Fool's Errand (46 page)

It was something to think about.

The man in homespun
(freshly laundered
homespun) watched now as the princess's friend selected an apple, counted out a few coppers to give to the vendor and gently placed the apple into the little shopping basket she'd presumably borrowed from the innkeeper's wife. The man was so close behind her that he could see the perfection of the piece of fruit she'd selected, and he could smell the clean, soapy smell of her fair skin. He knew he shouldn't be following her so closely and yet he couldn't help himself. She was so pretty and her hair was so shiny and the sound of her humming softly to herself made his heart swell in his chest and—

She turned around so unexpectedly that they bumped right into each other. As they did so, the apple was knocked from her basket. Horrified by his clumsiness, the man quickly leaned over to pick it up and promptly bashed heads with the princess's friend, who'd likewise leaned over to pick it up.

“Oh!” he cried as he staggered backward. “Oh, miss! I'm so sorry! I was just … I didn't mean—”

“You needn't sound so troubled, sir,” she said with a smile. “You didn't exactly inflict a mortal wound, and anyway, I am quite sure that it was I who knocked into you.” Ducking down a little so that she could peer into the shadows of his hood, she smiled again and said, “Are you quite recovered from my heartless attack?”

Wordlessly, he nodded.

Smiling for a third time, she bobbed him a little curtsey, bid him good day and continued on her way.

The man in meanest homespun could hardly breathe.

The princess's friend had looked upon him and she'd not recoiled or gasped or shrieked or cried out.

On the contrary, she'd
smiled
at him!

The man was dazzled. Truly, the princess's friend was as pretty on the inside as she was on the outside. Perhaps … perhaps he could find a way to do her some small, anonymous kindness.

It was something else to think about.

As he slowly made his way over to the other side of the market, it occurred to the man in homespun that the one who'd sent him had not given him any instructions as to what he ought to do with the princess's friend if the princess and the Gypsy ended up dead.

Now that he was in the habit of thinking instead of just following orders, the man decided that he'd have to think about that, too.

FORTY-SIX

I
N SPITE OF THE GREAT luxury
in which he'd travelled, Mordecai had found the three-day journey to Lord Bartok's northern estate arduous. Though the carriage in which he and Lord Bartok rode was richly appointed with plump, velvet seats and heavy curtains to keep out the dust, nothing could prevent the endless bumping and jostling that bounced Mordecai around until every withered muscle in his body was screaming in pain. And while they'd obviously not stopped at any flea-bitten inns along the way—enjoying instead the hospitality of noblemen who'd pretended to be honoured to host them in royal fashion at crippling personal expense—it was not the same as sleeping in one's own bed.

Most of this third day had been spent travelling through Lord Bartok's vast estate, which consisted of pastures and parklands, orchards and pleasure gardens, wheat fields and forests. Mordecai felt his guts twist into knots every time he nudged back the curtain, gazed out upon the staggering wealth the high-and-mighty bastar had accumulated as a result of his own munificence and thought about how little he'd profited in return.

“Isn't it beautiful, Your Grace?” murmured Lord Bartok, gracefully stifling a yawn with the back of one hand.

“It is,” said Mordecai, just managing not to snarl.

Soon, he would have the king back in his possession. And with a little luck and some shrewd planning, the odds of the game would shift back in his favour.

It was nearing dusk by the time the carriage finally turned onto a long avenue paved with crushed white quartz and lined with apple trees in full blossom. At length, the avenue led them through a set of massive wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the Bartok family crest and into the elegantly manicured courtyard at the front of Bartok's sprawling stone castle. There was no Lady Bartok to greet them, she having died of the dread Great Sickness several years past. However, there were half a dozen footmen dressed in blue and gold waiting to help them alight from the carriage and to direct Mordecai's large retinue of New Men to their quarters. And inside the castle, there were at least as many wide-eyed young servant girls who bobbed pretty curtseys and breathlessly told Mordecai how
honoured
they were to have the pleasure of serving him.

With the passing thought that one or two might have the pleasure of serving him in more ways than one during the course of his visit, Mordecai impatiently declined Lord Bartok's suggestion that they wash off the dust of the road before calling on the king. Raising a silvery eyebrow ever so slightly—as though he found Mordecai's manners uncouth but was too refined to say so—Lord Bartok nodded, turned and personally led Mordecai to the wing of the castle reserved for visiting royalty. Upon arriving at what was clearly the finest set of chambers in the wing, he ordered the guards to announce them to His Majesty.

Not sure what he'd do if the king refused to receive him, Mordecai decided not to take the chance. Brushing past the guards, he shoved open the door only to be confronted by a sight that nearly caused his heart to stop.

It was the king and Lady Aurelia
naked in bed together!

“Aurelia!” cried Lord Bartok in a not-quite-convincing tone of outrage.

As the delicate-boned, little noblewoman fluttered about trying to cover herself, the king attempted to sit up. The first time he faltered and fell back onto his pillows. The second time he was seized by a violent fit of coughing that caused him to bring up so much black blood that he had to lean over and spit it into a silver bowl already swimming with the vile stuff.

On the third attempt, he finally managed to push himself into a sitting position.

