General Murdock said nothing.
As he watched his repulsive henchman’s beady-eyed gaze drift from the grease-stained tablecloth to the juice dribbling down Lord Atticus’s weak chin, Mordecai’s mind whirled. He was furious that the queen and the cockroach had managed to find each other again, but he was deeply gratified to learn that he’d been right to suspect the tribes of uniting behind the meddling whore. If only he’d not believed that crushing Bartok was a more pressing priority than slaughtering the tribes! As a result of this miscalculation, it now seemed that there were two armies he needed to defeat to clear a path to the throne. And if the entwined crests on the armbands of Bartok’s soldiers were any indication, the two were in league together!
Since the queen’s army was nothing but a ragtag collection of savages, Mordecai did not think this development would be enough to tip the odds out of his favour, but it would certainly change the game.
“Your Grace, may I suggest that you march upon the imperial capital at once?” said General Murdock.
“March upon the imperial capital?” spluttered Mordecai. “Don’t be stupid, Murdock! They’d slam shut the gates the very instant they saw us coming!”
“Precisely,” said General Murdock, reaching up to scratch his long nose. “And after they’d done so, your army would lay siege to the city. Nothing and no one would get in or out. Starvation or surrender would be their only options.”
Annoyed though he was for having failed to think this through for himself, Mordecai could not help being captivated by the image of the broken, defeated, emptybellied, widowed queen staggering toward him—her gown hanging from her wasted frame, her violet eyes huge above her gaunt cheeks. Swaying on her feet before falling to her knees and whispering to him that she’d do anything …
Lord Atticus belched richly, shattering the image. “A siege sounds like a bore and it wouldn’t work, anyway,” he announced as he poured himself another goblet of wine. “In case you’ve forgotten, Murdock, Parthania is a coastal city.”
“With respect, my lord, I have not forgotten,” said General Murdock politely as his gaze once again drifted to the nobleman’s juicy chin. “I’ve already sent an order to His Grace’s fleet to stand ready to burn any ship that tries to leave or enter either the Parthanian common harbour or the royal one. The inhabitants of the city shall have no supplies delivered by sea. It is a good plan.”
You mean it is your good plan, thought Mordecai, glowering at him.
“Your Grace?” said Murdock after a moment’s silence. “Shall I give the order to turn south and defeat the queen before she has a chance to add to her forces?”
“No,” snapped Mordecai, straightening his uneven shoulders as best he could. “For there is something you have forgotten, Murdock, and that is that there just happens to be another enemy army out there—a far bigger, betterequipped, better-trained army. Would you have us lay siege to Parthania only to have Bartok march on us from the north? In the unlikely event that the cursed barbarians were allowed through the gates upon their arrival at the city, how long do you think they’d stay behind them once they saw our rear flank being attacked?”
Lord Atticus’s eyes widened in terror at the thought.
“Your Grace, if Lord Bartok had wanted to engage us in a true battle he’d have ridden out against us in full force weeks ago instead of persisting with his campaign of petty harassment,” said General Murdock, so patiently that Mordecai wanted to hit him. “I think there must be some reason he has not done so and—”
“And I think you are wrong,” said Mordecai, who was suddenly sure that it was so. “That is why we are going to follow my plan, Murdock. We are going to defeat Lord Bartok—”
“A difficult thing to accomplish when he refuses to order his men to stand and fight and does not seem to care how many noble manors we burn and pillage in retaliation for his attacks,” pointed out Murdock.
“I am not interested in your excuses, Murdock,” hissed Mordecai.
“Neither am I, Murdock!” brayed Lord Atticus. “Just see your bloody job done so that I can become the new Lord Bartok—a Lord Bartok who can actually be depended upon to keep his word,” he added pompously as he puffed out his flabby chest and raised his goblet to Mordecai.
Mordecai raised his own goblet in reply even though he intended to dispose of the useless drunkard long before the game was over. “Only after we have defeated the current Lord Bartok will we proceed onward to Parthania to deal with the queen, the cockroach and the barbarian horde,” he said. “Do you understand, Murdock?”
