Chapter Twenty-Seven

Markka brought word when she returned from using the outhouse, her eyes shining.

“Majesty, Majesty, you’ll never guess!”

I confess, a thousand thoughts burgeoned through my mind: Rupert had come looking for us; Ortis’s army had fallen; We could go home. I shook my head.

“Horses. Two of them. In a shed out back. Do you think you can ride?”

I’d never been on the back of a horse. Scarcely had I ridden in a carriage. But the woman I’d now become had no room for uncertainty. “Yes.”

We borrowed warm clothing, blankets, and food from our accidental host and set off riding through the newly fallen snow. The weather had cleared, but looking back toward the castle, I could no longer see so much as a wisp of smoke.

Setting our backs to home, we rode on.

The journey gave me an opportunity to think. Rupert knew King Edmund. I did not. Rupert might trust him; I no longer trusted anyone save Markka. If Ortis succeeded in overthrowing Burgendy, what was to stop him taking aim at Khett next?

“Markka,” I said as we rode, “it would be best if we do not let anyone know who Octavius is, or that the Crown Prince of Burgendy has survived. That way, Ortis cannot hunt him down and kill him. That means we can tell no one who I am, either.”

“But Majesty! How will you sue King Edmund for help if you do not tell him who you are?”

“I cannot, at least not at once. We must wait and see how the land lies. For now, I think we must pose as mere refugees. Sisters, perhaps.” I smiled painfully. “Though I have never had a sister who cared for me.”

“But Majesty…”

“To begin, you must stop calling me that.”

“What shall I call you?”

“Cinders.”

“But that is an insulting sort of name.”

“And I am no one of consequence. We will say we were returning home when the castle fell and we came away. It will explain how we alone escaped. For I have seen no one else from the castle, have you?”

“Not yet,” Markka admitted, and bit her lip. “We must say you were away at your lying in. It will explain why you have a newborn infant. Say you were unwed and in shame.”

“A likely story.”

She gave me an apologetic look. “It will mean you must remove your wedding band. I’m sorry; I know what it means to you.”

A lump rose to my throat. I looked down at the fragile band, inscribed with flowers. Rupert had put it on my finger, and I’d never yet taken it off.

“I would do far more to protect my son. And it is but for a time, until we can discover how things lie in Khett and—and who is left alive back home.”

“Yes.” Markka gave me a tremulous smile. “Yes, Sister.”

****

And so we arrived in the kingdom of Khett, two hapless and helpless peasant women with children. We played our parts well, if I do say it. And I’m certain we looked them also, dirty and ragged, the children weary and squalling and me with but one shoe.

The good citizens of Khett with whom we first came in contact passed us along like a hot potato; no one wished to keep us too long, until we came to King Edmund’s palace.

Not exalted enough to see the King himself, we were at last conducted into the presence of an official, a middle-aged man with an impatient manner and not unkind eyes.

He introduced himself as Sir Rand and said, once he’d heard our story, “Quite frankly, we’d wondered what transpired in Burgendy. We have had absolutely no communication even via our agents.”

“Agents?” I repeated in surprise.

“My good woman, we always have operatives in foreign capitals. It is as if ours have now dropped off the face of the earth. Not too surprising, given you say the castle has fallen.”

“We thought we saw fire there,” I replied carefully. “And the north wall had crumbled. We do not know if King Rupert and his family survived.” I widened my eyes in what I hoped passed for innocence. “You do not know?”

Sir Rand shook his head. “Yours are the first words we have had of this.” He rubbed his rather long chin. “I will have to inform the King. Meanwhile I suppose you request sanctuary?”

“Yes, sir, please,” Markka said.

He eyed us unhappily. “Five dependents. The kingdom of Khett, I will have you know, is not a charity. I hope you come prepared to work.”

“As always,” I agreed.

****

We never did achieve an audience with the King. I knew that had I spoken the truth of my identity, I’d have been conducted to him in a moment. But revealing my identity exposed Octavius to risk. So though I ached to throw myself on King Edmund’s mercy and demand to know whatever he learned of the situation in Burgendy and most of all whether Rupert still lived as a prisoner or otherwise, I did not dare.

Markka and I, with the children, were given berths in a rooming house, a grim and lowly place run by an aging widow. She accepted us grudgingly and greeted us with the words, “I hope them children don’t cry much. It’ll disturb the clientele.”

The clientele consisted of an unsavory and rather unfortunate sampling of Khett’s poorest citizens. Markka and I found ourselves living in a garret, and when whatever stipend Sir Rand had given Mrs. Flick ran out, we worked to earn our beds.

I found myself back in the kitchen, working among the ashes once again.

Mrs. Flick needed the assistance. She ran the house by herself with the help of one idiot lad who barely understood what was said to him. At first Markka and I took turns minding the children, but even having been wed to a soldier, Markka’s skills in the kitchen did not match my own.

My abilities at the hearth returned to me swiftly, as if they’d never left, which perhaps they hadn’t. Heaven knew my stint as Queen had been short enough. Mrs. Flick professed herself happy with the skills Cook had taught me and settled into calling me Miss Cinders.

We got what news we could from gossip, and that mostly overheard in the dining room. Mrs. Flick’s guests, as I say, came and went. I took to leaving the door to the kitchen ajar, stretched my ears, and learned what I could.

Gossip being gossip, I did not know what to believe.

They said everyone in Burgendy was dead, from the rats in the cellars to the King, as they put it. Burned to death. Stabbed. Tortured. Heads cut off. Everyone had a different story. None of them lent me much hope. I cried a thousand tears into the ashes, salting Mrs. Flick’s food with them. I raged and prayed and trembled, all with the blank face the landlady liked to see. My time of servitude in Mother’s kitchen stood me in good stead.

At night, during my brief moments of rest, I cuddled Octavius in my arms and, sleepless, imagined a hundred scenarios. All returned always to one truth: they must be dead, every one. Else why would they not escape the castle, the city? Why not send for help?

My heart grieved for Rupert and the Dowager, for my close acquaintances—there were those for whom I cared, such as Rellison. I grieved for a life gone and the hope of regaining it.

If Burgendy had indeed fallen and Ortis lay in possession of the kingdom, what would he do? I pondered that long as well, because what he might do governed what I should. Had he any notion the Crown Prince—possibly King—of Burgendy survived? What might he do if he did? Hunt us down?

And if I went and threw myself on King Edmund’s mercy, what would he do? Would he see this as an opportunity to take Ortis on and claim Burgendy for himself? Would he, too, want wee Octavius eliminated?

I might take that risk on my behalf—never on that of my son.

So the days crawled by, and winter—our old ally and defender—closed in for a vicious last showing. It snowed hard, the drifts filling the streets, and the wind howled like a mob of marauders. In fact sometimes I roused from my sleep with my heart pounding, thinking the north wall had fallen again.

I would lie there, remembering the expression in Rupert’s green eyes the last time I saw him—fearful, protective, and so loving.

So we languished in obscurity, with no hope of forever.