Tomorrow's Kingdom (5 page)

“But—”

“That is my decision, Atticus.”

Scowling, the drunken young lord snatched up the wine jug and splashed some into his goblet. “Very well,” he muttered. “I will arrange matters as you've instructed, Father, but if we are found out—”

“If we are found out, I will be branded a traitor and a
whore
!” burst Aurelia, who could hold her tongue no longer.

“And if we are not found out, I will be the grandfather of and Lord Regent to the next king of Glyndoria,” said Lord Bartok with quiet satisfaction. “I deem that reward well worth the risk.”

“But what of the cost?” said Aurelia, her small hands clenched into even smaller fists.

“The cost?” frowned Lord Bartok, not understanding.

“The cost to
me
!” she cried. “Father,
please
—my skin crawls at the thought of some lowborn lackey's dirty, work-worn hands upon me. I could not
bear
to have one peel off his disgusting rags and crawl into my bed. I swear to you, I could not!”

“You can and will do your duty to me and this family by lying with whomever you are ordered to lie with,” said Lord Bartok, who was not the least moved by the impassioned pleas of his girl child. “If you cannot bear to have the man crawl into your bed, crawl into his. But see it done, for you are no use to me if you do not.”

Lady Aurelia blanched at this. “That … that is not true, Father,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I could yet be of use to you. I am young, comely and well dowered—you could yet make another marriage for me—”

Lord Bartok shook his head. “You are used goods, and unless we can get you with child immediately, there will be rumours of barrenness. Besides, in the whole of the realm there is no noble family as great as ours. Unless we are marrying royalty, we are marrying beneath ourselves.”

“Then … I'm never to marry again—ever?”

“Bear a son who can be called king and you shall have whatever your heart desires.”

At these words, Lord Bartok's daughter went very still.

“
Whatever
my heart desires?” she asked, touching her index finger to her still-trembling lip.

Lord Bartok nodded and watched his daughter's face as she considered all the many, many things that her little heart desired.

“Would you give me a king's ransom in jewels, a new gown for every day of the year and an estate of my very own?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes,” replied her father without hesitation.

Aurelia made no sound, but her lip stopped trembling and her bright eyes got brighter. Hands fluttering as though unable to decide what to reach for next, she said, “Would you see banished, beaten or imprisoned all those who displease me? Would you find an excuse to execute the innocent, if I so desired it?”

“Yes,” replied Lord Bartok.

This time, Aurelia could not contain a burble of amazed laughter. Looking as though she finally understood the power she held in her tiny hands—and the full extent of what she stood to gain by cooperating—she cocked her head to one side, bent at the waist like a bird about to pluck a juicy worm from the earth and said,
“Would you make me your heir over Atticus?”

Her brother gave a cry of outrage. “Don't be absurd!” he spluttered. “You are the younger and nothing but a girl, besides! Father would never—”

“Yes,” said Lord Bartok, his eyes never leaving his daughter's face.

Aurelia shrieked loudly before quickly clapping her hands over her mouth. Almost immediately, she snatched her hands away so that she could stick her tongue out at her blustering, red-faced brother. Fairly hopping with excitement, she turned toward her father and said, “If you will give me all these things and also promise that I'll not have to truly mother the half-lowborn bastard I bear, I will do my duty to you and this family. So long as Atticus sees the base creature bathed and scented before delivering him to my bed, I will endure what I must to get myself with child as soon as may be.”

“Excellent,” murmured Lord Bartok. “You are a good girl, Aurelia.”

Flushing with pleasure, Lady Aurelia dipped him a curtsey and chirped, “Thank you, Father.”

After favouring his daughter with a wintery smile, Lord Bartok dismissed her that she might finish readying herself for her dead husband's funeral.

As soon as she'd flitted from the room, Atticus sprang to his feet, pounded his soft fist upon the table and bellowed, “Father, this is an outrage! You cannot
possibly
mean to make Aurelia your heir—”

“Of course I don't mean to make Aurelia my heir,” interrupted Lord Bartok calmly. “Don't
you
be absurd, Atticus. We needed your sister's cooperation, and now we have it. When are you going to learn the way of things? Sit down and stop behaving like a commoner.”

Atticus didn't seem to know whether to look relieved, nonplussed or insulted. “But … but what will happen when Aurelia discovers that you have lied to her?” he asked as he plopped back down into his seat.

“Nothing will happen,” said Lord Bartok, taking a small sip from the finely wrought silver goblet before him. “As Aurelia, herself, pointed out, if the court were to learn of her actions, she would be branded a traitor and a whore. And with the servant who studded her dead, there would be no one's word but hers that you or I had any part of the scheme.”

“She will not be best pleased,” said Atticus doubtfully.

“She will keep her displeasure to herself or be ruined,” said Lord Bartok with an elegant wave of his hand. “I am not worried about what problems your sister may cause. It is the new queen who worries me.”

“Let me get my hands on her, and she'll never worry you again, Father,” growled Atticus, fingering the dent in his skull that had been inflicted by the queen's brokendown horse on the night her true identity was revealed. “I owe the bitch a debt that I mean to repay in full—and then some.”

“Stop being melodramatic,” said Lord Bartok. “How in the world would our cause be furthered by your murdering the dead king's named heir?”

“It would pave the path to the throne for Aurelia's bastard child,” said Atticus, stifling a hiccup.

