Author's Note: First of all, shout-outs are being distributed to Walkman777 for his review on the last chapter. I had posted this chapter when it was "much shorter" (2400 words), but there were some plot points I started to allocate to the next chapter that I decided to give to this one instead. I'm actually in the home stretch of completing this story now; only 3-4 more chapters left to go. So thank you all for reading and reviewing and following. I know I am slow to update, and I apologize for making the reading more strenuous than it really should be.
Review and follow!
Chapter 11: The First Trimester
Albion
Five weeks later…
"This was a mistake."
"Well then, it was a good mistake."
"We should not have done this again."
"You have said that every time we couple, Eleanor. But we rendezvous the next day or the three days after without fail," Reaver chortled.
Eleanor cut her eyes like emerald daggers at Reaver across his ostentatiously lavish bed. Anywhere else, the queen's glare would have been more foreboding. If Eleanor had been anywhere else, she would not have worn only her petticoat, undergarment, and linen stockings.
Raking her near-nudity with his coal black eyes, Reaver smirked. "At the rate you're going, Eleanor, you might as well drop the pretense now and disrobe again."
"You would like that, wouldn't you?"
"Either I view sexual congress with you as a masochistic form of punishment, or I think your sexual prowess is sufficient to match my own."
"Your powers of seduction should not be underestimated, Reaver."
"You looked very pretty today when you first came."
"Thank you. I had the dress I wore made especially for today."
"I didn't mean when you arrived, my sweet," Reaver responded with a sly smirk.
"That is why I take umbrage with you, Reaver. You're too crude for a man of your considerable wit and wealth."
Eleanor lowered her eyes to the carpeted floor in search of her yellow silk-and-chiffon dress with ruffles adorning the sleeves and collar. In the heated passion of the moment they were finally alone, Reaver had hastily yanked her dress open, causing the stays on the back to pop and the frail fabric to rip from the strength of his skilled hands. Eleanor's full lips still tingled from their ardent kisses. Reaver had tossed her dress to the floor during their kisses. It waited at her feet—along with her pearl necklace on its thin gold chain and a tortoise-shell comb to pin back her lovely blonde mane.
She dressed hastily and finished the ensemble with her yellow satin pumps, then checked herself in the mirror. "I should not complain too much, Reaver. It is to my shame that I am a married woman deigning to share your bed."
"You continue this affair, Eleanor."
Reaver was dressed in his pearl-white undergarments and the dress socks that complimented his patent leather loafers. Eleanor glanced at him and turned away, disappointed by her own lustful thoughts reigning. "Sparrow—my beloved, incorruptible, impossibly Heroic, and untainted husband—is also unbelievably dull."
"Sparrow may be many things, but dull is not one of them."
Eleanor watched Reaver put on his white silk dress shirt and pull up a pair of canary yellow silk pants. "You're biased in favor of all Heroes."
"No, I was quite vocal about my distaste for Hannah, Garth, and all that we shared on that lovely excursion to save the world," Reaver drawled, "but Sparrow was hardly the most noisome of our motley crew. I genuinely believed that Sparrow is a far more interesting character than you perceive."
"He's hardly the Hero you once knew. He's hardly even a Hero anymore."
"Far be it from me to discourage an affair as delicious and forbidden as ours." Reaver stood upright as though posing for Eleanor's appreciative eyes. A yellow silk cravat completed his dapper appearance.
"Sparrow could certainly fill out that suit better."
"We have had an entire conversation about Sparrow, while the rest of our rendezvous today consisted of naked flesh and naked flesh. If your husband is all that you claim, then why have an affair?"
"Because I still love my husband and he is still the king of Albion."
"I believe it is more the latter than the former. But it is not my affair to judge the affairs of the royal couple. I'm just here for the salacious sex."
Eleanor scowled, lifted a fox-faced masquerade ball mask to her face, and strode briskly from Reaver's personal chambers to the main second floor hall of the mansion. "You know where to find your equipment, Eleanor," Reaver called after her.
