The Historian’s Novel

The yelling became louder when Amelia and Grace entered the drawing room, where they found a red-faced man angrily stabbing an accusing finger at Heimdall, who looked incredibly bored, and unimpressed by the quality of Gregory’s beard.

“I can’t believe it!” Gregory fumed, “are you telling me Havoc made the decision to start a war without reason, gave his troops less than a week to prepare, and then set off into the night without fanfare or notifying the king? What of arranging a supply line? Have you no heart for the knights who will suffer in his name? The Kingdom won’t stand for it once the people learn of his actions, I’ll tell you that much.”

Heimdall sniggered, “You’re presuming the Right Honorable Lord Strightsworth will lose,” he said, adjusting his stance to show he had noticed Amelia’s arrival, “Do you really think there exists a Kingdom on this earth that would turn down free land? And again, I simply must correct your terminology.  The Right Honorable Lord Strightsworth has begun not a war, but a border exercise to reclaim what once belonged to the Velvetican Kingdom.” 

“They split from us over two hundred years ago!”

“My, Gregory, I’m surprised you knew. Although any urchin round these parts could tell you it wasn’t so much a two-sided split as it was an outright insurrection.”

Sensing the darkening shade of Gregory’s face foreshadowed the man blowing his top, Amelia cleared her throat, announcing her presence. “What’s all this?” she asked loudly, recycling the mask she had worn when meeting with Vanridge Dowsinger. An air of importance would be key in dealing with Gregory. Though that wasn’t to say Amelia didn’t notice, or like, how the man’s face eerily twisted towards her as if he had spotted a long-lost acquaintance.

   Or how his shifty eyes shifted downwards, like he was undressing her body.

   She didn’t appreciate that one bit. Amelia might have been wearing lighter clothes for the summer season, but they were still wholly proper for the sake of receiving guests. Then it hit. The fact Grace stood behind her. And just like that any of Amelia’s desire to establish a long-lasting connection by converting the Marquess’s son into an ally, fell into a hundred million fragmented pieces.

   A good thing Heimdall stepped in front of Gregory, since it gave Amelia enough time to ensure her face remained unprejudiced on the outside.

    “Amelia, good to see you,” Heimdall said, “This is Gregory Rutherford. Rutherford, Amelia Strightsworth.”

   “I’ll remember your face, Heimdall,” Gregory said as he moved in, “Every offence… Including just now. I am aware of who my own fiancée is, there is no need for introductions.”

   Amelia avoided Heimdall’s sweeping gaze. She hadn’t told him or her father of the engagement proposal. Having thought at the time of her initial response, that nothing would ever come of it.  Deciding to use her privilege as a lady without title, Amelia seized the initiative to extend her hand first, trumping Gregory’s higher standing of being a first son by acting so pettily he would only be seen as a rude guest should he point out the faux pas.

   “Yes, I did receive your proposal. Unfortunately, my father has been busy, tied up with pressing work — you know how it is — so I’ve yet to find the time to sit down and hear his opinion.”

   Her explanation meant to give Gregory enough face for him to back off. But he must have had other thoughts, since instead of a handshake, he took her fingers rather brusquely to lower a lingering kiss.

   “We’ll have all the time in the world to discuss our wedding arrangements later,” Gregory said, holding her hand for an uncomfortably long time, “you are after all, among my reasons for visiting. Although having now seen you in person Amelia… I must say, I don’t think I’ll mind my stay in the least.”

   “How pleasant to hear,” Amelia said, lying through her teeth. “Shall we sit? I can have refreshments sent for, while you clue me in on why it is that you’ve come.”

   She didn’t want him around any longer than needed. Gregory’s words felt rehearsed. His lips had felt slimy.

   Yet against her wishes, Gregory helped himself to a chair like he’d been waiting for just that. “No need for refreshments besides something to drink,” he said, dragging a pinkie along the chair’s arm as if searching for dust, “I doubt you would have what I’m accustomed with, so I’ll hold back until I’ve returned to my lodgings. Now about this servant over here —”

   “Whelp better go let the kitchen know to get working,” Heimdall said, one last act of sedition committed via interruption before he escaped from the gnashing of Gregory’s teeth.

   Amelia looked out the corner of her eyes to ask Grace wordlessly whether she ought to apologise on behalf of Heimdall. The princess, much less discreetly, pointed at a window-sill flowerpot with a watering-can for a neighbor.

   “Heimdall works directly under my father,” Amelia said, able to smile much more easily now, “They’ve known each other since they were children. I would suggest if you’ve business with the Baron of Strightsworth, that you turn a blind eye to how… direct he can be.”

   She could almost hear the cogs turning in Gregory’s head. Eventually, he stopped staring at the doorframe through which Heimdall had left.

   “I notice you have very few attendants, how… humble,” Gregory said, surprising Amelia with his ability to ineptly change topics, “We’ll need to fix that,” he added.

   Amelia’s smile tightened.      

   “Quality over quantity,” she said, prioritizing defending the servants who worked for her father. Especially when most of them were retired knights who’d earned their comfortable family living.