The General hesitated for only an instant before nodding.
“Good,” said Mordecai, who was already regretting his decision.
Not because he believed it unwise but because now that he knew the whereabouts of the queen, the urge to hunt her down and tend to the unfinished business between the two of them was almost more than he could bear.
FORTY-TWO
IT WAS WELL PAST DUSK by the time Persephone, Azriel and the others reined up before the great gates of Parthania. Though the flickering light of a dozen torches illuminated the freshly swept roadway before the open outer gates, and though Persephone could see throngs of people in the street just inside the walls, the heavy wrought-iron inner gate had been lowered.
“I warned you that something like this might happen,” murmured Cairn, who was riding beside Robert, just behind Persephone and Azriel.
Persephone did not reply or look around. She did not even look at Azriel, for she did not want her subjects inside the city walls to think that she was looking to him to tell her what to do. Instead, she locked eyes with the enormously fat lord who was leaning heavily against the gate and, without taking her eyes off his, she slid down out of the saddle. Azriel immediately dismounted and started toward her but she stopped him with a raised hand, hoping he’d understand how important it was for her to stand alone at this moment—or at least, alone except for Cur and Silver, who’d padded forward to stand one on either side of her.
Tossing Fleet’s reins to Azriel to keep the jealous horse from charging after her, Persephone took a deep breath. Then, with her head held high, her belly sucked in and a trickle of sweat snaking down her back, she walked forward—not with the graceful, mincing steps of a noblewoman but with the long, practical strides best suited to slave girls and warrior queens.
She stopped three paces from the closed gate. For a long moment, she said nothing, only let her gaze drift past the fat lord to the moonlit faces of those in the jostling crowd behind him. At length, she lifted her hands in a simple gesture of greeting and said, “People of Parthania, it is good to be home.”
Her words were met with an uncertain cheer.
“Welcome, my queen,” rumbled the fat lord. “I am Lord Belmont, keeper of the keys to the city.”
“Finding the gate of my imperial capital shut against me and my army is not much of a welcome, Lord Belmont,” said Persephone, loud enough to be heard by all.
“The gate is not shut against you, Your Majesty,” said Lord Belmont.
Persephone made a great show of examining the gate before leaning toward Lord Belmont and solemnly saying, “Forgive me, my lord, but I could almost swear that the gate is shut against me.”
A burble of nervous laughter went up from the crowd.
Lord Belmont tugged at the collar of his doublet. “When I heard that you were being followed by a barbarian horde I took … precautions,” he explained.
Persephone deliberately looked over one shoulder, then over the other. Then she turned back to Lord Belmont and, in a puzzled voice, said, “I see no barbarian horde, my lord. I see the warriors who heeded my call to arms before all others. I see men and women who’ve suffered much and are willing to suffer more in order to defeat the despicable traitor Mordecai. I see a people who wish me to take the Erok throne as my brother, the king, ever intended. You did well to take precautions, Lord Belmont, but as you can plainly see they were unnecessary, for I assu
me that your wishes and the wishes of the mighty Khan are as one?”
“Of course, Your Majesty—” spluttered Lord Belmont.
“Excellent,” said Persephone, so calmly that she was quite sure no one would have guessed how her knees were trembling at the chance she was about to take. “Then I command you to open the gates at once, for I would have you and the good people of Parthania give proper welcome to me and my brave and loyal companions.”
For one horrible, heart-stopping moment, Persephone thought that Lord Belmont was going to refuse—that she was going to be turned away from her own imperial capital, that her bid to take the throne was going to end before it had even begun.
Then Lord Belmont bowed as low as his enormous girth would allow and ordered the guards to raise the gate. As the gate slowly began to rise and the crowd began to cheer in earnest, Persephone turned and, with Cur and Silver trotting at her heels, strode back toward Fleet, who appeared torn between trying to bite Azriel and trying to jerk free of him.
