I could barely keep myself from slashing the royal will to pieces with the dagger. Instead, I fished the weapon out and, as carefully as I could, sliced off the bottom inch of the last page that bore the signature. Let them think the king had done that before he did away with himself. I hoped to make my deed look like suicide instead of regicide. I would leave the dagger in the hand of the king’s corpse.
I bent to stuff the narrow piece of parchment in my shoe, where it crinkled in protest. A thought hit me with stunning force: Should I be taken and executed, no one would ever know my wishes, my story, my legacy. I should have made a will or written my life’s events. If I survived and the king was dead and buried, I would not let my life and loves and reasons for my deeds be buried too. I would record my own story and entitle it The Irish Princess, for what could once have been.
Nodding at the decision I had made, I tamped the papers into place. Keeping the dagger out, I trod as quietly as I could back into the bedchamber.
The king was breathing easier now. I took off my heavy outer shawl and tied it around my waist, lest I would need to flee, for I must leave nothing behind that could be traced.
The bed was not only huge but high. At least it had a three-step mounting stair, which the king himself or those who lifted him up had needed. I climbed the first step and knelt upon the third. It creaked, but then, at the last moment, I hoped to wake the king so he knew why his life was forfeit. But if he called out for help, would his voice carry clear to his guards or to someone who might be just beyond in his formal bedchamber? Was this gigantic but ill man yet strong enough to stop me?
I parted the bed curtains so I could see within. At first, I thought I saw only a pile of pillows, but the king was propped upon them. After all his harsh breathing, he was so quiet now. Was he awake, watching, or had he just died?
I cleared my throat to see if he would move. Finally—now or never, I told myself. Let him die in peace, some would say, but I would never have peace that way. In my mind, I heard the shouted, futile but bold words of my family’s battle cry: A Geraldine! A Geraldine!
I knelt upon the mattress, dragging my skirts and the shawl. I crawled closer, my fingers gripping the handle so hard that my entire frame shook as I began to lift it.
I held my breath and positioned myself better to strike. I would awaken him now, to pass judgment on his brutal life.
Then a wheezing voice came from the depths of the black bed and the huge, fleshy frame: “You’ve come to bed at last, my dearest love, my angel.”
Karen Harper, Mistress of Mourning
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