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352 M.E.
The king was dying, and someone had to tell him. The court sorcerers were conveniently out of town on important errands, so they couldn’t do it. The court physicians huddled behind heavy curtains and down darkened stairwells, silently daring each other to deliver the bad news.
Broderick, watching them from a shadowy corner of the Lower Robing Chamber, let them bicker and flounder for a while. He was curious to see if they would find their courage. But they never did. So finally, he rose, straightened his cloak, and headed up the stairs, tossing them a careless, “I’ll do it,” over his shoulder as he went.
Edgar was in the Gold Parlor, in the northeastern corner of the castle, where the physicians thought a fine breeze would relieve his fever when the weather turned warmer. Not that it mattered now. He probably wouldn’t live to see spring, even though that was only a week and a half away. Today it was still too cold outside to open the windows. Rain splattered against the leaded glass, and the air in the chamber felt dank and smothering.
Heavy brocaded curtains hung between the gilded pillars, which only made the atmosphere more stifling. As Broderick pushed through and approached the royal sickbed, Edgar stirred.
“It really is unfair to tell me to sleep, and then not let me do it.”
Rolling over slightly, he saw Broderick. His eyes were quick and alert in his gaunt, waxy face. That was good. There had been days recently when Edgar had disappeared, muttering, into a private world of opium dreams, and he seemed to forget not only that he was King of Myrcia, but even that he was a grown man.
“So, it’s you, again,” the king said, his brow contracting. “Here to gloat, are you?”
Broderick bowed. “Not at all, uncle. I would ask if you are comfortable, but you would think I was being sarcastic.”
“Are you here to slip me some poison, then?”
There was a hint of an old accusation there, and Broderick knew better than to take the bait. Best to press on. “I regret to say, uncle, that I have bad news. The physicians think your condition is deteriorating.”
“Deteriorating.” Edgar blinked a few times, then shook his head. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means they think you do not have long to live.”
Broderick watched the look of stunned disbelief cross his uncle’s face. As sick as the man was, he had still thought he would recover. What an astonishing capacity for self-delusion. Edgar’s eyes watered and his lip quivered.
Then his expression hardened. “No. Dammit, I won’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Very well.” Broderick bowed again. “No doubt you will prove the physicians wrong.”
He wouldn’t, of course. But Broderick didn’t need to quibble. He could afford to be magnanimous. After all, he would still be alive in a month. And you never knew who might be listening. Smiling, he backed out and started to close the curtain. “I shall let Rohesia and the children know you’re feeling better.”
Edgar’s head, slowly settling back into the nest of pillows, snapped up again. “I want you to stay away from them. Especially my son.”
“Of course, your majesty,” said Broderick, in an even, smooth tone.
When he met the apothecary’s apprentice on the stairs, he slipped the boy a shilling and said, “His majesty is raving again. Between you and me, an extra grain of opium in his wine tonight would do him a world of good.”
Feeling he had more than fulfilled his duty, Broderick went down to the ground floor of the castle, where all the most impressive public reception rooms were located. Ladies and lords and gentlemen stood around the shadowy halls or sat in secluded nooks of the soaring Palm Court. Some of them were trading rumors of the king’s health. But just as many of them were talking about young Prince Edwin, the king’s only son, and guessing who might be named regent for the boy if the king should die. Broderick knew he was the last person Edgar would have chosen for the job. But Edgar wasn’t going to be around to make that choice. That would be the duty of Broderick and his fellow members of the privy council.
Near the center of the Palm Court, Broderick saw the Bishop of Leornian. His grace sat at the edge of the fountain pool, head back, watching the rain wash over the glass dome high above. Broderick politely extricated himself from a pair of young knights who wanted news of the king and went to join the bishop.
“Searching for the Light of Earstien at this dark time, your grace?” Broderick asked.
The bishop sighed. “The scriptures say the Light can always be found by anyone who seeks it. Though Formacaster winters really strain that metaphor. Is there something I can do for you, captain general?”
“I was hoping for your advice, your grace. I’ve had—well, I suppose we all have had the king and his family in our prayers.”
“Very true, very true.”
“And most particularly the crown prince. I would like to feel, your grace, that there was something I could do to help guide young Edwin.”
“H’m, yes. Quite.” The bishop gave him a look of vague piety. “No doubt, yes. However, for the time being, we must pray that his royal father is around to guide him for many years to come. Beyond that is...well, a bit premature. Assuming you’re speaking of the regency, of course.”
“Regency? Oh, Earstien. Let us hope it doesn’t come to that. Clearly you are more clever about these things than I am,” said Broderick, backing away and smiling to cover his tactical withdrawal.
After this unpromising start, he moved on to the library, off the Palm Court, where the air was colder and drier, and safety lamps flickered over the gilded bindings of ancient volumes. Amid the high shelves and the polished dark paneling, carved with figures of all the animals of Myrcia, some of the courtiers had sought a quieter refuge. But even here, people were talking. A group of young ladies’ maids—none of them much older than his daughter—stood in the central chamber dabbing their eyes and talking about “the poor queen.”
Around the corner in one of the lower reading rooms, Broderick found two more privy councilors, Baron Corbin and the Duke of Pinshire, nestled in wide, black leather chairs. Corbin, the Lord Mayor of the capital, saw immediately what Broderick wanted. “I’d say his royal highness couldn’t have a better regent than you,” he enthused.
The duke refused to discuss the matter, however. “His majesty may still recover,” he snapped, looking up from a long scroll of tax records. “It’s unseemly to be discussing this now.”
