Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(69)
And there was Damien, hand in glove with the Prince Regent, winding the English aristocrats around his little finger. While Nedrak concentrated on the prophecy and magic, Alexander watched what Damien actually did.
Damien at the moment was sweet-talking an English girl into believing she was a Nvengarian princess who needed to save his kingdom. Damien had also buttered up the Prince Regent and men in the British Cabinet so they’d come running to help at his call. England would sink its teeth into Nvengaria and never let go.
I will stop him. The words beat, unrelenting, through Alexander’s head.
“It is simply astonishing,” Nedrak was saying behind him. “Astonishing. I wondered what the prophecy meant when it said the princess would tame wild things. I never dreamed it meant she’d befriend a logosh. A mage there must be working spells. That enchanted sleep was not mine.” Nedrak paused. “I wonder if she is the mage? This young lady certainly is powerful.” His tone held admiration.
“Nedrak,” Alexander said dryly, turning back to him. “You seem to be altering your loyalties.”
The older man looked up with a start, sudden panic on his face. “No, Your Grace. Never.”
“If you help me break the prophecy, as you promised, you will be vastly rewarded. If you join Damien, you will die with him.” Alexander leaned his fists on the table. He was profoundly tired and could not say why. “You can, of course, decide to help neither of us. You may retire to the country with your grandchildren and leave politics behind. There are plenty willing to take your place.”
Alexander saw the offer of retirement tempt Nedrak’s soul. Nedrak was always bleating about how heavenly it would be to sit with his daughter and son-in-law and five precious grandsons on the shores of the lake in the north.
But Nedrak was at heart a greedy and ambitious man. The thought that another mage would take his place ate at him. Besides, he did not trust Alexander and feared an assassin might be sent to the lovely house by the lake to end Nedrak’s life late one quiet night.
“No indeed, Your Grace,” he said quickly. “I am your man. Do not think for a moment that I would desert you.”
Alexander let his features soften. “No, of course you would not.”
He turned away, keeping his anger from his expression. Nedrak was a fool and a romantic. Damien and his princess were more appealing to Nedrak than a stickler of a Grand Duke trying to pull Nvengaria from the mess Damien’s father had made.
Why a man like that was alive when Sephronia …
Alexander quickly broke off the thought. Earlier that day, as the Nvengarian sun had spilled into the valley, Grand Duchess Sephronia had been laid to rest. It was a bright summer morning, a day for celebration and song, a day when Nvengarian maidens tossed blossoms at Nvengarian gentlemen in the town square. The citizens of Narato strolled about in the warmth, smiling at neighbors, sipping coffee in cafés, enjoying the respite from the harsh Nvengarian winters.
A mahogany casket, closed, had reposed at the gates to the marble mausoleum, the resting place of the Grand Dukes of Nvengaria and their families. Alexander, wearing formal military blue and a black band of mourning on his upper arm, kept his eyes on the blades of grass the casket had crushed as the priest droned through the service. Alexander had held the hand of his son, Alex, who clutched a small bunch of flowers, waiting for the right moment when he was to lay them on his mother’s coffin.
The casket remained firmly closed. Sephronia had begged Alexander to not let others see the wreck her body had become. Alexander had respected that wish and allowed no one to look at her as she lay in death. It was the least he could do for her after she’d endured seven years of marriage to him.
The coffin was carried through the gates of the mausoleum and lowered on lavish ropes into a stone sarcophagus. Alexander led Alex to the square tomb inside and lifted him into his arms. At his prompting, Alex leaned over and dropped his small garland of red flowers onto the polished casket.
Alexander stepped back, still holding Alex, and waited for the workers to close and seal the tomb. The scraping noise the carved stone cover made as they slid it into place was lonely, cold, and empty.
As orchestrated, Alexander’s men carried in the huge mourning wreath of dark leaves, flowers, and ribbons in Nvengaria’s red and blue that Alexander had ordered as soon as the physicians had brought him the news that Sephronia had died in her sleep. Setting Alex on his feet, Alexander lifted the wreath himself and placed it carefully in front of the tomb. He stood a moment in silent contemplation, then took Alex by the hand and walked out.
Outside, in the summer air, the two-dozen military color guards came to full attention. The captain saluted stiffly as Alexander passed them, leading Alex.
As soon as Alexander and his son had gone past, the captain gave a brusque nod to the sergeant, who then bellowed out the order to raise arms and fire.
Muskets cracked, fire spurting into the bright morning sunshine, signaling the end of Grand Duchess Sephronia.
The color guard lowered their weapons and stood once more to attention. Alexander nodded at the captain, implying thanks. Then he led Alex to the black carriage and horses and they rode back to the palace together.
Once there, Alex had been returned to his nursery, and Alexander resumed his duties. His wife’s death barely caused a hiccup in the day-to-day routine of the palace. That angered him. The entire country should have frozen at least a day for her.