The Gypsy King (33 page)

With mounting horror, Persephone stared down at the sobbing father and then up at the son. In addition to being filthy and dressed in rags, the young man had clearly been brutalized—his lips were torn, one eye was nothing but bloody pulp, his limbs were scored with burns and all of his fingers and toes were swollen and blue and bent in unnatural directions.

Roughly, the soldiers hauled the young man to the front of the scaffold, where they held him aloft. When he failed to lift his head, the hooded executioner shouldered his axe, stomped forward and gave one of the young man's broken fingers a sharp squeeze. Pembleton's son gave a sudden, gasping cry of pain, and his head jerked up as if by the pull of a string. He stared uncomprehendingly at
the silent, staring crowd for a long moment before peeling apart his scabbed lips. “Good … people,” he whispered hoarsely, mindless of the fresh blood that had begun to trickle down his chin. “Know that I did all that I have been accused of and … and more. Know that … I deserve far worse than this death I am about to receive.” Here, he turned his head slowly and fixed his one remaining eye on the Regent—and on Persephone, who sat beside him. “My eternal gratitude,” he concluded raggedly, “for the great mercy my Lord Regent and His Majesty the King have shown in not exacting vengeance upon my family as further punishment for my … most grievous crimes.”

Halfway through this speech, Persephone turned to ask the Regent the nature of the crimes to which the man referred—and possibly even to beg mercy for him, if only for the sake of his father—only to see that the Regent was nodding slowly, his eyes alight with obvious pleasure, his lips silently mouthing the young man's words.

No, not the young man's words
, realized Persephone with a jolt. Averting her eyes so that she'd not have to look upon the Regent's happy countenance or watch the soldiers manoeuvre poor Lord Pembleton's son to his knees and force his head down upon the well-used block, she thought,
They were the Regent's words! There is no hope for—

THUD.

Persephone jumped in her seat and her gaze jerked forward just in time to see the executioner place his heavy boot on young Pembleton's shoulder in order to free the blade of the axe, which had badly missed its mark and was now buried deep in the groaning man's back.

Please
, prayed Persephone desperately as she lifted her chin and fixed her warm, steady gaze upon him.
Let him know that there is more than one in this overdressed mob that cares.

And please
, she added silently,
let him die quickly.

At least one of Persephone's prayers was not answered. To the delight and amusement of many in the crowd, it took twelve strokes to sever young Pembleton's head.

“W-what was he accused of?” stammered Persephone, as the executioner snatched up his gory trophy by the hair and held it aloft for all to admire before unceremoniously dumping it into a nearby bucket.

“What does it matter?” shrugged Mordecai, rising to his feet. “As you, yourself, heard, Lady Bothwell, the wretch confessed to everything.”

Numbly, Persephone nodded. “And is that all?” she asked, licking her bone-dry lips. “Is there no more … entertainment to be had this day?”

Mordecai burst out laughing, a merry sound that contrasted horribly with the noises poor Lord Pembleton was making as he lay atop the headless body of his dead son. “Oh, Lady Bothwell,” he chortled, “wasn't that enough?”

Persephone flushed. “I only meant—well, you said that, um, a Gypsy had been captured and.…”

The Regent's eyes gleamed as her voice trailed off. “My, but you are a bloodthirsty little flower, aren't you?” he whispered huskily as he picked up her hand and lifted her to her feet.

Persephone flushed deeper still. “No, I only—”

Reaching out, the Regent pressed a cool finger against her lips, stilling them. “Shhh,” he murmured. “No more talk of blood and vermin. Let us go inside and feed one of your less … unorthodox appetites.”

TWENTY-SIX

T
HE FEAST WAS VAST but nauseating—thin slices of rare beef swimming in their own bloody juices, jellied meats that shivered at the touch, entire hogs' heads boiled to the colour of bruises, eggs with yolks like blood-blisters, long, pale sausage skins stuffed with some kind of smelly, lumpy curd, lukewarm soup swimming with grinning fish heads, raw oysters served directly from the still-warm body cavities of freshly slaughtered peacocks. And for dessert: rich red velvet cake drizzled with honey the colour of old blood. Worst of all was the great silver fountain—still in the shape of a man, but now with its head removed and red wine rhythmically pumping from the neck.

Had the Regent insisted that Persephone sit by his side throughout the meal, she might very well have been undone by her inability—indeed, her stubborn refusal— to let one morsel or drop of that sickening spread pass her lips. However, as luck would have it, upon entering the hall the Regent apologetically informed her that esteemed though she was, regrettably, he could not allow her to sit
at the high table with him. He was not
afraid
of giving offence to the great lords of the kingdom, he explained in confidential tones; rather, he felt it would be impolitic to do so until such time as they had given him that which he both desired and deserved.

“Things will be very different then,” he whispered as he deposited her at a silver-set table and turned away.