“Naturally,” said Broderick, with an apologetic bow. “In my concern for the young prince, I seem to have forgotten myself.”
From a side passage came a rustle of silk, followed by a high, feminine voice, worn and ragged, asking, “Who is speaking of the prince?”
Queen Rohesia came bustling in, followed by two of her ladies and her stepdaughter, Princess Elwyn. Even in the dim light, they glittered with jewels and gold embroidery. Their dresses, yellow and blue and red, fluttered like wings. The duke, the baron, and Broderick all stood and bowed to them, and the ladies curtsied back with gentle, avian grace.
This picture of feminine perfection was somewhat spoiled, though, when the queen crossed her arms and let out a heavy, irritated sigh, looking even more annoyed than usual that Broderick had insinuated himself into her day.
“Your majesty,” Broderick began, “all our thoughts and prayers are with your husband and with your son, in this time of—”
“Have you seen my husband today, Lord Gramiren?” the queen asked.
“Indeed I have,” Broderick answered. “I left him a few minutes ago, and I can tell you that his—”
“You are not wearing your golden collar of office, Lord Gramiren,” she said, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes. “You are not wearing your sash of the Order of Finster. I would expect a privy councilor to know how to dress for an audience with the king, but perhaps I expect too much.”
She stepped closer, into the direct light of one of the lamps, and Broderick could see her face was pale, except around her eyes, where the skin was puffy and red. No doubt someone had given her the same awful news he had delivered to Edgar.
“I do apologize, your majesty.”
“Perhaps,” the queen went on, “one has to be born into nobility to appreciate these rules.”
That was a low blow, and even the queen’s ladies seemed to realize it. Their eyes went wide, and one girl chewed her lip nervously, no doubt wondering if she would have to intervene to preserve decorum. But Broderick merely smiled. In five decades, he had heard every possible joke and insult about his parentage, and while they still hurt as much as they ever had, he had gotten much better at hiding his anger.
“Who do you think you are?” he thought, as he bowed ever lower. He was the son of a king, and who was she? The daughter of the Earl of Hyrne? Finster’s balls, when she had arrived at court, she’d been a teenaged nobody. If he had been as cruel as some people thought he was, Broderick could have told her what the privy councilors had said about her when her marriage to Edgar was first proposed. He could have told her that she was only queen—with the power to lord it over barons and dukes—because someone had looked at her wide, farm girl’s hips and those big heifer’s tits and decided she was a safe bet to produce an heir.
But he liked to think he was a fair-minded man, and he wasn’t about to insult a woman to her face on the day she learned that she would be a widow. There would be plenty of time for insults later. He made another, much more elaborate apology, and exited the library as the queen was led away in tears by one of her ladies.
Still smarting from the insult, he stalked across the Palm Court. In the alcove by one of the waterfalls, he passed Flora, Duchess of Keneburg, writing a letter. She waved him over and asked what was wrong.
“The king’s health is worse,” he told her, “and the queen’s nerves are fragile.” Even to an old friend like Flora, he wasn’t about to admit that his pride had been injured by Rohesia, a woman young enough to be his daughter.
The duchess hurriedly put away her pen and parchment. “Oh, the poor thing. I suppose I’d better go see to her.” With a sad smile, she blew him a kiss. “Thank you for letting me know, Broderick, dear.” She trotted lightly off, long red hair flowing behind her, and then he was alone.
He started up the southwestern tower, headed for his rooms, but when he got to the third floor, he paused only for a moment before continuing on, up past the royal apartments, to the guest rooms on the fifth floor. He had planned to visit sometime soon, and if this was a little earlier than he had intended, then that was fine. He had had enough of court life for one day.
Anne was out, but he had the key to her rooms. He was the one who had arranged for her to get them, even though she wasn’t a lady-in-waiting or the wife of a minister. But he was friends with the chamberlain, and there were almost always extra rooms. And the people who knew about Anne generally lauded him for taking such pains to keep things discreet. He was fairly certain his wife appreciated it, anyway.
Anne was an incorrigible collector. Her apartment was crammed full of furniture and tapestries and knick-knacks that she had picked up in the market. Water pipes from Tartu and calligraphic scrolls from Shangia vied for space with stuffed birds and shadow boxes of dried flowers. The effect was either claustrophobic or cozy, depending on his mood.
A housemaid came in and built a fire in Anne’s parlor—the one with the wide windows looking out through the rain and over the rivers to the west. He helped himself to some of the wine, which was fair, since he’d paid for it. And then he settled down in a big, overstuffed chair to wait.
He had nearly nodded off when Anne returned, soaked to the skin. “Oh, you’re here!” she cried, eyes lighting up with almost canine excitement. “I was out riding over Gleade Hill, and then the storm started.”
“The look suits you,” he said, setting down his wineglass and beckoning her over.
“You’re an ass,” she giggled. She started fumbling at the toggles of her sodden riding dress, but he pushed her hands away and did it himself.
“Do you want to know what I did today?” he asked, as he pulled the wet fabric from her glistening skin.
“Not really. It’s probably something boring and political, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “Exactly right. How did you know?”
On the far side of middle age, there was something gratifying about the notion that this lovely, voluptuous young woman wanted him. But that would have been true of any number of women. What he particularly liked about Anne was that in the five months they had been seeing each other, she had never once shown the slightest interest in his work. All she wanted to do was dance and go riding and make love.
She crawled up on the chair, warm and damp, and straddled him. “Are you spending the night?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?” She bit his lip, tugged, and then let it go. “What could I offer you to make you stay?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said. Then she gave a little gasp of delight as he slipped a finger into her.