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[Rough Draft] Chapter 41: Pride of the Fallen
Marquess Borghese grimaced as he dismounted, his rain-laden boots sinking into the mud as a pain shot up his legs and back. ‘When was the last time I ever had to work this hard for anything?’ He patted the panting stallion’s neck, but the horse had always been sensitive to his mood and shied away.
“Six fucking kills,” Borghese hissed as he turned towards the tired party of drenched nobles who reigned in at the edge of the forest around him. “It would seem whatever gods and saints exist are not on our side.”
“I am sorry, Marquess,” Earl Coldwell said regretfully from beneath his dripping hood. “At this rate, winning the competition will be impossible.”
“Ha!” Borghese dragged his hunting cap from his head and slapped it against his knee. “That goes without saying, Coldwell.”
A few nervous coughs and awkward whispers followed. Borghese ignored them as he turned to the huntsman, who had dressed most appropriately for the weather out of all of them. “You may take our kills back to be counted.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the Huntsman, Roy, if Borghese remembered the name correctly, bowed his head and moved his steed over to the mules who held the two deer, one boar, two quails, and a rabbit.
‘A lousy fucking showing. After all the trouble I went through hunting during the worst of the storm while that damn Duchess and Earl Percy were still lying about in their beds.’ The Marquess’s nostrils flared in quiet anger before he turned his attention on the rest of the lords. ‘There’s no point taking my anger out on them. I’ll need their support in the future. Better to be magnanimous.’
“Thank you, my lords, for your efforts,” Borghese called out to them graciously. “You should all retire now to rest, bath, and enjoy some good wine. Go with my thanks. We have one more day left—we should enjoy it and put the tension of the competition behind us!”
“Here, here!” Viscount Kendall replied enthusiastically while Viscount Bennet regarded the Marquess with a worried frown.
Audible sighs of relief drifted through the worn-out hunting party as the nobles split up, giving Marquess Borghese a nod of respect as they rode past him to the reprieve they had finally been granted.
Borghese remained where he stood beside the restless chestnut stallion. He glanced over his shoulder irritably when he noticed Earl Coldwell had yet to make his way back to camp. “You as well, Coldwell.”
“Are you not going to rest yourself, Marquess?” the Earl asked with notable concern.
“I need a moment of quiet to myself before I do,” Borghese said dismissively. “Thank you for your concern, but a moment of solitude before returning to camp.”
Earl Coldwell nodded reluctantly and nudged his mare forward.
Borghese waited until the bothersome noble had gone well beyond the tree line, then tied up the chestnut, and wandered over to the nearest stump where he sank down with a strained grunt, then pulled out his tobacco and pipe.
The spiraling smoke of the opiate-laced tobacco mingled with the dense smell of wet mud and rain. Borghese exhaled and sighed as he crossed his arms, allowing the tension in his shoulders to ease while the ache and pain in his back and legs finally drifted further away. He paid little notice to the knight that rode calmly to the edge of the forest, then dismounted and strode in the direction of the chestnut mare.
“Marquess Borghese,” Lieutenant Olund greeted. “I hear today’s efforts were all in vain.”
“I suspect foul play,” Borghese muttered tiredly. “But when your opponents are witches, what else should one expect?”
“Have you made a decision then?”
Borghese drew in another mouthful of numbing smoke and exhaled slowly. “I am not so eager to see this country at war with itself. And my Priscilla still has her heart set on marrying that foolish monarch.”
“His Majesty hasn’t so much as looked in her direction since he became engaged to the Ventrayna princess,” Olund replied as he pulled a letter from his pocket. “This arrived while you were gone. A servant from your house delivered it saying it was urgent.”
Borghese’s eyes narrowed. He tapped the stem of the pipe against his chin, then dumped the remains onto the damp ground where he smothered them with his boot before rising to take the letter. Barely five seconds later, the pipe in his grip snapped in half as the Marquess swore.
“Damn that treacherous fucking bitch!”
Olund flinched at the venom in his words but remained silent as the Marquess read on.
