The Calamity of a Reborn Witch - Book 3: Chapter 16: A Trail of Ambition

♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝

Patience is a privilege that belongs to one who is truly prepared for success.

Marquess Rupert Borghese reflected on the words of his honorable, now deceased, tutor as he waited beneath the rising morning sun for the Crown Prince’s arrival. The early morning wake-up did not agree with him. Still less the chatter of the nobles who waited at his back, that mingled with yaps and howls of the hunting dogs bred by the Coldwell family.

Borghese was generally a patient man who preferred to be prepared for every reasonable outcome. And yet, after years of planning and preparation, his grandest ambition had gone up in flames the moment the Dowager and Crown Prince Nicholas had turned their noses up at his beautiful Priscilla and instead, accepted a barbarian half-witch as Crown Princess.

That was when Borghese came to grips with the realities of his tutor’s lesson. Every plan needed a foundation to fall back on in the event the worst happened. The Marquess had scrambled to secure the power he had gained through his connection to Duke Hargreve’s family and Priscilla’s previous engagement to the Second Prince. He refused to let all of his efforts go to waste and remained hopeful of a royal union in the future.

It had long been a tradition in Lafeara for the King to take in Royal Consorts if the Queen failed to produce an heir within a year of marriage. While Borghese was reluctant to hold out one more year, Priscilla remained adamant that she would marry Nicholas or no one at all.

And so the father and daughter pair waited patiently, observing the new royal couple for any weaknesses they could exploit. Borghese had been mildly impressed when the foreign princess managed to ostracize herself from the upper echelon of nobility almost single-handedly. Soon after, Priscilla came home ecstatic with news from the Dowager that Crown Princess Eleanora had avoided her marital duties on the night of her wedding.

The first glimmers of hope fueled their ambition anew. A few tactfully placed whispers about Lady Rosamund had further widened the divide between Eleanora and Nicholas. After that, all Borghese had to do was relay this happy information, along with his humble offer of continued support, to Pope Jericho—in exchange for the promise of support for a Royal Consort chosen by the Royal Faction.

The Divine Heir’s initial reply had been vague but agreeable. Still, Borghese was confident the Pope had even less desire for witch blood to enter the royal family than he did.

However, everything turned on its head with the arrival of the Ventrayna Ambassador. Suddenly the royal couple who could barely stand to remain in each other’s presence were showing mutual support and even affection in public. This was followed by Eleanora’s uncle’s cunning demand for a screened physical consummation. Even the Pope would be hard-pressed to push for an annulment or divorce in the face of such public evidence.

After learning of the martial ceremony, Priscilla had been hysterical with fury and later bedridden. Once she recovered, the angry noblewoman went out of her way to shame one of the Crown Princess’s ladies-in-waiting, who turned out to be Lady Maura. Borghese had been surprised to learn the Dowager held such a special interest in the apathetic half-blood. He had felt utterly betrayed the day Octavia chose to adopt the little bitch and name her heir to the Borghese Dukedom, a position which the Dowager had all but promised his late wife would go to Priscilla.

After the public ennoblement of the Duchess, the Church had been swift to show their displeasure. First, they revoked access to Borghese slave trade routes and then cut off all access to church-run orphanages. Borghese suspected the later decision was due to the placement of Cardinal Murdock as Bishop and head of the Church in Lafeara, but the blow to his finances still stung all the same.

‘With Emperor Arius monitoring our border with Zarus, it would have been difficult to maintain the same route anyway. The problem is that the Church is now directly interfering with my interests here.’

The idea of slavery was considered repulsive by most of the upper nobility, who preferred to think of their slaves as indentured servants. The hypocrisy of this rosy perspective was laughable, given that no indentured servant would ever earn enough to secure their freedom or even that of their children.

This made the buying and selling of humans as property morally acceptable and incredibly lucrative. While the law maintained that the ‘indenture’ must be voluntary, there was more than one loophole past this, i.e., a debt incurred that the borrower had no hope of paying off or a crime that did not merit the death penalty.