“Do not fret, Your Grace, my lord Bartok,” said King Finnius breathlessly, nodding to each of them in turn. “For you see, Lady Aurelia and I are married.”

Mordecai felt his mouth fall open.

“
Queen
Aurelia,” reminded the shrew with a hint of sharpness.

“
Queen
Aurelia,” agreed the king, appearing not to have noticed her unpleasant tone. Fixing his darkly shadowed, sunken eyes upon Mordecai, he said, “During our weeks spent on progress seeing the countryside and meeting my subjects—”

“
Our
subjects,” interjected Lady Aurelia more sharply still.

The king nodded and suffered another wracking fit.

“The point is,” he wheezed when he'd recovered sufficiently to speak, “we developed such a great affection for one another that we could not wait another moment to wed. Thus it was that three days ago we were married in your family's private chapel, Lord Bartok. The ceremony was appropriately witnessed, the licence was duly signed, and yesterday a herald was sent to court with the news. You probably passed him on your way here.”

They probably passed him on their way here! That meant it was too late to stop him—that meant that even now he might be shouting the news from the Grand Balcony.

Mordecai had thought that “losing” the king had been a disaster.

It was nothing compared to this. The Council would never entertain the possibility of naming him heir now,
never!
Why would they, when the king had wedded and bedded a wife who might even now be carrying his royal child? What a terrible mistake it had been to play the waiting game with Bartok. He'd known the high-and-mighty bastard was lying—what on earth had he been waiting for? And the king! The fool—did he really imagine that he could do something like this and not see those dearest to him suffer terrible consequences?

Mordecai was about to demand to speak with the king in private when the king said, “My lord Regent, I wish to speak with you in private. Lord Bartok, please escort His Grace to the library at once.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Lord Bartok. Bowing low to the king, he gave Mordecai an inscrutable glance and said, “This way, Your Grace.”

And before Mordecai could say a word, the nobleman turned on one heel and walked out of the room.

Mordecai—who was already spitting with rage—nearly had an apoplexy when the big-bosomed slattern who'd taken over from the nursemaid sauntered past him in the direction of the royal chambers from which he'd just been so rudely evicted. Nevertheless, he forced himself to calmly follow Lord Bartok to the library, stopping only once along the way to mention something to a passing servant.

Upon entering the vaulted chamber with its imposing leather armchairs and shelves full of dusty, leather-bound tomes, he fixed Lord Bartok with his dark eyes and demanded to know if the marriage had been his doing.

“No, Your Grace,” replied Lord Bartok solemnly.

L
IAR
!
shrieked Mordecai in his mind. Out loud, he said, “Well, then, I can only imagine how terribly shocked you must be by your daughter's wanton behaviour—”

“It is not wanton for a wife to lie with her wedded husband,” interrupted Lord Bartok with a slight smile.

Clenching his hands into fists to prevent himself from raking his fingernails down the bastard's smug face, Mordecai said, “Still, you must be disappointed to have been robbed of the honour of hosting a royal wedding—”

“Robbed of the honour of
paying
for a royal wedding, you mean,” said Lord Bartok, still smiling slightly.

Knowing that, at a minimum, he needed Lady Aurelia dead as quickly as possible and that for that to happen he was going to have to get her beyond the protection of her powerful father, Mordecai said, “You may have been robbed of that honour, my lord, but I shall
insist
upon hosting a banquet celebrating the nuptials as soon as the happy couple and I have returned to Parthania and—”

Now, Lord Bartok's smile grew very wide. “Aurelia will not be returning to Parthania,” he said. “For you see, the king has advised me he wishes her to remain here with me.”

Bristling, Mordecai snapped, “She shall go where I order.”

“She is not yours to order, Your Grace,” pointed out Lord Bartok. “She is Queen of Glyndoria.”

“She has not been anointed.”

“She has married the king, whom I believe I hear approaching even now,” murmured Lord Bartok with an elegant shrug as the door to the library swung open. “Goodbye, Your Grace. If you still have an appetite following your audience with His Majesty, I will see you at supper.”

Turning toward the open door, Lord Bartok bowed low to the king before quietly leaving the library and closing the door behind him. Impeccably dressed in black leather breeches, a white silk shirt and a wine-coloured velvet doublet that looked as though it had been padded to camouflage his painful thinness, the king approached Mordecai slowly. Even so, the tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip told Mordecai that the effort of walking was taxing him terribly.

Good
.

Mordecai waited until the king was close enough to threaten without having to raise his voice. Then he hissed, “You have made a grave error, Your Majesty—”

“No, Mordecai—it is you who has erred,” interrupted the king, not troubling himself to whisper. “It was convenient for you to see me as a fool entirely in your power and so that is how you saw me. But your vision was a false one. For though it is true that I made mistakes along the way, in the end I accomplished that which mattered most: I have saved the realm from
you
. My queen and I have spent the last three days in bed and I would lay odds that she is already with child. You will never sit upon the throne of my fathers, Mordecai. Indeed, I'd not be surprised if my new father-in-law has already set plans in motion to oust you from power altogether. I turned your plans to my own advantage—I played the fool to buy time to put my own plans into effect. I played
you
, Mordecai,” said the king, breathless but triumphant. “And now the game is over.”