fallen. He shouldn’t have said even so much. Rue, or perhaps some closer cousin to distress, curves Robert’s mouth, though he won’t let himself look down. That would be too much; too weak, and that he cannot, or will not, allow himself.
She turns then, amusement and wonder in her eyes, and he holds in a flinch, knowing far too well that he should not have spoken. It’s a long moment before she says, “That,” as if it doesn’t matter, and she’s right, for it doesn’t, and then lifts her left hand, where a heavy signet ring weights the third finger. “That, and this.”
There’s no guilt in the courtesan’s gaze, and Robert is quiet a while as he takes in what the ring means to him, and what it means to Ana. “A friend to the crown of Gallin,” he finally says, slowly. “What of Aulun, Ana?”
She shrugs, beautiful motion that ripples her hair and the light folds of her gown. “What of it? You’ve never really understood, Robert. I’m a courtesan, and a man came to me with an offer. Live like a duchess at Sandalia’s bidding, or die at his hands a whore. There’s no choice in that, my love. There’s no choice at all.”
Fog creeps over Robert’s thoughts, making them thick and dull and slow. He cannot recall—and his memory is excellent—that Ana has ever used those words before. My love. Too much has changed too quickly, and for the first time he wonders if Dmitri was right, and he, Robert, is losing control.
He is clearly losing control, for there’s the question of Javier, born to the power that Robert and Belinda and Dmitri all share, but born outside of Robert’s awareness, raised outside of certain schools of thought and indoctrination. Oh, yes, he is losing control, but that, that is a thing to be dealt with later. Tonight there is only one thing left to do, and she stands before him, waiting on his silence.
Which he breaks with a confession that is unlike him: voice grating and low, he says, “I do not understand.”
“Of course you do.” Ana has a deep voice, but tonight, still, it’s peculiarly light. Breathless, but not with ecstacy or laughter. More as though she dares not take too deep a breath, for fear it will cut her, and she does not want to spend her last hours in pain.
Then, suddenly, he does understand. Fog clears, his mind sharpening, and unexpected regret turns to a knife’s edge within him. “Which is it, then? That you wished not to die a whore, or wished not to die at his hands?”
“Oh,” Ana says, still lightly, “I wished neither, my love, but having had to choose, I chose not to die for him. It’s a small thing,” she says much more softly, and Robert suddenly realises they’re speaking Parnan; that they have been since he entered the room. There should be the sounds of the canals around them; there should be voices lifted in laughter and anger and life from the waterways. That’s how it should be, but it never will be, never again. “It’s a small thing,” Ana repeats, “but in the end, it seemed to be everything.”
Robert’s heart contracts. It’s only a few steps across the room, long hard steps, but only a few, and he takes them swiftly, catching the striking beauty in his arms. She cries out, a quiet shocked sound, and he covers her mouth with his just briefly, before kneeling with her.
Off-orange fabric settles around them slowly, darker now in places, wet and sticky. She’s silent, and he admires her for that even as she lifts fingertips to brush his lips, and then, strength spent, lets her hand fall again. He holds her, and at the last, breathes in the scent of her hair after all, and then rises, silently, to leave death behind.
* * * *
JAVIER, PRINCE OF GALLIN
13 January 1588
Lutetia, the docks
He has gone to some measure to disguise himself, his ginger hair darkened not with dye but with soot and ashes: it is a more temporary guise than he might like, but grey and black catch the light more naturally than pure black dye, and it only needs to work for a few hours. He has no especial skill at changing his weight with clever clothes, but he has packed both coin and food into a roll at his belt, thickening his slender hips. There is padding in the shoulders of his cloak, making him bulkier, and he can, at the least, take the street vowels he learned so well from Eliza and apply them to his voice. He remembers streaks of dirt on Beatrice’s face as he drew her from the oubliette, and has mimicked them on his own, shadows changing the line of his jaw. It is not a perfect disguise, but it is enough to let him walk the docks late at night without notice.
There’s a ship already on the horizon, black shape against the stars as it sails against the wind. That wind carries the scent of the sea, the heavy unpleasantness of rotten fish and saltwater, and Javier is certain that there is no hint of perfume, carried from the horizon, on that breeze. He is certain, and yet. And yet.
The tide has long since turned, and Beatrice has not come to him. Beatrice, he thinks; no: Belinda. It’s an irrational conclusion, that Beatrice would have come to him but Belinda Primrose would not, and it is the only one he can bear.
Morning comes, and Beatrice does not. Head lowered, heart empty, Javier, prince of Gallin, climbs aboard a ship bound for Isidro in Essandia, there to seek his uncle’s counsel, and sails with the dawn.
to be continued in
The Pretender’s Crown
About the Author
C. E. MURPHY lived for many years in Alaska before moving to Ireland. She is the author of the Walker Papers series and the Negotiator trilogy. Her hobbies include swimming, walking, traveling, and drawing.
Copyright
The Queen’s Bastard is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.