The theme of opulence and refinement continued into the hallway, which was carpeted with plush red velvet, had elegantly carved wood paneling, and was lined with portraits of Reaver in various self-edifying poses: Reaver astride a massive white stallion, looking as though he were posing rather than hunting; Reaver standing proudly at the helm of his ship, looking larger than any other crew member; and Reaver with one of his famous Dragonstompers withdrawn from its holster. She passed down the hallway—decorated entirely in Reaver's favorite colors of red, gold, and black—by Reaver in carved marble and embellished with gold togas, fig leaves, and gladiator's greaves.
Eleanor was unimpressed.
She found a few of Reaver's servants sweeping and dusting on the first floor. 'I asked him to send his servants to the dungeon while we are upstairs in his chambers. No one should hear even a hint of what happens. There should be no suspicion.' In her refined clothes, one could have mistaken the radiant queen for any aristocratic lady. 'Whatever he does to keep their silence, it seems to work.'
At the ground floor of the mansion, Eleanor exited through the sweltering, bustling kitchen to the stables, pungent with the odors of hay and horse manure. The pimply stableboy gazed up from brushing a chestnut brown mare to let his eyes roam across Eleanor's figure. "Did your master give you something for me?" Eleanor demanded.
The stableboy nodded, stepped into the nearest stable, and pulled out a pair of grubby brown leather pants, black leather riding boots, and a wrinkled white shirt. His eyes were still wide when he handed them to Eleanor. She gave him a well-earned glower from her emerald eyes, and the boy turned his back to her. Eleanor hurriedly changed into the clothes he had given her without taking off her undergarments then tapped the boy on his left shoulder. After assessing that she was dressed for riding, the boy led Eleanor to her black stallion, already saddle and untied.
She made a hasty departure from Reaver's mansion through the back gate, and rode the black stallion hard up a ridge from the lakeside to the road to Bowerstone. 'By Avo, I need a bath. Reaver's home always makes me unceremoniously filthy. Maybe it's just the things he does to me. Did to me; that was the last time. If only he would have gotten a private cottage, our affair could be conducted more discreetly. But never mind that now…That was the last time I'll ever have sexual relations with that…creature.'
Eleanor guided her stallion to a trot down the narrow cobbled path winding from the Manor by the Dweller Camp. It gave Eleanor an unimpeded view of Bower Lake's crystal clear waters, quiet shoals, and of a family of five ducks gliding by. 'How can Reaver appreciate such beauty as this, but disparage the ways of the Dwellers? But Reaver can't ever be rid of them, not while Sparrow is still king of Albion. He could crush Reaver like a bug. And I'm fortunate enough to be married to him. But Reaver aspires to be a gentleman. He wants to be rid of the riffraff. Sparrow still has room for them in his heart.'
The thicket of trees to either side of the path rustled as Eleanor reached the top of the ridge separating Bower Lake from Bowerstone. 'Bandits or Balverines…Either way, whatever comes out isn't likely to be my friend.' Eleanor disentangled her hands from her stallion's reins to steel for an attack. She moved just in time for five bandits to leap at her from the woods around her.
She lowered her free hand to the pistol she usually wielded, but her holster was empty. 'Damn it! Reaver probably has it. Like he would ever use it.' Eleanor tried to project a steely calm from her face and posture like an iron rod to intimidate the Bandits. There were five of them: dressed in black leather, unshaved, reeking of ale, urine, and no baths.
"Well, well, look at what we have here, boys: a pretty little gentlewoman, probably one of Reaver's friends."
'The spokesperson is probably the most intelligent person in their group. If they don't know who I am, they won't attempt to ransom me. But they might attempt to defile me. That, I cannot tolerate.' Eleanor thought while the bandits laughed sinisterly around her. Stiffening even further, Eleanor said, "If you know who my allies are, perhaps you also know to leave me alone."
