Once she was dressed, Meena fetched a pail of warm rose water and gently bathed, oiled and dried Persephone’s feet. Meanwhile, little Meeta carefully shaped and polished each of her fingernails, and Meeka combed her hair for a thousand strokes, piled it upon her head, pinned it, perfumed it and pomaded it until it was as hard as marble. When the sisters were done, Martha brought over several jars of cosmetics that she used to powder Persephone’s face, rouge her cheeks, paint her lips and draw a fashionable black beauty mark on the left side of her chin. Then she helped Persephone into a pair of beribboned stockings secured high upon her thigh and slipped her feet into a pair of high-heeled dancing slippers before finally— reverently!—securing the amethyst necklace about her neck and hanging the matching earrings from her lobes.
“You look very fine,” breathed little Meeta, clasping her hands beneath her chin.
Martha and Meena nodded their agreement, as did Meeka, who added, “No one would ever know you for anything other than the great noblewoman you are.”
Although this statement felt alarmingly close to an accusation, Persephone could think of nothing to do but ignore it. “Thank you,” she said primly.
“You’re welcome,” replied Meeka. “Now, would you like to do some needlepoint while you wait for my Lord Regent to collect you?”
“Needlepoint?” said Persephone blankly as Meena bobbed a curtsey and hurried off.
“Yes,” said Meeka as Meena reappeared carrying an enormous basket full of colourful yarns and fine threads. “Knowing how ladies of your station adore passing the time knitting socks and embroidering cushions and the like, my Lord Regent has kindly provided you with all the tools of your noble craft.”
“Oh,” said Persephone, whose sewing experience was limited to resentfully stitching up the torn seams of the owner’s dirty pants. “Well, uh.…”
“Oooooh and look!” squealed Meeta, snatching up a square of white silk. “I daresay my Lord Regent has given you one of his very own handkerchiefs to embroider!”
“A great honour,” observed Martha with apparent reverence.
“Indeed,” said Persephone, who wondered how the Regent was going to like his handkerchief when she gave it back to him covered in great, uneven stitches, ugly knots and loose threads. “In fact, it is such an honour that I believe I shall this very minute go for a walk in the garden that I might find inspiration for a design.”
And also a way over the castle walls, she added silently, for with the Regent taking such care to ensure that I spend my time engaging in activities appropriate for “my station,” it may be harder than I expected to find an excuse to go into the city.
“Actually, m’lady—” began Martha.
“While I’m gone, why don’t you and the others help yourselves to something to eat?” called Persephone as she strode briskly toward the door, her skirts and petticoats swishing deliciously with each step. “After all, I should not like to disappoint the kitchen staff by sending any of the dishes back other than picked clean.”
Certain that the prospect of dining from her table would keep Martha and the sisters well occupied while she attempted to flee the palace, Persephone smiled inwardly at her own cleverness, flung open the door and screamed shrilly as a pair of ferocious-looking guards spun around to fill the doorway, the tips of their deadly poleaxes mere inches from the tip of her nose.
“M’lady?” one of them grunted.
Making a noise that sounded very much as though she was leaking air, Persephone smiled weakly and slowly closed the door.
Martha cleared her throat. “What I was going to say just now, m’lady, was that a walk in the garden was likely not possible seeing how my Lord Regent posted guards outside your door. You know,” she added hastily, “to ensure that no one enters without permission.”
Or leaves without permission, thought Persephone. “That was very kind of him,” she said, trying not to sound as anxious as she felt.
“Yes,” said Meeka, reaching for another sweet bun. “Wasn’t it just?”
