Tomorrow's Kingdom (11 page)

So instead of shrieking, Mordecai took a deep, calming breath, fixed his dark eyes upon the queen and softly said, “Though the news of your pregnancy does not find me best pleased, I suppose I ought to be grateful for the proof of your fertility. How far along are you, Your Majesty?”

Swallowing hard, the queen pressed her free hand against her belly and tried to step back but the cleric swiftly moved to block her way. “Y-Your Grace,” she faltered as the cleric shoved her forward so hard that she stumbled on the hem of her gown. “I know things aren't going to work out exactly as you had hoped they would, but I am sure we can come to some sort of arrangement that—”

“How—far—along?” repeated Mordecai, even more softly than before.

“About three months.”

“Hmm,” breathed Mordecai, placing his cold hand over top of her warm one. The queen shuddered at his touch, but did not pull away her shielding hand. “Too late for some remedies,” he murmured as he began to lightly stroke her fingers, “but not too late for others.”

The stricken look on the queen's face told him that she knew exactly what he meant to do. “
No!
” she gasped as she began to struggle anew. “Please, I'll do—”

“Anything?” suggested Mordecai. “Yes, I know you will. Because as soon as we've rid ourselves of your little problem, you will become my wedded wife, and queen or no, I shall demand absolute obedience from you in all things.” Turning to the cleric, he said, “Do you know of a hag skilled enough to cut the little cockroach from her womb without killing or ruining her?”

The cleric shook his head. “I don't, Your Grace,” he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mordecai saw his beautiful bride-to-be heave a sigh of relief—a sigh that was cut short when the cleric added, “But I know someone who does.”

FOURTEEN

S
TUPID, STUPID, STUPID!
thought Persephone as the cleric hustled her from the dining hall.
How could I have been so stupid?

If only she'd stuck to her plan to play to Mordecai's lust as she'd done on that long-ago night when he'd discovered her standing ankle-deep in alley muck! Once she'd drawn him in, her intention had been to nudge him into dismissing the servants and then bash him over the head with the fireplace poker—or, if she could get her hands on a carving knife, slit him from bow to stern. She hadn't quite worked out how she was going to explain the blood and brain splatters on her gown to the various New Men she'd encounter as she thereafter fled the castle grounds—nor how she was going to convince them to give her a horse and raise the gate—but she'd been confident that she'd think of
something
.

Her first mistake, of course, had been commenting on the servants' missing tongues, because it was something no other highborn woman in the realm would have noticed, let alone commented on. But that mistake was nothing compared to the one she'd made when she'd told Mordecai about the baby. Her desperate hope had been that perhaps if he knew she was already with child it would give him pause—and give her time to come up with another plan.

But it had not given him pause. And now she was being forced back to the turret chamber from which there was but a single perilous route of escape—there to stay until they came with the hag who would cut the baby from her womb, piece by bloody piece.

As the cleric continued to hurry her along, a fierceness the likes of which she'd never felt before unexpectedly reared up inside of Persephone. Instead of being afraid
of
the baby, she was suddenly afraid
for
him; though she could not yet feel him in her belly, she suddenly felt him in her heart.

And just like that, the girl who'd once wanted the whole situation to just “go away” became a mother who would risk
anything
to save the life of her unborn child.

“She's to return to her chambers,” announced the cleric as they arrived at the bottom of the spiral staircase where Tutor was standing guard.

“Alone?” said Tutor in surprise.

“Aye, alone,” replied the cleric, leering at Persephone in a way that made her wonder what the gods thought of people who drove their knees into holy men's crotches. “Seems the little queen here has got herself in the family way, and His Grace wants it taken care of before the wedding.”

“By ‘taken care of' he means
murdered
,” Persephone could not help saying.

“I know what he means,” said Tutor as unconcernedly as if they were speaking of killing a chicken for the stewpot.

He'll pay for that too
, vowed Persephone, recalling how she'd promised him he'd pay for slapping her.

The cleric turned and hurried away then—presumably to seek out the one who knew the hag. After he'd gone, Tutor stepped to one side and, laying one hand upon the hilt of his sheathed sword, used the other to gesture toward the winding staircase.

Persephone stared at him, her face determinedly impassive in spite of the fact that her mind was racing. She didn't think she'd be able to outrun him in her high-heeled shoes and she
knew
she'd never be able to beat him in a fight, but there had to be
some
way to keep from being trapped in—

“You can climb up by yourself,” said Tutor, “or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you up.”

With a jolt, Persephone realized that Tutor's own words had just shown her the way. Looking down so that he'd not see the sudden fire in her eyes, Persephone wordlessly gathered up her beautiful skirts, swished past him and, wobbling slightly on her high heels, began to climb. When she was two-thirds of the way up, she silently slipped off her left shoe, set the heel against the edge of one of the stairs and leaned until the heel snapped. Then she slipped the shoe back on, carefully arranged herself in a sprawled position upon the stairs and gave a loud shriek.

An instant later, Tutor was crouched beside her, sword in hand.