"What, and leave a fat purse like what you've got alone as well? The bloody hell do you think we are?"
"I'm certain you are a band of ruthless thieves who would no sooner have at that woman's virtue than her purse. Both of which, are conveniently located beneath that monstrosity of a disguise."
Reaver sauntered from the thick bushes behind Eleanor's horse. Glancing around, she spied his ivory stallion chewing on a sprig of mint leaves just below her on the ridge. As he made his position clear, the Hero of Skill planted his mahogany cane in the ground and leaned on it.
"What are you doing here, Reaver?" Eleanor hissed desperately.
"I'm protecting you. Or would you rather be left to your own devices, Eleanor?"
'How is it that Reaver can stand the middle of danger and speak as casually as one speaks of the weather, but when Sparrow faces the simple task of balancing the national budget, gnashes his teeth and rages like a child?'
"Oy, no whispering!" The spokesman of the bandits withdrew his sword from the sheath on his back and pointed it at Reaver. "I don't care if you are Reaver, I'll—ARRRGGGGHHH!"
Faster than Eleanor had seen, Reaver pulled out his Dragonstomper .48 and fired it into the Bandit spokesman's hand with a pneumatic hiss. The other four Bandits charged forward with their swords raised Reaver fired four more shots. Each Bandit dropped to the ground with bullet holes in their foreheads.
Then Reaver walked up to the Bandit spokesman, who lay on the ground clutching the bloody, shattered mess of his sword hand. The Bandit crawled backwards with unmistakable fear written on his grimy face. Eleanor suppressed a laugh. For all his bluster, the Bandit had soiled his pants.
Reaver aborted the man's frantic crawling by stabbing the Bandit in his lower left leg with the end of his cane. The Bandit cried out aloud, agonized. At first, Eleanor thought Reaver had merely bruised the man. When Reaver pulled back his cane, however, there was a gush of blood spurting over the leg of the Bandit's pants. 'There must be some sort of retractable blade in Reaver's cane. How uncommon for a Hero of Skill.'
"Don't you know," Reaver drawled, "that I am Reaver, once called the King of Thieves?"
Grimacing in pain and tight-lippped with terror, the Bandit nodded.
Reaver stabbed the bandit in his leg again and twisted the cane. A malicious smile played on his lips. "I'm sorry, my dear boy, I didn't understand you. You must…" Reaver withdrew and stabbed the bandit's lower leg again "…use your words now!"
"Yes!" the Bandit groaned.
Reaver twisted the cane again, and a horrible grinding sound came from the Bandit's leg. Eleanor heard the Bandit scream inhumanely. 'By Avo, he's cutting the man's bones!' She covered her mouth in horror and turned away.
"Yes, what?"
"Y-Yes, y-your Majesty!"
"That is the appropriate response indeed. And, as I was once called the King of Thieves, you must also know that I never abdicated the throne?"
"Of course, your Majesty! Skorm! My leg!"
"Now, you and your company have insulted your King—and attempted to harm his most beloved Lady as well. Do you know what the punishment for such behavior is in my kingdom?" Reaver pointed the pistol at the Bandit's head and pulled the trigger.
"You didn't have to do that, Reaver."
Eleanor couldn't face the Hero of Skill, but she heard the soft sound of metal against flesh when Reaver yanked his cane from the dead man's lower leg. She turned and watched Reaver methodically pull the handkerchief from the coat of his suit and wiped the blade.
"My dear lady Eleanor, you would have been beaten then raped and robbed by those five brigands. You are most fortunate that I chose to follow you from my Lakeside Manor. You owe me thanks."
"You killed the last Bandit, when we could have asked how they found me."
"In that line of work, brawn and ruthlessness matter more than brains. They would not have told you anything."
'This was too well orchestrated. It would seem like a random Bandit attack…but that's the hallmark of any good assassin. Or, in this case, of good assassins.' Eleanor turned her stallion toward Bowerstone. "Reaver, I have to return to Bowerstone."
