despised each
other and had not spoken in years.
“I’ve already told Father that I want no more part of his crusade,” Leopold added.
His mother regarded him ruefully. “There was once a time you believed in it.”
Indeed, there was. At one time he, too, had been estranged from his mother when he’d
followed his father’s banner and wanted to be king. The ambition was like a drug.
“Those days are long gone,” he assured her. “I was young and wild and too easily influenced.
Since then I have fought a real war. I’ve seen death and I’ve witnessed the human
cost of one army conquering another.”
She laid her hand upon his. “I am glad you’ve given that up.”
He turned his eyes toward the window. “How could I not? I won’t fight another war
in my own country. There are other things I want now. Besides, now that we are poised
to have a Tremaine back on the throne, what is the point in fighting? The Royalist
cause is now satisfied. Pray God we can all live in peace for once.”
“I agree,” she said. “An attempt to topple the Sebastians could not possibly end well.
Your father never understood that the people of this country love King Frederick dearly,
and despite the fact that there is no royal blood flowing through his veins, he has
done more for this country than any other king ever has.”
“I see that now.” He did. He truly did.
Leopold stood up, walked to the window and looked out at the forest and lake in the
distance. A hot, muggy haze obscured the horizon. Everything inside him felt heavy
as well. Motionless. Anchored down. Frustratingly restless …
“What have you heard about the king’s health?” he asked. “Has there been any improvement?”
His mother’s tone was somber. “I am afraid not. They say he is dying, and that is
why Randolph returned from England so quickly with his new bride. I do not believe
it will be long.”
Leopold continued to ponder the hot, hazy world outside the window while his thoughts
traveled elsewhere, to the palace in Petersbourg where an old man lay dying in his
bed.
Leopold was barely aware of the chair legs scraping across the floor behind him. He
paid no mind to his mother’s light footsteps circling around the table. It was not
until he felt her hand on his shoulder that he recognized the magnitude of her concern.
“You are thinking of her again.”
He faced his mother, who was lovely in the soft midday light and still looked as young
as she did when he was a boy. There had always been a gentle kindness about her, while
his father was quite the opposite.
Leo had always assumed he’d inherited his father’s ambitious nature, as opposed to
his mother’s compassion and benevolence. He had certainly displayed a rather astounding
talent for battle which seemed founded upon a hot-blooded desire to conquer and triumph.
His ancestors were kings after all—at a time when kings wore suits of armor and commanded
giant armies and took what territories they wanted by force …
“It cannot be an easy time for Rose,” his mother said. “She loves her father very
much.”
At the mere mention of Rose’s name, Leo felt that need to conquer rise up like a monster
within him. He couldn’t seem to quell it, and it was eating him up inside because
he couldn’t fight for what he really wanted. At least not while he was here in the
quiet, peaceful countryside.
“I should go and pay my respects,” he said.
His mother laid an open hand upon his cheek. “I am not sure that would be wise.”
Of course it wouldn’t. Rose would be vulnerable and full of grief and fear for the
imminent loss of her beloved father.
Leopold would comfort her and do whatever he must to ease her pain. He would not leave
her side.
“Perhaps it would be best if you just sent a note,” his mother suggested.
He knew what she was thinking, and the sensible part of him agreed with her. What
he really
other and had not spoken in years.
“I’ve already told Father that I want no more part of his crusade,” Leopold added.
His mother regarded him ruefully. “There was once a time you believed in it.”
Indeed, there was. At one time he, too, had been estranged from his mother when he’d
followed his father’s banner and wanted to be king. The ambition was like a drug.
“Those days are long gone,” he assured her. “I was young and wild and too easily influenced.
Since then I have fought a real war. I’ve seen death and I’ve witnessed the human
cost of one army conquering another.”
She laid her hand upon his. “I am glad you’ve given that up.”
He turned his eyes toward the window. “How could I not? I won’t fight another war
in my own country. There are other things I want now. Besides, now that we are poised
to have a Tremaine back on the throne, what is the point in fighting? The Royalist
cause is now satisfied. Pray God we can all live in peace for once.”
“I agree,” she said. “An attempt to topple the Sebastians could not possibly end well.
Your father never understood that the people of this country love King Frederick dearly,
and despite the fact that there is no royal blood flowing through his veins, he has
done more for this country than any other king ever has.”
“I see that now.” He did. He truly did.
Leopold stood up, walked to the window and looked out at the forest and lake in the
distance. A hot, muggy haze obscured the horizon. Everything inside him felt heavy
as well. Motionless. Anchored down. Frustratingly restless …
“What have you heard about the king’s health?” he asked. “Has there been any improvement?”
His mother’s tone was somber. “I am afraid not. They say he is dying, and that is
why Randolph returned from England so quickly with his new bride. I do not believe
it will be long.”
Leopold continued to ponder the hot, hazy world outside the window while his thoughts
traveled elsewhere, to the palace in Petersbourg where an old man lay dying in his
bed.
Leopold was barely aware of the chair legs scraping across the floor behind him. He
paid no mind to his mother’s light footsteps circling around the table. It was not
until he felt her hand on his shoulder that he recognized the magnitude of her concern.
“You are thinking of her again.”
He faced his mother, who was lovely in the soft midday light and still looked as young
as she did when he was a boy. There had always been a gentle kindness about her, while
his father was quite the opposite.
Leo had always assumed he’d inherited his father’s ambitious nature, as opposed to
his mother’s compassion and benevolence. He had certainly displayed a rather astounding
talent for battle which seemed founded upon a hot-blooded desire to conquer and triumph.
His ancestors were kings after all—at a time when kings wore suits of armor and commanded
giant armies and took what territories they wanted by force …
“It cannot be an easy time for Rose,” his mother said. “She loves her father very
much.”
At the mere mention of Rose’s name, Leo felt that need to conquer rise up like a monster
within him. He couldn’t seem to quell it, and it was eating him up inside because
he couldn’t fight for what he really wanted. At least not while he was here in the
quiet, peaceful countryside.
“I should go and pay my respects,” he said.
His mother laid an open hand upon his cheek. “I am not sure that would be wise.”
Of course it wouldn’t. Rose would be vulnerable and full of grief and fear for the
imminent loss of her beloved father.
Leopold would comfort her and do whatever he must to ease her pain. He would not leave
her side.
“Perhaps it would be best if you just sent a note,” his mother suggested.
He knew what she was thinking, and the sensible part of him agreed with her. What
he really
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