The King's Guard

12

“WE make our move tonight,” I tell everyone as we head back to the tower. “They’ll have noticed our outing today.”

“Not to mention your obsessive cataloguing of the tower,” Fernando grumbles.

I nod. “We can’t give Lord Solvaño the opportunity to smuggle her away.”

“This might require force,” Lucio says, in his most menacing voice. I’m glad he’s on our side.

“Or bribes,” Miria says. “It’s easier to bribe a fearful servant than a happy one. I think I know where to start.”

“We’ll be ready for both, if needed.”

“Will we just walk out the front door with her?” Fernando asks. “If Solvaño has her locked up, he has a reason. He’ll use his guards to stop us.”

“We’re going to need a lot of bribes,” Lucio says.

“When we get her out of the tower, we’ll sneak her along the ramparts to the wall on the harbor side. That’s only a fifteen-foot drop.”

“You can’t drop her that far!” Miria says.

“We’ll lower her with a rope. We’ll have the horses there, with an extra mount for her, and then we’ll ride out of the city and back to Brisadulce. We’ll be there before Lord Solvaño knows we’re gone.”

Everyone thinks about this for a minute.

“I don’t have any better ideas,” Fernando says.

“It could work,” Lucio says.

“It could work if we had enough money on hand to bribe servants and guards, buy rope and other supplies, and purchase a horse,” Miria says. “That will cost us a small fortune that we don’t have.”

I think of the plaque Aracely gave me, the one that would give me a chance to start over again if I don’t make the Guard.

“I have a small fortune,” I say.

Three sets of eyebrows raise, but no one doubts me.

Buying things with jewels instead of coin is problematic; everyone thinks you’re a criminal, and everyone overcharges. Nevertheless, by sunset we have everything set. Fernando and Lucio wait below the wall with five horses and supplies. I wait in my room, a coiled rope inside my shirt, a loose cloak over my shoulders. I trace the letters of my now-ruined plaque. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.

Miria arrives with a nervous serving girl, the awkward spy who waited on us the first day. We have paid her enough money that she can leave the city and find work elsewhere. Miria has promised her an interview at the royal palace if our plan succeeds.

“Thank you for helping us,” I say.

“She was always nice to me. It’s not right, what he did” is her answer.

“What did he do?” I ask.

“You’ll see soon enough, if you’re successful.” She turns away. “If you’re not, it’s my life if I tell.”

Though I press her, she will not say more.

With the servant girl in the lead, we hurry through the halls and into the tower. Our bribes have made the place eerily silent. There is only the crackling of our torches, the wind whistling against cracked mortar, and the surf pounding relentlessly below. Still, I listen hard for footsteps or the creak of armor. We could not possibly bribe the entire household, and those we did bribe can’t risk being absent from their posts for long.

We wind up the tower stairs and into a storage room. I remember sketching this one. During the day, light filters in as sickly green, for the glass of the window is fogged over with brine and gull droppings.

The servant girl pushes aside an empty crate, revealing a door. No, it’s more like a hatch, which we will have to stoop to pass.

“Wait until I leave before you use it,” she says. “I mean to be far away.”

“Of course,” I say. “And thank you.”

She turns to go, but Miria grabs her arm. “Wait. Who among Solvaño’s staff knows about this place and who is kept here?”

“I don’t know. Not many.” The girl tries to jerk her arm away.

“Give me your best guess,” Miria orders.

“The guard captain, me, the kitchen master. Only those of us who keep watch or prepare and bring food. And none of us are allowed to go inside. My orders were to open the door, slide the food tray inside, and close it right away. Now please let me go.”

“How long until she is missed?” I ask.

“You have until morning.” With that, she wrenches away her arm and slips from the room.

“I hope she makes it to Brisadulce,” Miria says, staring after her.

“I hope we do too.” I lift the bar and swing open the hatch, revealing a dark, damp space. Fetid air washes my face. A rat scurries out of the corner and zips past our feet.

“Isadora?” I whisper.

Chains rattle. “Hector?” comes a weak, muffled reply. “Is that you?”

My eyes adjust to the dark, and I see her for the first time.

“Oh, my dear child,” Miria says, rushing forward.