"You owe me thanks."
"Thank you, Reaver. That is now twice that you have saved my life."
"You are welcome." Reaver returned his gun to its black leather holster and approached the Queen, still astride her horse. When he took her left hand into his right and kissed it, Eleanor let him. "Now, may I escort you to Bowerstone, where—I presume—the town guards will assume the responsibility of your safety?"
"When my life was threatened, Reaver, you were there to protect me. Where was Sparrow? He was abroad. You deserve a more beneficent gift than just words of thanks."
Eleanor dismounted and practically landed in Reaver's arms. 'He smells superb.' She embraced him like a desired lover and kissed Reaver's right cheek. By the time he lowered her to the ground, Eleanor's arms were entwined around Reaver's neck. She fervently pressed for purchase on Reaver's lips and pulled him into the thick bushes alongside the path.
"You deserve my love….just one more time," she whispered against his lips.
Samarkand
Two weeks later…
Samarkand's open air bazaar, with its plethora of shoddy wooden stalls and gaily-colored awnings was busier than any market Sparrow had seen before, even larger than the one serving the Bowerstone metropolis and the lone market serving all of the Northern Wastes. There was something else distinctively different about the market in Samarkand, besides the arid, sandy air. Each shopper skimmed the wares on sale with trained eyes, and they seemed genuinely happy in each transaction with each vendor. 'In just two months, this area has recovered well from the assassin attacks. And the people here are overjoyed to conduct trade. What is the secret?'
Sparrow turned to Ethos. The powerfully built ambassador to the king had suggested a stroll through the market, in an effort to display the economic state of Samarkand. Arrayed in his silk robe with bands of green, yellow, blue, and orange silk, the ambassador had led Sparrow through areas of economic squalor on the fringes of the town to the market that was the region's lifeblood.
"Ethos, why are people so happy to spend their money here?"
The large ambassador smiled at Sparrow. "It is because we know the quality we receive, your Majesty. These vendors are neighbors and friends to their customers. Some are even related, however distantly. If someone has a good reputation at home, then they will have a good reputation for their business. If someone is guilty of thievery, these sellers all will know who the thief is, and they will drive him from their number. If the vendor is known for…shall we say, tripling his sugar, the customers will know. It would hurt the reputation of the Vendors' Guild. He would go broke and die."
Sparrow studied the vendors at the bazaar more closely. Many of them wore hats resembling upside down green teacups, and several wore hats that reminded Sparrow of red pancakes with purple feathers on the left side. "Those hats, do they represent members of the Vendors' Guild?"
Ethos followed Sparrow's gaze. "Those sellers in green represent the Vendors' Guild, yes. Those in the red and purple, they are members of the Traders' Guild."
"What is the difference?"
"Vendors make their money directly from selling here in the bazaar. They pay a fee to have a stall here. Traders sell to people along the roads and in the cities. They sell to ships and captains."
"And what does it mean, 'tripling his sugar?'"
Ethos laughed at Sparrow's self-conscious question. His entire body trembled with mirth beneath his fine robes. "The term comes from dishonest merchants who add all types of powders—flour, starches, even gunpowder, into their distilled sugar cane to make the measures meet what customers expect."
"Ah. So…this market seems quite prosperous."
When Ethos laughed this time, there was no merriment in it. He laughed as drily as though his mouth was filled with ashes. "You have seen how dire the needs of Samarkand are, your Majesty. We walked side-by-side in the squalor of our slums. And yet you claim that we prosper?"
"I want to meet with Garth the Willmaster. When can you arrange this?"
"Your Majesty, Willmaster Garth will speak to you when he is ready. After he heard about the attack in the market, and after the attack at his home…"
"Garth was attacked in his home?"
"He was. On the same day those assassins attacked you, three more attempted to kill the Willmaster in his home."
"What happened? Is Garth in good health?"
"The Willmaster survived the attack and is well, your Majesty."
