The Martyr's Red Heart
Richard dashed into the deepest recesses of Venterum Castle—he had no time to waste. The place he sought was the chamber known as the Martyr’s Red Heart. It was no ordinary room. He thought of Queen Selina II. She had been the fourth queen before the current one, cousin to the fifth. A queen worthy of scorn. Married off at a tender age to the Imperial Chamberlain of the Western Empire, she had never received a monarch’s education and had grown far too accustomed to the lavish ceremonies of the Western court. When her cousin and her husband died almost simultaneously, she was practically expelled from the court of the Elector of Pelipol and thrust onto the throne of Zylan.
Queen Selina II had stepped straight out of the history books. Unfortunately, not from the flattering chapters. A woman who had never been properly trained to rule could hardly emerge among the great sovereigns of legend. Selina II was incompetent, steeped in luxury and pleasure, a disastrous ruler who lost territory in war and sold off the royal treasury to every faction under the sun. Richard had never liked this place. Even setting aside the eerie atmosphere created by blood-red marble, gold, silver, and mercury mirrors, the room’s purpose itself was troubling. Selina II had spent more years in Pelipol than in Zylan and had imported many of its customs. The Martyr’s Red Heart was a prime example.
He loosened the front of his shirt. He tried not to let his gaze stray toward the mirrors, even by accident. Becoming aroused by the sight of his own transformed body—or realizing he had been aroused by it—had already plunged him into self-loathing twice. A third time was something his pride would never allow. Yet the effort was futile. Simply refusing to look at the mirrors changed nothing. The mirrors would still reflect a woman’s body, and whether he looked or not, he still had to bathe.
He disliked both the name “Martyr’s Heart” and the state of mind that had led Selina II to bestow it upon a royal bath. He was due to receive David Bloomfield, the Jihan banker, and the reason for the audience was debt repayment. Had it not been for the extravagance and debauchery of the foolish Queen Selina II—waste exemplified by this bizarre royal bath—the royal finances would have been far more secure. Had the treasury been sound, the crown would never have incurred a debt exceeding ten years of revenue. Indeed, the international dispute over the Zylan crown itself might never have arisen.
He unbound his hair and shook his head. The tightly gathered strands loosened gradually. He had no right to blame anyone. Even if he did, the target would not be the foolishness of a woman who had died half a century ago.
“Preparations are complete, Your Majesty.”
“I am coming.”
He sighed and answered. He squeezed his eyes shut, then shrugged off his shirt. The brush of fabric sliding down his spine and across his hips made him shudder. A chill ran down his back and he let out a small cry.
“Your Majesty? Is something the matter?”
The sovereign’s person was the state itself. Richard’s cry had been faint, yet the bath attendant heard it and rushed into the dressing room. She was startled once more by the sight of his face. Though he had not gone near the hot water, his skin was flushed crimson. She asked urgently, “Your face is red, Your Majesty. Do you have a fever?”
“I-I am fine. I simply… grew warm from moving about…”
Richard stammered, then caught himself. He had spoken like a girl of seven or ten! That was no behavior for a grown man, nor even for a woman of that age.
Good heavens. What am I doing?
This time he raked his fingers through his hair with real force. A strange mixture of sigh, groan, and irritation escaped him. He snapped at the flustered attendant, “It is none of your concern.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
He knew—though he had not experienced it himself—that within all of Zylan, only Richelle’s former nurse, Dame Virginia, dared attempt to correct her posture and manners. Therefore he could vent his inexplicable anger on this attendant who could offer no resistance. He clicked his tongue. His conduct was cowardly. He was the king—though his current state hardly befitted the title, at least it was clear that within Zylan’s borders no one gave him orders. He was Zylan’s ruler. Not some adolescent girl!
He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes tightly, and brought both hands behind his back. When the cloth covering his chest and upper body fell away, the warm air of the bath touched his bare skin directly. Struggling to ignore the sensation, he unlaced his trousers and stripped off his undergarments as well.
