“I thought you were going to be Maytagged but, dude, you terrorized that wave!”
That’s because the waves are the only thing left in this world to conquer.
Richard acknowledged the praise with a nod and a smile. “Better get out there while they’re up.”
Lucas headed into the surf for his turn to ride the waves. It was an unwritten surfer code. Always go for the waves because you never knew how long they’d last. In many ways, a ride was sacred.
It was an altogether different code than the one Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, had learned as a youth centuries ago, both before and after his supposed death, but it was a code that suited him at present.
Some days were good, like today. He’d hit the top of the wave and owned it all the way down, as if the water itself obeyed his board. Bad days were when the rushing water swept over him, rolled him under until his lungs nearly burst, and smashed him against rocks before spitting him out, disoriented and near death.
Maytagged, as his admirer called it.
No dishonor to lose to Poseidon.
He set his foot on the bottom of the wooden steps that wound their way up the cliff to his ocean home, looked up and saw a man standing on his balcony, staring out at the surf.
Marshal.
His appearance boded ill. Periodically, his brother or others in their court attempted to convince Richard to leave his beach retreat and return to them. He sent them all away. Surfing kept him young, quite literally. His unconscious healing power worked only when he wanted to live, and he lived for the waves. If he left them, he would falter, grow old and die.
He had no interest in what the Court was doing or how they stayed alive. He fought his own battles. Let them fight theirs. Yet this was the first time Marshal had come.
Once at the top of the stairs, Richard set his board down in the rack on the balcony. Marshal watched but remained silent. Proper court manners, still, after all these centuries. Princes spoke first.
Richard took his time, toweled off his hair, unzipped the top of his wetsuit and peeled it off to the waist. Water from his hair dripped down his chest.
“Hail, Marshal,” he finally said.
“My prince.” Marshal had not changed, save his white beard had been replaced by a close-cropped mustache. His bearing was unalterable. Over eight hundred years old and Marshal would always appear a soldier: upright, formal and deadly.
“I have ill news, Richard.”
Richard tossed the towel to the side. “You wouldn’t be here for anything but ill news.” He sat at his balcony table and gestured to the other chair. Marshal took him up on the offer. He stretched out his long legs and peered intently at Richard.
No more court formality. This was personal, then.
Marshal cleared his throat. “Your brother, Edward, is dead.”
“Impossible!” Vaguely, Richard heard the waves hitting the sand and the gulls screeching overhead. He closed his eyes. The familiar sounds made sense. Edward being dead did not.
“How?”
“In battle with a madman, while performing a task for the Queen.”
In battle. That was something. But Edward was Marshal’s special pupil, a student who had long ago surpassed his master. “Who had enough power to defeat my brother?”
“A rogue. One like us in healing power but damaged in mind. He became insane at the thought of… Well, perhaps you do not wish to hear the rest. You have not cared about our court for a long time.”
As always, Marshal’s rebukes were as well aimed as his sword strokes.
“I hear you. Enough.” Richard waved away the criticism. “Tell me more.”
Brother, what did you do?
“If you care not about us, why ask?”
Richard wouldn’t win this contest of wits. The only option was to quit the field. “Tell me why this madman wanted my brother dead, Marshal.”
“Edward was in charge of the project to bring us gifted children. This man’s sperm was used and he had some emotional attachment to the pregnant mother.”
“A man protecting his woman and his child. Not such a madman after all.” Oh, Edward. Did I not tell you all those years ago that asking people and giving them an illusion of choice saved so many problems? But, no, you demanded obedience and damn those who got in your way.
Richard had simply removed himself from Edward’s orbit. The rest had obeyed or died. Until now.
“He died for the Court. And, as your surfing keeps you young, his missions kept him alive,” Marshal said.
“And Edward didn’t care what methods he used, as always.”
“He was loyal.” Marshal closed his eyes. “I cannot fault him for that.”
“You miss him.”
“As I miss half my heart.” Marshal looked away. “As I miss you.”
Richard’s guilt and grief crashed over him, like a monster wave. “I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am, sending him on a mission that resulted in his death.”