Isadora is huge with pregnancy. A tattered cloth wraps her face. She sits in a vile-smelling puddle, and she is manacled by the ankles to the wall. Her ankles have swollen around the manacles, like soft dough being squeezed. One bleeds badly. From when she stretched to reach the window, I realize with a sinking heart.

“My God,” I say, striding toward her. The cruelty of it all is too much to think on. I lift the pommel of my dagger above the chain, eager to pound at something.

“The key is over there,” she says, pointing to a ledge beside the door. “He taunts me by leaving it just out of reach.”

I grab it and unlock her manacles. They come away from her ankles with a wet sucking sound, but Isadora does not cry out. Miria helps her to her feet.

“We can’t lower her over the wall,” Miria says.

“I’m strong enough,” I protest. “I can—”

Miria gives me a wilting glare. “It’s not the weight of pregnancy. It’s her health. My lady, can you walk?”

“Show me this wall and I’ll leap, just to be done with it,” Isadora replies acidly.

“Alejandro and Rosaura miss you,” I say, suddenly desperate. It never occurred to me that my mission could be defeated by Isadora herself. “They’ll be happy to welcome your child also.”

Isadora laughs, but it’s not the sweet laugh I remember. It’s cold and sad and more than a little angry. It’s cut off abruptly by a grimace.

“Is the child coming?” Miria asks.

“The contractions are minutes apart now. I managed to keep them from Papá when he visited. I have to get rid of this thing before it falls into the hands of that monster.”

It takes every drop of will to stay focused on my task. “She can’t ride through the night. We need another plan.”

“We need a midwife,” Miria says. “Maybe even a doctor.”

“I’ll lower you over the wall,” I say. “Go with Lucio and Fernando to Brisadulce, tell the king what has happened. Tell him we have proof that Solvaño committed treason by intercepting a royal communication. Alejandro should send the Guard to arrest Solvaño. And Isadora and I might need rescuing if we are caught. It has to be you. You’re the only one he knows and will believe.”

“What will you do?”

I look at Isadora. “We’ll hide in the city, maybe a tavern down by the docks.” I’m making this up as fast as I can. “We’ll stay out of sight until your return.”

“That’s a terrible plan,” Miria says. “Too many things can go wrong.”

“Do you have anything better?”

“No,” she admits. “Here, take my cloak,” she says to the shivering Isadora. “This will attract less attention down on the docks. If we could do something about the smell . . . You’ll have to take everything off and just wear the cloak.”

Isadora hesitates.

“Give us some privacy,” Miria says.

I step out into the storeroom, then peer into the tower well for guards, knowing that each moment we delay increases our risk. But it remains empty for now.

The women emerge from Isadora’s cell. Miria looks both ashen and furious. Isadora has kept her face wrapped—a wise choice, for we don’t want anyone recognizing her.

We leave the storeroom and spiral down the stairs. From the tower, we sneak through the back hall to a door leading to the ramparts. This is the most tenuous part of our journey; if any guards ignored their bribes, they will be patrolling here.

We creep along, hunched over so that our figures are partly obscured by crenellations. I support Isadora as best I can. She stops occasionally, her hand becoming a vise on my arm as a contraction takes her.

At last we reach the southern wall. “Hurry!” Miria whispers.

I pull the rope from beneath my cloak and make two loops—a large one to wrap around my waist and slide the rope through, and a small one for Miria to stand in. Miria slips her foot into the loop, and I brace myself to lower her.

“When the time comes, just let things run their natural course,” Miria tells me. “And be kind. She’s been through a lot.”

“I will treat her as if she is my next queen,” I say.

“Wait!” Isadora says. “I need a weapon.”

Miria takes a dagger from her belt and offers it, handle first. “May God watch over you both,” she says. Isadora grabs the knife, and I let Miria’s rope slide through my fingers.

My shoulders burn with the effort. We’re taking too long. But suddenly the burden eases. Fernando and Lucio have steadied her from below. Then come two quick tugs on the rope—my signal to let go.

I toss the rope over the side of the wall. Hushed voices drift up, and then the sound of hooves, which gradually fade away.

“The only way out is through the front door,” I say. There might be a little time left before the guards resume their patrols, but we’ll have to be fast. “Ready?”

Her fingers close tight about my wrist, and she pants into another contraction. “Just get me out of here,” she says breathlessly.

