THEKINGhad unquestioned power in Hesse-Davia, something for which I was to be profoundly grateful over the next few hours. He had not been aware of my arrest. There was no more talk of my being a witch or of using magic, first to try and kill the king and then to save him.
For my part, I was incandescent with rage that all my good efforts seemed to be so easily overthrown. Whilst I had been amusing myself with his youngest son, the king had almost been killed. Something had to be done. He had eaten nothing since his return, merely had some wine to drink, which four other men had shared with him, and then he had gone to pray. He did not appreciate my joke about the dangers of Christian prayer, but I could think of nothing else to offer him.
I studied his rooms carefully. The bedding had been completely changed, as I had requested. The new coverings were not to my taste: rich damasks and velvets in deep burgundy. One simpering minion pointed out to me in a supercilious manner that they matched the decoration of the room:Baroque style,had I not heard of it? I didn’t point out to him that Baroque was quite out of fashion now in the best drawing rooms in England. England, as I constantly reminded myself, was a very long way away. Nevertheless, he continued to follow me around the room, pointing out the finer detail in the ornate paintings and the crimson and azure hangings, and something was pricking at the back of my skull again. I felt it as a little draft of understanding blowing from some open door of memory. But what was it? Why could I not bring it further forward in my mind?
I ran my finger over one of the richly detailed paintings. “When were these done?”
He thought for a moment. “They were commissioned when His Majesty took his summer leave last year. They were completed for his return.”
I pursed my lips for a moment. It coincided with the onset of the man’s illness, but I had never seen fewer than ten people in this room with him. He even slept with a manservant at the foot of his bed. I slapped my head in anger; I had not even thought to ask. “Has anyoneelsebeen sick with the same illness as the king? Think, man.”
He screwed up his face theatrically. “Absolutely not.”
“They must have been! Make inquiries.” I was desperate to be right.
But apparently I was not. After exhaustive inquiries, there was not one account of anyone feeling sick at all from prolonged exposure to bad art. I felt like stamping with frustration. All my good work being undone by someone or something cleverer than I. Could I pack the old man up and take him back to the lodge? I could see in his face that he wanted this too, but what could be done? He was theking. His country had already had a minor war in his absence. He was only king whilst he was actually being… king. At least he recovered swiftly from this latest setback. An hour’s rest and he was up and about and wanting to hold councils and do whatever else he usually did all day. I was glad. I had a personal problem to take care of.
His Royal Highness Prince Christian Aleksey had made his reappearance as I’d been breathing life back into his father. I’d been aware of him, of course. Even after this short time of our acquaintance, I was always aware of Aleksey whenever he was in the same room. I had seen his bare feet in the crowd as I’d cradled the gasping old man in my arms. He had at least put on a shirt. I’d kept him in the corner of my eye as I walked around inspecting the wall hangings. I’d stood a little way from him as the courtiers had been questioned about their health. But I could delay the inevitable no longer. When everyone swept out after the king, I put a hand onto his arm to retain him. He pouted, staring stonily ahead, but stayed behind.
“I’m sorry.” What else was there to be said? I’d knocked him unconscious with one blow. I knew I’d wounded his pride as much as the side of his head. This was black and blue, but I did not attempt to ease it. I think we’d both had quite enough of my ministrations for one day. He looked down for a moment. He’d been about to examine his boots, something he did habitually when challenged or thinking, but this time he found bare feet—toes. He scrunched up his face in confusion. I snorted; I couldn’t help it. He gave me a wounded look and then shook his head fondly, despairingly. He mock punched the side of my face, and I took the blow in the same theatrical manner: a slow motion spinning away.
He laughed. “I should thank you for saving my father’s life again, not want to bend you over and—” He stopped there, thankfully. I’m fairly sure he was as confused by the image he’d conjured as I. Perhaps he bent his soldiers over and flogged them. It was an interesting thought….
We began to walk back to our rooms. I desperately needed to put something on my feet. Shaved head, un-tucked shirt, bare feet, I looked like a condemned man heading toward a scaffold. That was not a thought I wanted to dwell upon.
“What did you do? With my father? I have never seen anything like that.”
“I learned it many years ago. A child drowned, and an old woman revived him. She was… I suppose you would call her a doctor.”
“A woman? Hardly.”
I glanced over at him. “You do not think a woman could be a doctor equally well as a man?”
“Of course not. How ridiculous can you possibly be? Maybe my beloved Anastasia could take my place as head of the army. I’m sure her dresses would look superb fluttering in the wind as she charged, lance held high.”
This was so annoying and so stupid that I didn’t want to engage with it. Perhaps I just didn’t like being reminded of Anastasia or having her called his beloved. Then I wondered if he’d done this deliberately: mention her and remind me of her place in his heart. I’d apologized for the punch, but he still wore the mark of another man—a stronger, quicker man—upon his face. He had very effectively gotten his revenge, if this was what it had been. I determined there and then not to underestimate this prince of mine again. He was not vacuous and flighty, as he liked to give the impression he was. And why was I calling him my prince? He was strong wine: something I thought about consuming but knew would be bad for me.
Aleksey seemed to be enjoying my silence. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t confusion leading me to not speak and that I’d seen through his nonsense very easily, but I felt this would only encourage him. I took my revenge upon his revenge. Petty, I knew, but quite satisfying. “Would it be convenient for me to leave my equipment here until it can be safely shipped? I would like to leave tomorrow.”
“What do you mean? We have already discussed this. You’re staying!”
I didn’t remember discussing it at all. But then I remembered my hands upon him, his eyes closing, the arch of his back to my touch. Had we actually been deciding my fate in those touches? Perhaps we had. But it could not be. Hesse-Davia had nothing for me. A man like me had nothing anywhere in the civilized world, but certainly not in this country that favored medieval superstition over enlightened law.
I’d rather take my chances in prison than on a spike.
We’d arrived back at the rooms. He came into mine as if he now belonged there and flung himself once more upon the bed. I pulled on my boots, arranged my dress a little more decorously, and sat down on the edge alongside him.
After a moment he stretched out one arm, his hand coming to rest by my hip, not quite touching me but close enough to be felt in my mind. I studied it, then commented dryly, “You should clean your nails.”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, you sound like an old woman.”
“They are dirty, and you’ve probably been scratching and picking at your wounds with those nails, and so you now have some bad blood.”
“Now you sound like a priest. I do not have the devil under my nails, Nikolai. And if I do, he cannot be washed off.”
I shook my head despairingly. “I cannot prove all that I know. I speak only from the results of a lifetime’s observation of these things. People who are cleaner survive injury better than those who are dirty. It is why, incidentally, women make better healers than men. They are generally cleaner. And before you spout some more of your arrogant nonsense, I learned all I know about healing from a woman.”
He drew back his hand and studied it, turning it this way and that. “You must have been dropped on your head as an infant. It is the only explanation.”