Because of the financial and legal peculiarities needed to oversee such a volatile field of business, the House of Lords had determined that noble oversight was necessary. During the reign of the first Havardur King, a Viscount named Borghese was selected to monitor and maintain the flow and legal proceedings associated with the slave trade.

Viscount Borghese quickly rose in wealth and influence through great effort and skill. He was methodical in his recording, particularly those related to fallen criminal noble families whose wives and children were sold into slavery while the men of the house faced public execution. He also recorded the bloodline of every slave bride whose husband purchased her freedom and a new name. While such a lady might go on to become the matriarch of her household, she did so with the knowledge that her past record of sale remained safely secured in Borghese’s personal records.

Blackmail was by far the most lucrative part of the sex trade industry, and Viscount Borghese proved a cunning investor and collector. He never threatened his clients. Instead, he offered them absolute discretion and special services, for which they were happy to pay. Over time this brand of ‘negotiable pleasure’ went on to cover far more perverse appetites, all of which were added to the Borghese’s secret register.

The family business was enough to secure the Viscount’s grandson the title of Marquess, which extended the slave trade into the House of Lords itself, where a seat was later granted. Unfortunately, after rising as far as he could, the Viscount’s great-grandson showed little interest in the business beyond the exchange of favors for political or personal benefit. The profits dwindled further in the next generation when Marchioness Borghese, the first woman to inherit the family name and business, uncovered the registers and fainted from shock. She later shut down many of the boarding houses and child sex rings, firing and evicting nearly all of the lower nobles who had assisted her father in keeping the business afloat.

Marchioness Borghese would later go on to marry a gambling nobleman, who quickly burned through a quarter of the family wealth. Her son and heir would prove even more wasteful as he grew older, so the Marchioness kept the business records from him but did not destroy them. Instead, she entrusted the secret registers to her grandson on her death bed, where she made Rupert Borghese promise never to taint the family name with such despicable practices again.

Rupert lived much of his life avoiding the ancient ledgers out of respect for his grandmother’s wishes until a month after his wife’s death when the need to secure a secret private army first came to his attention.

Frugality and ambition rarely proved compatible allies. Marquess Borghese learned a great deal from his ancestor’s account books, maps, and secret journals. He quickly realized that the information contained in them was useless as a form of blackmail, as any threat of exposure would only burn him in return.

Instead, he meticulously secured a significant monopoly on the slave trade market with great effort and expense, using his family name and influence when necessary. After that, the underground sex slave ring was reestablished, and the right noble families were persuaded to invest their time and assistance in promoting its wares. By the time Priscilla made her public debut at sixteen years old, Borghese had expanded his underground business all around the kingdom and into foreign nations as well.

With the profits from his business, Marquess Borghese doubled and then tripled the size of his mercenary army by supplementing the ranks with enslaved men who could be adequately trained into decent soldiers. He offered benefits to the veteran mercenaries who trained these recruits by making them officers and building them a private brothel house in which to unwind and enjoy themselves.

To keep this army well hidden, Borghese publicly employed the soldiers as security for the two silver mines which had been part of Alana’s dowery. Other units were loaned out to members of the Noble Faction for private security, tax collection, and even border disputes.

After ten long years, the army now numbered close to one thousand trained and armed mercenaries. Not enough to storm the palace gates, but more than enough to outnumber and overpower the handful of knights that would be accompanying Crown Prince Nicholas on this hunt.

Borghese’s knuckles tensed and popped around the reins of his white sock, black gelding. He was still seething over the betrayal of Octavia and, more recently, Nicholas.

‘Did you honestly expect me to meekly roll over and accept such a gross injustice, your Majesty?’ The Marquess turned towards the large gathering of noble lords who supported him. The lords were accompanied by their stewards and several mercenary guards who were part of Borghese’s secret Shadow Army. ‘After everything I did to remove the bastard who stood between Nicholas and the throne, this is how he repays me!’

“The Royal Knights. His Majesty approaches!” Earl Coldwell called out as he lowered the spyglass and handed it over to the Marquess.