Marshal had seen so much death. They both had. Richard had the waves to live for. Marshal, he guessed, had his Queen.
“And now you want to complete Edward’s mission?”
Marshal sighed, deflated, his stolid bearing gone, leaving only a tired old man sitting in a lawn chair. “There is no hope of success in that mission now. The mother is too well protected and we lost too many men we couldn’t afford to lose. It took a goodly amount of money and influence to cover up the incident.” Marshal walked to the balcony. “No, that battle is done.”
Richard stood. “My brother’s death goes unanswered?”
“You seek vengeance rather than the waves now? That’s a change.”
“I would’ve expected the Court to take care of its own,” Richard snapped. Dammit, Edward was as contradictory an influence in death as much as in life. Half of him was relieved that his sneering, imperious brother was gone. The other half wanted to destroy whoever had killed him.
“Your brother was a soldier who fell in battle. There’s nothing to avenge. And there is another life at stake now.”
“Another life? Explain.”
Marshal set his hands on the railing and watched the waves break.
“Your home reminds me of the beaches in the Middle East.” Marshal turned to face him. “You’re not surfing properly.”
“What do you know about surfing?”
“Once it became an interest of yours, I made it a study of mine.” He curled his hand around Richard’s forearm. “A sword should be an extension of your arm. You always battled the blade for control instead of letting it become part of you. You’re doing the same with the waves. You fight them instead of merging with them.”
Richard looked back to the sea. “Your advice is that I need to be one with the water. Hah. It’s advice I’ve heard before, but I never expected it from you.”
“I think surfing will not ultimately bring you peace.” Marshal released his hold.
“I love it.”
“Love does not always bring peace. Quite the opposite.”
“Stop stalling, Marshal. What else is wrong? Whose life is at stake?”
“Everything is at stake.” Marshal paced away from the railing. “She is ill. No, she’s dying. Edward’s death hit her hard, but she was failing before then.”
She. There was only one “she” in Marshal’s world. “The Queen is ill? The Queen cannot die.”
She was the Queen.
“Yet she fades each day.” Marshal stopped, his back to Richard. His shoulders shook, and his voice was uneven. “She has lost the will to live. I cannot reason with her, I cannot help her. If Edward’s task had been successful, it might have saved her. But with that failure and his death, she’ll be gone. Soon.”
Richard put his hand on Marshal’s shoulder from behind. “How can I possibly help her if you and Edward couldn’t?”
“She told me she has a quest for you. It’s the only set thought in her mind.” Marshal cleared his throat. “I cannot lose her. Will you come?”
“You doubt me?”
“You’ve given me no reason to believe you still cared,” Marshal snapped.
He deserved that.
“Yes, I’ll come.”
As the limousine that had picked them up from the New Orleans airport pulled up to the house, Richard peered out the window. So little had changed in the Queen’s residence since he’d left almost a quarter of a century ago.
“Has she altered anything?” Richard asked.
“She likes the familiar. You know that,” Marshal said. “She’ll not like your garb.”
“I like it.” His hoodie and loose khakis, along with the boat shoes, didn’t qualify as proper court attire. He supposed he should have at least worn a T-shirt under the hoodie, but he was feeling perverse. “If the Queen dismisses me because of my clothes, then she’s too far gone for me to save.”
“If you cared about her, you would indulge her when she is so ill.”
“I’m indulging her. I’m here, right?” And, besides, he had no other clothes. Nor the desire to don the role he’d abandoned so many years ago.
Richard stepped out of the limousine. He stared at the three-story, gray-and-purple mansion in front of him. Two perfectly matched hundred-year-old trees in the yard guarded the home, but they seemed less imposing than he remembered. The wrought-iron fencing was shorter than he recalled.
Richard saw no sign that Hurricane Katrina and the resulting flooding had touched this place. But the French Quarter survived all that, though the residence was now surrounded by a city still somewhat in ruins.
A fit metaphor for the Court, he decided.
