The Runaway King (7 page)

H
arlowe’s estate was nothing compared to Farthenwood, but it was grand compared to the cottages we had passed on our way. It was a square-cut home of maybe fifteen or twenty rooms, and felt sturdy and commanding. Broad steps led to a wide porch and dark-stained double doors. I stared at them, torn between desperately wanting to ask Harlowe whether my father had known about the Avenian thieves, and knowing there was a greater need to continue on to Avenia. I opted for the latter.

The woman with Nila refused my offer to help her down, so after she dismounted I held out my arms for Nila to fall into. But the woman pushed past me. “I can manage with the child,” she said. I backed up and she added, “No offense to you because of what you did, but you’re clearly not someone —”

“Joss will carry my granddaughter,” a man behind me said. Harlowe obviously. He was as tall as Mott and probably in his early fifties, though with the strong build of a much younger man. He had a thick crop of hair that was more gray than black and eyes with long laugh lines at the corners. With him was the servant Joss, who stepped forward and took Nila off the horse. Harlowe tenderly brushed a hand across her dirty forehead, and for the first time I saw tears fall on Nila’s cheeks. Then, with a nod from his master, Joss took her inside.

“Now about you,” he said, turning my way.

My eyes shifted, but the woman who had brought me here spoke first. “Master Harlowe, as you can plainly see, this boy —”

“Looks exhausted.” He put a firm hand on my shoulder. “Can you tell me where Nila’s parents are?”

I searched for an answer, but by my hesitation, he knew. Large tears flooded his eyes. “I see. There’s no way I can ever thank you for bringing Nila. You . . . you . . .” He tried to say something more but choked on the words. Finally, he said, “Come with me.”

Instinctively, my knees locked against the pressure of his hand.

“It’s all right,” he said gently. “Please come. I know you’re hungry.”

Until he said so, I hadn’t realized that he was right. Suddenly, nothing sounded more desirable than a solid meal. So we entered his home, tastefully decorated but not overly ornate. We entered a hallway on the left and passed a small room that looked like his office. He led me from there to a modest dining room where a servant was already waiting with a platter of fresh-baked bread and a bottle of milk.

“We don’t eat fancy here, but you’re so thin I doubt you eat much at all,” Harlowe said.

“Not lately.” But the bread smelled good, and for the first time since I’d been made king, I was hungry.

“Forgive me for leaving you alone, but I must check on Nila,” Harlowe said. “I’ll be back before you’re finished.”

True to his word, Harlowe returned to the dining room as I was downing my third cup of milk. He smiled, obviously pleased that I had enjoyed the food, and then sat across the table from me. I slouched when he looked me over. Now was not the time to be impressive.

He studied me a moment before speaking. “Nila’s father — Mathis — was my son. Stubborn boy, always had to do things his own way, no matter how foolish. I loved him and begged him not to leave Libeth.” He pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest, bearing the marks of age and use, but no doubt invaluable to him. “When Mathis left two years ago, he gave this to me. He told me that where he was going, he’d know the time of day by the sun overhead.”

I had stopped eating while he spoke. There was so much sadness on his face, but in it was a resolution to carry forward. He looked the way I had felt when I found out about my family’s deaths. I said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent your son’s death. I didn’t know what was happening here.”

He tilted his head, unsure of my full meaning, then said, “Forgive me for prying, but you’re obviously a stranger to these parts. What were you doing out there so late at night?”

“Just passing through.”

“Are you Avenian?”

“No.”

“Are you a thief?” I hesitated, then he shook his head. “You’re not. Those clothes you wear suggest it, but your nails are too clean, your hair is trimmed, and if I may say, you don’t smell like a thief. You’ve bathed recently.”

The last thing I wanted was to make the conversation about me. “Is Nila all right?”

“She’s mourning, but with time and care I believe she’ll pull through.” His eyes moistened and he added, “You saved her life.” I started to shake my head but he said, “No, you did. She told me the whole story. You fought all those men off on your own.”

“They weren’t much for opponents,” I said, forcing an expression calmer than I felt. How was it possible to feel so at home and so uncomfortable at the same time? I set my napkin on the table and stood. “Thank you for the meal, but I really must go.”

“That’s fresh blood on your shirt.” Harlowe rose from his chair and called for a servant to enter. Then without even asking, he walked to me and lifted my shirt, revealing a long cut across my stomach. “You got this in that fight?”

I backed up and pulled the shirt down, which did little good since the shirt was also cut. “It’s only a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t bleed like that.”

The servant entered and Harlowe directed him to get a bandage and some alcohol. I groaned. Wherever they were, the devils must be laughing. In repayment for my good deed, I was yet again to be treated to far greater pain than any wound could cause.

“Take him to the guest bedroom and bandage him up. He may rest there as long as he wishes, and then we’ll provide him with some more appropriate clothes.”

I objected, but it was pointless. Harlowe’s servant pulled me out of the room, and as exhausted as I was, there wasn’t enough in me to resist.

I insisted on removing my own shirt before the servant cleaned the wound, then lay on the bed so he couldn’t see the scars on my back. My preference would have been to keep the shirt on, but it was stained with my blood and the blood of Nila’s mother, so until it could be washed it was completely unusable.

In a vain attempt to distract myself, I tried to make conversation while the servant gently washed the cut with warm water.

“What kind of master is Rulon Harlowe?” I asked.

“The best. He’s kind and generous and sincere. Libeth couldn’t exist without him.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“She died a year ago . . . sir.” He nearly choked at having to address me with a respectable title.

“And does he have any children other than his son?”

“No. He lost another child many years ago due to a great tragedy. And forgive the observation, but you look a little like his son Mathis. He was older than you and there are differences of course, but anyone who knew Mathis would be able to see the resemblance.”