Feeling chilled by his cryptic words, Persephone watched him lurch to his own seat at the right hand of the empty throne. Then she turned to see that every other person at her table was a noblewoman about her own age—and that all of them were staring at her with cold distaste, as though they were beautifully plumed carrion birds and she, a verminous carcass unworthy of their sharp little beaks. Instinctively, she tensed and her hand drifted to the place where her dagger
should
have been. Even as she did so, however, the girls' stony faces melted into simpering smiles. So, she was Lady Bothwell, was she? Esteemed guest of the Regent, yes? How had this curious thing come to pass? Were the two of them quite as intimate as they looked? What would her husband think if he knew? Where was her husband now? Was he really an old man? Did he smell of death, were his feet quite grotesque to look upon? Was it
very
horrible to lie with him?

Well, was he rich, at least?

Though Persephone's nerves were drawn tight as a bowstring, and though it was obvious to her that the young noblewomen were amusing themselves at her expense, she answered every one of their questions. However,
she took such care to avoid saying anything that might heap ridicule upon the hapless Lord Bothwell that the noblewomen eventually grew bored and ignored her in favour of discussing in minute, gory detail the execution of Lord Pembleton's son and all the deliciously horrifying rumours they'd ever heard about the dungeon in which he'd passed his final days.

The dungeon in which Azriel might—at this very moment!—be languishing in pain and darkness.

After a few moments of this gruesome chatter, the tiny, bright-eyed girl upon whose every word the other noblewomen seemed to hang, chirped, “They say there are only two ways out of the place: in pieces, through one of the trapdoors that opens to the underground river running beneath the castle, or intact, shortly to be chopped
into
pieces.”

The other noblewomen screamed with mirth at this witticism and the girl—Lady Aurelia—basked in the glow of their appreciation until she noticed that Persephone was not joining in the fun.

“You do not find my words amusing, Lady Bothwell?” she asked, her sharp little features pinching together in displeasure.

Persephone hesitated. Though she longed to tell this cold-blooded creature exactly what she thought of her
and
her words, she knew that her own situation was too precarious to risk offending anyone. So she clenched her teeth together and forced herself to mumble, “I'm terribly sorry, Lady Aurelia. I was so busy admiring your beautiful hat that I'm afraid I didn't hear your words.”

Even to Persephone's ears, her reply sounded appallingly insincere, but instead of getting angry, Lady Aurelia laughed shrilly. “Very good, Lady Bothwell,
very good
!” she cried, clapping her little hands in apparent delight. “Oh,
do
say you'll join us at tomorrow's hunt, for I should like to know what you think of my riding hat.”

At this, the other noblewomen twittered behind their gloved fingers.

Persephone smiled thinly and was about to decline when she realized that the invitation would give her the perfect excuse to get past her guards and roam the palace grounds without the Regent lurching alongside her, watching her every move. How she would get from roaming freely to finding and rescuing Azriel from a dungeon from which people only ever left in pieces (or intact, shortly to be chopped
into
pieces) she had no idea, but she was a step closer to doing so than she'd been one minute earlier.

It was a start.

Smiling sincerely for the first time since witnessing the execution, Persephone said, “I should like to go hunting with you, Lady Aurelia. Indeed, you cannot know how I shall look forward to it.”

The thought that she'd made a start sustained Persephone through the long evening of entertainment that followed—through jugglers and jesters, demonstrations of swordplay and wrestling, recitations, singing and dancing.
However, by the time she was delivered back to her rooms by one of the Regent's lackeys (the Regent himself engaged in serious conversation with a morbidly obese nobleman whose attention kept drifting to the last of the curd-filled sausage skins) Persephone was utterly spent. Pushing past the stony-faced guards outside her chamber door, she slipped inside to find Martha and the sisters sitting by the fire, sewing and murmuring quietly together. The warm, companionable sight was in such stark contrast to all that she'd seen and learned and endured over the last hours that it was all Persephone could do not to burst into tears.

Her distress must have been plain to see, however, for Martha and the sisters were by her side at once. They asked no questions—indeed, said not one word—but quickly led her to the warmth of the fire. There, Meeka helped her out of her high-heeled slippers and peeled the bloody wadding from her heels, Martha unlaced her gown and corset, Meeta scampered to fetch her nightgown and robe and Meena thrust a hot poker into the wine jug. Humming softly, the mute girl handed Persephone a goblet of warmed wine and then gently began to brush out her stiff curls, pausing once to allow Martha to help Persephone step out of the last of her petticoats, and a second time to allow Meeka to slip the warmed nightgown over her head.

When the last of the heavy pomade had been brushed away and Persephone was snugly wrapped in her robe and comfortably curled in one of the heavy chairs by the fire, she thanked Martha and the girls for their kindness and dismissed them with assurances that she was feeling much
improved and would be able to get herself settled in bed in due course.