He wondered if the Queen was truly sick or if this was a ploy. Marshal told the truth, but it could be only the truth as he perceived it. The Queen loved her games.
“It looks smaller,” he said to Marshal.
“You’ve become used to California mansions,” Marshal said. “Or perhaps your memory plays tricks on you. That seems to be the case far too often with memories.”
The old warrior had spoken little on the flight, save to emphasize he didn’t know why his Queen was failing. There hadn’t been much to say about that.
“How bad is she, truly?” Richard asked.
“You think she’s shamming and I was fooled by some ploy to bring you home, Richard? I wish that were the case.”
Marshal dismissed the driver and stood next to Richard on the street. Perhaps he was also reluctant to go inside.
“We’ve brought in modern doctors. Nothing they’ve tried has worked. She only seemed to regain a semblance of herself when I called and told her I was returning with you. If you can’t reach her, she’s doomed.”
“You lay a heavy responsibility on the black sheep.” What was the surfer term for ultimate calm? Ace. Yes. He would be ace. He would imagine himself in the circle of a wave, alone and untouchable.
Richard walked past the unlocked gate and up the stairs to the doorway that was framed by two Corinthian columns. Before he could knock, a butler opened the door and ushered them inside. The man, whom Richard did not recognize, took their coats. As all their butlers had been through the years, he was dressed impeccably in a gray suit.
“You’re new,” Richard said.
“I have served the house for over twenty years, sir. Perhaps you are new and are unaware of the rules of proper dress?”
Behind him, Marshal coughed. Richard hoped that was to cover a laugh.
“I’m aware. But perhaps you’ve heard of me. They say I do as I please. They’re right.”
“This is Prince Richard Plantagenet,” Marshal said.
The butler’s eyes widened. He bowed. “Welcome, my prince.”
Richard patted the butler’s shoulder. “Thanks, dude.”
The butler stepped back, his mouth open, perhaps in shock.
Richard smiled.
“Is the Queen in her quarters, Winscott?” Marshal asked.
“Yes. I let her know you’d arrived, Lord Marshal. She is with the doctor and a handmaiden.” The butler’s face held the ghost of a smile. Not for me, Richard thought. For Marshal. Richard regretted the tease. The man was doing his best.
“It’s good to see you back, sir,” the butler said.
“Thank you,” Marshal replied.
Marshal won men’s loyalties with his innate honesty. The Court worshipped the Queen. They loved Marshal. And Richard was with them on both.
“You didn’t need to behave that way to Winscott,” Marshal said as he led Richard up the winding staircase to the third floor of the mansion.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Good.”
Richard hesitated in the hallway at the top of the stairs. This was the final step. He tapped the stone hanging from a string around his neck. An ordinary beach rock held by an ordinary string, but it was a touchstone that reminded him of his real home.
Richard opened the door to the Queen’s main receiving room. To his left were her private offices and, beyond that, the palace room. Richard wondered if it still had a proper throne. On the right were the Queen’s living quarters, including her parlor and bedroom.
A young woman, hunched over her embroidery, greeted them. Like Winscott the butler, she was unfamiliar. If his friends from California were here, they’d instantly dub her a babe.
“Howzit?” Richard asked her.
“Um, sir? I’m not sure what you mean.” She stared past him to Marshal, obviously pleading him to help her sort out this maniac.
“It’s all right, Greta.” Marshal sighed. “This is Prince Richard, Edward’s brother. He’s returned to us today.”
“My apologies, Prince Richard! I should’ve recognized you. You look much like your brother.”
“So it’s always been said. Greetings, Greta.”
She placed her embroidery to the side, stood and bent her knee in a curtsy. “Welcome home.”
This is not home. “Thank you.” More teasing didn’t seem appropriate, just now.
“How many are with the Queen?” Marshal asked.
“The doctor, and my sister, Joanna,” Greta said. “And the herald just came in from his office.”
“Thank you.”
Dismissed, Greta sat back down in her corner.
Richard set his hand on the doorknob. Over the edge now, and this was more dangerous than any wave.
