Reuben thought. He closed his eyes. The bishop peering at him did not help his memory. He was a bit nauseous, and his skin felt as if it were still on fire, while overall he felt bizarrely chilled. His misery made focusing on even the events of the night before a challenge.
Reuben shook his head. “But I think he was promised something in return for setting the fire. I got the impression he was angry at the king. Angry about the death of my mother. He said something about someone having convinced him he could make things right again.”
“And how was he going to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you certain? This is very important, Reuben. You must be absolutely positive.”
“He never mentioned anything else.”
The bishop sat back and let out a long sigh. “So you fought your own father to save the royal family?”
“Yes.”
“Many will find that hard to believe. The queen died in the fire, and the king’s mad with grief. He wants to punish someone. He nearly killed me a few days ago during a council meeting after I defended you.”
“Defended me?”
“Yes. I told him you were a hero for saving his daughter. I told him you ran in when all others refused.”
“And?”
“He attacked me with his sword. If it had not been for Count Pickering’s intervention, I would be dead. He hears the word Hilfred and he loses reason. Your father killed his wife, and you are guilty by relation of blood. It’s an old law. Close relations are put to death for such high crimes as treason.”
“Why?”
“Because it is believed that what a man will do, so will his son or brother.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. I saved her. I went back for the queen. I nearly died.”
“I know. I believe you. I was there, and I want to help you. But you must help me do that.”
“How?”
“Think very hard—are you absolutely certain your father never mentioned anyone else involved in a conspiracy to murder the royal family? Who was it that was going to help him make things right?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.”
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, but will the king? More importantly, will he want to?”
“What are you saying?”
The old man reached out and laid a hand on Reuben’s, causing him to wince. “Someone has to pay for the murder of the queen, and your name is Hilfred.”
Reuben suffered through a span of nightmares broken by brief bouts of agonizing consciousness. He drifted in and out until he found it hard to tell what was real. The one constant was the pain. In his dreams he was always dying, slowly burning to death. In one, Ellison and the Three Cruelties had him tied like a pig on a pole being slow roasted. They jeered and laughed as his skin split and sizzled. In another he was trapped in Arista’s bedchamber, unable to reach her, and together they burned—first her, then him. He would scream for the princess to wake up, to run, but his voice was so weak, so choked with smoke she never heard.
Dorothy was always there when he woke. In the tiny house she likely heard his nightmares, but he began to suspect she simply stayed at his bedside. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw her looking back with a sympathetic smile.
On the morning of the third day after his waking, he felt better. Nowhere near good, but somewhere between excruciating and terrible, which was a significant step up. He was able to drink and keep it down, and Dorothy could apply a soothing cream to his skin without having to listen to him scream.
By midday, he could smell soup or stew and found he was hungry. Before the meal came, he heard the sound of coach wheels and then shouts. The voices outside were harsh and unfriendly.
“Make way for the king!”
At this, Reuben heard Dorothy drop a pan. He hoped it wasn’t the soup.
“Open in the name of His Majesty King Amrath!”
The door did not creak when opened as usual, but it practically cried as it was abruptly pulled back.
“The king has come for Reuben Hilfred.” The voice was loud and powerful.
“He’s done nothing wrong!” Dorothy cried.
“Out of the way, woman.”
Reuben braced himself as best he could. The whole thing struck him a bit funny, which in itself was amusing. How many people could laugh about being executed for a crime they did not commit? He should have died in the castle. He had accepted his passing then but managed to gain several more days that were filled with excruciating pain. Dying now—while absurd—was not a great hardship. Given his state of agony, death was less his enemy and more a sympathetic acquaintance. His only regret was that he would not taste the soup that smelled so wonderful.
He could smell again! Reuben had only a second to revel in this accomplishment when soldiers entered the room. How would they do it? A hanging most likely, or perhaps a beheading. It would be ironic if they burned him at the stake, but he assumed everyone had enough of burning. He changed his mind an instant later, thinking the king might want an exact revenge. To do to him what his father had done to the queen.
The soldiers ducked their heads and moved out of the way as the king entered. With him came the prince and Arista. They were all dressed in black, with the princess wearing the same gown as when Lady Clare died. None looked good, their faces tired and pale, except around the eyes where the skin reddened. Still Arista looked more sullen than the rest, her stare fixed on the floor.
Reuben had never seen His Majesty this close. The man was huge, and as Reuben looked up, he seemed a giant with his rich bristling beard. He appeared as tired as the rest, but in his eyes was a storm.
“Your Majesty,” one of those in the corners said. “This is Reuben Hilfred, son of Richard.”
At the sound of the name, he saw the king wince. Perhaps there would be no burning after all. Maybe the king would kill him there in his bed. At least he was able to see the princess again. She was safe.
Thank you, Maribor, for that parting gift.
“Do you know the penalty for lying to your king?”
“Death?” Reuben guessed.
“Death,” the king confirmed. “Did you leave your post without permission the night of the gala?”
“I did.”
“That is dereliction of duty at best—desertion at worst. Do you know the penalty for desertion?”
“Death.” Reuben knew that one.
“Death.” The king nodded gravely.
“Were you ordered by anyone to leave your post? Told by anyone to enter the castle?”
“No.” Reuben noticed a subtle change in the king’s eyes but had no idea what it meant.
“Then knowing it was death to desert your post, why did you?”
“The castle was on fire. The princess and the queen were inside, and no one else was trying to save them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They were all just standing around. The chancellor gave orders—”
“It was chaos that night.” Reuben heard Lord Braga’s voice as he pushed into the room from the kitchen. “The darkness, the flames, all those people trying to get out.”
“Finish what you were going to say, boy,” the king commanded.
“The chancellor gave orders that no one was to go inside.”
“Is that true?” Amrath asked Braga.
“Yes, but it was an order issued to prevent the further loss of life. The doors were sealed. There was nothing that could be done.”
“Is it true you fought your own father?” the king asked.
Reuben lowered his eyes to look at his bedcovers. “Yes.”
“When did you learn your father planned to murder my family?”
“I didn’t. I guessed it when I found the door to the residence chained. My father told me to leave. He said he posted me at the gate for my own protection. That’s when I knew he had set the fire—that he had chained the door.”
“Braga asserts that he fought and killed your father—is that true?”
Reuben nodded.
“Speak up to your king,” Braga demanded.
Amrath raised a hand. “He’s fine. Tell me, boy, how did you get the chain off the door? After the fire, the lock was found but it hadn’t been snapped or cut.”
“My father had the key on his body. I took it from his belt.”