“It seems the Dowager took advantage of Royal Hunt to send Knight Commander Quentin to my estates with a royal warrant to search the premises,” Borghese seethed as he crumpled the letter. “Half of my staff has been arrested, my office ransacked, the hidden vault beneath the cellar stripped bare.”
“I don’t understand,” Olund said tensely. “Why would she—”
“That’s not all,” Borghese cut in with a harsh laugh. “Somehow—Knight Commander Quentin made found his way to my safe house. He has all the ledgers and locations for the slaves and my militia.”
“So—” Olund took a step back as he gripped his sword, “—the Dowager has everything.”
“Enough evidence to see me tried for treason if she wished,” Borghese growled as he clenched the letter and remnant of his pipe tightly. “Someone has betrayed me. None of my staff knew where that safe house was. How did the Dowager find it!”
“You said the Duchess and his Majesty had people following you and your staff,” Olund reasoned. “Perhaps they followed other nobles you’ve trusted with that location.”
“Earl Coldwell and Viscount Gladstone,” Borghese spat venomously as he flung the pipe and letter into the mud. “Those bastards!”
“What do we do?” Olund glanced nervously towards the campgrounds. “Should we make a run for it?”
“No!” Borghese growled. “You will remain at his Majesty’s side and be my eyes and ears.”
“But my Lord—”
“We can’t proceed as planned. If something happens to his Majesty now, the Dowager will see my head on the executioner’s block!” Borghese exhaled sharply as he rubbed his chin viciously. “I need the Crown Prince on my side now more than ever.”
“Word of this will reach his Majesty’s ears quickly,” Olund protested. “He won’t protect you from the Dowager once he finds out.”
“His Majesty still needs me,” Borghese replied stiffly. “I just have to remind him of that fact. Now more than ever, I need to secure a place for Priscilla beside him.”
“Priscilla?” Olund grip on the sword tightened. “How?”
“That is none of your concern!” The Marquess snapped as he stormed towards the chestnut stallion and untied its rein. “Though you will find out soon enough if you remain by his Majesty’s side.” Borghese climbed into the saddle and yanked the horse around towards the camp, leaving the Lieutenant behind as he rode towards his tent where his beautiful daughter, Priscilla—his last hope to retain his power and perhaps even his life—waited for him.
***
“You must go to the Crown Prince tonight after the evening feast and convince him to make you his consort by any means necessary!”
Priscilla shivered under her evening robes as she rose from her floral scented bathwater and turned as her maid, Pearl, squeezed the excess water from her damp strawberry blonde hair.
“But how do I convince him, Father? Nicholas won’t even reply to any of my letters!”
Priscilla frowned as her toes curled against the woven rub beside the bathtub. Pearl draped a robe around her mistress body then pulled over a chair for Priscilla to sit. “Miranda, bring my scented oil—”
“Mistress,” Pearl whispered gently as she touched Priscilla’s shoulder. “Miranda is still gone.”
“Ah!” Priscilla dropped her hand into her lap with a frustrated sigh. “I had forgotten.” Priscilla had never been fond of the old maid, but Miranda was at least of suitable status to be her attendant as a fallen noblewoman. ‘And now she’s gone and wandered off just when I need her most. Useless.’
“Which bottle should I fetch, my Lady? The pink or white one?”
“The pink one, obviously,” Priscilla snapped as she took over towel-drying her own hair. “That rose perfume is the most popular among happily married women. Now hurry, I must get there before curfew.”
“If you fail to win his Majesty’s affection, we will lose everything, Priscilla. I may even end up in prison, and you will have no one left to protect you.”
Priscilla tilted her neck as Pearl trailed the perfume stick along her shoulder blade then down between her breasts. ‘Eleanora won’t be a problem. By all accounts, their relationship is still as brittle as effort in spite of the display they put on before the Ventrayna Ambassador. Still, I can’t let that Duchess seduce Nicholas away from me.’
“Wait!” Priscillas snapped as the maid withdrew the bottle. “Give it to me!”