Maybe that was why Harlowe treated me so kindly. Perhaps I reminded him of what he’d lost. I started to ask more about that but the servant had moved on to patting the cut with an alcohol-soaked sponge. I howled and arched my back, then told him if he didn’t stop I’d hurt him. He removed the sponge and stared at it a moment, unsure of whether to finish tending the wound as he’d been ordered to do, or opt for self-preservation.

“Put the sponge down and wrap me up,” I said. “Enough alcohol soaked into this wound on my arm; it’ll find its way to this new injury just fine.”

The servant reached for a bandage. “Do you mind if I ask what happened there?”

“Yeah, I do.”

He finished up quickly, then offered me another sponge and a pan of warm water to wash myself. “I’ll let you have some privacy now,” he said, and left the room.

I sponged off until I was as clean as I cared to be, then wrapped myself in a robe the servant had left behind. I couldn’t explore Harlowe’s home in only a robe, so I lay on the bed to wait for the servant to return with some clothes. It had been my plan to stay awake, but when my eyes opened again, a thick blanket was spread across me. A clock on the bedside table indicated it was early afternoon, much longer than I’d ever wanted to sleep.

I tossed the blanket aside and quickly dressed in a set of clothes laid on the bed. A full-sleeved linen shirt went beneath a long, copper-colored vest trimmed in silver-plated buttons. The woolen pants were a little big on my waist, but then most pants were lately, and the leather boots fit perfectly. When I opened the door, another servant waiting for me said, “You’re awake, then? Master Harlowe has an afternoon meal ready for you, if you’ll join him.”

“Where are the clothes I had before?” I asked.

“They’ve been burnt, sir,” he said.

I groaned. The clothes I now wore were new, clean, and reeked of money. I couldn’t go into Avenia wearing them, and I should’ve been there already. Only a week remained until the regents met with Gregor.

“Apologize to Master Harlowe for me, but I must leave,” I said.

“Your horse is being groomed,” the servant said. “After the fight you got in, we thought you’d want him carefully checked for any injuries. He should be ready at about the time you finish your meal.”

I relented. “Take me to your master, then.”

Harlowe’s table was spread with food by the time I arrived. Considering how much was there, I was surprised to see only three plates set for dinner. Nila was already sitting in her seat. She had also cleaned up, and though she was solemn, she looked better than before. Harlowe stood to greet me when I entered the dining room, then directed me to my seat.

Servants waiting in the room began offering food until it was impossible for me to accept any more. It all looked and smelled delicious, but there was simply no room left on my plate. When every dish on the table had been offered to us, Harlowe dismissed the servants and we were left alone. I decided to get through the meal as quickly as possible, and so set to work on my food.

“You never did tell us your name,” Harlowe said.

I spoke with a mouth full of warm bread. “No, sir, I didn’t.”

He smiled knowingly. “What matters with a name anyway? Perhaps you wish to hear a little about me first.” I glanced up and Harlowe said, “My family has lived in Libeth for generations. We take care of the people in this village, and they take care of us.”

“Are you a noble?”

He shrugged. “I suppose, but it’s only a title. Titles don’t matter here.”

“They matter in Drylliad. I thought all the nobles were there for King Eckbert’s funeral.”

“And what is that but a parade of egos?” His smile fell. “I keep myself as far from the king’s politics as possible. Besides, we have our own troubles here.”

“With the Avenians?”

“Many of them are very dangerous. I hope that wherever your travels lead, you will not meet them, son.”

Our eyes locked on that last word, though I quickly had to turn away. Nobody had called me “son” in years. My father might have at one time, but it was meaningless to me then. Now, the word had far more value.

I filled the awkward silence that followed by eating more of the supper. It was simpler than the food at either Drylliad or Farthenwood, and I liked it. Now that I had an appetite again, I felt ravenous.

Seated across from me, Nila barely touched her food, which wasn’t surprising considering the trauma she had endured. She had changed into a pastel yellow dress and had her hair tied back into braids. It was an odd contrast for how miserable she must be feeling inside. Although mourners in most surrounding countries wore dark colors, Carthyans rarely did. It was felt the life of the deceased could be better remembered through wearing colors that honored them. While I watched Nila, I became aware of Harlowe’s eyes on me. I let more of my hair spill over my face and made every effort not to betray my identity, by either my words or my manners.

“Will you stay the night?” Harlowe asked.

“I can’t.” Although for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I wished that I could. I suspected if I did, he’d convince me to stay yet another night, and then to finish out the week, and pretty soon the spare room would be offered as mine. Harlowe struck me as a man with that kind of persuasive ability. Or maybe I didn’t want to admit that the thought of staying was so tempting.

“Of course you can stay,” he insisted. “That cut on your stomach needs to heal, and I’m told there’s another bandage around your arm too.” He hesitated, then gently said, “What’s happened to you? You’re just a boy, too young to bear such wounds.”

And for the first time in weeks, I felt my age. Other boys my age were choosing apprenticeships for their careers and teasing pretty girls on their way to the market. They could still be found enjoying a game of Queen’s Cross in the streets or working an extra job to earn money for their first horse. Suddenly, I felt heartsick for a life I’d never known.

Harlowe frowned. “Son, where are your parents? Have you no family?”

I stood so quickly my chair nearly tipped over. “Will you call someone to get my horse? I need to leave. Now.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Harlowe stood as well. “Please, at least finish your meal. I owe you that, for what you did for Nila.”

“I’m glad I could help, but I really can’t stay a minute longer.”

Harlowe tenderly brushed a hand over Nila’s hair, then called a servant into the room. When he entered, Harlowe directed him to fetch my horse and to have a satchel packed with food for me.