Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella (41 page)

“Of course, Madame,” the guard complied, escorting Isolda back in the direction from whence she’d wandered. “And let me just say, though I know it will sound silly, it is nice to finally meet you, Isabella.”

Isolda stopped.

“Pardon?” she imposed, in a tone the young Mario could not decipher. A foretelling nervousness overcame him. He was completely inept at talking to women (or so his mother had told him).

“I am sorry,” Mario said, stuttering. “It’s just that when you said you were her mother, well, I thought your name was Isabella.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because that was the woman the prince sent for. It is the one he is with right now. He remembered her by his mother’s name for some strange reason. I imagine she must have told him when they’d met in private earlier at the ball. She is a lovely woman, by the way, Madame. You must be quite proud.”

Isolda’s heart was pounding so forcefully, she wondered if the callow guard could hear it echoing off the walls. “Did you see this woman, by chance?” she inquired, overly sweet so as not to make it even more difficult for the idiot to complete his sentences.

“Only briefly, as she was entering His Highness’s private dormitory.”

“I see. If you will indulge me, be so kind as to tell me the color of her gown.”

“Pardon?”

“
Her gown
! What color was it?”

“Pink.”

Ella was thunderstruck. She could barely draw breath.

Thurlow, on the other hand, was reeling in excitement. “God, I can’t believe how wonderful it is to finally get that out in the open,” he exclaimed gleefully. “Except for dead men, Benjamin and my father that is, you and I are the only ones who ever knew that, Gabriel. Well, except for my mother, of course. I don’t believe either of you ever had the pleasure of meeting my mother, Anna. She is our departed monarch’s most dutiful live-in nurse.”

“No one will believe you, Thurlow,” Gabriel said, stepping closer ever so deliberately. “You are a lowlife; a nobody. You think the Queen, or Gwent’s army will believe that William sired you in secret with some young servant girl before he was ever king? It’s the stuff of childish fancy.”

“Why should I give a lick about what Arabella or anyone believes, Gabriel? As soon as my men rejoin me with confirmation that Leopold is dead, I will go to Her Majesty, the queen, and throw this in her tear-streaked face.”

Thurlow, who was still clutching his knife, reached with his other hand inside his jacket and withdrew a rolled parchment, the royal seal broken at its opening.

“It is none other than our beloved King William’s deathbed confession,” Thurlow said, waving the parchment in the air. “His written proclamation to Leopold—and now everyone—that I am his son. My mother confiscated it right after he passed, before anyone else could claim it. Unfortunately, per law, I am still a bastard. I cannot rule if there is a natural, legitimate heir to the throne. You see, when my mother gave birth to me, both she and William left me in that Godforsaken orphanage. When I was seventeen, my mother found me. She told me the truth about my parentage. She said she had prayed to God for forgiveness and knew she must make amends for having abandoned me. As if seventeen years of desertion could be made up with a measly penance. But at least she tried. That was more than my coward father was willing to do. I wanted to prove to him, before I ever met him, that I was worthy to be his son. So I joined the army. But my skills as a soldier were not nurtured. Instead, my aggression was suppressed. I was more than they believed me to be. Every superior I’ve ever had has told me, in some form or another, that I am relegated to mediocrity. In discontentment, I finally rallied the courage to approach King William, my father, in private and tell him who I was. He believed me, but did nothing. He had a wife and a young son and didn’t know what he could give me without sacrificing everything he had. Can you believe it? I always imagined my greatest enemy would be some kind of hellish beast or at the very least a fighter like you, but instead it was a coward. My own father was my greatest enemy.”

“And so you elected to kill him,” Gabriel remarked.

“He gave me no other choice! He was no different than the rest of them. All it would have taken was one point of his finger and my life would have changed. I would get everything I had been robbed of my whole life. By then, however, I was tired of waiting.

“Benjamin was the one who convinced me to make it about more than my own revenge. He wanted equality and socialism. He only went along with the king’s assassination because he thought it was the only way that an alternative way of life would ever happen. He was quite idealistic; too much for my taste. But I needed him. As much as this may shock you to hear this, Gabriel, your brother was the mastermind of this revolution. In a way, he was the first Hussar.”

“I am sure if he were here, he would thank you for the compliment,” Gabriel retorted, his fingers frantically tapping the side of his leg.

“It was I who never had a chance to thank him. My ill-prepared plot to destroy William might well have been my own destruction if it were not for Benjamin trying to stop me. He was there. I killed him. He became the villain. I was the hero. That simple. You think being a king is something to covet? You should try being the man who
saved
the king and was bequeathed all the allowances and liberties that should have been his all along. Plus a stipend for time lost. It was all carried out behind closed doors, of course. William was still unwilling to risk his throne by revealing to anyone, even his wife and son, that I was his long-lost child. For a time, I could accept as much. It was a wide berth of authority that I could have been quite content with for some time. Unfortunately, there was the situation of my charming, oblivious baby brother. What to do about Leopold?”

Ella was in horrific pain and being forced to imbibe the poison of Thurlow’s filibuster was adding insult to injury. Would either Gabriel or Thurlow bother to heed her presence at all? Of course Gabriel was conscious of her plight, even determined to save her as he’d sworn he would. But she was more than just a by-standing damsel in distress in their demented interchange. Ella was only five years old when everything the two combatants were describing had transpired. She’d never met Benjamin, or King William, nor did she truly understand the ethos that not only compelled a man to commit murder, the worst offense against God, but to scoff at those that would sacrifice their last breath to uphold His greatest commandment. Ella was young, impulsive, impressionable, and naïve. But she knew enough. Neither Thurlow nor Gabriel understood people like Ella; they never would.

There was no revolution, only life.