“My Lady?”
“Get my nightgown and jewels ready,” Priscilla snapped as she took the bottle and dabbed the application stick along her inner thighs. “Hurry!”
***
Beneath the discreet robe, Priscilla’s still somewhat damp hair clung to her sheer nightgown. She could hear her frantic heartbeat pounding against her ears, her chest, and even the floor below with every step. Pearl led the way through the Manor hallway and up to the third floor, where Viscount Rykard’s rooms were to the east while the guest rooms for the Royal Family lay to the west.
The knights posted at the opposing doors glanced in Priscilla’s direction, but it was Captain Olund who stepped forward to greet her.
“Lady Borghese, you—”
“My Father has sent me to have a private word with his Majesty,” Priscilla cut in, her voice wavering as her trembling hands tightened around the folds of her cloak. “Please ask his Majesty for an audience on my behalf, Captain.”
“His Majesty has gone to bed,” Olund whispered hoarsely.
Priscilla blinked. “He is asleep?” A faint laugh echoed from beyond the door Olund had just left. “It would appear his Majesty is still awake.”
“He is—not alone, my Lady,” Olund warned.
‘Not alone?’ Priscilla looked up into the knight’s concerned face. ‘Who would be in the Crown Prince’s rooms this late at night?’
“Is it the Crown Princess?”
“No.”
“The Prime Minister?”
Another laugh, this one clear and entirely feminine quickly eliminated that possibility.
“Who is it, Lieutenant Olund?” Priscilla demanded furiously.
‘I can’t miss this opportunity. Father said it had to be tonight. But if Nicholas is with another woman—’
“His Majesty is—resting with Marchioness Serilda of Berxley.”
‘That shameless hussy!’ Priscilla hissed out an angry breath as she marched determinedly around the startled knight.
“Lady Borghese!”
The furious woman pulled up short as the Lieutenant grabbed the back of her robe, almost revealing the mortifying gown she wore underneath.
“Lieutenant Olund! Let go!”
“You can’t go in there!”
“Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do!”
“You don’t have to do this!”
Priscilla blinked at the knights pleading words. ‘He’s concerned for me? For my honor and reputation?’ She dropped her gaze to the floor, then firmly seized her cloak and yanked it from his fingers. “This is my destiny, Lieutenant. Do not interfere.”
She turned firmly towards the bedroom door and glared as the Crown Prince’s giant bodyguard dropped an arm in her way.
“Nothing good will come of this, my Lady,” Captain Beaumont said with a dispassionate glance in her direction.
“I don’t recall asking for your advice, bastard,” Priscilla seethed, then ducked beneath the knight captain’s arm and pushed the bedroom door opened.
The scent of candles was overwhelming, despite the bedroom window being left open. Behind the drawn curtains of the kingly bed, giggles and amused whispers ended abruptly as Priscilla entered the room.
“Captain?” Nicholas’s voice called out with a hint of annoyance. “I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed.”
“Forgive me, your Majesty,” Priscilla called out as she twisted her hands together beneath the robes. “I was hoping I might have a private audience with—”
A section of the curtain yanked back to reveal a very disheveled Lady Serilda. “Well, well, if it is the treacherous Marquess’s only daughter. Come to grovel for your father’s life or your own, Lady Priscilla?”
The Marchioness agate-green eyes glimmered with amusement as she rubbed a thumb along the streak of lipstick on her chin. Although Lady Serilda was completely dressed, there was something about the haphazard position of her daringly low bodice and the rumpled state of her hair and dress, which implied the sort of naughty deeds rumored to have gained the Marchioness King Henri’s attention.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Priscilla retorted coldly. “But yes, I would like the opportunity to speak on my father’s behalf. He has suffered a great injustice, your Majesty. I hope you will give me the chance to explain!”
“Your father will have his chance to explain in court, Lady Priscilla,” Nicholas replied from beyond the curtain, his voice distant and disinterested.
“Please, your Majesty,” Priscilla pleaded as she stepped forward.