“Please, do not to react to her sickly appearance,” Marshal whispered. “She still cares about that.”
“You mean she’s as vain as ever.”
“If she were still that vain, she wouldn’t let herself fade,” Marshal said, his jaw clenched.
Richard opened the door to the bedchamber.
Decay hit him as if it were a palpable force. The smell of sickness was overlaid by perfumed scents meant to mask it. It took him back to his father’s deathbed, so many years ago, when King Edward IV had wasted away in his bed as drinking and other misuses brought him low.
Richard fought the urge to gag and glanced over at Marshal, now standing at his side. The old warrior’s only sign of distress was his hands clasped behind his back, white-knuckled.
“Enough.” Richard strode to the curtains in the darkened room, threw them open and pushed up the window to let in fresh air and sunshine.
“Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?”
Of the trio in the room, Richard identified Jason FitzHugh, the Queen’s long-time herald, and the lady-in-waiting, Joanna, given her resemblance to Greta.
That meant the man accosting him must be the doctor.
“I’m letting air and life into the room, which is more than you’re doing,” Richard said.
“Are you insane? The risk of infection is too high.” The doctor rushed toward the windows.
Richard stepped forward and barred the way. “Risk is exactly what the Queen needs.”
“And what makes you an expert? For all I can see, you’re not even a member of the Court.”
“You sound like a hater, Doctor.”
Marshal cleared his throat. “Richard, this is Doctor Samnee. Doctor, this is Prince Richard, Edward’s brother.”
“I see,” Doctor Samnee said.
Richard studied him. This short, middle-aged man with a small mustache and curly hair hardly seemed to carry enough dignity for the Queen’s Court. Of course, Richard wasn’t one to talk about proper court appearance. Besides, it was the doctor’s medical advice that was at issue.
“Why did you give those orders, Doctor, and shut the Queen away from life?”
“Fresh air could expose her, in her weakened state, to all manner of illness.”
“Yet dead and decayed air could expose her, in her weakened state, to death.”
Marshal coughed again, covering his mouth with his hand. No, not a cough. A laugh. At least Richard had improved Marshal’s mood.
“You’ve no right to overrule my treatment,” Samnee said.
“I’ve every right. Now that my brother is dead, I am the Queen’s heir.” Richard tilted his head and glared at the doctor. “You forget your place.”
“And you finally remember yours, Richard,” the Queen whispered, her voice muffled by the curtains around her bed.
The Queen’s words were barely audible, yet still carried a rebuke. All was not lost yet, Richard thought, if she possessed the energy to chide him. He strode to the bed and pushed aside the opulent curtains to reveal the occupant.
Only years of practice in courtly manners kept his face from showing the shock of seeing her like this.
None of his Queen’s beauty remained. Her sallow cheeks, the sick yellow tint to her skin, and stringy muscles that covered bone made her look like a corpse. Her silk bedclothes seemed a grotesque joke, beauty covering death.
Their immortality relied on the desire to live. Thought became deed. No disease could destroy them, and very few injuries were immune to their psychic healing abilities. Doctors and their precautions be damned—the only way the Queen could die was if she wanted to die.
“How could you let yourself become this?”
“How could you stay away from me so long?” Her eyes gleamed, full of anger. She raised a skeletal finger to him and pointed. “And with these clothes and with your hair bleached? This isn’t you.”
Richard bit his tongue and waited a few seconds before replying, lest he let loose his horror at what remained of the most vital person he’d ever known. “Ah, I see you’re not too far gone yet if you criticize me. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“We are not required to answer your question,” said the Queen, using the royal “we”. Another good sign, he hoped. She must live. What could be so wrong?
He sat on the bed, next to her. With her so tiny, there was plenty of room. “You chide me for leaving. And yet you’d give up and leave them without a Queen.”
“You could lead our court. You’re my heir, as you just said.”
“I’d lead them into the waves, perhaps.” He smiled. “Is that why you insisted I return, then? To assure yourself the Court could continue without you?” He shook his head. “I’m no replacement for you. No one is. You’ll simply have to live.”