As gradually and inconspicuously as she could, Ella elevated her right hand toward the hollow of her neck. She unclasped the pin that fastened the corners of her shawl; the shawl that Marion had given to her before she left her home that night.

Swear to me you’ll be careful.

Wincing, Ella pushed herself up by the heel of her hand until she was completely upright. She could not wait to calculate her maneuvers. If she stalled even a bit Thurlow would surely see her. Gabriel already did see her, making mental note of each movement. The pin was only three inches long; but when it was plunged into Thurlow’s kneecap, it might as well have been a dagger of rusty steel.

Thurlow grunted and fell back. He did not drop his knife, but he was fumbling to regain a firm grip on it. By the time he did, Gabriel had advanced on him. He rammed Thurlow so brutally that both men fell against the glass window and caused it to crack. Jagged spider webs spread from the point of impact. Thurlow dropped his knife. It hit the ground on its hilt and bounced along the floorboard until it settled an arm’s length from Ella’s body.

She picked it up.

She had never witnessed two grown men fight before. She’d only ever imagined it. She’d pictured two men taking turns slinging their fists at one another in an evenly divided, albeit invisible, playing field. How could she have been so wrong, so simple-minded?

Gabriel was large and exceptionally strong. But so was Thurlow. The momentous adrenaline that both men yielded caused their bodies to hit one another with stentorian effect. Ella was horrified to see it happen right in front of her. For every blow that Gabriel imposed on Thurlow’s jaw, she heard both men grunt and she cringed. She thought she knew physical pain. She knew nothing. How were two people enduring such battery over and over again and still going back for more?

Thurlow regained his footing and managed to grasp Gabriel’s thick collar and hurl him to the ground. He kicked Gabriel twice when he was down, once in the stomach and again at his chest. Gabriel gasped, struggling to draw breath with so merciless an attack on his lungs and abdomen. Thurlow attempted then to stomp on his opponent, but Gabriel rolled out of his way and shot to his feet, his fists raised.

Ella held the knife in her trembling fingers. She wanted to help Gabriel, but how? She could barely put any weight on her leg and even nearing the battlefield threatened to knock her body senseless. There was no ebb and flow to their war. At times, to Ella’s relief, it appeared as though Gabriel was taking control. But Thurlow would not go down.

Gabriel took his foe by the head with both hands and drove it down into his knee. Thurlow struck it and toppled backwards, falling into a medium-sized, stationary marble statue. Gabriel, confident he would soon emerge victorious, walked right into his downfall. Thurlow had picked up the statue and charged it at Gabriel’s face. Gabriel attempted to deflect the assault, but was unable to clear the large object before it struck his right temple. He fell, clutching his bleeding temple desperately. Once Gabriel hit the floor, Thurlow stepped over him, still holding the statue. It was terribly heavy and he could barely hold it.

“You should have taken your freedom when you had the chance,” he chanted over Gabriel, who still was trying to regain his sight after the blow to his head, “but you’re just like your brother. You can’t leave well enough alone.”

Ella dug the blade into Thurlow’s shoulder blade. She tried to stab him in the middle of his back, but he’d shifted and she barely was able to get the knife halfway in. Thurlow bellowed in pain. He dropped the statue, which landed with a dull thud beside Gabriel’s body, and took Ella by the neck with one hand. With his other hand, he reached for the knife and, laboriously, extracted it from his shoulder. He threw it to the ground, many meters away from any of them.

“Wait your turn, Ella,” he goaded, pulling her in and kissing her violently. She tried to pull away but it lasted only seconds. Thurlow released her neck and, when she had taken only step back from him, struck her with the back of his right hand. Ella flew to the side and hit the window, almost exactly where Gabriel and Thurlow had first struck it. Her body collided with the glass and fell limp to the floor. The only thing Ella remembered was the sound of glass breaking and shards of sharp, transparent daggers raining all around her. Then everything went black.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Leopold felt the woman clutch his arm as the double doors to what was supposed to be his private conclave burst open. She screamed and the prince could scarcely believe that he found her needfulness of him so gratifying. He would protect her.

Halsty led the charge and Leopold was shocked by it. He anticipated Thurlow to be the first intruder. Leopold watched as half a dozen men in matching attire bustled in after him, all donning apparel that boasted the crest of the Hussars: the falcon of golden thread. Thurlow was not amongst them. Leopold became antsy. The last Hussar that entered was escorting a dirty, middle-aged man with a balding head and sunken eyes. The man’s wrists were bound.

“Prince Leopold,” Halsty said ceremoniously, his sword drawn, “there is someone here who would like to speak with you.”

“Oh?” Leopold replied. His body and face was so calm, the space around him seemed to shutter in his place.

“Yes,” Halsty affirmed, motioning with his free hand for his comrade to usher the bound man forward. “It seems our gypsy friend here is none too pleased with you and your father’s edict for their expulsion from Kersey. On behalf of his family and all those who were forced to leave their homes….” Halsty stepped toward Leopold, his sword raised and pointed squarely at the prince’s heart.

“Aislinn,” Leopold said, “you might want to step back.”

She complied, her entire body trembling.
Am I about to die?

Leopold did not draw his own sword. “You can understand why I might be somewhat puzzled,” he said stolidly. “For this gypsy who so wants me dead is bound and, by the looks of it, quite starved and malnourished to wreak so terrible a vengeance.”

“Well, some things just never do make sense, Your Highness,” Halsty laughed.

“How right you are.”

“Now, as we sadly do not have a surplus of time, tell me: do you have any final requests?”

“Just one: tell me where Thurlow is?”

“Thurlow?”

“Yes. Captain Thurlow. It concerns me that he is not here. He is the commander of my army and the bodyguard to my family, is he not? It seems a gross failure of his duties that you gained access to this private meeting, even if you are
his
men. The best of the best, right?”