The attendant realized Richard’s flush was not from exertion; his skin had grown even redder than before. Yet she possessed enough discretion to keep the observation to herself.
Richard spoke. “Let us proceed.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The attendant bowed respectfully.
==========
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!
Richard muttered the words under his breath as he hurried along. The bath had not been as unpleasant as he had feared—in truth, it had felt far too pleasant. For a single moment he had even felt a flicker of sympathy for Selina II. Yet what mattered now was that he was later than expected. When he had checked the time in the bath, fewer than twenty minutes remained until the appointment. More than half that time had been spent ignoring the maids’ near-fainting and wringing his hair dry like a rag. Venterum’s lofty castle was not as vast as Derim’s, so he could still arrive on time—if only the maids had not insisted on dressing him in this cumbersome gown.
“Your Majesty! Your ankles are showing!”
“Your Majesty, please! We shall be scolded by Dame Virginia!”
Richard could not understand why the maids were so frantic. Why such an uproar over a mere glimpse of ankle? It was not merely because he was accustomed to the naked bodies of courtesans. If an ankle was so precious that it must never be seen, why had no one objected when he wore trousers? Still, he had no attention left to spare for such questions. Even if he had, he would have used it to run in the unfamiliar heeled shoes, to avoid stepping on his own skirts, and to escape the maids who clutched at him, determined to force upon him the “graceful, regal gait befitting a queen.”
Though far slower than usual, he moved quickly enough to stay ahead of the exercise-starved maids. Before long the door of the audience chamber where David Bloomfield waited came into view. He stopped and caught his breath. It would be absurd to appear drenched in sweat after having bathed solely to maintain dignity before a commoner. Since he had ceased running, the maids finally caught up. Panting as though gravely ill, they checked the arrangement of his clothing—whether the splendid gown was wrinkled or torn, whether dust clung to it, whether the hair piled atop his head had come undone. While they did so, he cursed Selina II once more. Had she not ruined the royal finances—
Richard reached that thought and spat out a curse. “Rot in hell, you greedy sow.”
“Your Majesty?”
He waved the maids away. He had no desire to argue with them. They, sensing that the noblest lady in Zylan was in an especially foul temper today, bowed their heads and retreated.
Richard exhaled. He had been sighing far more often these past three days, yet he could not stop himself; his own greed and ignorance were simply too pitiable. Selina II had indeed been a wretched ruler. But the person he ought to resent and curse was not her. If anyone deserved his anger, it was himself.
He had acted out of ambition for the throne and, as a result, had lost something that might have been even more precious than the crown itself. He could have found a trustworthy relative to serve as a figurehead. He might even have made the Countess of Malong queen and become Lord Protector. That would have been enough. Lord Protector of Zylan, the jewel of the west—fewer than five living men could claim greater glory. Yet sheer greed for the throne of Zylan had reduced him to this: the greatest knight on three continents turned into a mere slip of a girl.
The only person he could curse—the only one who truly deserved it—was his own former self, that greedy sow.
“Damn it.”
He muttered the curse again and lifted his head toward the audience chamber door. He realized the guardsman had not yet announced the queen’s arrival. Richard gave the man a puzzled look, but the well-disciplined guard showed no expression. Richard tilted his head for a moment, then understood that he himself had given no order. He jerked his chin. Though the guard faced forward, he did not miss the signal. Without moving his head, he called out in a clear, resonant voice, “Her Majesty the Queen enters!”
At the cry, a servant opened the audience chamber doors from within. Richard walked inside, lifting the hem of his skirt slightly when the fabric caught at his feet—an action that felt both stifling and irritating. Once more self-loathing threatened to overwhelm him. He shook his head lightly; shaking it vigorously would have been too difficult, for the hair piled high felt several times heavier than a crown. He had to face the wealthiest man in Zylan. There was no time for such thoughts. Drawing a breath, he stepped into the audience chamber, striving to appear as dignified as possible.