The bribes work. The way is clear, and we make it into the servants’ wing, down the back stairs, and into the main hall. Our exit looms large when a door slams behind us. I whirl. Lord Solvaño bears down on us.

I throw my cloak around Isadora and pull her head to my chest. I keep my body angled to block his view. My heart pounds and my palms sweat as I quickly consider my options, which range from knocking him down and running out with Isadora in my arms to simply running. . . .

“I was just coming to find you, Squire Hect— What’s the meaning of this?” he says. “Who do you have there?”

Isadora giggles, a sound that comes across as half mad, and reaches around my side to squeeze my rear.

“You’ve brought a lady of the docks into my home?” he says. Surely, he is not that stupid. Surely, he has heard reports by now of our scouting of the tower. Then I notice that he sways unsteadily, and his eyes shift as if struggling to find focus.

“I assure you no money has been exchanged,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. Isadora has another contraction, and her suggestive hand turns into a hard squeeze that makes my eyes water. I brace us to keep us both from collapsing. She presses her face against my chest and fights for control, but still looses a choked-off grunt that makes my heart ache for her.

Her father’s face turns red. “If you weren’t the king’s envoy, I’d beat you both out into the street this instant.” He gesticulates wildly as he says it, which throws him off balance, and he staggers.

Isadora’s contraction eases, as does her grip. She straightens, looks me in the eye, breathes deep. Though her eyes are rimmed with red and sunken, they are still beautiful. “We were just leaving,” I say gently to her. I back us both away, keeping myself between him and his daughter. Thank God he is drunk.

“You both should be stripped and lashed and . . . God, what is that smell? Even a lady of the docks should have some pride.”

Isadora plants herself, stopping us.

“What are you—?”

She rips away from my grasp. Before I can stop her, before I can even breathe, she whips Miria’s dagger out from beneath her cloak and bears down on her father.

“Isadora!” Solvaño gasps. “You whore. I should have—”

I reach for her, but she is lightning fury. “How dare you!” she cries. “I did everything you asked. Your ambition made me this way. You did this.” She gestures emphatically with the dagger; its blade winks in the torchlight. “And you dare call me a whore?”

“Isadora, let’s go,” I plead. “Your father has committed treason. He’ll pay for what he has done. But we need to get away.”

“You were supposed to become queen,” Solvaño says. Spittle edges his mouth now as he steps forward, seemingly unaware of Isadora’s dagger. “How you failed so utterly, I’ll never—”

“He picked her because of you! He couldn’t bear the idea of you as a father-in-law.” The hand holding the dagger wavers, then drops to her side. “I couldn’t blame him, even when he broke my heart.”

His grin is smug. “You’re a whore and a liar. And now no one will want you. I’ve made sure of that.”

A cry of anguish bubbles up from somewhere deep inside her as she raises the knife and plunges it into her father’s belly.

“Isadora!” Oh, God, what has she done?

She yanks out the knife. Blood bubbles up from the wound as she raises it again, but I grab her elbow. “Let’s go, my lady. Before the alarm goes up.”

She drops the dagger. It clatters to the stone floor, and droplets of blood sprinkle around it.

Solvaño makes a gurgling noise as he raises his head. He’s trying to say something. His face shows no surprise, no fear of dying. There is only hate.

“How could he,” Isadora whispers. “His own daughter.”

“He was a monster,” I agree, staring at the body twitching on the floor.

“I guess I’ve had my revenge,” she whispers, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yes. Now let’s go. No, wait.”

I crouch beside Solvaño’s body, thinking. Then I grab the dagger, and bile rises in my throat as I place the tip against the still-seeping wound and send the dagger home.

“What—what are you doing?” Isadora says.

I wrap Solvaño’s right hand around the knife grip, then with a grunt and heave, I roll him over onto his stomach. “I’m trying to make it look like an accident,” I explain. I stand and look down at my handiwork, feeling sick. “The king’s advisers can manufacture whatever story they want of this, but it will help if your father’s people find the body this way.”

Isadora laughs again, her laugh dissolving into tears. She stumbles as another spasm takes her, and I rush to her side. We are both sticky with blood as I prop her up to pant through the contraction. I breathe along with her, trying to still my own heart. I’m in deep waters, way over my head. I have no idea what to do next, except to keep moving, so that’s what we do—out the front door, through the gardens and the rusty gate, and down the road toward the docks.

