The King's Obsession Read online

  The King's Obsession

  Tanya Bird

  Copyright © 2018 by Tanya Bird

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For Luke.

  Contents

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Where to now?

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Tanya Bird

  Prologue

  She felt his absence before she opened her eyes. Petra blinked, drowsy and nauseous as she took in her surroundings. She slid a hand over the cold patch of linen next to her and looked to the window to gauge the time. The harsh angle of the sun told her it was late in the afternoon.

  ‘Drink this,’ came a voice. Not the soothing tone of the midwife, but the firm voice of the physician.

  She turned, trying to focus on the tall figure looming over her. ‘My son,’ she said, her own voice hoarse.

  He lifted her head and pressed a cup to her mouth. She recoiled at the overwhelming smell of sage and something unfamiliar.

  ‘Drink,’ he repeated, tipping the cup so she had no choice but to swallow.

  She closed her eyes against the foul taste. ‘Where is he?’ she asked, the moment the cup left her lips. Her breasts tightened and she felt a release of milk. Her hands went to her engorged and painful chest. How long had she slept? Babies needed frequent feeding, and she needed the relief.

  Her eyes sank shut. So tired. The effort of staying awake…

  *

  ‘Milk fever, you say?’

  It was the king’s voice, and she flinched at the sound. Forcing her eyes open, she focused on the lantern casting soft light over the enormous bed. Was it really night already? She tried to focus on the king and failed.

  ‘I will send the midwife to remove some of the milk.’ That was the physician. ‘I suggest it is done regularly until her supply dries up.’

  Dries up? Her eyes sank shut again, her hands like lead over her empty belly.

  ‘Drink this,’ the physician urged.

  There was that smell again. What was it?

  ‘That’s it,’ he said as she swallowed the liquid.

  It came to her then. Mandragora. They were sedating her…

  *

  She felt the sun on her but could not open her eyes to see it. Her throat was on fire and her head pounded. She shivered despite the blankets piled on top of her.

  ‘Where is he?’ she whispered to the empty room.

  It should have come as no surprise that her son had been handed over to a wet nurse. The king could hardly have the castle’s mentor off feeding an infant when there were women to be groomed.

  She wanted to wake up, to search for him…

  *

  ‘Petra’ came a familiar female voice.

  The sound startled her awake, and this time she was able to open her eyes. The king’s Companion sat by the bed, both hands wrapping hers and an expression of pity on her face.

  ‘Where is Xander?’ Petra whispered. Her mouth was so dry that she struggled to speak. ‘Where is my son?’

  Marden shook her head. ‘I do not know.’

  The girl was incapable of lying, so she knew it to be the truth. Propping herself up on her elbows with great effort, Petra studied her clean nightgown and the expensive linen covering her legs. The blankets were gone. Her hands went to her breasts, finding them soft.

  ‘You had milk fever,’ Marden said, letting go of her hand and standing to fix the pillows behind her. ‘You must have been very sick. The physician came every day. I was not even allowed to see you.’

  Petra was trying to wade through the mental fog. ‘Every day?’ She turned her head to the window. It was morning. ‘How many days?’

  ‘Today is day nine.’

  Petra’s gaze shifted to the Companion, searching her face. ‘Nine?’

  Marden swallowed. ‘There was an abscess.’

  She knew letting the baby feed frequently could have prevented it from progressing that far. She struggled to sit. ‘I need to speak with the king.’

  Marden glanced at the door. ‘You are not supposed to leave this room.’

  Petra pressed her palms against her eyes. ‘What? I have not seen my son in nine days. Take me to him.’

  A firm hand held Petra’s leg. ‘I will fetch the midwife.’

  She pushed the hand away, her effort feeble. ‘I am fine. I just need to see my baby.’

  Before she had a chance to stand, the midwife swanned into the room carrying a basin of water and a washcloth.

  ‘Oh, there she is, awake at last. Fever broke last night, so I knew it would not be much longer. How are you feeling?’ She placed the water on the table next to the bed and dunked the cloth, wringing it out before bringing it to the mentor’s face.

  Petra drew back from the hand. She did not want to be touched, she wanted to see Xander. Giddy, she focused on the colourful tapestry hanging on the wall. The women in it wore pastel dresses and carried baskets of food across a green lawn. Not a child in sight. ‘I want my son brought to me.’ She fought the relentless urge to lie down and go back to sleep.

