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[Rough Draft] Chapter 37: A Gift of Damnation
Nicholas peered out the rain-streaked windows of his dry room inside Gilwren Manor and sighed at the blurred landscape of empty, muddy paths and storm-battered tents. “I can’t believe Marquess Borghese went out in this weather.”
“The Marquess is a determined man,” Beaumont replied as he waved away the servant who had come to take out the remnants of the crown prince’s breakfast tray. “Though I doubt his perseverance will pay off in this weather.”
Nicholas smirked as he moved from the window to the desk which faced the bedroom’s hearth. “You never know. If Borghese can improve on yesterday’s poor showing, it will be a win of sorts,” he commented with a snort. “Three rabbits? Ha!”
“I believe the Duchess may have had something to do with that,” Beaumont commented neutrally.
“Ah yes, those bloody wolves of hers,” Nicholas muttered and rubbed his chin. ‘It’s uncanny how well they behave her. What luck to obtain the loyalty of such formidable animals.’ His hazel-blue eyes narrowed as they shifted to where Beaumont was brushing crumbs off the small dining table. “How did your training with Lady Kirsi go yesterday?”
The knight captain glanced towards Nicholas with a blank expression. “The crossbow training? Everything was fine.”
“What a bland answer,” Nicholas commented dryly. “Which is to say—you did nothing else?”
Beaumont raised a brow. “We talked.”
“I meant—romantically!” Nicholas said bluntly.
The knight captain blinked then turned his attention back to the crumbs on the table.
“Ha—” Nicholas exhaled forcefully. “I knew it.” The crown prince dragged a hand down his face as he walked towards the violet-eyed giant. “You have prepared something for today, though—haven’t you?”
Beaumont glanced at him with a frown. “For Lady Kirsi’s birthday?”
“Yes!” Nicholas nodded eagerly in approval. “For the Duchess’s birthday!” He took another two steps forward and leaned against the table. “Because Lord Percy plans to throw the Duchess a surprise birthday party in the Manor tonight with Viscount Rykard’s help and blessings.”
The knight captain’s expression immediately soured. “How is it a surprise to hold a birthday party on someone’s birthday?”
“Because very few people are aware of that fact, not to mention—,” Nicholas pushed off the table and waved his hand impatiently, “never mind that. The Point is the Earl is all but publicly courting Lady Kirsi, so if you want to stake your claim—”
The crown prince blinked as a sudden weight pressed down against his body that nearly sent him reaching towards a nearby chair for support. The feeling vanished almost instantly, and Nicholas shot the knight captain a nervous glance as he straightened.
“Ahh—poor choice of words,” Nicholas cleared his throat quickly. “I meant, if you want a chance with Lady Kirsi, you’re going to have to step up—in a big way, mind you—and make your intentions known. Preferably somewhere public so that Lord Percy becomes aware.”
Beaumont sighs and shifts his feet restlessly. “If I want a chance at what?”
The crown prince’s eyebrows inched slowly up his forehead in disbelief. ‘Are you completely made of stone or just insufferably stubborn?’ Nicholas stepped closer, grabbed the knight captain’s shoulder, and then leaned against Beaumont’s arm with a forceful, almost painful, sigh of frustration.
“Your Majesty?”
‘I am not going to give up that easily. I know you like her. I just need you to accept that fact.’
Beaumont blinked in surprise as Nicholas’s head snapped up to glare at him. That surprise shifted to unease as the crown prince turned to face the knight captain squarely and grasped each of the giant’s shoulders.
“Captain—no, Beaumont. You like Lady Kirsi, yes?”
Beaumont glanced from the crown prince’s hands to Nicholas’s face and then looked away stubbornly.
“No!” Nicholas snapped impatiently. “Look at me!” The crown prince grabbed Beaumont’s jaw and then pulled the knight captain’s gaze back towards him. “Do you like Lady Krisi? Yes or no? It’s a simple question.”