While Martha and the others ate their fill of sweet buns and everything else, Persephone paced the chamber floor, trying to think of a way past the guards—or at least a way to retrieve her dagger from beneath the loose floorboard without Martha and the sisters noticing. Unfortunately, after only a short while pacing in her lovely new high-heeled dancing slippers, she had blisters the size of cockroaches on both heels and was forced to sit down. Thereafter, she divided her time between listening to the noisy racket of many hammers banging away in a nearby courtyard, wondering aloud when the Regent would come for her, making excuses as to why she was not indulging in the adored noble pastime of needlework and limping over to the open window to scan the crowded cobblestone streets beyond the palace walls for a glimpse of Azriel and the others. It would not have done them a great deal of good to be seen, but it would have brought Persephone a great deal of comfort to know that they yet lived.
But only once did she see anything that held the hope of comfort—a single, fleeting vision of a tall, broad-shouldered man who might have been Azriel. He had his head down as he made his way slowly through a distant market square, and he appeared to be alone. Heart pounding wildly, Persephone leaned halfway out the window and stared so hard that her eyes began to water.
Just then, the man stopped abruptly, lifted his head and seemed to return Persephone’s stare. Unfortunately, her eyes were so watery by that point that she could not get a good look at him, and when she blinked to clear her eyes, he was gone.
By mid-afternoon the hammering outside finally stopped. A short while later, a herald showed up to announce the imminent arrival of the Regent. At once, Martha and the sisters fell upon Persephone—dousing her with perfume, fixing her makeup, checking her hair and helping her on with her gloves. Meeka even offered to stuff some wadding down the backs of her slippers to give some relief to her poor, blistered heels. She was still on her hands and knees making sure that the wadding didn’t show when there came another knock at the door.
At the sound, Persephone started so badly that she nearly put the delicate heel of her slipper through Meeka’s hand.
“Sorry!” she blurted as Meeta scampered across the room to open the door.
“No worries,” whispered Meeka. “Try not to be nervous, m’lady. You look well—just watch the others, do as they do and you’ll be fine.”
Persephone looked sharply at the girl, but Meeka had already hastened to take her place against the wall next to Martha and Meeta.
And then the chamber door was flung open and there stood the Regent Mordecai, resplendent in a long velvet robe trimmed in white fox fur and of a colour that would have been called purple if he’d been king.
Head held high with obvious effort, he shuffled into the room.
“Lady Bothwell,” he breathed, inclining his head without taking his eyes off her.
“Your Grace,” she replied with a deep curtsey.
“You look … much improved this day,” he said.
“I do not believe that I have ever before so appreciated a hot bath, a fine meal and a good night’s sleep in a warm bed,” she said truthfully.
Mordecai’s dark eyes gleamed. “And I trust that you were not offended that I took the liberty of sending you a few things of my own careful choosing?” he asked, gesturing to her ensemble.
Persephone flushed at the thought that the Regent had personally selected her clothing—probably from among the poor dead queen’s pillaged belongings—and that his gnarled hands had touched the very undergarments she currently wore next to her skin. “No, of course I wasn’t offended that you sent me things,” she said, trying not to shudder. “It was … most kind of you.”
Mordecai smiled broadly, showing his beautiful teeth. Then he shuffled forward some more until he was standing directly before Persephone.
“And this,” he said huskily as he reached out and slipped his cold fingers beneath the amethyst that hung about her throat. “You were not off
ended that I sent you this?”
Persephone hesitated, sensing that she was about to make a misstep but not knowing exactly what it was or how to avoid it. “No,” she said at last. “I was not offended.”
The Regent sighed softly. “Excellent,” he breathed. Then, with a quiet grunt of effort, he held out his arm to her and said, “Now we must depart, for the spectacle I promised shall shortly commence, and I would not have you miss a moment of it.”
“That is most thoughtful of you,” murmured Persephone as she gingerly laid her hand upon his trembling arm.
“Yes,” mused Mordecai as he led her from the room. “It is, isn’t it?”
