“It’s very powerful, Alaric,” Molly had warned when she’d given him the cup. “The bond it forms can never be broken.” (As if he hadn’t already known that he was playing with fire!) When she’d added that he should use it wisely, he’d snapped at her.
“That has always been my intention.”
“Good,” she’d replied, locking eyes with him so fiercely that he hadn’t been able to look away. “Because once the princess sets her lips to the cup, there’s no turning back.”
But Alaric’s decision was firm now—formed over the course of a year and more by the careful weighing of help against harm, his duty as king against his private wishes, the greater good against the lesser need. Now nothing remained that he hadn’t yet considered. It was never going to get any easier. He could stop thinking now.
The chairs where Gonzalo and Alaric had sat together that morning, and where he’d likewise sat with Reynard that afternoon—grinding them down with his ever-escalating, outrageous demands, dropping the occasional wounding insult disguised as pleasant conversation—had been cleared away, along with the table, the bowl of fruit, and the glasses of chilled white wine. Now the room was empty, as a reception hall should be; and the king was seated on his throne, the prince and princess on either side of him. All three were wearing crowns.
“We welcome you, my lord king of Westria,” Gonzalo said, adopting the formal manner common on such occasions.
“I thank you for receiving me,” Alaric replied with a slight bow such as one ruler gives to another.
He’d brought with him six of his knights. One carried the bowl in its round leather case, another the ebony box, and a third had a falcon perched on his fist, which was sheathed in a sturdy leather glove.
“I have brought gifts for you, my lord king of Cortova, and for your family. Will you receive them?”
“With great pleasure. You do us honor.”
At Alaric’s signal, two knights stepped forward. One held the leather case while the other loosened the drawstring and drew back the velvet covering. Then together they tilted it toward the king so he could admire the glittering bowl.
“This handbasin has been in my family since the reign of King Mortimer. I offer it to you now as a gesture of my esteem.”
Gonzalo leaned forward and studied it for a moment, then sat back and smiled at Alaric. “Very handsome,” he said, quite rosy with pleasure. “Most generous indeed. I thank you, my lord King Alaric.”
The knights now stepped back, still holding the presentation case open and tilted, while the next gift was presented.
“For your son and heir, Prince Castor of Cortova, I wish to present this fine young falcon, trained in our royal mews.”
The prince, who had heretofore looked bored, was suddenly wild with interest. “Take off the hood! Take off the hood!” he cried, jumping up from his seat. “I want to see him.”
Gonzalo reached out, as cool as a winter breeze, grabbed Castor by the arm, and pulled him back into his chair. He did this without the slightest change of expression, as if his hand wasn’t actually a part of him but some servant who did his bidding.
“I thank you on behalf of my son, Prince Castor,” he said. “I will see that he is properly trained in the sport of hawking. But for now I believe we had best keep the hood on so as not to startle —”
“But, Father!” the prince interrupted, straining against the king’s grip, which only grew tighter. “Ow! Stop it! Ow!”
The knight holding the falcon went to stand beside the ones holding the bowl, and the last of the gifts was brought forward.
“And for your daughter, Princess Anna Maria Elizabetta of Cortova, I would like to present this small token of my great admiration.”
The princess, who seemed to have an infinite number of faces (all of them beautiful), had worn her regal face today. She sat very still, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes fixed squarely on the king of Westria—as they had been since the moment he’d entered the room. Now as Alaric took the ebony case from his gentleman knight and offered it to her himself—removing the lid, tilting the box so she could see the cup—she let a smile creep onto her lips.
“I thank you most sincerely,” Gonzalo said, “on behalf of my daughter, for this exceptional gift. You are too generous.”
“Not at all, my lord King Gonzalo. It is my great pleasure. But I wonder if you might grant me one very small favor.”
“A favor?” He squinted, suspicious now.
“Yes, my lord king—a very small one, I promise. As I have come to Cortova to ask for the lady’s hand in marriage, I would be most honored if she would consent to drink a toast with this cup—a toast to friendship, nothing more. I perfectly understand that no promises are being made. But it would please me enormously if she would.”
Gonzalo hesitated for just the briefest moment, still wondering if there was a catch somewhere, a trap, a trick. But apparently he couldn’t find one.
“Why not?” he said at last. “A toast to friendship. Where’s the harm?”
“Thank you, my lord king, for indulging my little whim.”
A bottle of Westria’s finest vintage was brought out and opened by one of the knights, who handed it to the king, who poured a little into the beautiful cup and offered it to the princess with a courtly bow.
“My lord King Alaric,” she said, “I also wish to thank you for this beautiful cup.” Her eyes sparkled as she held the cup aloft. “To everlasting friendship between our two kingdoms,” she said. “And between ourselves.”
Then she drank from the cup.
And it was done.
Day Five
19
On the Ragged Edge
REYNARD WAS NEAR THE breaking point. If he grew any angrier, he feared he might burst into flames. Blast and double blast! May the king of Cortova die a long and hideous death! May he rot from within and be forced to watch as his bowels were eaten by worms!