We have just reached the closed-up market stalls when Isadora’s knees buckle. “This is it,” she gasps between breaths. “I can’t go on.”

I panic, turning in a circle, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Why did I send Miria away for help?

Isadora grips my hand, her tiny fingers squeezing so hard, I think she will break my bones. They are slick with her father’s blood. “Just get me to someplace where I can lie down,” she gasps again.

I use the handle of my dagger to break the latch on one of the stall doors, and I help her inside.

The ground is hard-packed, with pebbles here and there. At least it’s out of the wind and ocean spray. I pull the queen’s quilt from my pack. I fold it in half once, then spread it out and support Isadora as she lowers herself gingerly on top of it.

Her labored breaths suck at the linen wrapping her face. “Here, let me help you,” I say, reaching for her face.

But she screams at me. “No!”

The contractions are coming fast and hard now, and I have no idea what to tell her, but she seems to know what to do, so I sit and hold her hand and say over and over that things will be all right.

She continues to have trouble breathing through the cloth. Finally, she yells, “Don’t look at me, do not look at me,” and she pulls it away from her face.

Of course, I look, but I don’t believe what I see.

Her nose has been sliced off her face, leaving two gaping nostril holes, like those of a skull. Her cheeks have been slashed with a knife and are covered with red, raw scars, where they are still healing.

Solvaño intended to make a monster of Isadora, and maybe, in inciting her killing rage, he did.

I’ve never wanted to murder anyone. Most men go through their whole lives without having to kill, and there is no glamor in it for me. But in this moment, if Lord Solvaño were here, I would kill him all over again.

Isadora is trapped between sobbing and pushing. The baby is eager to be born.

“It is going to be all right,” I tell her. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“Stop lying to me!” she screams.

So I sit and hold her hand and wipe the sweat from her forehead and from her still-healing scars, and I tell her about her cousin the queen, who made this quilt that she’s lying on, and how the commander of the Guard called me a princess for having it. I try to project calm, although I feel anything but calm.

“Oh, God, here it comes,” she cries.

“What do I do?”

“Get it out of me!”

I freeze. I’ve never . . . We need another woman here. Maybe I should go find someone. . . .

“GET IT OUT.”

I’m trembling as I lift the cloak and reveal her naked body. “Oh, God.” She is like a two-headed monster, with that wet, grayish-blue head poking out from between her legs. I reach for it with shaking hands, then cradle it in my palm and help support it as she pushes again. The whole thing slips out in a wave of blood-tinged wetness.

I’ve never seen anything born before, not even a colt or a kitten. Just this squirming boy, his mouth open in a silent scream. He hardly looks like a person, all pale and glinting wet in our meager light. I lift him up, offer him to her, but she shakes her head.

“No, I don’t want it, it’s not mine, I don’t.” She is limp on her back now, spent, her gaze shifted away.

“What should I do?” I say. Just then, the baby shudders, and a great wail fills the empty market stall.

“Leave it to die.”

“No!” I say. “What do I do with the cord?” Determination settles into my core, giving me strength and new energy. If his mother doesn’t want him, that leaves me with only one course.

Because I know whose child this is. And Alejandro will want his son. I must deliver this royal bastard to his father. It’s the right thing to do.

“Still have your knife?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Then tie a knot and cut the cord above the knot.”

“You’ll have to hold him while I do it,” I say.

She looks angry, but she holds out her arms, and I hand her the child. The cord is warm and slick in my fingers and slips when I try to cut it, but I soon have the job done.

“Can you wipe him off?” she says. He is rooting around, trying to get his face at her breasts.

“Of course,” I say. I half cut, half rip two strips from the quilt where it is still mostly clean. We use one piece to wipe him off and the other to wrap him up. By the time that’s done, the baby is feeding, and Isadora is crying, tears running down the furrows between the scars on her cheek.

“You were marvelous,” I tell her, and I mean it. “Getting out of the tower, delivering the baby.” Killing her father.

She shakes her head.

“I didn’t know what to do,” I press. “Not when we ran into your father, not when the baby was coming, but you made the right decisions every step of the way. You’re a warrior.”

She continues to shake her head. “What does it matter? I’ve nowhere to go.”

“Yes, you do.” I know exactly where to take her.