The feeling of invisible pressure returned as Beaumont scowled at the crown prince. “I—do not dislike Lady Kirsi.”
“Saint’s Mercy,” Nicholas groaned as he briefly closed his eyes in aggravation. ‘Must you be so bloody difficult? Do you want to die a virgin? Is that it?’
Beaumont stiffened as the crown prince shifted his hands to either side of the knight’s face.
“Then do you like the idea of Lady Krisi being courted by other men? Say—the Earl of Hawthorne, for example?” Nicholas growled.
“No!” Beaumont growled forcefully.
‘Ahh—now we’re getting somewhere!’ Nicholas suppressed a smile as he took in a slow breath. “Then would you like to kiss Lady Kirsi?”
The crown prince almost laughed as the giant’s violet eyes blinked rapidly. Beneath Nicholas’s fingers, a flush of red spread across the knight captain’s cheeks before Beaumont brushed the crown prince’s hands away.
Unable to stop himself, Nicholas added, “Would you like to do more than kiss—”
The knight captain’s hand shoved suddenly against the crown prince’s chest. Nicholas grimaced beneath the blow as his legs wobbled, then gave out as he toppled to the floor.
“Your Majesty!” Beaumont’s voice was an odd mixture of anger, guilt, and surprise as he hastily took the crown prince’s arm and pulled Nicholas back up carefully.
“Oww—” Nicholas grunted softly as he rubbed his chest. “Was that really necessary?”
Beaumont withdrew his hand and stared at it for a moment as if struggling to figure something out.
‘You like her, you daft fool. Why else would you get this upset?’
“Forgive me, your Majesty,” the knight captain said quietly as he bowed his head apologetically.
“You do not—bow your head to me, Captain. Remember?” Nicholas wheezed out weakly. He took in a slow breath and winced at the pain that flared around his ribcage. ‘Damn. I forgot how monstrous your strength was.’ The crown prince turned in the direction of his desk and hissed with pain as the pain spread still further along his side. ‘Like getting kicked by a bull. Argh! I hope nothing is broken.’
“I should—fetch a physician,” Beaumont said gruffly, already turning towards the door.
“And what do I—” Nicholas stopped as the door closed firmly behind him, “—tell them. Fuck!” He inched closer to the chair and slowly lowered himself down. “Mercy’s Tit—Hell’s Teeth—Pope’s bloody Nutsack! Augh!” The crown prince pressed a fist against his clenched teeth as he waited for the pain to subside and glared at the bedroom door.
‘I hope that was bloody worth it.’
The hip he had fallen on flared in protest, yet Nicholas dare not move even inch despite the discomfort.
“I wonder—what he would have broken—if I had been more specific. Probably—my skull.”
The memory of Beaumont’s flushed red face returned and almost made Nicholas laugh. Just the effort of saving his ribs from that mistake cost the crown prince plenty as he hissed and blinked past the tears already forming in his eyes.
‘What a late bloomer he is. And the Duchess is a good bit younger. Still—for the sake of the balance between the noble factions—it would be best if Lady Kirsi avoided a marriage alliance with Lord Percy.’
***
Nicholas blinked sluggishly as a knock on the door pulled him from a could of pain. “Come in,” he grunted weakly.
Instead of Beaumont and the Physician, Prime Minister Attwood appeared, drenched from head to toe and holding what looked like an official missive wrapped in leather.
“Prime Minister?” Nicholas greeted as he attempted to straighten, then gave up as the stiff muscles along his side screamed in protest. “I see the weather has not improved.”
“No, your Majesty,” Attwood replied with a worried frown. “Are you alright?”
“I had a bit too much to drink last night and tripped over the bloody rug,” Nicholas lied effortlessly.
“I was unaware?”
“I left it till this morning,” Nicholas replied with a dismissive shrug that—definitely hurt more than he cared to admit. “Beaumont went to fetch the royal physician.”
“Ahh, that’s reassuring then,” the Prime Minister said as he removed his rain jacket and hung it on a rack by the door. “I’m afraid I come with more bad news, your Majesty.”