  The midwife straightened, her confused expression melting into something far worse—sympathy. ‘The baby was healthy and strong. I cleared him for the journey five days ago.’

  The entire room seemed to spin, and Petra held on to her knees for balance. For a moment, she could do nothing but stare up at the woman who looked back at her with pity. She repeated the words in her mind, trying to decipher their meaning. ‘What journey?’

  The midwife glanced at Marden, who wore the same unsure expression. ‘The infant has already been placed with his new family.’

  There was no conscious reaction to that statement, only reflex. The realisation that the king had taken her son broke something inside of her. She swung her heavy legs over the edge of the bed, praying they would hold her weight.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Marden asked, visibly alarmed.

  Petra was done talking with them; she was going straight to the king for answers. The midwife grabbed hold of her arm, a firm, authoritative grip. It was the same grip Petra had used on Companions for years. She shoved the woman away with both hands, surprised by the sudden burst of strength. ‘Do not touch me!’

  The woman tumbled backwards into the wall, and Petra heard the air leave her lungs. She did not have the capacity to care. If anyone else tried to stop her, she was certain she would claw their eyes out with whatever strength she had left.


  ‘You cannot walk about the castle in your nightgown!’ Marden called to her back, her pitch a few octaves higher than normal.

  Ignoring the Companion, Petra stepped out into the corridor, dizzy and struggling to think clearly. She stumbled down the gloomy passageway while confused servants moved aside to watch her pass. He would likely be in the throne room. Which way? Her mind fought to get its bearings. Finally, she rounded the corner of the west wing and staggered straight into a guard. He caught her arm, his grip like a vice.

  ‘Where is the king?’ she screamed at him, surprising even herself.

  The guard took a small step back while keeping hold of her. ‘Best you return to your quarters.’

  ‘No!’ She looked past him to where another guard stood in front of the throne room. ‘Is he in there?’ she called.

  He glanced at the closed door behind him before walking over to where they were standing and taking her other arm.

  As the men began leading her away, she screamed, ‘King Nilos! Where is my son? Come out here, you cowardly bastard!’ Her legs failed her at that moment, but the men just kept walking, dragging her bare feet along the marble floor.

  The door to the throne room swung open and the king stepped out, looking both ways down the corridor before his gaze settled on her. She tried to turn her body to him.

  ‘Where is he?’ Petra pleaded. ‘Where is my baby?’

  Prince Felipe joined his father in the corridor, scowling with disapproval.

  How dare he judge me? How many times had his Companions returned to her bloodied or bruised? How many times had she patched them up and sent them back to his bed?

  The king leaned in and whispered something to his son. Felipe nodded before walking off in her direction.

  ‘Please,’ she called to the king as he turned away from her. ‘I will do anything! Just tell me where he is.’

  The door seemed to whine in protest as it swung shut behind him. Petra faced forwards, her hands going over her face. ‘Please,’ she sobbed. ‘I want my baby.’

  The prince’s footsteps closed in behind her.

  Chapter 1

  Petra sat on her bed in the darkened room she shared with the other women. A piece of folded parchment hung from her limp hand. She had waited for the Companions to be requested before reading it, the words burning holes in her pocket all day.

  * * *

  He was not there. I am so sorry.

  A

  * * *

  He was not there.

  She was so sorry.

  It was the first proper lead in over a year, and they had not found him. If not there, then where? Someone had him. That someone had had him for five years. Her hand went to her stomach, but before she had a chance to drown in her disappointment, Golda appeared in the doorway.

  Petra jumped, then stood. ‘Why are you not with the king?’

  The Companion appeared ashamed, resentful even.

  Petra buried the letter in her pocket as she studied the girl. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is always the same. He cannot… finish.’

  A feeling of dread climbed the mentor’s spine. ‘I see.’

  ‘He has asked for you.’

  No surprises there.

  They stared at one another for a moment.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Petra asked.

  Golda looked away. ‘He does not want me as his Companion.’

  ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘He does not have to.’

  Petra brought her hands together in front of her. ‘Go and bathe, and then get some rest.’

  She waited for the Companion to leave before sinking down on the bed. In a moment she would have to get up and go to him. She would not bother to change her dress, fix her hair or paint her face; the king was long past caring about those things when it came to her. He would immediately strip her bare, breathe her in, his coarse beard destroying her face and leaving the skin on her neck and breasts raw.

  She pushed down on her fingernails, a habit formed over the years, which seemed to be getting worse the longer she remained at Masville Castle.

