“What is everyone saying about me?”
She hesitated.
“Tell me-things certainly can’t get worse than they are.”
“I’m not so certain about that, Reuben. Everyone says you and your father set the fire.”
Reuben hadn’t realized he had fallen back asleep until he was awakened by a loud rapping on Dorothy’s door. He was instantly greeted by the pain again. The solid overwhelming wall of agony jolted him awake and made him hate whoever was banging on the door.
“I’m sorry,” Dorothy said as she made her way past his bed. “I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe they found some other poor soul who isn’t fit for a doctor.”
She slipped beyond his vision, around the brick of the chimney that came down through the center of the roof. The rough brick column vented a cooking hearth that was open on two sides and adorned with pots and blackened utensils. Pans, buckets, cups, and bowls dangled from low support beams, and above the archway dividing the rooms-where another person might display a sword or a coat of arms-Dorothy hung a well-worn broom. The home consisted of only three rooms: the kitchen, a small space behind a wooden door where he imagined she slept, and the room he lay in. Reuben noticed shelves of clay pots marked with more flower names along with other disturbing ones like rats feet, and rabbits ears.
Reuben heard the opening of the door. “Your Grace?” Dorothy sounded startled.
“Is he awake?”
“He was sleeping. The lad is sorely hurt. He needs to-”
“But has he regained consciousness since he was delivered?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Boots scuffled on the wood floor and then the door closed. The old man, the bishop who had been at the fire, appeared through the archway, his burgundy and black robes looking as brilliant against the dull walls as a mallard duck on a gray pond.
Why is the bishop visiting me? Does he think he needs to perform last rites? No, it would be a priest, not the bishop.
“How are you feeling, son?”
“Fine,” Reuben said cautiously. The pain was distracting, making it hard to think. The less he said the better.
The bishop looked puzzled. “Fine? You nearly burned to death, my boy. Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
The bishop waited, expecting more, then frowned. “We need to talk … Reuben, is it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember from the night of the fire?”
“I saved the princess.”
“Did you? What about before that? Braga said he found you and your father together. Is this true?”
“Yes, I was trying to stop him.”
The bishop pursed his lips and tilted his head back to look down the length of his long nose at him. “So you say. But you could just as easily have been helping your father.”
“No, I fought him.”
“Again, so you say.” The old man didn’t look at him but stared up at the ceiling. Reuben followed his sight just the same. The bishop had that effect; if he was looking at something, Reuben felt he should too. Perhaps his next question might be about the dried plants.
The bishop dragged the spinning wheel stool over and placed it next to the bed, then sat down.
“Is there something wrong?” Dorothy asked, peeking around the chimney. Reuben guessed they were speaking too softly for her to hear from the kitchen, or she could hear and just didn’t like what was said. The tone of her voice made him think it was the latter, and it was then he realized he liked Dorothy.
“Please leave us,” the old bishop snapped.
Reuben, however, did not like the bishop. He had not cared for how he tried to stop him from saving the princess, and he was not winning any awards by being short with Dorothy. Still, Reuben was too miserable to generate an emotion resembling anything close to hate or anger, and the old bishop didn’t look much better. His eyes were bagged with deep shadows, his face drawn and haunted as if he hadn’t slept in a week.
The bishop reached out and placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward. “Reuben, I can’t help you unless you tell me everything. What exactly did your father say to you?” He leaned even closer. His eyes focused intently, his face tense. “Did he mention anyone he was working with?”
Reuben thought. He closed his eyes. The bishop peering at him did not help his memory. He was a bit nauseous, and his skin felt as if it were still on fire, while overall he felt bizarrely chilled. His misery made focusing on even the events of the night before a challenge.
Reuben shook his head. “But I think he was promised something in return for setting the fire. I got the impression he was angry at the king. Angry about the death of my mother. He said something about someone having convinced him he could make things right again.”
“And how was he going to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you certain? This is very important, Reuben. You must be absolutely positive.”
“He never mentioned anything else.”
The bishop sat back and let out a long sigh. “So you fought your own father to save the royal family?”
“Yes.”
“Many will find that hard to believe. The queen died in the fire, and the king’s mad with grief. He wants to punish someone. He nearly killed me a few days ago during a council meeting after I defended you.”
“Defended me?”
“Yes. I told him you were a hero for saving his daughter. I told him you ran in when all others refused.”
“And?”
“He attacked me with his sword. If it had not been for Count Pickering’s intervention, I would be dead. He hears the word Hilfred and he loses reason. Your father killed his wife, and you are guilty by relation of blood. It’s an old law. Close relations are put to death for such high crimes as treason.”
“Why?”
“Because it is believed that what a man will do, so will his son or brother.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. I saved her. I went back for the queen. I nearly died.”
“I know. I believe you. I was there, and I want to help you. But you must help me do that.”
“How?”
“Think very hard-are you absolutely certain your father never mentioned anyone else involved in a conspiracy to murder the royal family? Who was it that was going to help him make things right?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.”
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, but will the king? More importantly, will he want to?”
“What are you saying?”
The old man reached out and laid a hand on Reuben’s, causing him to wince. “Someone has to pay for the murder of the queen, and your name is Hilfred.”
Reuben suffered through a span of nightmares broken by brief bouts of agonizing consciousness. He drifted in and out until he found it hard to tell what was real. The one constant was the pain. In his dreams he was always dying, slowly burning to death. In one, Ellison and the Three Cruelties had him tied like a pig on a pole being slow roasted. They jeered and laughed as his skin split and sizzled. In another he was trapped in Arista’s bedchamber, unable to reach her, and together they burned-first her, then him. He would scream for the princess to wake up, to run, but his voice was so weak, so choked with smoke she never heard.
Dorothy was always there when he woke. In the tiny house she likely heard his nightmares, but he began to suspect she simply stayed at his bedside. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw her looking back with a sympathetic smile.
On the morning of the third day after his waking, he felt better. Nowhere near good, but somewhere between excruciating and terrible, which was a significant step up. He was able to drink and keep it down, and Dorothy could apply a soothing cream to his skin without having to listen to him scream.