And they recognized her, too. She hadn't changed much, and the circumstances favored her. Marquis Eshar was the first to stand up.
"Your Majesty, please allow me to express my regards."
The first and the smartest of all rats received a nod of approval. The rest would get less: make your own conclusions, messieurs.
Albitta sat down on the throne and smiled with the corners of her mouth. In truth, she wanted to scream, letting out her exhilaration, wild, frantic, and unbridled, like the lava of a volcano. Aldonai, how many years had she dreamed about that moment! So many long, long years...
"I see you've recognized me, Marquis."
"Yes, Your Majesty. May I ask about...the details?" The marquis struggled to find the right words. Or maybe he had already made a deal with Alcine? Albitta didn't want to delve into such matters; those were the toys of men.
"Then you must understand what's going on. When Gardwig divorced me and ordered me executed, I was pregnant. I gave birth to a boy. My Henry."
Albitta paused, watching the faces of the people. Shock, understanding, hate, anger—not a single one of them stayed apathetic. Well, she would have time to crush her remaining enemies and reward her allies later.
"My son's with trusted people, and I am here. And I think that after the death of my poor mad husband, Henry is worthy of claiming the throne."
Her implication was transparent: not murder, death. The king was mad, that should be obvious. And Gardwig's eldest son was the cherry on top.
But was he truly Gardwig's? If anybody had doubts about that, they were prudent enough to keep them to themselves.
"Your Majesty," someone spoke up from the crowd. "When will we see...your son?"
Robert narrowed his eyes but couldn't find the speaker. Shame. The suggestion was obvious. The queen, whether she was the king's former wife or not, couldn't rule. She might put as much as three crowns on her head, but the mutinies would never stop. Her son, though...
Albitta didn't even bat an eyelid.
"My son will be here soon. For now, I count on your loyalty, messieurs. I have to warn you—any who dare to infringe on his claim will be punished. My son is the only thing I have left from my poor husband..."
"What about your daughters?" Another voice came from the other side of the hall.
"My daughters cannot inherit the throne."
"Then, Your Majesty," Marquis Eshar said politely, even with a smile, "I hope that next time, we'll be assembled to recognize your son as the king."
"Of course, Marquis."
"Your Majesty, do you have papers—"
Albitta pursed her lips.
"Marquis, you must realize that Gardwig would have never acknowledged my son. If I came to him with this request, if he learned that I was alive...I would be killed before your very eyes! What documents do you wish to see? An entry in the cartulary? I can show it right here...any can go there and confirm my words. The midwife who delivered the child? What do you want?"
The marquis made a sound indicating uncertainty. The situation was complicated.
Alcine frowned. That was the most slippery part of their plan. Nobody had ever said that the queen's child was the king's. Henry was the one closest to Gardwig in looks, and they could present him to the lords, but...
Maldonaya take that bitch! The damnable woman!
Although if Mary Wigellow could hear it, she wouldn't give a toss, as long as her son was safe.
"My son is the spitting image of his father," Albitta said. "My poor half-mad husband. In a few days, you'll see it for yourself. And now, I urge you to prevent any trouble in the city and not leave. You still need to attend the coronation."
Nobody was going to argue. Albitta stood up, her skirts rustling against the floor.
"Your loyalty is important to me, messieurs. You’re free to go. "
***
Alcine waited for the room to empty and kissed Albitta's hand.
"You were magnificent."
"It's nothing... Have you found that bitch?"
"Which one?"
"All of them!"
Robert couldn't help but snort.
"Not yet, dear."
Albitta stamped her delicate foot, flashing the diamonds on the heel of her shoe.
"How long should I wait?"
"I'm trying, my love. I'm trying really hard."
"How much time do we still have?"
"Maybe three days. They won't hold out for longer."
"And?"
"We'll make it."
Robert wasn't as confident as he sounded. Still, he had no choice. They had to make it.
***
They spent the night in an open field.