Lord Bartok pursed his lips ever so slightly. “That is true—
if
Aurelia can get herself with child,
if
she can carry it to term and
if
she can deliver it alive,” he said. “What if she cannot?”

“Well … well …,” began Atticus. When he could think of nothing further to say, he shrugged and reached for the wine jug, presumably in the hope that another drink would help him come up with a suitable response.

Lord Bartok deftly moved the jug beyond his son's reach. “If Aurelia fails in her task—an outcome I rather expect, frankly, since she hardly has the look of a female built for breeding—there will be no one of the Bartok bloodline who could challenge the queen's right to succession.”

“Give me an army, and
I
could challenge it,” boasted Atticus.

Wordlessly, Lord Bartok reached out and slapped his son hard across the side of his dented head. “Don't be an imbecile,” he said, ignoring Atticus's high-pitched yelps of protest and pain. “This family does not commit treason
openly
, and when we finally sit upon the throne
of Glyndoria, I will not suffer whispers that we stole it. Besides, the cripple might have something to say about you trying to fight your way to the throne, and I do not have an army to rival the size of his.”

“Not even if you take into account the men and horses of those great lords who've secretly promised you their support?” asked Atticus, who was still rubbing his head.

“‘Secret' support isn't worth the paper it's written on, Atticus.”

The young lord's petulant mouth fell open in amazement. “The great lords put their support in
writing
?” he asked incredulously.

Lord Bartok stared at his son. “No, Atticus,” he finally said. “That is my very
point
. They have not put their support in writing. They have openly declared their support for the queen, but they have not openly declared their support for me. They fear the cripple, and until they are certain I will triumph over him, they dare not openly move against him.”

“But how are you to triumph if they will not help you do so?” whined Atticus.

“I intend to make it impossible for them to continue to withhold military support without appearing cowards
and
traitors to their own kind,” replied Lord Bartok.

Predictably, Atticus did not press for details of the plan. Instead, in a tone that betrayed his smug pleasure at having detected the fatal flaw in his illustrious father's reasoning, he said, “Even if your plan works and you manage to defeat the cripple's army with the help of the great lords, Father, it will get us no closer to the throne.
As you've already pointed out, they have openly declared for the queen. With the cripple out of the picture, I hardly think they're going to be seized by a sudden desire to anoint and crown
you
in her stead.”

“I agree,” said Lord Bartok dryly. “That is why I'm going to do something far cleverer than continue to challenge her right to succession.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Atticus, his eyes drifting past his father to the wine jug.

“I am going to
support
her right to succession.”

“
SUPPORT
IT
?” screeched Atticus, his watery gaze snapping back to his father's expressionless face. “But … but you said that the cripple has the queen!” he spluttered. “You said that he means to marry her and get sons upon her! If you fail to defeat him and she is anointed, he will be prince consort—or even king, should the queen choose to give him a crown of his own!—and his lowborn brats will sit upon the throne after him! How will supporting
that
further our cause?”

Lord Bartok closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his highborn nose and breathed deeply in an effort to keep from slapping his son again. “Atticus,” he said slowly, “do you remember what I said to Aurelia when she proposed that I make another marriage for her?”

“You said that she was used goods and probably barren in the bargain,” snickered Atticus.

“Yes,” agreed Lord Bartok. “But I
also
said that in the whole of the realm there was no noble family as great as ours and that unless we were
marrying royalty
, we were marrying beneath ourselves.”

He looked at his son expectantly. Atticus's gaze had just begun to drift back to the wine jug when he realized what his father was saying.

“You mean to steal the queen away from the cripple, don't you?” he blurted, sitting bolt upright in his chair. “You mean to … wait, do you mean to marry her to
me
?”

Lord Bartok chuckled softly. “No, Atticus, if need be, I mean to marry her to
me
,” he said. “I'd sooner rule through Aurelia's bastard than have to contend with a royal wife who may wish to have a say in the running of the kingdom, but I intend to keep my options open. That is why, while I continue to push the nobility to rise against the cripple, you are going to liberate the queen from his clutches. After you have done so, you will deliver her to my country estate, there to reside as my honoured guest until we determine if Aurelia has succeeded or failed in the task she has been set.”

“And if she has succeeded?” asked Atticus, who'd resumed slouching.

“After the cripple's army has been annihilated, I will command the most powerful fighting force in the realm in addition to possessing the dead king's sister
and
his so-called son,” replied Lord Bartok. “When I present these facts to my fellow noblemen, I am confident they'll agree that my grandson should be anointed king, I should be declared his Regent and the dethroned queen should remain my honoured guest until the end of her days.”

“And if Aurelia has failed?”

Lord Bartok shrugged. “I will marry the queen to whom the great lords
and
I have already declared our support. In doing so, I will become prince consort—but only until such time as I am able to demonstrate to my new bride that it is in her best interests to give me a crown of my own, that I might be called king.”

“You're old enough to be the queen's grandfather,” said Atticus with the slightest of sneers. “What will you do if she does not care to marry you?”

Lord Bartok tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment of this possibility. “She will be made to speak her vows—at knifepoint, if necessary. She will then be held down and bedded before witnesses that she may never claim that we are not truly man and wife.”

Appearing mollified by the knowledge that if he couldn't have the bitch whose horse had dented his head that at least he'd have the comfort of knowing his father had ravished her, Atticus said, “So, my men and I are to follow the royal carriage when it sets out upon the morrow, then?”