"A gift from God, you say?"
King Edouard came close to spitting out his gulp of wine. "She is, Sir Bristol—but please explain to me why you would think otherwise?"
The auburn-and-sable-haired man's expression froze. "I meant no offense, Sire, but—"
"—but you did offend, and I suggest that you wait until I request your opinion before giving it." Edouard took another swig, swirling the liquid in his mouth, imbuing his taste buds with the decadent berry taste, and swallowed. "So, as I was saying... we have a dilemma, it appears."
The gentlemen around his massive oak table grunted in response. The night before, when stumbling into this very room, its forest-green walls and tapestries of exotic carpets muffling his stomping, Edouard had enjoyed the silence. Now, crowded with nobles who resided in his castle, in his town, or as close to Torrinni as possible, he regretted not waiting another day or two before convening with them.
Another gentleman tipped forward, rising halfway to show the King he spoke. "Might I say several dilemmas, Sire? That session with Louis' envoy..." Sir Richel, the Marquess of Valeville, had eyes gray as slate and the beginnings of a mustache forming over his thinned lips. "I was there, I saw that contempt. And I must add, the notable Giromian absence... troubling, no? Why focus on Totresia? They plot, Sire. France plots against you."
"Gregor was absent?" asked a young man Edouard barely recognized.
"Sent some Duke or other in his place, foul thing he was, I prefer not to recall his name." Sir Richel mimicked gagging. "Louis only wanted to talk to our monarch. But who are we to question the King of France, hm?" The Marquess returned his gaze to Edouard. "But anyway... Majesty, I worry."
Groaning, Edouard set his goblet down and leaned against his Meeting Room throne, the cushions not plush enough to provide him comfort on such an exhausting day. "I worry too, Barnabé, and I will bring these concerns up soon, I promise, but yesterday's events take precedence. Our discovery in the woods beside Mara is of far greater importance. A threat to our security if we do not hasten to figure out who committed such a foul crime on our territory."
The Marquess squinted at his King, but lowered into his seat. "So you were saying this child is a gift from God, Sire?"
"Yes, she is. A girl. Golden curls, bubbly, about the same age as Antoine." Edouard couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips as he spoke of her. "Found in the arms of a man we are assuming was her father." He swallowed. "Of distinguished descent."
His Captain, standing a few feet from them, guarding the entrance to the King's smaller Office behind his throne, slid forward. "We cannot be certain he is her parent, but I confirm he appeared to have insignia on his garb. It was burned, scratched off. Intentionally ruined."
Edouard did his best to appear unaffected in front of his men; but inside, a storm brewed, a hurricane swirled and disturbed his organs, and fear swelled in his gut more than it ever had. "I cannot fathom how this innocent thing got so lucky. The man's face was bashed in beyond recognition. The culprits chopped off all his hair, too, furthering our difficulties. But yes, I do believe he had some noble blood. His carriage had a sturdy set of wheels and elaborate doors."
A fellow with the brightest of blue eyes and well-kempt blond locks angled sideways over the table, to better see his monarch. Sir Geitz—a fervent follower and outspoken Count whose family always served the crown. "It collided with another and shattered? Majesty, forgive me but I cannot see that happening. Two sturdy coaches, as you describe them, at high speed, crashing into one another and killing all travelers within? How many victims in total?"
"Five." The Captain stepped forward again. "The man holding the baby, and all four occupants of the other transport."
"If the man was alone with the girl, he must have been her father." Edouard tapped his cup, requesting more to drink. "Which makes this child noble, too. Though why a father would travel with an infant, I am unsure. If she is of an age with my son... that is far too young. And how she yelped, the poor soul. How unfair for her family to carry out such blatantly stupid decisions." A page boy refilled his goblet and he grabbed it at once. "Perhaps the youngster was ill, and they traveled elsewhere for better care. Or they were fleeing."
He turned to glare at the only person who'd remained silent since the beginning of the meeting. The one he'd summoned in a separate letter, with altogether different words of urgency, specific reasons for being there.
"And they had little choice but to enter Totresia," said Edouard, frustration rumbling in his timbre at the sight of that person. "My dear friend, Marquess of Mara, so adamant on securing our northern borders against threats, tell me—how did you not have trace of this noble carriage and its arrival in your ledgers, hm?"
The room went silent, like the air itself had stilled.
"Well?" Sir Geitz nudged the Marquess beside him; the one whose peacock eyes had dulled, whose shoulders had hunched, and whose voice appeared stuck in his throat. "What do you have to say for yourself, Allard?"
Edouard had seen the man many a time jesting during card games, rowdy and exuberant, never afraid to speak up; but today, any over-the-top behaviors he once showed had melted into his untouched cup of wine.
A vintage from his own fabulous vineyards, if I am not mistaken.