The Virmans, together with the Eveers, quickly set up camp, and the women started preparing dinner, leaving Lily to handle the inevitable injuries. Someone had sprained their ankle and someone else had rubbed a sore, to say nothing about bumps and bruises. She washed them all and dusted them with plantain powder. That was something, at least.
She would have given so much for some sulphanilamide! Lily remembered the formula for streptocide well, but she had no idea about how it was synthesized. The medics were supposed to write down prescriptions for that stuff, not mix medicine in pharmacies. It was such a great antimicrobial agent!
Well, what couldn't be cured must be endured. And so she kept rinsing the wounds, pouring alcohol on them, bandaging them, and not even saying anything. She didn't notice Master Salsi staring at her hands.
At last, the Eveer mustered up his resolve to inquire into the matter. He didn't ask Lily directly, however. He attacked Miranda.
"Your Grace?"
Viscountess Earton smiled sweetly.
"Yes, Master? I'm listening."
"Your mother is so good at healing people..."
"Mama can do anything. She teaches me, too."
"Helping people is very important, Your Grace," the master agreed.
Mirrie puffed out.
"Mama was taught by Tahir Djiaman din Dashar himself! He's a wonderful healer!"
Tahir was known even in Wellster. Master Salsi nodded, said a few more polite words, and left her alone; the mystery was solved.
He still didn't know why the countess had started learning healing arts. However, things happened, and no one was protected from ill luck. It was better to be able to help yourself and the people around you than sit and cry. The master could understand that reasoning.
In the meantime, Lily was examining Milia. She made some anti-fever medicine, mixing together rosehip, lime blossom, chamomile, plantain, colt's foot, and boiling water, and gave it to the queen. That mixture was quick to prepare, requiring only fifteen minutes to infuse. She also sponged her body with alcohol and called Bertha.
"Don't let Her Majesty nurse the baby yet."
"Why not?" Milia was conscious. She simply hadn't protested, but that was up to a point.
"Because you have fever and inflammation." Lily didn't beat around the bush. "Because I'm giving you herbs, and when they get to your milk, they might cause problems for the baby."
"But those are herbs!" Bertha grumbled. "We always took them, what kind of trouble can there be?"
"Are you prepared to risk the prince's life? I'm not. I need you all safe and sound," Lily snapped. "Even if you don't plan on it. I'm serious. I'll be giving the infusion to Her Majesty every two hours. It will affect her milk."
Milia sighed. A tear rolled out from the corner of her eye and slid down to her cloak.
"My poor darling..."
"And you, Your Majesty, will listen to me, if you don't want him to lose his mother."
Bertha sniffed.
"Fine. I'll go to that...wetnurse. But I'd never!"
"It's not like we have a choice," Lily brushed her off. "And do you see any court ladies here? Or handmaids? No? Neither do I. We'll have to make do with Eveers, and they don't mind it."
"Of course they don’t," Bertha mumbled.
Lily knew that
that was how the old woman dealt with the world around her, so she wasn't angered. But neither was she going to stand and bear her remarks.
"Right now, neither we nor they can pick and choose. We're all in the same pot. Let's not stir it."
Bertha nodded and left, but her conversation with Rivana seemed quite amicable. The Eveer woman accepted the boy with all due care.
Alas, the baby's belly was bound to start hurting; the milk of a mother who had just given birth was quite different from that taken from a mother who had been nursing for a few months. Yet it was a better way out than to die of hunger. Wellster would have never forgiven them that.
***
Robert Alcine flashed a content smile as he browsed the letter.
Wonderful.
Fort Shedar had been taken, together with Count Earton—unfortunately, without the princess. The next day, or the day after, at most, he would be brought to the capital. What else did Robert need to be happy?
The funeral was to take place in the morning, and the count would arrive in the afternoon—a great opportunity to execute the murderer. Having a dead king with no scapegoat wasn't right.