“I did it, Azriel!” whispered Persephone, beaming up at him. “I talked Lord Belmont into opening the gate!”
“You did indeed,” said Azriel, smiling down at her. “I can hardly believe how far your diplomacy skills have come since the days you’d routinely threaten to slit a man bow to stern for refusing to do your bidding.”
“If Lord Belmont hadn’t responded to diplomacy, that was next on my list,” assured Persephone, patting the scabbard at her thigh.
Azriel laughed aloud. Then he slid his hands around her waist, lifted her into the saddle as easily as if she were made of feathers and said, “Lead on, my queen.”
Feeling as triumphant as a conqueror—and feeling the everstronger punches and kicks of the baby, who apparently felt the same way—Persephone rode through the great gates of the imperial capital. Just inside, she reined up in surprise at the sight of Meena, one of the three sisters who’d attended upon her when she’d first resided at the palace in the guise of Lady Bothwell. The shy mute girl was standing just behind Lord Belmont. When Persephone called a warm greeting to her and bade her come by the next day for a visit, Meena ducked her head and dipped an awkward curtsey, Lord Belmont’s wobbly chin nearly hit the cobblestone street and the crowd went wild.
Giving Fleet a nudge with her heels, Persephone continued on through the narrow, crowded streets, through the watchtower passageway of the imperial palace and into the main courtyard. There, she was greeted by a veritable army of liveried servants. After giving orders that her troops should be fed and sheltered and her Council members assigned chambers in the palace, she turned to the solemn-faced palace chamberlain and asked if he could kindly arrange to have a fire lit in the hearth of her old chamber.
“There is no need for that, Your Majesty,” he said. “For upon being notified of your pending arrival, I had the royal chambers aired, swept and scrubbed. The mattress stuffing has been changed out, the bedding and curtains have been freshly laundered, the rugs and tapestries have been thoroughly beaten. I can assure you that all is fit for a queen.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Persephone with a troubled smile. “But the last time I was in those rooms I watched my brother die a terrible death, and I think I need a few days to get used to the idea of sleeping in his bed.”
Looking intensely uncomfortable—as though he wasn’t accustomed to his betters offering explanations—the chamberlain bowed stiffly, turned and hurried away. After he’d done so, Persephone and Azriel climbed the gleaming steps that led to the wide-open front doors of the palace.
Before they’d taken half a dozen paces into the imposing main entrance hall, Lady Aurelia appeared at the top of the grand staircase. Her honey-blond curls were piled atop her head and fixed with crystal hairpins that twinkled in the torchlight. She was dressed in black as befitted a recent widow but the nod to mourning ended there, for the sleeves of her gown were gorgeously puffed and the underskirts looked to be cloth-of-gold. The top of the bodice was cut low and tight in an obvious effort to accentuate her small breasts, while the lower part of the bodice hung in generous gathers intended to accommodate and emphasize a swelling belly—one that Persephone knew from her last conversation with Finn must be nothing but padding.
With a theatrical sigh, Lady Aurelia placed one hand at the small of her back, thrust her fake belly forward and slowly began to descend the stairs. Everyone in the crowded entrance hall looked avidly from Persephone to Lady Aurelia and back again, eager to see what would happen when the dead king’s sister and his pregnant widow—one with a clear claim to the throne, the other intent upon giving birth to an infant with an arguably better claim to the throne—came face to face at last.
Persephone kept her expression carefully neutral as she watched Lady Aurelia reach the bottom of the stairs and sashay over to where she and Azriel were standing.
“Your Majesty,” said the little noblewoman, dipping Persephone the barest of curtseys while ignoring Azriel completely.
Noting the lack of courtesy—and also that the noblewoman looked paler and more pinch-faced than ever—Persephone nodded with considerably more graciousness than she felt before saying, “I would speak with you privately, Lady Aurelia.”
Turning, Persephone strode back out of the palace without a backward glance. It was another risk, for if Lady Aurelia did not follow, Persephone knew she’d have to treat it as an open challenge to her authority as queen. She did follow, however, and the next moment the two of them were facing each other in the relative privacy of the pillared portico.