TWENTY-FOUR
MORDECAI WALKED THROUGH the corridors in a calm silence that was at odds with the tumult erupting inside of the Regent. He felt like a boy! Not like the boy he’d actually been, of course—sickly, twisted, ridiculed and reviled by strangers and family alike—but like a vital, healthy boy, full of energy and optimism! The feel of Lady Bothwell’s arm resting lightly upon his own arm was as tender as a caress, and the way she effortlessly moved beside him somehow—miraculously!—made his awkward, uneven gait seem almost graceful. Not only that, but she’d deliberately mentioned how warm her bed was, and she’d accepted his gift of jewellery without a single word of protest that it was unseemly for a married woman to accept such intimate gifts from a man other than her husband. Why, it was tantamount to accepting him as a lover—or at least as a potential lover. True, he’d given such gifts to noblewomen in the past only to have his subsequent advances rebuffed, but Lady Bothwell did not seem the type. Somehow, she was different than those other sows had been—more genuine and at the same time, more mysterious. Certainly more hotblooded. He’d seen her flush when he’d mentioned having had a hand in choosing her things, as though she, too, had felt the intimacy of the act. He wondered how she’d react if she knew how he’d rubbed the silky, rose-scented undergarments against his cheek, and how he’d held up each item to better picture it hugging the soft, firm flesh of the young queen to whom it had once belonged—and of the young woman who presently wore it. The thought almost made Mordecai giggle aloud—or might have, if he’d been a man predisposed to giggling.
Glancing sideways at Lady Bothwell now, Mordecai wondered if he should warn her as to the exact nature of the spectacle she was about to witness. If she’d been any other woman, he might have, just to avoid a hysterical female scene, but she wasn’t any other woman. In his mind she was already his future queen, the mother of his true-begotten half-noble son. In that great capacity she would need to be able to stand at his side and maintain her composure in all situations, no matter how shocking or gruesome. As it happened, this particular situation would be an excellent test of her abilities in that regard, and he stood ready to judge her accordingly.
Smiling to himself at the thought, Mordecai lifted his aching arm higher and wondered at the possibility that Lady Bothwell might even enjoy the little drama that was about to unfold before her.
After all, she was unquestionably a woman of strange appetites.
There was always the chance that these included an appetite for blood.
TWENTY-FIVE
THERE WAS NO TUMULT erupting inside Persephone as she and the Regent walked silently through the corridors. How could there be when she was concentrating so hard on elegantly matching the Regent step for lurching step? And on trying not to think about the unnatural fleshlessness of his arm beneath her gloved fingertips? And on worrying as to the nature of the promised “spectacle”? The Regent had said nothing of it but that she would find it entertaining, and while she fervently hoped that she was about to be treated to a court play or a banquet or a tournament or a picnic, somehow, she did not think that was the case.
“Ready, Lady Bothwell?” smiled Mordecai, stopping at last before a set of wide brass doors that were at least twice as tall as Persephone.
“Of course,” she replied—lightly, in spite of her hammering heart.
The Regent smiled again, then nodded impatiently at the two guards who stood at attention nearby. Soundlessly, they sprang forward and slowly heaved open the heavy doors.
At once, a swell of sound washed over Persephone— rustling skirts and tapping heels, clinking goblets and cultured music, self-important male voices and throaty female ones. Laughter that was shrill, grating and as brittle as old bones.
Altogether, it was the sound of wealth and privilege and power, and just as Persephone was thanking the Fates that it had been enough to mask the sound of her entrance— thus sparing her the ordeal of public scrutiny—an infernal, bellowing herald announced the arrival of the Lord Regent Mordecai and his esteemed guest, Lady Bothwell of the Ragorian Prefecture. At once, the room fell silent and all eyes swivelled to fix upon Persephone. Lifting her chin higher to compensate for her badly trembling knees, she held her breath and waited for someone in the glittering crowd to indignantly declare that Bothwell had no wife and to denounce Persephone accordingly, but no one said anything at all.
“They are entranced by you,” whispered the Regent exultantly.