The Marchioness slid from the bed like a viper and smirked as she advanced towards the younger noblewoman. “I think you should give her a chance, your Majesty. I imagine Lady Priscilla has put a great deal of thought into how she will plead her father’s case.”
‘Is she—helping me?’ Priscilla flinched as Serilda smiled. The Marchioness seemed to dance around her with a cynical laugh that made the confused noblewoman’s skin crawl.
“Very well,” Nicholas replied with heavy resignation. “Shut the door, Captain.”
Priscilla flushed and turned sharply as Captain Beaumont reached inside the room to pull the bedroom door shut.
“Allow me to assist you, your Majesty,” Serilda replied as she moved around the bed to take Nicholas’s arm and assist the very naked crown prince to his feet.
‘What—why is he—’ Priscilla averted her gaze, mortified but not at all offended by what she had seen before Nicholas belatedly grabbed a pillow to cover his groin.
“The—chair,” Nicholas panted with a nod towards the chair pulled over next to the bed.
“Your Majesty, you are—injured—” Priscilla murmured worriedly as she took in the alarmingly large bruise the covered his chest. “How—”
“Never mind that now,” Nicholas snapped, then let out a grunt of pain as he eased into the chair with Serilda’s help. “You barged in here to plead on your father’s behalf, remember?”
‘He’s—angry with me? But why?’ Priscilla shook her head as she took a hesitant step forward. “Accusations have been made against my father—”
“Do you even know what those accusations are?” Nicholas interrupted with a faint snort.
“They are malicious and untrue—”
“Untrue?” Nicholas gripped his chest as he held back another laugh. “My dear lady, I am assured there is more than enough evidence to see your father rot in prison for the remainder of his days.”
Fear crawled up Priscilla’s spine as the meaning behind the terror and desperation in her father’s eyes became clear. “Your Majesty, have you forgotten our past engagement?”
Nicholas blinked then sighed as he waved his hand dismissively. “Why bring that up, Lady Priscilla?”
“Because if you checked the evidence, your Majesty, you would find that my Father only started to build this secret army the same month we became engaged,” Priscilla explained confidently. “He was building this army for your Majesty before the First Prince’s death. Father hoped to present it to you on our wedding day. He called in the Prince’s Army because he wanted to protect the both of us from anyone who should wish to remove you as a threat to the First Prince’s reign.”
“What you speak of is treason, no matter how justified your Father’s intentions,” Nicholas observed calmly.
“But not against you—Nicholas!” Priscilla took another two steps forward and then dropped to her knees. “Please! My father and I are not your enemies!”
“Your father is controlled by ambition and greed, not loyalty,” Nicholas replied. “No doubt he began building that army to remove Tristan and secure his son-in-law as the next king.”
“Has your Majesty any evidence to support that?”
Nicholas’s lips twitched with an amused smile. “And does the Lady know how the Marquess obtained the funds he used to build this loyal army?”
Priscilla blinked, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. “My father—has many businesses and properties, your Majesty. The Borghese family has always possessed power and influence and—”
“Marquess Borghese leads the largest child sex slave ring in Lafeara,” Nicholas cut in sharply. “His men kidnap children off the streets, even going so far as to murder their commoner parents in the process.”
“What? That is—”
“During our investigation of your father’s illegal army, other evidence of this sex slave trade was uncovered,” Nicholas interrupted heartlessly. “Evidence that goes back as far as the previous Marquess. The power and influence you speak of were obtained by the blood, sweat, and tears of children!”
Priscilla cowered beneath his angry words. Fear, disgust, and denial sent her stomach flipping unpleasantly against her lungs and throat.
“Please, your Majesty, I am sure there has been some mistake—”
“That is what a trial will determine, Lady Priscilla,” Nicholas replied firmly. “But your father did not send you here just to convince me of his innocence—did he?”
Priscilla blinked and raised her gaze to the Crown Prince’s cold penetrating stare. “Your Majesty?” She watched in confusion as Serilda pressed her lips to Nicholas’s ear and whispered something Priscilla could not make out. The Crown Prince’s gaze hardened as he stroked the Marchioness’s arm and kissed her hand.