“We both know that you are not with child,” said Persephone without preamble.
Looking startled, flustered and deeply offended in rapid succession, Lady Aurelia gave a delicate cough and said, “I am quite sure I don’t know what you are—”
“But you are my brother’s widow,” continued Persephone, a little louder than before, “and as far as I’m aware he never bore you any ill will. Moreover, by all accounts your father is serving me well, and in doing so he is proving his loyalty to me and my cause. Whatever game you are playing at, Lady Aurelia—however it got started— let it be ended. Tomorrow morning, instead of padding your belly, announce that you have lost the child you were carrying. Do this and though I cannot promise we will ever be friends, I can promise that I will honour you as a sister, now and forever.”
Lady Aurelia—who’d appeared distinctly unsettled by the news that her father was diligently serving Persephone—seemed to hesitate. Then her bright eyes caught sight of the dazzling rings upon her own fingers and the bracelets upon her own wrists and her expression hardened.
“As I started to say before, Your Majesty, I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said, placing her hand upon the swell of her false belly. “I carry my beloved husband’s child and in due course, I shall bring forth a lusty prince for the realm.”
With that, Lady Aurelia curtseyed, turned and sashayed back into the palace. Persephone watched her go, deeply troubled by her insistence on persisting with the charade of pregnancy—a charade she’d almost certainly begun at the behest of her noble father. Then Persephone strode back into the entrance hall herself and, seeing that the chamberlain had returned and was waiting for her, she gestured for Azriel to join her in following him. Azriel shook his head ever so slightly.
“Why not?” asked Persephone in a hushed voice. “What’s wrong?”
Azriel smiled as though he found her question inexpressibly endearing. “My dear wife, most of your subjects believe you to be unmarried,” he reminded gently. “If you invite a wanted Gypsy rogue such as me to share your bedchamber—again—they will think you a complete and utter strumpet.”
“Let them think what they will,” she whispered, reaching out to surreptitiously brush her fingers against his. “I want you with me, Azriel—tonight and every night.”
Azriel said nothing to this, but the sudden heat in his eyes sent a ripple of desire shooting straight through her. Hastily, Persephone stepped aw
ay from him. Then, pretending not to notice that the chamberlain was looking at her in much the same way as the Marinese Elder Roark had looked at her after he’d caught her and Azriel making love on the beach, she commanded the chamberlain to proceed.
Within moments, they were entering her old chamber. As she looked around, it suddenly struck Persephone as bizarre that her life should have changed so dramatically since her first encounter with Mordecai, while the chamber in which she’d stayed on that fateful night had hardly changed at all. The wood floor still gleamed in the firelight; the dark panelled walls were still hung with thickly woven tapestries depicting ancient tales of heroism and love. The canopy bed was not yet made up with sheets and quilts but it was still hung with plum-coloured velvet curtains; the long table was not loaded down with platters of food, but it still stood beneath the shuttered windows. Best of all, the great claw-footed tub still stood by the hearth although—sadly!—it looked to be bone dry.
Persephone was about to ask the chamberlain to address that grievous oversight when the door at the back of the chamber opened to reveal Martha, Meeka and little Meeta. They hurried in one after another, lined up against the wall and curtseyed.
“Seeing as how Your Majesty preferred the same chamber as before, I thought you might prefer the same servants,” said the chamberlain.
“You did well anticipating my wishes,” said Persephone with a smile.
The chamberlain nodded his acknowledgment of her praise. “And is there anything else I can do for Your Majesty at this time?” he asked, casting a meaningful look at Azriel.
Though it was clear that he was hoping Persephone would ask him to arrange for the removal—and possibly the whipping—of the rogue whose very presence threatened her precious royal reputation, she dismissed the chamberlain with no further command but that she was not to be disturbed except in case of emergency. As soon as the door closed behind him, Persephone grinned at the three servants who’d served her so well in the past.
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