   Also, Gregory’s comment concerning available food didn’t make any sense! In a Barony so detached from the rest of the Kingdom as theirs, no city hotel would be able to provide a meal the Strightsworth chefs couldn’t.

   And he was using her chair! Did he expect her to lounge on the couch, like some pin-up girl? Outrageous.

   “Here you are my Lady,” Grace said, appearing next to Amelia with a right proper replacement. In fact, she hadn’t ever seen this chair before in the manor. It looked… It looked…

   Oh wow, were those actual gemstones?

   “Go with it,” Grace whispered, causing Amelia to realise the chair must have been altered by the princess’s magic. She also noticed Gregory’s ogling that followed Grace who returned to her standing position behind her. 

   “At least your servants are well trained,” Gregory said, before snapping back to Amelia with a well-mannered smile. “One of yours I presume?”

   “Yes. She’s mine,” Amelia said, a look all she needed for one of the maids to bring over a bottle of alcohol and begin pouring. “You mentioned having business with my father?”

   Her question made Gregory’s eyes glaze over in apathy. “Those matters are confidential, don’t worry about them,” he said, throwing back his head to drain his glass in one go. Which suited Amelia just fine, since she remained confident with enough booze Gregory would start talking.

   Though she couldn’t help but start worrying the man might not even give her time to interrogate, with how he finished two more full cups in rapid succession. By then Amelia began thinking perhaps her cold and collected approach might not work proactively with a non-interactive opponent. An annoying conclusion since The Historian never went into much detail on the character of Gregory Rutherford.

   He was always just kind of there, hovering… And being annoying. Like a bug.

   Well, in that case, she could always just keep following the princess’s advice to ‘give them what they want.’ Making a promise with herself that she would never allow drink to become a crutch, Amelia pushed her still empty glass towards Gregory’s side of the table.

   “Understandable, secrets should remain in capable hands,” Amelia said, making sure their own brushed together. “Could you pour me a half-cup?” she asked shyly, figuring it best to be as clear in her supposed wants as the crystal they drank from.

   Gregory’s expression lit up. And when Amelia batted her eyelids, he threw a knowing grin towards the red liquid that filled a cup full.

   Drinking became Amelia’s excuse to close her eyes and figure out her next move. Except the wine this time round was of a sterner stuff than what Vanridge had served, and upon taking in too much, the bubbly drink tickled her nose with a splash that made her start sneezing. 

   Positively dismayed for having already messed up, Amelia might have held that glass with both hands forever, if Gregory hadn’t begun chortling loudly.

   “It takes a while to get used to wine this strong,” he said, topping her drink, and Amelia swore the focus he gave her resembled how he had studied the princess to a frightening level. “Try drinking slower, swirl it around in your mouth to really… savor the flavor.”

   “Is that so?” Amelia asked, experimentally following his instructions to find besides the wine staying in her mouth longer, there wasn’t much of a difference in taste. Still, if Gregory wanted to see her drink, it was an easy enough request to fulfill.

   “Yeah, that’s right, keep going,” Gregory said, shifting in his seat to lean in a bit closer. “With wine… You’ve got to listen to the experts.”

   Amelia felt there was something strange with his words. She put that down to the alcohol that was already beginning to make her light-headed. “Then, you’re the expert?” she asked, giggling at the idea of a person paid to taste wine. “And you came all the way from the capital to meet me?”

   Turning apologetic, Gregory presented both palms. “Would that I could have arrived at the same time as my proposal,” he said, “but yes it certainly was a long trip. It boggles the mind anyone would willingly live this far away from proper civilisation.”

   “There’s not a whole lot that happens out here,” Amelia admitted, keeping it a secret she preferred it that way. “By chance do you have any interesting news to share of the capital? I’ve read the papers… Only it’s dreadfully inadequate to hear of the happenings from but a few journalistic perspectives.”

   “I know a few entertainments,” Gregory said, “have you heard of the Viscount who was found out for corruption? It’s the hottest gossip right now.”

   “Not at all,” Amelia said, urging the Marquess’s son to begin weaving a spin while they drank, of a noble family whose assets had been ruthlessly torn apart and divided. Entranced by his story, Amelia compared each detail he lay down to how the Historian had described it. Knowing full well the event would come to mark the beginning of Martel Managing’s murderous rampage.

   Who she still had no idea how to handle. Seeing her options were either exposing the man or confronting him with a deal before his knife started stabbing. Maybe she could sell Gregory out in exchange for an alliance? The Rutherford’s were after all, one of the forces behind Martel’s tragedy.

   “It really is a dreadfully complicated matter,” Gregory said, as if only he and a select few others could possibly comprehend the affair. “I might even dare say the only news more popular right now is… Well… What’s going on here! Would you believe my father’s hair is turning grey over not knowing the details? He stands to make a fortune in selling weaponry but is too much of a coward to commit unless certain of which side will emerge triumphant.”

   Amelia couldn’t believe it. Had Gregory already spilled his reason for demanding to speak with her father? It was almost scary how quickly Grace’s acting lessons were getting results.