"I have interrogated my men, Sire," said Sir Allard, focusing on his lap. "They swear to me someone trifled with the ledgers. They are conducting their own investigation as we speak—"
"—my men, you mean." Edouard's spine tingled as he straightened his posture. "Those in my employ, but overseen by you, at the northern French border." Sir Allard lost his voice again and nodded. "Then they should be punished. I will not tolerate my soldiers letting in unknown nobles who might have had bad intentions. Our borders are tense, gentlemen, we all know that! With France hounding us at every turn, desperate to buy our lands, to make us French... we must all be on alert. And a tragedy like this..." He swiped a hand over his forehead, finding it damp. "There was so much blood. In the mud, on the carriages, covering the items spilling from chests and drowning in the muck... I have seen a lot in my nearly twenty-one years, I have—but this was atrocious."
Worse still were the real thoughts flaring in Edouard's mind—English immigrants on the prowl, French hit-men ordered by King Louis, a dangerous Giromian involvement.
Giroma.
His wariness worsened at the theory that Giromian brigands loitered near the border, in the slather of French land separating Totresia from it. That they targeted this poor man and his lovely child. It wouldn't be the first time; King Gregor of Giroma had unreasonable grudges against Edouard and his people and loved provoking mayhem.
The Totresian-Giromian passive-aggressive war had roared on for centuries, and such an act of defiance would do nothing to taper it.
"Sir Allard," he said, prompting the Marquess of Mara to whip his neck in his direction and cringe. "I cannot express how dire this situation already is, and how you have made it worse. For that reason, I will ask that you refrain from dwelling at court until we are certain our border is safe. I need you in Mara, educating our men, ensuring they understand how important our safety is. Anyone might have strolled through—for all we know, this girl is Totresian, her father an upper-class gentleman on a quick trip with his staff, his wife dead or dying and he was desperate to find her medication. But that is our best-case scenario. This is unacceptable—look at what you have allowed to happen! Death on our soil! Death in your perimeter!"
"S-so I am... banished... from court, Sire?" Sir Allard's lower lip trembled, and a curtain of his chestnut hair covered his face, hiding his eyes.
Banished; such a strong word.
Edouard pinched the bridge of his nose and peeked at Sir Allard, who kept his head down. "If that is what it takes, then yes. For an undefined period. Once we are positive no further intruders can slip in, then I may reinstate you. You will maintain your title, but you must leave Torrinni."
Sir Allard didn't make a fuss as he left; he gathered his papers and blabbered apologies and bowed before scurrying out into the King's Corridor.
"Sire..." Sir Geitz pressed a hand to his chest, "who do you suspect, might I ask? As the culprit and as the victims?"
"There are a multitude of French baronies and courtships surrounding Totresia," said Edouard, wondering who the Count of Belnau suspected. As a strong ally, descending from a long line of strategic gentlemen, his opinion would be essential. "And they might hail from farther east. Switzerland, Slavic territories. Or up north—I have heard sayings of golden-haired Vikings; and the child has locks like the sun."
He wouldn't say it out loud, as it would cause an uproar he had no energy to deal with, but he and Clémentine had also spoken of Giroma. Of the possibility one of Gregor's nobles had fled, or he'd sent them there on purpose, to annoy Edouard, to show he had no trouble creeping over his borders. But admitting that would only generate more chaos.
"As for the attackers, I fear I am no more aware than any of you are, Sirs." Edouard craned his neck to glance at his Captain. "And you? Any theories on this unknown enemy?"
The Captain stiffened. "We discussed hypothetical culprits. Unhappy farmers from Totresian countrysides, or French pillagers, disgruntled Provence-dwellers. Even after scouring the entire perimeter, and conducting a few raids in Mara itself, we have no further clues."
"French pillagers." Sir Richel scoffed. "That would not be surprising. We encounter them often up in Valeville, but in Mara? The people we saw on our way home from Lyon... they had no disrespect towards our proceeding. It is odd."
The Captain peered at the assembly, then at Edouard—and grimaced. "I agree with Sir Richel. It could be anyone, Sire. Without being able to identify the travelers in both carriages, we cannot be sure if they attacked each other, and the man and his baby had no way to defend themselves. Or if a third-party swept out of the forest and assaulted them both, leaving the child as a sign of good faith, or as a warning. In an area such as the Marquessate of Mara, logic leans towards the French. Possibly the Swiss, though we know them to be peaceful and they have never given us trouble. And Gir—"
"—do not imply it!" Sir Geitz pointed at the Captain, his index finger wobbling. "Do not even say that country! That damned Gregor, he would not dare something so bold. He would not!"