“As you wish, my Lady,” Nicholas said affectionately as Serilda pulled away and returned to Priscilla’s side. “I admire your loyalty to your Father, Lady Priscilla. So I will give you one opportunity to prove the loyalty of the Borghese’s house.”
“T-thank you, your Majesty,” Priscilla cried out in relief as she quickly bowed her head.
“Rise, Lady Borghese,” Serilda said sweetly as she held out her hand. “A young woman like you should not kneel on the cold hard floor.”
Priscilla stared at the Marchioness’s offered hand, which to her view was as dangerous as the swaying head of a viper. She took it hesitantly as she rose and refocused on the crown prince. “H-how might I prove our loyalty, your Majesty?”
“First,” Nicholas replied as he motioned his finger towards her. “Remove your cloak?”
Priscilla blinked as her cheeks burned. “Y-your—”
“What you’re wearing underneath was for his Majesty’s eyes, is it not?” Serilda teased as she tugged playfully at the tassels of Priscilla’s cloak. “You’ve made him wait long enough. You might as well do what you came here to do.”
“I—don’t know what—”
“Remove it!” Nicholas snapped impatiently.
Shame wilted Priscilla’s courage and confidence as she slowly untied the tassels and opened the heavy fabric.
“Oh—my!” Serilda cooed as she caught the shoulders of the cloak and pulled it away from Priscilla’s tentative grasp. “You look like a bride about to enjoy her wedding night, Lady Priscilla.”
“T-that—” Priscilla protested helplessly, feeling like a fool before Nicholas assessing gaze.
“Does she please you, your Majesty?” Serilda asked with a coy brow raised at the young monarch. “Or should I send her on her way?”
Priscilla’s gaze blurred with tears as she turned between them frantically and crossed her arms over the sheer fabric that clung to her chest. “N-nicholas!”
“It pleases me,” the crown prince replied without an ounce of warmth.
“As it should,” Serilda replied with a smirk as she too ran her eyes over Priscilla’s trembling figure. “She is young and beautiful.”
Unable to summon the strength to respond, Priscilla focused on breathing as she stared at the crown prince’s bare feet.
“Well then,” Nicholas murmured in a curious tone. “I won’t deny it would serve me better to keep the Marquess out of prison. If he peacefully turns command of the army over to my crown and a general of my choosing, I will agree to spare him from charges of treason.”
“O-of course, your Majesty!” Priscilla whispered.
“To that end, I’m sure having you as a consort would go a long way to encouraging those nobles united behind the Marquess to support my rule.”
“Y-yes!”
“However,” Nicholas shook his head slowly. “A noble who dares to act so recklessly when it suits his interest may do so again should his interest shift.”
“P-please give us a second chance, your Majesty!” Priscilla pleaded, torn between hope and fear of failure.
Nicholas scratched behind his ear as he glanced towards the Marchioness at Priscilla’s side. “Very well, then,” he muttered, then dropped the hand to his lap where he grabbed the pillow. “If you want to prove your sincerity, Lady Priscilla.” He opened his legs and dropped the pillow on the floor between them. “Then come here and show me.”
Priscilla blinked slowly from the pillow to the crown prince’s exposed manhood and then up to Nicholas’s expectant gaze. “Y-your Majesty.”
“What are you waiting for?” Serilda asked with a laugh as she gave the trembling girl a firm push. “You can either pleasure his Majesty and prove your loyalty—or return to your father with news of his impending arrest.”
“I—” All protests died in her throat as Priscilla closed her eyes, unable to accept the task that lay before her. “This is—”
“Kneel, Lady Priscilla,” Nicholas commanded with cold authority. “I will not ask you again.”
Priscilla opened her eyes to search the crown prince’s gaze for any sign of the boy she had fallen in love with years before their engagement. She knelt slowly, her trembling hands resting against his knees as she swallowed her pride and whispered, “Yes—your Majesty.”