   Finding it strangely simple to mimic how drunks slurred their words when they talk, Amelia took her chance. “Did you know…I was there when he made his decision to expand the border.”

   “No word of a lie? How did it happen?” Gregory asked, clearly interested in knowing more.

   Put on the spot, Amelia clammed up. Having remembered too late she couldn’t very well admit she’d accidentally started a war. Her intention in bringing up the subject, had only been to twist their conversation back towards what the Marquess wanted. In the hope of helping her father.

   How should she answer? Already, Gregory’s expression seemed to be turning downright livid. As if he were fully expecting Amelia to immediately divulge everything all at once. Or maybe she’d imagined it. Since by the time her vision stopped swimming, she couldn’t see anything wrong with the way Gregory was looking at her. 

   “Know what?” Gregory said, before Amelia could reply, “I’m not being all that fair, am I… Not when we were both trusted with important information. I’ve changed my mind, you’ve impressed me, there is in fact something you can help me with, since obviously there’s more to that head on your shoulders than just being pretty.”

   “It is?” Amelia asked, before realising she had focused on the wrong thing, “I mean… There is?”

   Draining the wine bottle of its last drops, Gregory set it down on the table before getting to his feet. Amelia could only stare at the empty bottle and wonder when one had become three.

   “I’ve made the decision to trust you,” Gregory said, “But I won’t speak of what my father wishes me to convey with the Baron of Strightsworth here. Is there a spot we could talk while alone? A more secluded space than this room? I can’t risk anyone listening in or interrupting us.”

   Two locations sprung up in Amelia’s mind. But since one of those spots happened to be her mother’s garden, it wasn’t much of a choice.

   “My father’s office on the second floor should work,” Amelia said. Though when she stood, the blood rushed to her head, and she found it hard to reorient herself even after a while.

   Grace moved beside her, “Are you alright my lady?” she asked, helping Amelia steady herself, “You’re tipsy, I mean really tipsy, perhaps we could entertain your guest while you take a reprieve?”

   “I couldn’t do that,” Amelia said, separating herself from Grace, “not when Gregory wishes to discuss important business with me. But could I trouble you to make sure nobody will disturb us for a while?”

   “Wonderful, how… decisive,” Gregory said, offering his arm for Amelia to take, “though it pains me to admit I’ll need you to show me the way.”

   Amelia nodded, refusing to look back at the princess who clearly disagreed with her choice. Which wasn’t fair since everything she did was for Grace to begin with.

   “Come along then,” Amelia said, beginning to lead the way to her father’s office while Gregory helped support her stumbling steps.

   Along the way, their silent walk gave Amelia time enough to reflect, and register that a certain fact, appeared strange in hindsight. Gregory in the Historian’s Novel must have fallen infatuated with Grace at first sight for him to have confessed even quicker than any of the suitors ever did, so why had he never asked for her name?

   Ignore a protagonist? Impossible. Which meant he must already know who Grace was. Could there be a third reason for his paying a visit? Did Gregory come to kidnap Grace the moment the Marquess heard her father would be outside of his territory for the first time in decades?

    “Have you ever met my handmaiden?” she asked, putting out a lure for the fox.

   “In a sense,” Gregory answered, pausing in front of Havoc’s office, “is this it?” he asked.

   “Sure is,” Amelia said, finding it oddly difficult to maintain a straight thought.

   Did the effects of alcohol ever continue to increase even after you stopped drinking? She didn’t know.

   “C-could you elaborate on how you know my employee?” Amelia asked Gregory, her limbs now heavy enough that to continue forwards into the room, she needed to almost be carried.

   Gregory did not answer. Instead, she found him staring down at her with a drunken fervor that smoldered behind his dark eyes.

   “Playing hard to get… Making your servants mock me… Not replying when asked…” Gregory said, his frustrations unmasked with every word spoken, “Amelia, your behavior has been less than ideal. And while the need to discipline you pains me, I would suggest you don’t talk unless spoken to for however long this night lasts.”

   Amelia tried moving away from the man who’d begun speaking so dangerously. A difficult task, since once freed from his hold, she fell, like a ton of bricks, her body less responsive than a stick of wood on the ground.

   “Too much to drink?” Gregory asked.

   Finding the inexplicable paralysis crawling its way to her throat, Amelia tried screaming for help. A pitifully weak cry barely reached the door Gregory shut before his hand snuffed out the rest, clamping over her mouth.

  Amelia understood she’d underestimated a very important detail concerning Gregory Rutherford. This was the man who had, in The Historian’s Novel, confessed to Grace, gotten rejected, and then challenged the princess to a duel which, without the gladiator Stanton’s intervention, might have turned lethal.

  How could she have ever given Gregory the benefit of doubt? When she already knew the Marquess of Rutherford was a madman. A man who had poisoned their queen out of spite, a man willing to betray even his own country for vengeance. Children took after their parents. So why would it be a surprise that Gregory would reveal himself as a madman as well?

            “Don’t blame me for something you won’t even remember,” Gregory said, before he took Amelia’s dress by its collar, and tore her first layer of clothing down all the way to her stomach.