“Of course, you do.” Nicholas offered him a resigned grimace. “Go on then—tell me.”
Attwood nodded and placed the leather-wrapped document on the desk beside Nicholas before conveying his report. “With the help of Viscount Walter, we were able to confirm that the illness spreading in Wolfford, Beckton, Merton, and Damerel is the same sickness that the Duchess of Bastalliano found in the slums.”
Nicholas sighed slowly as he bowed his head towards his chest and raised a stiff arm to massage his temple. “How bad is it?”
“So far, only two to three patients have died—in each location,” Attwood answered without a hint of optimism. “The trouble is—no one can determine the source of this disease—or how it has spread to such an extent. Each town is located in polar opposite locations, and very few if any of them have any contact with the other infected areas.”
‘What the hell?’
“What about—a cure—treatment?” Nicholas asked stiffly.
“Lady Kirsi appears to have invested a great deal of effort into medicines suitable to help stave off the sickness and some herbal remedies to deal with the symptoms, but as to a cure—the physicians Walter has employed have had no success. According to the Lord Principal of the Royal Medical Office, there is no record of a disease or plague with these symptoms, so finding a cure—even an unorthodox one—before the situation gets much worse will likely be impossible.”
Nicholas nodded grimly and pressed a hand against the wave of nausea building up beneath the pain and futility that threatened to overwhelm him. “How fast is it spreading?”
The Prime Minister cleared his throat and shook his head. “Because each location has an abundance of commoners without jobs, proper housing, food and care—”
“How many?” Nicholas cut in bluntly.
“So far, between twenty and sixty at each location, your Majesty. But Viscount Walter warned that it could easily triple in the next few days.”
Nicholas’s eyes widened in alarm. “Have the sick been quarantined?”
“Yes!” Attwood replied swiftly. “With the help of Knight Commander Quentin’s men, we were able to reallocate several churches, warehouses, and abandoned buildings to house, bed, and contain the sick. Viscount Walter offered the same free treatment, food and water, and access to care that the Duchess promoted in the slums, which seems to have had the desired effect.”
“Good,” Nicholas grunted. ‘The poor aren’t likely to turn down a free meal and medication.’ His hazel-blue eyes turned towards the leather missive of documents that no doubt waited for his stamp of approval. “Tell Viscount Walter to ensure he does not miss a single infected person.”
“Of course, your Majesty. He is searching through each location very ardently as well as the adjoining towns that might have frequent contact.” Attwood glanced at the leather-bound documents as well, then turned his attention back to the crown prince. “How shall we proceed, your Majesty?”
“There’s only one way to contain a plague that has no cure,” Nicholas replied grimly. “Tell Knight Commander Quentin to withdraw his knights safely but subtly and then send in his Devil Dogs. All evidence of the plague and its victims must be gone by morning.”
“What about the physicians?”
“They and any exposed knights should be quarantined somewhere safe until we can be sure they are perfectly healthy,” Nicholas replied, struggling to focus his thoughts around the throbbing pain pressed against his lungs. “Get them out quietly—and be sure to take special care with the physicians in the Duchess’s hospital.”
Attwood nodded somberly. “Should we inform the Duchess?”
“No,” Nicholas said quickly. “She brought this sickness to our attention. We will see her people are safely taken away. How I deal with this epidemic will not be impacted by Lady Kirsi’s or Frost’s involvement one bit.” He closed his eyes tiredly and took in a few slow breaths as small sparks of pain flickered behind his eyes. “Women aren’t good with this kind of thing, and today is the Duchess’s birthday. So keep this between us until we return to the Capital.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
Nicholas sighed and opened his eyes to meet Attwood’s concerned gaze. “I am only doing what must be done to spare thousands—possibly an entire kingdom—from this disease.” He lowered his hazel-blue eyes to the unfinished letter addressed to Pope Jericho. “However distasteful that may be.”