Mandrean rose from the bed and spread his arms wide. Fendri
recognized the cue and adorned his body with a red velvet robe. After tying the
belt, he returned to his tasks.
“You know I do not like being called that, Betrimpia,”
Mandrean snapped.
“It is your name, My Lord,” Betrimpia noted. “There are no
secrets here, as you said.”
“My name is no secret from Lord Fendri,” Mandrean said as he
moved closer. “You have never spoken the truth in your life. Touching as your
story is, I have a difficult time picturing you pining for me in your chamber.
So let us dispense with your tricks and come to your real reason for ruining my
morning.”
Betrimpia pursed her lips and said, “Very well. I was your
very first consort. I have been with you since you became a man. Yet for years
I have languished in the bowels of your estate being ridiculed by the
over-bosomed, energetic young maids you keep at your whim. Every year you seek
my companionship less and less. I have paid my dues and now desire what I have
earned.”
“What you have earned,” Mandrean interjected, “is a sound
thrashing.”
Betrimpia slammed her hand on the bed. “I have earned the
right to be your wife. Marry me and make me the Empress I have spent nearly
twenty years training to be.”
“Marry you?” scoffed Mandrean. “You have gone insane
in your room. I require no empress and even if I chose one, it would certainly
not be a conniving plotter like you.”
“Think of your son,” she pled.
Mandrean harshly stuck his finger in her face. Anger erupted
from his lips. “For the last time, I have no son. You have an
illegitimate child of origins I cannot say.”
Betrimpia shoved his finger aside and stood face-to-face
with him. “You know there has never been another besides you. No man could even
gain access to the lower chambers. Yet you still deny he is your son. Look at
him. He carries your powerful frame and commanding disposition. His aptitudes
rival your own and he looks like the man I knew all those years ago. Surely you
must see he is of your blood.”
Mandrean sighed and looked toward the window. “I have given
your son everything you have ever asked. The finest tutors in the empire have
taught him. Philosophers, mathematicians, literary figures, warriors and the
finest generals have educated him from birth. He has grown into a fine young
man. I can do no more for him.”
“You can be his father,” Betrimpia pled. “Take me as your
wife and acknowledge him as your son and heir.”
Mandrean turned to her and smiled like a person who has
solved a riddle. “So that’s your game. You just want me to marry you so your
son can take the throne. I wonder how long I would live after the nuptials. How
long would it take you to poison my wine, or choke me in my sleep?”
“You know I could never do you harm Manenvious. I love you.
I always have. If you feel so insecure, keep your whores in the cellar. I would
suffer such indignity to make my Love happy.”
“Oh the women will stay,” Mandrean agreed. “You will no
sooner be my wife than the sun will rise in the west.”
Betrimpia was visibly hurt by his words and formed tears in
her eyes. “If that is what you require from me, I will resign myself to being
Concubine Number One. I beg you, do not suffer your son to a life of
humiliation. Adopt him as your own and make him your heir.”
“You know I do not believe in proclaiming an heir,” said
Mandrean “Once one is named, the person wearing the crown tends to have his
life cut short.”
“You would know all about that,” Betrimpia said just loud
enough to be heard.
Mandrean’s anger could not be contained as he threw her to
the floor. “Are you saying I had a hand in my father’s death?”
Betrimpia feigned terror as she covered her face. “Of course
not. I merely was saying his untimely death coincided remarkably well with your
reaching the age to attain the throne. No one would ever wish such a fate on
you.”
“Such fate is not to be tempted,” Mandrean fumed. “I will
name no heir. Even if I were to do so, it would never, ever, be your son.”
Betrimpia crawled on her knees. “So our son is to have no
father?”
Mandrean poured a goblet of wine for himself. “Every child
has a father. Yours simply does not know who it was that soiled his mother.”
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