Milia was still at large, but Robert refused to even think she might be outside the city. Cardin was being searched with a fine-toothed comb. Sooner or later, the queen would be found, and then, everything would be over.
He smiled again and went to bed. He wasn't made of iron, being in his forties; he needed at least five hours of sleep, or he wouldn't be able to think in the morning, and that would be unacceptable.
Robert Alcine slept and dreamed of his beloved. Camilla smiled as she beckoned to him, her eyes so vivid and full of life that he felt that if he were to put his hand into her cool palm with slender white fingers, he could follow her anywhere, beyond the horizon or even to Aldonai himself.
Robert almost left with her. Too bad, it was just a dream.
Oh, my love, you can rest easy now, and I can dream of you the way you were alive instead of the chopping block and the horrible sound of an axe cleaving live flesh making it forever dead.
You've been avenged.
***
So what is a royal funeral like? In a word, pompous—at least, when you have time and opportunity. Then you get a procession, a catafalque, horses, royal guards, courtiers...bread and coins thrown into the crowd, all to remember the king with a kind word.
Alcine didn't have time and opportunity, nor any wish to actually honor Gardwig. He would have rather thrown him to the dogs, leaving nary a bone, but he could not. He needed to show the king's body to the citizens of Cardin as soon as possible, with fanfare and all the ceremony he was entitled to. It was vital to prevent the emergence of pretenders and a "king who survived by the grace of Aldonai."
He also wished with all his heart to bury the bastard with his wife and children, but so far, it couldn't be done. His mercenaries were searching the city, but Milia and the princes had vanished into thin air, and so had Princess Maria. Well, maybe interrogating Count Earton would reveal something. Soon, he would be brought from Shedar...
However, Alcine didn't expect them to arrive until the evening or maybe even the next day. They had things to take care of, after all—treating the wounds after the battle, eating, resting, and only then slowly riding to Cardin. There was no point in ordering them to bring Earton immediately.
An hour more, an hour less—it didn't matter. Alcine had enough on his plate already: arranging the funeral, giving out orders, talking with people. At least Albitta took the lead on dealing with the court. She remembered very well how to behave like a queen and had been issuing commands to the servants and the courtiers since morning. He was glad she was good for something.
Edwin Fremont came to report for his failures. And those were failures, no other way to put it. The embassy of Ativerna was empty, and so was the embassy of Ivernea. He couldn't locate even the servants. Edwin knew many of them personally, but those wretches had disappeared without a trace. And Cardin was a big city, too—there was not much point in combing through every house and every basement, not to mention secret rooms and catacombs. They had searched for people, horses, dogs... None of them were in Cardin, or they had hidden so well that finding them was impossible.
Alcine yelled at the baron and ordered him to keep looking, but the thoughts got stuck in his head like a nail in a floorboard. What if the queen wasn't inside the city anymore? What if she had managed to escape?
Then all of it was for naught... But it wasn't. He knew that. Gardwig was dead, and that alone was worth all the pain. As for the rest...well, Robert was in no hurry to give up. Not for a minute.
***
Thomas Concord patted Lidarh on his glossy black neck, content.
So, where would one hide a tree? In a forest, of course. A horse? In a stable. An Avarian? Among other Avarians, that's all.
A big city like Cardin was bound to have some Khangans, and his guess had proved true. They even knew about Countess Earton and Tahir Djiaman din Dashar.
Any merchant collected news. Information was as much of a ware as spices and silk, if not even pricier. The Khangans had heard about the ruckus in the palace, but they didn't know the reason for it. The truth held value for them. Thomas shared his information with them, and they shared safety.
The rest was rather simple but quite bothersome. Lidarh got painted black and stationed among other horses. Thomas was painted as well. It was some kind of dye for skin and hair; they promised it would wash off. He dismissed any concerns.