Reynard stopped raging and took a deep breath. This was not constructive.
But by everything that was sacred, it was an outrage: demanding that Reynard sign a paper agreeing to terms that were only half considered and still under discussion, while Gonzalo had to promise nothing—nothing—and still might form an alliance with Alaric in the end. Yes, yes, he’d put in a clause about that. But really, what was the point? First you discuss, then you agree—then and only then do you put it in writing. That’s how things were done.
Had he gotten Alaric to sign a contract, too? Probably. Gonzalo was locking in each and every gain, so there’d be no going back later. And as the talks progressed, with yet more desperate concessions, there’d be another temporary contract, and another one after that.
God’s blood, but the man was a monster! Really, there was no good outcome whether Reynard won or lost. There had to be a better way.
He now thought for the thousandth time about what his son had seen. Granted, Rupert wasn’t famous for his brilliance, but he wasn’t a complete loss, either; and the scene he’d described did seem to lead to the conclusions he had drawn. Of course there might be some other explanation, but Reynard couldn’t think what it might be. So just for the sake of argument, what if the boy was right for the first time in his life, and Gonzalo wasn’t as rich as he appeared?
It was worth exploring.
First, as Gonzalo himself had pointed out, he’d never wanted an alliance before because it would be bad for business. So why did he want one now? Point one for Rupert.
Second, Gonzalo had made a conspicuous display of his great wealth: Midas of the Peninsula, Colossus of the Southern Sea! Yet he hadn’t paid the bloody entertainers.
Once again, Rupert had hit the mark by noting that Gonzalo already had the silver plates, the antique cups, the candlesticks, and all the rest. They’d been hanging around the palace for generations. That didn’t mean he was rich now.
And yet another astute question his son had raised: Why hadn’t he given a second banquet in Al
aric’s honor? Was it possible that he’d planned his spectacle for both of them; but the party from Westria had come a day late, and he couldn’t afford to repeat it?
If so then he’d lured both kings into signing documents agreeing to hand over great piles of gold in exchange for—nothing! Yet he couldn’t walk away because, if he was wrong, Alaric would get everything and Austlind would be lost.
A devil of a situation! Blast and double blast!
At least one thing was certain: he’d have to stop discounting that boy of his. With a little more attention and a firmer hand, young Rupert might grow up to be a half-intelligent human being. Certainly he’d put his finger on the problem and come up with the only real solution.
Except that Reynard didn’t think he could bring himself to kill his cousin, however much was at stake. He was a king, not a murderer.
Now, if it came to war between Austlind and Westria and he and Alaric should meet on the battlefield, that would be an entirely different matter. Reynard wouldn’t hesitate to cut down the boy—even knowing in his heart that it wasn’t a fair fight, that Alaric was young and untested and hadn’t even finished his training. Reynard would do it because they were at war, and he was fighting for the life’s blood of Austlind.
Was it really so different now?
No. It was exactly the same.
But then—by the saints, was there no end to the complications?—there was that bloody silver bowl. Was it really cursed? Those wolves at the banquet had been pretty damned convincing. Yet no harm had come to Alaric since, so maybe . . .
Oh, blast it all, his brain was tired. How was he supposed to make a decision when he didn’t have all the facts? Well, he’d just have to make his best judgment and hope that it was right.
That was, after all, what being a king was all about.
Part Four
Attack—an aggressive move or series of moves.
Check—the act of attacking the opponent’s king.
Illegal move—a move made contrary to the rules of the game.
Day Six and Beyond
20
Poison
THAT EVENING, AS ALARIC was dressing for dinner, he’d begun to feel unwell. He had taken a bite from the slice of berry cake that was on the tray beside his jug of wine. Minutes later, he became nauseous. His physician, Polonius, had begged him not to go to that night’s dinner.
But Alaric had refused. He could not afford to offend Gonzalo, especially since “not feeling well” was the most time-worn excuse in the world. Also, it would give Reynard an advantage. So, true to his nature, he had soldiered on. He’d gone to the dinner and had even tried to swallow a few bites.
Then suddenly it had hit him hard: a sharp pain in the gut combined with nausea, dizziness, and shortness of breath. Molly, who was beside him on the dining couch, had seen him flinch and heard him gasp. Without being too obvious, she’d touched his arm and asked in a whisper if he was all right.
“No,” he’d said.
“Shall we leave?”
“Yes.”
Molly had turned to Tobias then, and things were said, and after that people were getting up and doing something; but to Alaric it had all been a blur. He was pretty sure he’d walked out on his own two feet—well, Tobias had helped considerably—but he knew he’d been carried the rest of the way. Beyond that he remembered nothing.
When he came to himself again he was in bed in his own chamber, and the lamp-lit face of Polonius was gazing down at him out of the darkness. The physician seemed to be examining his eyes. He nodded, grunted, and sat back.
“Your Highness,” he said in greeting, as in, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Molly was there, along with Heptor Brochton and several other knights and also a couple of pages. Far too many bodies in one small chamber. It was stuffy, he noticed, and it stank of vomit.
