The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Eighty

Wallia reached out to touch the door, thinking hard before nodding to himself and moving on. They were nearly there.

"What is this place?" said the Countess, her voice echoing down the stone walls.

Wallia sighed, his concentration broken. "These are the King's Corridors. And really Countess, you must be quiet."

"Why? There's no one here," she said, even louder, if that was possible.

Mistress Hilton tutted, but the Countess swept on, kicking up the strewing herbs as she walked. Wallia wondered how long it would take for Hilton's wife to realise that the Countess would never pay her any heed. Given that the Countess barely even looked in the woman's direction, he wasn't convinced it would ever happen within his lifetime.

He winced. "These corridors run right alongside the the public thoroughfares. There could be anyone on the other sides of these walls, and right now, I would prefer if no one knew we were here."

"I don't see why the King would want to walk down here. It's so dark and creepy. And," she said, brushing something off her sleeve. "There are cobwebs everywhere."

"Rulers have secrets," said Wallia. "As you will soon come to understand."

Hilton sniffed. "Take note of where you tread. One day these corridors may well save your life."

The Countess stopped. "Save my life? Why would it need saving?" she said, her voice rising with each word until it almost dislodged the spiders from their webs.

Wallia glared at the knight. "Helpful," he said, under his breath, before turning to the Countess. "It won't. Sir Hilton doesn't understand problems that can't be solved by the edge of a blade. With me as your Chancellor, you'll never need concern yourself with anything other than the next masque."

The Countess didn't look convinced. Her fingers dug into the squire's arm, making the boy yelp.

The gods save him from these children.

"This way," he said, turning away from the lot of them and striding down the corridor.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, until he reached the right door. There was a small brass plaque fixed next to the handle. He reached out and touched it, feeling the words that were engraved on it. He smiled. 'The Golden Viola' it said. The old King had a habit of visiting his various mistresses late at night. After the grand banquets, during which he was not known for denying himself a fourth helping of port, these plaques ensured that he didn't accidentally stumble into a room, calling out the wrong name.

He remembered Viola. She'd been a favourite of the old King for almost ten years. She had a small scar just over her lip which pulled her mouth into a gloriously kissable mouth. Wallia had enjoyed looking at her. By some carefully maneuvering he'd managed to ensure that the King placed her in the rooms next to his. She hadn't been pleased with that. Most of the ladies preferred rooms overlooking the gardens, and she was no different. She'd pouted for weeks. It had been delightful.

He'd been sad when she died. They said it was poison. The weapon of women. Which is exactly why he had suggested it to the King. Everyone suspected his other, less favoured, mistresses, and no one thought to consider the tiny life that had taken residency in the beautiful Viola's belly.

An illegitimate boy would have been problematic. The King suffered from the same problem as Wallia: the curse of a daughter. A boy, even one born out of the confines of the marriage bed, may have challenged his half-sister for the throne. And the old King, he did have scruples. Some, at least.