The King’s Obsession

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.