Luke unrolled the canvas. It contained a drawing of a castle with a matchstick figure of a boy wearing a crown and the words 'Happy birthday' written on it. It was signed 'Zena' in a childish hand.
Martin looked on proudly, as Sophia exclaimed with joy at the depiction of Luke on his birthday.
"I had written those words, but it was drawn by her. She was excited to know that it's your birthday, Luke, and wanted to accompany me, but I promised to bring her some other day."
Luke nodded somberly, putting the canvas aside. Shortly afterward, his mother asked him to play outside while she talked to Martin. He had taken out his pony and ridden on the grounds, not realizing when hours passed.
Later, when he wished to see her, the maid said that she was feeling unwell and shouldn't be disturbed. Martin had left long ago, why was his mother still closeted in the room?
It was dinner time and he had refused to eat his birthday dinner without her. A maid was sent to look in on her, while Nan cajoled him to eat a little.
The maid returned, agitated, out of breath, and too nervous to speak.
"Calm down, girl," Nan reassured her with a pat on the back. "Tell me what the matter is."
The maid stuttered, her words jumbled and tears rushing to her eyes.
"The queen.....Her Highness....she is...she is no...more," she mumbled with difficulty.
Nan had sank down on the chair, unable to stand with her trembling legs. A messenger was dispatched to his father with the sad tidings, and he was ushered to his room, crying and kicking and wanting to see his mother.
Nan sat with him the whole night, rocking him, wiping his tears, kissing his head, till at last, near dawn, he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Luke leaned back in the chair with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, as tears threatened to fall once again for that unfortunate boy. How could he not help hating the man responsible for his mother's death?
Zena reminded him of that man every moment she was with him. It was only when he was in bed with her, enjoying her exquisite body, that he sometimes forgot everything except his desire for her. Then, the only thing in his mind would be their mutual pleasure. Hatred would return with a vengeance when he saw her face again.
Now, the troubled memories of his dark past disturbed him. He opened the drawer of the desk and searched inside. A piece of yellowed canvas lay at the back, and he pulled it out, spreading it on the table.
He gazed transfixed at the painting, wondering why he had still kept it. Of course, he had forgotten about it as well as the name of the little girl who had drawn it for him. He traced the name with a finger, then drew back his hand as if it burned him. He rolled the piece and threw it in the fireplace, watching the flames curl around it greedily. He couldn't afford to have any soft feelings for Zena. He couldn't think of falling in love with her. She was only a vessel for his desire, and that was all she could ever be to him.
His fist struck the desk, coming down on it hard. He couldn't entertain such thoughts about Martin's daughter. Then why were those thoughts plaguing him like a persistent fly trapped in a room?
Zena knocked on Nan's door. It was evening and soon, it would be time to visit Luke in his bedchamber. She needed to speak with her before that.
"Come in," Nan called out.
Zena walked into the cozy little sitting room. Nan was bent over a cloth, doing needlework. She kept it aside when she saw Zena.
"It hurts my poor eyes these days," she said, rubbing her tired eyes. "Sit down, child. I must say, that you're a welcome sight for the sore eyes."
Zena sat beside her on the couch, gathering the courage to say her piece.
Nan placed her hand on that of the younger woman's.
"Don't hesitate to share anything with me, child."
"I...I...don't want to fall....with child, Nan. Please help me," she blurted out.
Nan nodded sagely. It was a possibility no one could deny. Zena couldn't risk it. Luke would never accept her child, give it his royal name, or make it an heir. Any such child would live out an unfortunate life.
She got up slowly, walked over to a cupboard, searched inside, and brought out a vial of vile-looking liquid.
"Take a little of it every day," she said, pushing the vial into her hand.
Zena breathed a sigh of relief, though the liquid really looked revolting.
"Thank you, Nan. I'll leave now, have to get ready for the night," she said with a twist of her lips.
Zena washed thoroughly, then dressed in a robe of the softest fur. She brushed her unruly curls, applied the extract of flowers to adorn herself with its heady fragrance, then sat down to wait for his call.
Zena watched the moon rise beyond the window, staring out into the moonlit darkness outside, waiting for his call. Minutes ticked by, then changed into hours, still she wasn't summoned to his chamber. Dawn was breaking in the east, when she lay down at last, falling into a fitful sleep.
The preparations for the annual ball were being carried out at full steam. The palace was being cleaned and dusted, the silver was being polished, as were the wooden floors with beeswax. The cook was busy making mouthwatering dishes, mince pies, small cakes, scones, and tarts. Bottles of wine were being chilled and Nan had made a cask of her famous mulled wine. The numerous rooms in the palace were being prepared for the guests who would stay overnight.
Zena had heard that Luke was taking a personal interest in all the preparations, working all day with Dave and Lord Wilfred, the chief advisor. Musicians were invited and so were magicians to entertain the guests.
Perhaps, that was why he had failed to summon her to his bedchamber for the last few nights. She dressed up every night, sitting on her bed, waiting for his call, but it never came. Zena knew that she should be relieved, but it was not so. She was in fact uneasy at the turn of events. Why did he not call her? Was he tired of her already, or had he given up on his revenge? And why did both the scenarios trouble her?