Chapter Thirty Howard #3
“What I desire …” The boy’s mouth twists. Howard has the strangest feeling that she is looking into a mirror; not that the two of them look alike, but that they are alike. Like her, this boy is untethered. Like her, he can no longer see the path ahead.
Howard kneels beside him. Beneath her sleeves, she fingers the golden bangles concealed there. The boy watches her. He is still lying down, but he is attentive. Relaxed but respectful. Then his eye catches upon the cut on her collarbone. He sits up, mindless of his own extensive injuries.
“You are hurt,” he says. He scrambles along the table beside his bed. “The physician left some bandages …”
He finds a stray piece of cloth and some rubbing alcohol, and turns back to her. He hesitates. “Would you prefer to tend to yourself?”
Howard feels as though she has been struck. It is akin to the moment at the Moon Ball when Cleves spoke to her in the midst of her panic. Sometimes only a few words can make one realise a falsehood that one has carried for so long it is part of your skin.
With one question, this stranger has exposed the lie of Henry’s love.
For he has never sought permission to touch her.
She takes the cloth and bottle of alcohol and mutely cleans her wound.
Then, impulsively, she slips one of her bracelets from her wrist and hands it to him.
The boy’s eyes widen at the sight of the gold.
He presses it gently in a way that tells her he understands precious metals.
His fingers leave a faint print on the jewellery.
“I am Queen Howard of Plythe, sir. I am working with Queen Seymour against my husband. He is not a good man. I ask for your help.”
She is surprised that her voice is more certain than she feels, as though simply taking action has lent her confidence.
The boy begins to laugh. Howard stands. She doesn’t know why it matters so much to her that he believes her.
“I don’t care that you don’t believe me,” she says.
“Oh, I do,” he replies, wiping tears from his eyes and leaving bloody streaks on his cheeks. “I do believe you, Your Majesty.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“You would not get a queen in my country who would break a prisoner out of their gaol. But I should have known. You Elbenese royals are a different breed altogether.”
Of course. He was on board the Dowager Queen’s ship. The way he says it, full of admiration, makes Howard’s stomach twist uncomfortably.
The boy hesitates only a moment longer before nodding.
“Fescesta, I will help you,” he mutters, in a way that makes Howard think it is some Perfugian curse. He swings his legs painfully slowly to the floor.
“I am not going to be as fast to make an escape as you may like, though.” She wedges her shoulder beneath his arm and helps him to his feet.
The sound of voices echoes down the gallery. A moment later, someone attempts to open the door and finds it jammed.
The goddess’s favour has run out. Their easiest exit is blocked.
“The window is big enough, I think,” the boy says.
Howard peers through it. He’s right: it is big enough and she should be able to smash it, but it opens onto the road below – cobbles and stones.
“The drop would kill us,” she says.
“Then – can you fight? Because otherwise I think we may both be about to be tortured.”
They cast around the room for possible weapons and both seize upon a candlestick. The boy relinquishes his grip at the same time as Howard relinquishes hers, and the stick clatters to the floorboards.
“Please, you,” he says.
“No, you should …” she says.
They smile uncertainly at each other.
“You look like you need a weapon more than I do,” Howard says. The boy laughs.
“That is true. You seem very capable. I definitely am not.”
Howard feels a little drop in her stomach. It occurs to her that this is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to her, and then it occurs to her that that’s a rather sad state of affairs.
The door rattles again. They will need to move quickly or more will arrive, and then they will stand even less of a chance than they do at present.
The boy hefts the candlestick. Howard notices a pile of wood next to the fireplace.
She takes the longest lump she can find and thrusts it into the flame.
Common firewood would take far too long to light properly without kindling, but this is ambawood, treated with oils from Pkolack, and it catches immediately.
“Ready?” Howard says.
“One question,” the boy says. “It is a strange question.”
“Is now truly the time for strange questions?”
“When I inevitably shout your name as we rush through this house, or as I am stabbed to death, what would you like me to call you, since I assume I cannot call you Queen Howard?”
Howard hesitates. “Katheryn,” she says. It’s the name she’d always have wanted to be called, if she hadn’t been the oldest daughter of her absent father.
“Thank you, Katheryn. And I am Florin.”
They smile at each other, and then, as if reading each other’s minds, shove the chest aside, pull the door open and charge forth, candlestick forward, flame bright.