“I’m hot,” he said, but it came out more like “Immaa.” He tried again and did somewhat better this time.
“Pull back the coverlet,” the physician told one of the pages. “Your Majesty, can you tell me how you feel?” He laid a firm hand on the king’s belly. “Any pain here?”
Alaric had to think about it. How, actually, would one define pain? He certainly felt like a corpse that had been hauled up out of its grave and miraculously brought back to life. But the sensation of being stabbed in the gut . . . no, he wasn’t feeling that anymore. Just kind of a dull ache, along with a sort of burning and a throbbing in the head . . .
“My lord?”
“Unh. Unh. I don’t . . . um . . . I’m a little better.”
The physician had his wrist now and was feeling his pulse.
“What happened?”
“You are ill, Your Majesty.”
Well, he knew that, for heaven’s sake! He closed his eyes and had a private little conversation with his body. There were a lot of complaints.
“Would you like to tell me a bit more?” Alaric said, rather reassured by the tone of his voice now. It had the ring of authority, though it was certainly weak.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait till tomorrow to discuss it? You’ve had quite a time of it, you know.”
“Yes, I do know. And yes, I want to discuss it.”
“Well then, if you insist, it appears that you have been poisoned.”
Alaric’s drooping eyes flew open. “Poisoned? Are you sure?”
“Quite. The signs were clear.”
“What signs?”
“Well, all of them: nausea and vomiting, accelerated heart rate, rapid breathing, red splotches on your skin, sharp pain in the belly, unconsciousness. And then, of course, there was the greenish cast of the vomitus.”
“My vomitus?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You studied my vomit?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. One always does in such cases.”
This was far too much for the king to absorb. He closed his eyes again.
“You will continue to take my powders throughout the night. They’re very bland, and we mix them with honey, so they won’t be hard to get down. I also want you to drink plenty of fluids. I’m afraid we’ll have to wake you now and again, but it’s imperative that you stay on an exact regimen.”
“Who?” the king asked.
“Who? I shall wake you, Your Highness. I shall be right here and will not leave your—”
“No—who poisoned me?”
“Oh. Excuse me. I misunderstood. Well, Your Majesty, we only have theories, and it’s always best not to jump to—”
“Reynard,” said Heptor Brochton.
Alaric looked up at Heptor. “Why? How?”
“As to the why, he probably got tired of King Gonzalo’s nonsense and decided to solve his problem the easy way.”
“Sounds logical.”
“Yes, it does, Your Majesty. As to the how, I would guess he bribed a slave to put something in your food.”
“The cake.”
“What cake?” Polonius asked.
“Berry cake; it came with the wine. I didn’t eat much. It was bloody awful.”
“Well, there’s no sign of it now,” Heptor said. “The slaves must have taken it away.”
“That explains the red flecks in the vomitus,” Polonius added thoughtfully.
Alaric ardently wished they would all stop talking and go away, but there seemed little hope of that. So he let his gaze drift over to Molly, who stood quietly in the back of the room.
“I don’t want her to leave,” he said. The physician leaned in to hear him. Alaric’s words had gone all mumbly again.
“Excuse me, Your Grace?”
“Molly.”
“The lady?”
“Tell her to stay.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps she can come again tomorrow, Your Majesty—how would that be? After she’s had a bit of sleep, in her own guesthouse, with the other women as is fitting. It is late, Your Highness. I’m sure she’s very tired.”
“Of
course,” he murmured. “Tomorrow.”
He shut his eyes and felt himself drifting off again. His breathing was deep and steady now: in, out; in, out; in, out.
“That’s it, my lord. A nice long rest is exactly what you need. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
21
More Green Than Rosy
ALARIC RECOVERED MORE QUICKLY than expected. But he was still weak, and his mind wasn’t nearly sharp enough to tangle with Gonzalo again. So he kept to his rooms for a few more days.
There had been a steady stream of inquiries from the palace, which Heptor answered according to Alaric’s directions. The princess sent several very short, very beautifully written notes of condolence, along with a large bowl of flowers from her garden. King Gonzalo had begged to know the gravity of Alaric’s condition and offered the services of his own physician, who was world renowned and had formerly served the sultan of Kaldar.
Heptor had thanked them both for their kind concern. The king of Westria had been struck by a sudden attack of the flux, but he was already feeling better. And while he appreciated King Gonzalo’s offer, Alaric always traveled with his own physician and was being well taken care of. The king of Westria did apologize, however, for the delay in the negotiations. He hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.
The king of Cortova had replied that Alaric was not to worry; it wasn’t inconvenient at all. The king of Westria must take all the time he needed to recover from his regrettable illness. Then, as soon as he was quite himself again, they would all celebrate his return to health with a jolly little hunting party, as previously planned. A day outdoors with lots of fresh air and sunshine was just what was needed to put the roses back in the king of Westria’s cheeks.
“The man is mad,” Alaric had said upon hearing this. “He wants me to go hunting—to put the roses back in my cheeks? Please, someone, poison me again!”
The Princess of Cortova Page 12