A turban, Khanganite clothes, and he was unrecognizable. And not just him; the ladies were also hidden among Khanganite women. Nobody would dare to ask them to go out, as it was a deadly insult. As for Viscount Dishan, he stayed away from the Khangan embassy, afraid to catch anyone's eye. A good decision by all accounts.
Scouring the city on the orders of Alcine, Baron Fremont dropped in to visit the Khangan embassy, but needless to say, didn't learn anything, even if he got a warm welcome, some tea, and a pressing invitation to return as soon as the next day. Or the day after, really. In fact, he could visit any day! He would get tea, halva, and a cordial reception.
Edwin left in a good mood, but without any results. Thomas had recognized him and gave thanks to the typical noble arrogance. The baron didn't even spare a look to the servants; all of them blended together, with their dark features. He was nothing like Lilian Earton, who always looked people in the eyes and remembered everyone. She would have recognized Thomas in any disguise.
The other nobles, even her husband, tended to see right through them, haughtily giving out orders and trying to avoid touching the help. To them, a servant wasn't human, but rather a piece of furniture. Fremont was no exception. He might have bothered to memorize the soldiers, but cart drivers? Eww!
Thomas gave praise to Aldonai and rejoiced. They had gotten out just in time. All that remained was to flee the city, but that had to wait. The gate was currently under heavy watch; later, they would relax and lower their guard, making it possible to escape. And...if no other option presented itself, tell the whole story to the king.
What had happened to their masters? Thomas genuinely hoped they were alive. They had sent him a note, after all. But Aldonai helped those who helped themselves, and Thomas waited. He couldn’t do anything more, could he?
***
When the Summer Palace loomed on the horizon ahead of them, Lily almost burst into tears.
Aldonai, Jesus Christ, Allah, whoever can hear me, thank you! Thank you so much!
In some ways, it was as impressive as Versailles: a huge complex of buildings with a garden spread over ten square kilometers. Thankfully, it wasn't fenced off.
Lily ignored all lanes and ordered everyone to take the short route. In less than ten minutes, they were accosted by the guards.
"Who are you?"
Two cute guys on horses looked aggressive and warlike. They had bristling mustaches, shining weapons, and decorated harnesses on their prancing
stallions. Lily touched Milia's hand.
"Are they dressed right?"
Startled, Milia took a closer look.
"Yes. They are the Armored Regiment."
"Great. Excuse me, Leirs, mind paying me some attention?"
With an effort, Lily jumped down from the cart. Her whole body was numb, and her muscles ached. The guards turned their mounts toward the countess, and Gael stepped forward to shield her only to see a dismissing gesture.
"Don’t."
Emeralds flashed on her wrists and fingers. Lily had freely handed away everything she had bought or ordered herself: trinkets, as she called it. But the heirlooms—those she would have parted with only if her life was on the line. They didn't belong to her. That jewelry belonged to her descendants: a bridge across generations.
And so, the only things on the countess' hands were an emerald ring and the Earton heirloom bracelet. Ancestral treasures. The leirs' eyes were glued to them.
The jewels were genuine, and her dress, even if dirty, ragged, bloodstained, and torn in several places—she had no time to find new clothes—was expensive.
"M’lady..."
"Her Grace Countess Earton," Lily answered simply. "There's a mutiny in the capital. Is Count Chantaine here?"
The men exchanged looks. It was funny to see their expressions turn from cocky to confused and clueless.
A mutiny? It was a scary word in any era.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Take us to him."
"You? Forgive us, Your Grace..."
Lily shook her head.
"You don't understand me, Leirs. I have no right to reveal everything to you at the moment. If you'd like, I could go to the count with one of you, while the other escorts my companions to the palace. But it has to be done right away."
The countess' tone had steel in it. The leirs exchanged looks and understood each other without a word. If something was wrong, let that wench answer to Chantaine, a hard-fisted, easily-angered man who rarely listened to excuses.
"Let us go, then, Your Grace."
"Leir..." Lily was in no hurry to take his outstretched arm.
The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8) Page 7