  Press, press, press.

  Even in the dark, she could see the purple bruises beneath her nails. It should have been enough to make her stop, but it was not. She could not help but marvel at how her nails matched the bruises on her wrists. Her hands worked as though she were playing a lute, fingers moving swiftly.

  Press, press, press.

  When she arrived at the king’s quarters, the doors swung open and the guard immediately waved her through. King Nilos stepped around his large bed, his trousers removed after his Companion’s failed effort. She felt so cheap in that moment, sent to finish the job. She kept her eyes up, forced to meet his gaze.

  ‘You asked to see me, Your Majesty?’

  He nodded and had the decency to look ashamed. ‘Come here.’

  The door creaked shut behind her. It was the softest clicking noise, but it still made her jump. She did as she was told, staring at the floor while his fat fingers moved over the buttons of her gown. She shut him out as best she could. How else could she survive?

  The following morning, Petra stood looking out the large window in the south wing, her arms crossed against the cold. The sun never reached that part of the castle, passing directly overhead so she was forced to live in shadows. She had been watching the supply carts arrive, unload and leave again. The drivers took it for granted that the gates opened and closed for them, that they were free to return to their villages, their families. Did they ever think about the people locked inside?

  Her gaze went beyond the wall, where she could see the tops of the trees in the distance. She struggled to remember what lay between the wall and the forest, because she had not left the castle in years.

  She did not normally allow herself to wallow in self-pity, but it was the day of her son’s birth. He was five years old, and she needed time and space to imagine him at such a bold age. She remembered her younger brother at five, stocky legs thumping around the house with a voice too loud for the small space. He was always on the move, running and tumbling about with a permanent smile on his inquisitive face. He had woken each day armed with questions about the world and did not stop until he was finally wrestled into bed at the end of the day. Nothing could wake him then. Perhaps Xander was the same. Or maybe he was different, reserved and cautious—like she was.

  ‘My lady.’

  Petra jumped at the sound of Nyla’s voice behind her, then turned.

  ‘Sorry,’ the Companion laughed. ‘I spoke three times before you heard me.’

  ‘What is it?’ She tried to keep the abruptness from her tone and failed.

  The smile fell from Nyla’s face. ‘Prince Felipe is waiting for you outside our quarters.’

  Just what she needed.

  ‘Tell him I am on my way.’

  The meeting was no doubt due to the fact that Petra had declared his new Companion unfit to socialise despite having been with them for nearly four months. She waited for Nyla to turn the corner before following after her, preferring to make the short walk alone. A few minutes later, she arrived at the Companions’ quarters, where she found Felipe pacing in front of the door. He did not like to be kept waiting.

  ‘Good morning, my lord,’ she called, back straight and shoulders down. She laced her bruised fingers in front of her. ‘How can I help you?’

  He stilled, his expression far from friendly. ‘What is this I hear about Orla not being available for tomorrow’s feast? It is her job to be available.’

  Petra stopped a polite distance in front of him. ‘I understand it is inconvenient, but she is not ready.’

  His eyes narrowed at her. ‘Why not? You told me she is an exceptional dancer.’

  The girl was an exceptional dancer, but she was also prone to fits of tears that sometimes lasted hours. ‘Her social skills are lacking.’

  ‘So fix them,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  Petra lifted her chin.
‘She is young, and she is still missing her family a great deal. The smallest trigger can reduce her to tears. Given the important guests that will be attending, including King Jayr of Zoelin, I think it best she remains behind.’

  Felipe crossed his arms. ‘If I had known she was so weak, I would have selected another as my Companion at the tournament.’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps it is more a reflection of the job you do with these women.’

  ‘Prince Kyril has been satisfied with his Companion for a number of years now.’ She should have let it go, but he had picked the wrong day to attack her.

  He shook his head. ‘My brother has the only compliant Companion within these walls.’

  Petra squeezed her fingers together to stop them from going at her nails. ‘Again, I apologise for the inconvenience, my lord, but Orla needs more time.’

  ‘Fine,’ Felipe said, already walking away. ‘Have it your way.’

  My way? She was stuck inside a revolving nightmare, beginning each day with a tearful prayer that she would survive just long enough to see her son one more time.

  She should have gone straight in and told Orla to stop crying, that she had been spared a few more days. Instead, she turned and walked off down the corridor, desperate to be alone once more.

  She had just turned the corner when she heard Nyla calling her.