"Please refer to me as 'Sparrow.'"
"As you wish, King Sparrow." Ethos bowed formally, arms tucked against his body.
The Her0-King rolled his eyes. "I have been in Samarkand for nearly two months, Ethos, and my request to see Garth has not yet been granted. What happened?"
"With all due respect, your Majesty, here in Samarkand, we do not challenge the wishes of the Willmaster. He has requested that we prevent you from meeting him at all costs. We will obey his requests to the sacrifice of our lives."
'Garth knows something, or has something so cleverly hidden up his sleeve, he cannot risk telling me. When Lucien Fairfax threatened to uncover Garth's identity as the Willmaster, Garth retreated to Brightwood and severed all ties to Fairfax. The years have driven a gulf in our friendship, and I suspect that these assassins have not helped to fill that void. I was never as close to Garth as to Hannah, but still…I thought…especially when I came here from Albion….'
Sparrow clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. He held his chin aloft with dignity. "Let us return to your home, Ethos. I have much to consider and require rest."
Bowerstone Castle
Three weeks later…
Silver trumpets blared the notes of Albion's newly revised royal anthem. The grand ebony doors at the far end of the throne room, the opposite end from the gilded royal chair, opened, and Queen Eleanor stood in the doorway.
The entire assembly bowed before her regal beauty. Every part of the ceremony was coordinated to magnify Eleanor's naturally effervescent loveliness and her centrality to the ceremony. The trumpeters were arrayed in crushed white velvet tunics and white silk leggings. Tapestries hung at certain intervals along the length of the hall, all newly sewn and depicting the greatest battles of the Hero-King. Newly purchased wine-red carpet absorbed each footstep of the magnificent queen, who was dressed to make a defining impression.
Her blonde hair, which had grown to reach the small of her back since Sparrow's departure for Samarkand, had been brushed and entwined with lilies. A rose-colored gown adorned her tall, lithe frame. Eleanor's shoulders, despite the heat of the day, bore the weight of a long ermine cape train behind her.
As Eleanor walked, she kept her eyes focused on the thrones ahead of her. The king's throne was center and sat the highest of the three, topped by a platinum frame imitating the king's crown. To its right was the slightly smaller but still majestic throne of the Queen with a silver diadem set into the plush cushion. And on the left of the King's throne, was the lonely throne of Prince Logan, the Heir of Albion, who sat in his throne as Eleanor approached.
For a four-year-old, there was a definite gravity about the Prince's demeanor. With his slim dark eyebrows, his boyish jaw set grimly, and his dark brown eyes, Logan was a smaller version of his father. He surveyed the court in such an imperious manner for someone his age. To complete the impressive look, Logan wore an ivory silk coat and ivory satin pants with gold buttons and gold trim. He was a spectacle upon his miniature throne (which was only slightly larger than his mother's), as he was meant to be.
The trumpets played their last note. Eleanor stood before her throne and gazed over the court in the same lofty way as her son. She folded her hands before her stomach.
The trumpeters played a short, quick note, and the grand ebony doors at the opposite end of the hall opened again. Reaver strode into the throne room.
As usual, a smug smile graced Reaver's face and his clothes were exceptionally debonair. He smiled and waved nonchalantly at the crowd. Women (and not a few men) swooned with their hearts aflutter in the wake of his charm. Reaver dominated the Throne Room with his easy popularity. If not for his kneeling before the Queen and future King, any outsider would have easily mistaken his presence for that of the King.
"Lord Reaver of Bloodstone," Eleanor said, while Reaver continued to kneel, "for your acts of valor, performed in the name of His Majesty King Sparrow, the people of Albion and the royal crown thank you. To show our appreciation, we bestow upon you this medal and the title of Protector of the Realm."
Reaver rose to his feet and the people around him clapped thunderously. 'Now he has a place in the hearts of the people of Albion. Now they see his potential for greatness. Now they will revere him if he should capture the true Bandits,' Eleanor thought.