Though it was obvious to Persephone that they were anything but entranced, she simply nodded and exhaled as deeply as the constricting corsets would allow. Clearly, reclusive old Bothwell had no close friends or family at court—a sad thing for him, perhaps, but an extremely fortunate thing for her.
As the rustling, tapping, clinking, murmuring and laughing slowly resumed, Persephone noticed that although most of the nobles were laughing, not all were. Some stood stiff, tight-lipped and silent, staring at the floor, while others wore the carefully neutral expressions of those intent upon hiding their true feelings. Before Persephone could wonder what to make of this, the Regent began to shuffle forward, bobbing his head in acknowledgment at this person or that. Not knowing what else to do—and fearful of being pounced upon by some nobleman who might wish to question her about “her” noble family’s long and distinguished history—Persephone clung to his bony arm and shuffled along beside him. As she did so, she surreptitiously gazed about the vast, high-ceilinged room. Directly ahead of her was a set of long, heavy red curtains billowing gently in the breeze that blew through the massive open double-doors behind them. To her left was a dais upon which sat an empty throne with a deep-purple cloth of state draped over it. Lined up on either side of the throne were several low but well-made chairs, and before it sat a table covered with white linen trimmed in purple and set with plates and goblets that looked to be made of pure gold. To her right were row upon row of rough-hewn tables with matching benches and stools. The tables near the very front were covered with cloths of plain white and set with plates and goblets made of bright silver, while the rest of the tables were bare of linen and appeared to be set with items of ordinary pewter. About halfway back, the rows of tables bulged outward to accommodate what looked to be a silver fountain. Oddly, it was cast in the shape of a kneeling man—his silver hands clasped beneath his chin, his sorrowful silver eyes cast toward the heavens. For the life of her, Persephone could not imagine why the Erok nobility would favour such a disturbing piece, nor any silver orifice from which one would wish to see wine pour forth.
Following the direction of her gaze, the Regent craned his head upward to press his cool lips against her ear. “Fear not, Lady Bothwell,” he whispered. “The wine will run freely after—”
“My Lord Regent!” cried a voice some distance behind them.
Looking back, Persephone saw a richly dressed but dishevelled-looking man bumbling toward them, a frantic expression on his round, red face.
“Who is that?” she asked.
Mordecai neither glanced backward nor slowed his pace. “A minor lord by the name of Pembleton, I believe,” he replied.
Persephone snuck another look back at the man, who seemed to be having an inordinately difficult time fighting his way through the mostly smirking crowd. “He appears rather … upset,” she said uncertainly as they came to a halt befor
e the long, heavy red curtains.
“Yes, I expect he does,” said Mordecai with more than a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Then he nodded at a pair of nearby servants, who abruptly yanked open the curtains.
For the second time that day, Persephone jerked her head to one side and threw up her arm to shield her eyes until they could become accustomed to the brilliant light.
Even after they did, however, it took several long seconds of blinking and squinting for her to realize what she was looking at:
A freshly built scaffold.
Suddenly, the hammering she’d heard all morning made sickening sense. As she’d feared, the “spectacle” she was about to see wasn’t a play or a banquet or a tournament or a picnic.
It was an execution.
Persephone had never seen such a thing herself, of course, but her Cookie had had a great-uncle whose second daughter by his third wife had married an executioner, and so she’d heard many terrible tales—of men who’d bravely laid their heads down upon the blood-drenched stump to meet their terrible end, but also of men whose strength or courage had failed them. Men who’d had to be dragged up the scaffold steps, forced to their knees and kicked into position; men who’d been jeered for sobbing, pleading their innocence and begging for mercy until the very end. And even the end hadn’t always been the end—Cookie had said that sometimes, if the executioner felt he’d been poorly paid on the previous job, or was stupid with drink or sick with flux or too old or too young or hungry or thirsty or simply in a bad mood, it took ten, fifteen, even twenty strokes of the axe to sever the doomed wretch’s head!
The Gypsy King Page 21