“Of course I love you, Ann. I’ve always loved you—I’ll always love you. I should have said so. I was being a fool, making a stupid joke.”
The tears continued to seep out of his closed eyes and leak across his cheek into her lovely hair.
“Your Majesty.” Leo this time. Then the door opened and Alric and Arista stumbled through, their cheeks wet, eyes red.
“Will you kill your own children?” Leo called out.
Before he could rise, they rushed toward the bed. “Father?” Arista was out in front, ahead of Alric, whose sight was fixed on his mother.
“You shouldn’t—” He coughed again. “You shouldn’t be in here. You should—” He doubled over and started to vomit.
“Get him out!” Leo ordered. “Get all of them out of this damn smoke, or we really will lose our king!”
CHAPTER 22
HOMECOMINGS
King Amrath stared out the shattered window of what had once been his council chambers. Now a gutted, scorched-black cave, it stank of smoke and death. Long black tears ran so that even the stone walls cried. The rain continued, weeping for the loss as the king looked out of his ruined home at the city below. The king had no more tears to shed.
The ache was still in his chest, a crushing sensation as if someone had punched a hole through his ribs and squeezed his heart. The rest of him was just numb. He still had trouble breathing. Leo had likely saved his life by sending his children in, but the king wasn’t sure if a thank-you was appropriate, nor was he at all certain his trouble breathing had anything to do with the smoke.
But he was still king. He still had responsibilities. Leo and Braga were steering the kingdom as best they could, but they still needed him.
The meeting had begun with a tally of the dead. Remarkably only a little over a dozen people perished in the fire, mostly servants who worked the upper floors—Drundiline, his wife’s favorite handmaid, and Nora, the kids’ nurse. Their loss was tragic, but Amrath hardly noticed. He still puzzled at how Ann’s bedchamber was hardly touched by the fire, but Arista’s room was nothing but a blackened shell.
“Your Majesty?” Leo said softly.
“What? Sorry, I…”
Leo smiled sadly. “Never mind. Go on, Chancellor.”
Braga nodded. “It was Richard Hilfred who set the fire but Exeter who ordered it.”
“As I tried to warn you, Your Majesty,” Saldur said.
The bishop’s voice irritated him. By not heeding his counsel, Saldur was blaming him for Ann’s death. There was too much truth there not to hate the cleric for pointing it out.
“As far as I have been able to determine,” Braga said, “Lord Exeter had long plotted to take the throne. I suspect he may have murdered Chancellor Wainwright, hoping to obtain the chancellery. When you appointed me to that position, he apparently decided to take action.”
“And where is Exeter now?”
“He’s dead. Butchered in Gentry Square.”
“Who killed him?”
“We think he was betrayed by someone he was conspiring with.”
“Yes,” Saldur agreed. “That’s how things look.”
“Wasn’t there a note? Something about a group of women taking credit?” Leo asked.
“Oh yes, some foolishness suggesting a house of prostitution was involved,” Saldur said. “Obviously a poor attempt at diversion.”
“I would have to agree with the bishop, Your Majesty,” Braga added. “I’m continuing the investigation, but the women mentioned in the note don’t appear to have had anything to do with it. Medford House is literally a handful of women struggling to survive in an alleyway. The madam of the house was recently battered by Exeter during an investigation the high constable was conducting. This appears to have been the source of the charade, but that’s where it ends. The real killer was just trying to throw us off his scent.”
“But the women of Medford House were arrested?” Leo said.
Braga raised his hands and shook his head in a show of frustration. “The sheriffs are Lord Exeter’s men and some can actually read. You can hardly blame them. At the time his body was found, his treachery was not yet known. They acted in haste—without knowing the facts or about the constable’s guilt. I’m just grateful they didn’t kill anyone. I’ve already given the order for the women’s release.”
“I think we need to do more than that,” Saldur said. “These poor girls have been treated badly, and while we know they weren’t involved, rumors are already spreading. People think they were responsible for the wanton slaughter of a high-ranking nobleman and relative of the king.”
“And the killer of my wife,” Amrath reminded them.
“Of course, excuse me. It’s just that people might be angry to think someone of their social standing might do such a thing and get away with it.”
“How would it be if I knighted them?” the king said, not entirely joking.
Saldur offered an uncomfortable smile. “I think just some declaration of royal protection would suffice.”
“I suppose we could issue an edict and instruct the sheriffs to actually enforce it,” Braga said. “It’s my understanding that crimes against women in that profession often have a blind eye turned by those entrusted with keeping the peace in the quarter.”
“Do as you want,” Amrath said to the chancellor. “I really don’t care. Now what about Richard Hilfred?”
“He is dead as well, Your Majesty, by my own blade, the night of the fire,” Braga said.
“Well done, Chancellor,” Leo exclaimed, and it was followed by rousing applause by all in attendance.
Braga bowed his head respectfully and humbly, but his pride was evident. Amrath had been right in appointing his brother-in-law to the position. At least one member of the council had done something of value that evening.
“Richard Hilfred…” the king muttered. “He saved my life once. It’s hard to believe.”
“I knew Richard Hilfred well,” Saldur said. “He often came to me with concerns about his life—and Richard was a very troubled man.”
“Don’t you dare try and excuse him.” Amrath tore at his beard, pulling until it hurt.
“Absolutely not, sire. I would never—but as his bishop, I listened to him confide his many personal troubles with me and often mentioned his great sadness at the death of Rose Reuben—something he blamed you for not preventing. Still, I never suspected he would go so far.”
“So Exeter and Hilfred are dead,” Amrath said. “But that doesn’t explain the queen’s death. Why is it that no one woke her? No one thought to get her out? How is it all of you stand before me without a scratch or a burn?”
With each word the king’s voice grew louder until the roar of the bear had returned and his hand had settled on the pommel of his sword.
There was a long pause.
“Your Majesty,” Braga began softly. “We tried.”
“How hard is it to run up a set of stairs?”
“Before setting the fire, Richard Hilfred chained the doors to the residence shut. He thought you and your family were inside. His plan was to kill all of you. I tried … please believe me, Your Majesty. After killing Richard Hilfred, I did everything I could to get the doors open, but it was useless. As the fire grew, I was pulled from the inferno by two guards. There simply was nothing that anyone could do.”
He chained the doors shut?
If the conversation continued, Amrath didn’t hear what was said. It was as if he were falling into a bottomless well. All he could think of was his wife and daughter, trapped as the castle burned, and all the times he had offered a kind word to a man who chained them in to die. The mention of his daughter’s name pulled him out. “What was that?”
Leo spoke. “I was asking how it was that Arista survived?”
Braga said, “It was Richard Hilfred’s boy. He carried the princess out.”
“Hilfred’s son saved my daughter?”
“But how?” Leo again. “If the doors were chained, how did a boy manage to do what none of you could?”
“Reuben Hilfred had a key,” Braga said.