“What is it?” he demanded in alarm as he scanned for danger. “What happened?”

“I broke a heel!” gasped Persephone. Clutching at her ankle, she moaned and rocked back and forth in what she hoped was a convincing display of unutterable agony.

Looking visibly relieved, Tutor sheathed his sword, jammed his hands on his hips and said, “Can you walk?”

“I … I think so,” panted Persephone. Biting her lower lip, she gingerly attempted to push herself to her feet several times before scowling up at Tutor and snapping, “Well, don't just stand there. Give me your arm!”

Smiling slightly, Tutor did as he was bid. As they began climbing, Persephone clutched Tutor's right arm as though it were the last piece of flotsam in a storm-tossed sea.

“Mordecai said that your hairy friend was punished for his beastly behaviour toward me,” she grunted as she laboriously dragged herself up onto the landing at the top of the stairs.

“He wasn't my friend,” said Tutor.

“Nor mine,” Persephone said as they stepped up to the chamber door. Still clutching Tutor's arm with her left hand, she casually held her right hand out in readiness as she said, “Still, you must've felt
something
when you learned that he'd been punished.”

“Not really,” shrugged Tutor, pushing open the door and stepping into the deserted chamber. “In fact, I was the one who beheaded him.”

Though she'd already made up her mind to do whatever she had to in order to save her baby, Tutor's heartless words made Persephone feel a good deal better
about stepping into the chamber after him, snatching up the heavy crystal wine decanter from the half-moon table and smashing it down on the back of his head with all her strength.

Unfortunately, the sigh of relief Persephone heaved upon seeing Tutor crumple to the ground was cut short when she heard a distant shout of alarm. The blast of the hunting horn that followed lasted no more than a few seconds, but by the time it was over, the castle was alive with the sound of doors opening and slamming and many men running.

Not knowing what was going on but guessing that it wouldn't be long before someone came looking for her, Persephone looked toward the chamber windows. If a climber was especially strong and lucky, she just might be able to descend the outer wall of the turret without slipping and plummeting to her death on the jagged rocks far below.

Persephone's breath came faster. She was desperate to escape and save her baby, but was she desperate enough to try
that
?

FIFTEEN

A
QUARTER OF AN HOUR
after the hunting horn sounded, the door of the cramped closet in which Mordecai had been stuffed for his own safety opened without warning.

Lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the flickering light of the torches that lined the corridor, Mordecai squinted up at the man who'd recently been promoted to commander of castle security—the man whose head would shortly adorn a wall spike as punishment for allowing the castle defences to be breached.

“Well?” snapped Mordecai, biting back a groan as he staggered to his feet and shuffled out of the closet. “Is it over?”

The brawny young commander nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get out of Mordecai's way. “The intruders have been overpowered, Your Grace,” he replied with a weak but ingratiating smile.

Pursing his lips at the fool's eagerness to please,
Mordecai demanded to know if any of the intruders yet lived.

“One,” said the commander. He hesitated before adding, “It is … well, it is Lord Atticus, Your Grace.”

“Lord Atticus?” exclaimed Mordecai. “
Bartok's
son?”

The commander nodded and said, “He was apprehended in an alcove off the main corridor leading to the kitchens.”

“What in the name of the gods was he doing
there
?”

Fidgeting in a way that made Mordecai want to slap him, the commander replied, “My soldiers say that after getting separated from those of his men who'd managed to fight their way into the castle, he somehow got turned around.”

“It would appear that my ruse with the empty carriage didn't fool Bartok, after all,” murmured Mordecai. Then, careless of the throbbing pain in his neck, he threw back his head and let out a bark of laughter that echoed up and down the corridor. “Oh, how
furious
Bartok is going to be when he learns that his plan to rescue the queen has failed! How utterly
horrified
he is going to be when he realizes that in addition to retaining possession of the queen, I have now taken possession of his only son and heir!”

The commander said nothing in response to these exclamations of delight, and it wasn't until the last echoes of laughter had faded that Mordecai noticed the expression of pure dread upon the man's face.

“What is it?” he snarled, his own happy countenance vanishing at once.

The commander swallowed hard. “I … I—”

“
WHAT
IS
IT
?” bellowed Mordecai, raking his fingernails down the fool's cheek.

The not-so-eager-now commander cringed. “Your Grace,” he practically whimpered, “the queen is gone.”

Mordecai gaped at him. “What do you mean she's
gone
?” he spluttered. “A moment ago, you told me that the intruders had been overpowered! You said that only one yet lived! Are you telling me now that one escaped with the queen?”

“No!” cried the commander, who did not even seem to notice the rivulets of blood running down his face. “No, Your Grace, no, I swear to you, no! The very
instant
the hunting horn sounded, I raced to the tower chamber to see to the queen's safety and security. It would not have been possible for one of the intruders to get to her before I did!”

“
WELL
,
SOMEONE
GOT
TO
HER
,
YOU
BABBLING
MORON
!” shrieked Mordecai, raking his fingernails down the commander's other cheek. “What does the soldier who was supposed to be guarding her have to say for himself?”