She blinked and looked past him. Richard glanced over his shoulder and saw Marshal standing directly behind him. The others had moved to the opposite side of the room, giving them relative privacy.
“His manners lack, as always, but his words speak the truth, Eleanor,” Marshal said.
“You wound us, William,” she said.
“Truth often wounds. And I fear you may be too far gone for any words to have effect,” Marshal answered.
“Perhaps you are right. It is time for an end to it all.” The weakness in her voice scared Richard more than her skeletal appearance.
“If you want me to witness your death, I refuse, as you should refuse to waste away like this.” Richard stood. “This is your choice. Change it.”
She turned her head away from him. In a low whisper, she said, “I have tried. God’s eyes, Richard, I’ve tried. I cannot shake this damned melancholy. Nothing seems worth it any longer.”
This was not right. Not natural. If the Queen said she tried to stay alive, she should be. What could make her so prone to melancholy now when she never had been in the past? Marshal was nearly as old, and his Queen was sick, but he wasn’t ill.
I’m missing some pieces of the puzzle.
Richard knelt by the side of the bed and took the Queen’s hand, holding it lightly between his palms. “What can I do to help you? Provide a target for your wrath?”
The sides of her mouth twitched. A smile? “Perhaps immortality is a myth. Perhaps this is the end of my natural lifespan.”
“There’s nothing natural about you, Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
At that, she did smile. There. She was in there somewhere. What was shackling her to this bed?
“I ask again, why am I here?”
“To help me. To continue Edward’s work.”
“I want to help you, but I’m not Edward. I’ll not do as he did.”
“That I know well.” And there was a hint of her old command in her voice. “Once, long ago, there was one gifted with the ability to heal not only herself but others. Alas, she died young. Such healers are lacking in the modern world. Edward wanted to create one for me. He died in the attempt.”
Edward must have been half mad out of his mind with worry and fear for the Queen.
“Did you really order Edward to capture a pregnant woman in the hope her unborn baby could heal you?”
She closed her eyes. “That was your brother’s scheme, not mine. But he tried so hard to serve me.”
“So all is forgiven if he did it in your service?”
“He stayed. Unlike you.”
“You know why I left.”
“And now you are back. Will you serve me again?”
“If you wish me to prostrate myself and ask forgiveness, I won’t.” Never. He had been right on the matter; she had been wrong. Later events proved it. “But if you ask of me a task that I can accomplish, that’s another matter.”
“Disrespectful boy,” she whispered.
“Totally. The same as always.”
“I remember. I remember too many things.” She turned her head from him again and closed her eyes.
Those things had troubled her not until recently. This mood of hers wasn’t right. “What’s this task?”
“I need you to chase a legend for me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“Good.” She looked past him. “Marshal, I feel like I am sinking into this bed. Prop me up on the pillows. Richard and I have much to discuss.”
With one hand, Marshal lifted his Queen up and held her against him while he re-arranged her pillows. As he settled her in a sitting position, he kissed her forehead.
“You are always beautiful, Eleanor,” he said.
“And you were always a smooth courtier.” The Queen took his hand and kissed it. Richard swallowed a lump in his throat and looked away. When the Queen died, he suspected Marshal would lose his will to live as well and follow her.
He would lose them both.
Richard took a chair from the other side of the room and sat at her bedside.
“Stay, William. The rest of you, leave us,” the Queen commanded.
“This exertion is unwise,” Doctor Samnee said. “And the window should be closed.”
“Leave us,” Richard repeated.
Joanna, the doctor and FitzHugh filed out. FitzHugh gave a smile of encouragement as he slipped out the door.
Marshal took a seat on the other side of the bed, watching over the Queen.
“So, what legend must I chase?” Richard asked.
She drank a glass of water Marshal handed to her. “Tell me, Richard, what do you know of Rasputin, the Mad Monk?”
“The one said to have brought down the Russian royal family? Very little.”
“You’re about to find out more.” She handed the glass back to Marshal. “Oh, and how do you feel about working with a woman who can become a ghost?”
“Even more intrigued.”