Edouard lept to his feet, prompting all to drop into their seats or to mold into their cushions. "Calm down, Sir Geitz. Gentlemen, we must explore every option. We have buried the victims, my staff has sent out inquiries to all areas of the country, and to border cities in France, and yes, to Giroma as well. Whoever orchestrated this is serious. It could stem from an internal rebellion—a few once indicated a desire to rise against my father." Wisps of his light mocha and sable hair had blown over his forehead in his commotion, so he shrugged a hand through, raking them back. "Or an invasion, a well-plotted revolt. Regardless of their motives, these scoundrels destroyed any trace of sigils, mottoes, insignia—" he jolted around to gape at his Captain once more, "—and you confirm this, yes? I assigned you all to return to the accident site, and the deluge subsided, I am sure, aiding you in your search?"
"We examined every inch, Sire. Not an item of clothing revealed any clue who these people were. We are..." He seemed to shrink, to lose his composure. "We are at a loss for what to do next."
Shouts of discontent erupted from the assembly. "Could it be sabotage? Or a distraction? They might have expected you to travel through that area. They might have staged it."
A lump eerily like the one he'd felt at the scene of the accident lodged itself at the top of Edouard's throat. "Sabotage. Staged." He scratched his chin, tugged at the tiny hairs trying to push through his skin, and gazed at the immense stone hearth in the middle of the space, blasting heat into an otherwise frozen atmosphere. "I cannot deny that, no."
The Captain cleared his throat. "And the baby, Sire? Is she a diversion? Part of a bigger plot to subdue us, trick us? Keep your men occupied whilst other plots happen under your nose?"
Edouard's gaze zipped to him. "Is that what you think? This baby is a toy, a ploy against us?"
He recalled the calm-natured thing, falling asleep in Clémentine's embrace as they pressed on to Torrinni, after ensuring all nobles had returned to their transports, and a few guards stayed behind to keep watch over the crime site. How she cooed and bonded with Clémentine almost instantly; how she appeared at peace, unaware of how close she had come to death.
He implies this adorable girl lives only to fool us?
The instant they'd arrived, hours before dawn, Edouard summoned the castle physician to inspect her. To ensure she was safe and warm and dry, bathed and changed into thick clothes and given a comfortable bed to sleep on. Close to Antoine, he'd ordered; so she wouldn't feel alone when she woke. He envisioned the sleeping infant in Clémentine's arms, her hair glittering in the moonlight flitting through the open carriage windows. As they splashed through the Torrinni gates, she didn't fuss. When they trotted down the slopes leading to the castle, she didn't fret. Even when the doctor prodded at her skin, passed a damp cloth over her face, measured her, she never stirred.
Could this heavenly child, this precious being, be a message from an enemy? A disturbance, as some claimed?
The Captain's shoulders hunched, and he expelled a heavy breath. "I know not, Majesty. I only mean that we must explore every possibility. Did you not say that?"
"You speak the truth." Edouard rose once more, but slower this time, so as not to frighten his nobles. "I will not dismiss your suggestion, but if you will all allow, I have one of my own to offer."
All gazes flipped to him. As if a hole in the ceiling let through beams of sunlight to bask him in a glimmering glow; as if he sported a halo, making his words hymns.
"We will hold a Ball, in a few weeks' time. A feast to introduce this child, and present her to the rest of Totresia as a foster-member of our family."
He'd expected anger and confusion from his men; he'd imagined their protests and disdain at his risky choice. Clémentine hadn't found it wise when he told her before the meeting, and his Captain wasn't fond of the notion either.
I am the King, and this is my kingdom, my court, my decision.
The mixed reactions from his men, the moments of quiet and rumination, shocked him. There were murmurs of agreement, some pontificating, and a handful of nodding heads as they all took stock of his opinion. A few dared to speak in opposition, implying the baby might be a pauper, or worse—a descendant of King Louis who would later come to claim her and declare war in the process.
Hissing through gritted teeth, Edouard raised his arms, cutting all his men's complaints like swift knives chopping morsels of meat. "I am taking her under my wing. Under my wife's wing. To educate her, give her a place to live, something to aspire to." His arms sank to his sides, his fists clenched. "And as I said, I want this to be in a few weeks—which gives plenty of occasions for us to locate culprits, contact any who might know her, and welcome all of Totresia at court to meet her."
Some still sought to protest, but the Captain stomped his foot to silence them all.
Edouard lifted his goblet. "This girl is my guest of honor, and because of that, I will introduce her to those I govern. She may have been born Totresian, and if it so happens she does not have noble blood, then I decree that she does now. I decree this infant is Totresian, and will confirm as much at the Ball. Any questions before I assign duties?"
Near every noble raised his hand, grumbling, grunting, questioning.
Edouard smirked; no matter their concerns, he'd decided, and wouldn't change his mind. A decision that would set his future ward on a collision course with a greater destiny than anyone could have possibly imagined.
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