The Maid and The Usurper - Chapter 62
A twisted mix of desire and inferiority crept up her spine. In her hands lay the only opportunity to escape this wretched status. Hortensia, who looked so eerily like her, was already dead, buried in the cold ground, with no one left to testify on her behalf. Layla had only to keep quiet and weave her lies.
“I’ll go to the mainland as well.”
It was the first step of an irreversible lie.
* * *
Leopold was likely already on his way to Orléans, having left Rhineland behind. It was too late for Layla to stay at the cabin. She needed to catch up quickly.
“I’ll be heading towards Orléans. Is that along your way?”
Layla’s face lit up with excitement. If they were going to Orléans, it was more than possible she’d meet Leopold along the way.
“That’s fortunate. But how far are you going? We’re heading to the mainland, so if you’re going to the port, we’ll have to part ways halfway.”
“Then I…” Layla’s fingers traced the insignia of House Orléans, still vivid in her mind. She could become the daughter of the House of Orléans. Like the beautiful ladies who visited Rhineland, she could transform from the Layla of La Ellosa into Hortensia of Orléans.
If she became Hortensia, she could claim Leopold entirely for herself.
Whether a bastard prince or a mercenary, his essence would remain the same. But if, just if, he found his place again, what would happen to her? The daughter of a mere prostitute, her origins unknown. She would always be defined by her lowly birth, no matter how long she endured. She would remain in his shadow, never able to claim even a letter of his name, fading away as nothing more than his mistress.
A twisted mix of desire and inferiority crept up her spine. In her hands lay the only opportunity to escape this wretched status. Hortensia, who looked so eerily like her, was already dead, buried in the cold ground, with no one left to testify on her behalf. Layla had only to keep quiet and weave her lies.
“I’ll go to the mainland as well.”
It was the first step of an irreversible lie.
* * *
The skies of Hispania were a brilliant blue. The scorching summer heat of the southern country was nothing like that of Orléans or Esselbach. Sweat trickled down the nape of the mercenaries leader, Fernández, as he wiped his brow with a handkerchief.
“They say a princess has appeared on the streets of Orléans.”
“You mean the daughter of that runaway marquess?”
“That’s right.”
The mercenary group stood in the shade, making idle conversation. The blazing sun had a way of turning even the calmest person sharp. Fernández was no exception.
“Be quiet. What does the return of a princess from the House of Orléans have to do with us right now?”
Fernández scanned the young man before him. He was a pale-faced boy of about eighteen. Standing a full head taller than Fernández and with a broad, muscular frame, he could easily be mistaken for a trained fighter.
“So, you want to join our mercenary group?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your name is Edmund de Valois?”
Fernández thought it a suspicious name. The surname was from Esselbach, but the first name was Argenian. Even more curious was how the boy spoke fluent Hispaniala with an Argenian accent. It was amusing that his origins were from a rural area of Esselbach. There were plenty of outsiders who came to Hispania to do mercenary work, so it wasn’t unusual to see an Esselbach, an Argen, or even a Sarban, but never before had he encountered such a mix-up of origins.
“You’re from Esselbach?”
“Yes. My mother is from Argen, so I spent time there when I was young.”
“Ah, so your mother named you. And your father is from Esselbach?”
“Yes. My father passed away early, so I was mostly raised by my mother. That’s why my Argen accent is stronger.”
Fernández felt some of his suspicions ease. Even if Esselbach and Argen didn’t get along well, love could transcend those boundaries. He was too tired from the incessant sweat to continue examining the papers. After all, as long as the mercenary was strong and did his job well, that was all that mattered.
“Let’s wrap this up. You can start tomorrow. I’ll pay you well.”
“Understood.”
“Take it easy until work comes up. The women of Hispania are famous for their beauty, so enjoy yourself.”
Leopold bowed his head in response to the subtle innuendo. He left the mercenary camp and wandered aimlessly until he found himself by the sea. The blue waters of Hispania’s port city of Valencia were more stunning than any other he’d seen. It was the very sea Layla had longed to see. Leopold perched on a suitable rock.
He had waited three days for Layla at the port of Orléans, hoping she might come. For three days and nights, he stood at the dock. Yet Layla never appeared. Only the stars, the same ones he had seen that night, twinkled above him.
“I will forget you, Layla.”
He spoke the empty promise aloud, repeating it four or five times.
“You betrayed me.”
He added this reasoning to convince himself, though he knew it meant nothing. He would still wait at the ports of Hispania and Orléans, bound to the rainy cabin of summer days. His mouth tasted bitter, and a rueful smile crossed his lips.
He would still wait for Layla, and…
He would never forget her.
Thus did his childhood come to an end.
