moment.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Francis said, meeting her gaze. Then there was silence between them. Francis let his eyes fall, studying her full lips, the tiny dimple in her chin that made her look more serious than she really was. There is only tonight, he thought, feeling himself moving toward her, leaning closer. There is only this.
Lola took a long, slow breath, watching Francis’s lips. Then he reached out, brushing a lock of her hair back, away from her face. He let his fingertips linger on her cheek for a moment. “You’re so beautiful…” he whispered.
Lola reached up, holding on to his wrist. They were so close she could see the flecks of brown in his bright blue eyes. She stared at him, her skin tingling where he touched her. It would be so easy to just let it happen. He moved in, drawing closer, his eyes falling shut.
At the last moment, when their lips were just inches apart, she made herself turn away. “We shouldn’t,” she said. “We can’t.”
She pushed herself back from the table, releasing his hand. She crossed to get the baby, thankful when her hair fell in front of her face. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. “I should go to bed,” Lola muttered as she cradled the baby in her arms. “You should too. It’s… it’s the sensible thing.”
Francis ran his hands through his hair. He still felt that heady rush, still wanted to be near her… to touch her. She was right, though. She was saying what they both knew to be true—they couldn’t let themselves get carried away. They had responsibilities, other people to think about.
Francis watched her walk into the bedroom. Her skin glowed in the firelight. Her long dark curls swung with each step. She turned back just once, glancing over her shoulder, and he could tell that she felt it too—this gravity between them.
Careful, Francis thought, as his eyes followed her. Lola smiled as she slipped behind the door. Whatever this feeling is… it’s dangerous.…
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bash kept his gaze locked on the man holding the knife. He didn’t let himself look away from those dark, desperate eyes. “Not so powerful now, are you?” the man sneered. “Now that I’ve got something you want. How does that feel, huh?”
“Please… just relax.” Bash fought to keep his voice calm. He pushed forward, trying to get a better view of the scene through the narrow window in the wall. “You’re scaring the boy.”
The man had one arm around Pascal’s shoulder, t
he other one pressing the knife to his throat. His hand was shaking. The blade was dangerously close to Pascal’s skin. “Now the tables have turned, noble!” the man yelled, his voice rising with fury.
“You have mistaken me for someone I’m not,” Bash said. “I’m nothing more than a bastard.… I can’t help you.”
He took a step forward, moving slowly, with purpose. The man was skittish. Bash knew one wrong move could mean Pascal’s death. As Bash walked he turned slightly to the side. He brought his hand to his hip, reaching for the dagger that was secured in his belt. Then he pulled it from his waistband and hid it behind his back. He did it so quickly, it didn’t seem like the man had noticed.
“Don’t lie to me!” the man yelled. Pascal stood there, frozen, tears running down his cheeks. His eyes were closed, his chest heaving.
“I’m not lying,” Bash said. “I have no negotiation powers. I can bring you food, water if you want. But beyond that…”
“You all lie,” the man yelled again. Pascal tensed with each word.
Bash looked around, scanning the edge of the palace, wondering if any guards would come to his aid. They were all inside the courtyard, just beyond the gardens. He doubted they would venture any closer and risk exposure. He was on his own, with just the dagger to save the boy.
“I didn’t lie,” Bash said, trying to keep his voice even. “I never lied to you.” He caught the eye of one of the archers on the palace parapets. He tipped his head toward the guard, and saw him notch his arrow. If he couldn’t have reinforcements on the ground, at least he might be able to have some above.
“You nobles in your palace,” the man spat. “My family is dying out here, my little boy is sick. I’ve spent days burying my neighbors. And you sit inside the palace walls, you sit there and have your feasts. Well, now it’s my turn to make demands. I want food… I want medicine. And you’re going to get it for me now, or…” He reached down, grabbing the back of Pascal’s shirt. He drew the knife closer.