Borghese made out the first four rows of royal knights through the tube of bronze, polished wood, and glass as they pranced down the winding country road in their shiny armor and shimmering capes. Large purple banners, holstered to the saddles of the two leading knights, fluttered in the breeze with the royal family crest.

‘The self-devouring wolves. How appropriate.’

“It looks like they brought only forty knights with them,” Coldwell whispered as he leaned closer. “Wouldn’t this be the best opportunity—” The Earl fell silent beneath the Marquess’s glare and quickly cleared his throat. “Pardon, my Lord….”

“We are not pinned into a corner just yet,” Borghese countered reasonably as he returned the spyglass. “My spies tell me that his Majesty means to offer a Royal Favor as a reward for the Royal Hunt this year.”

“A favor, you say?” Coldwell’s eyes lit up with notable greed before he scratched his neck thoughtfully. “Is that why you recruited so many nobles to join us? A Royal Favor would certainly be useful to the Party—if the Prince stands by his promise.”

“I have the means to make him do so,” Borghese muttered darkly and then turned to where Priscilla waited in her carriage, watching the knight’s approach through a small pair of silver binoculars. “If we must resort to violence, we will not do so in front of my daughter.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Coldwell murmured with an apologetic head-bow. “I spoke without thinking. I must be overwhelmed by concern for the wellbeing of your family—given the investigation, his Majesty appears ready to bring against you.”

“That boy still needs my help and protection,” Borghese replied dismissively. “He just needs to be reminded of that fact.”

“And what about Duchess Kirsi?”

A vein spasmed against Borghese’s temple as he turned to face the Earl with a cold smile. “That half-blood will never be a match for the likes of us. We have three times the influence and experience of her pretty little head.”

“Still, Earl Hawthorne has made it clear that he stands in her corner,” Coldwell replied cautiously.

“Another boy who imagines himself a man.”

The Earl shrugged. “You know what they say. Never underestimate a Hawthorne.”

Borghese shook his head and smiled condescendingly. “If that saying had any merit, Percy would have avenged his father’s murder by now.”

Coldwell shifted uncomfortably, then raised his spyglass and muttered, “Ah, speak of the devil.”

The Marquess turned his gaze to where a flock of crows now circled above a sloping hill where a large party of riders galloped towards them. The easily recognizable banners of House Winifred and Hawthorne fluttered behind the respective families, who were followed by Marchioness Serilda and other members of the Noble Faction.

“Is it overconfidence or inexperience that would lead Lord Percy to bring so few hunters?” Coldwell closed the spyglass and tucked it into his saddle. “The Noble Faction doesn’t appear to have recovered as quickly as we had heard.”

Borghese offered no reply but turned his head towards the approaching royal knights. A moment later, he felt a pair of eyes focused upon him and turned to find Earl Hawthorne smiling in his direction. The Marquess shivered and quickly looked away.

‘Bastard has his father’s eyes.’

The nobles all dismounted and bowed before the royal couple.

“Long live their Majesties!” Lord Percy intoned in a commanding voice, which the nobles beside him echoed in muffled sentiment.

“A beautiful day for a hunt, your Majesty!” Borghese called out as he raised his gaze to the level of Nicholas’s hand, waiting for permission to rise. The gesture was given, and the Marquess offered the ungrateful brat a forced smile, which the Crown Prince returned with a hint of amusement.

“Let us hope the remainder of the event remains similarly blessed, Lord Borghese. I have been looking forward to a good hunt and break from petitions and other official duties,” Nicholas commented as his gaze drifted across the gathered nobles to settle upon the Marchioness of Kensington. “Lady Serilda, I’m so delighted you could join us this year. How magnificent your outfit is. You look like a queen.”

An awkward silence followed the prince’s words that drew a bit of color to the Crown Princess’s cheeks. Borghese glanced over Lady Serilda’s dress, an eye-catching hunter-green fabric embroidered with gold thread, onyx jewels, and black silk lace that emphasized the daring low-cut V-neck front.

‘That’s the sort of dress the whore used to wear when she strutted around as Henri’s mistress.’

The Marquess turned his gaze over to the Prime Minister, who studied the prince with a worried expression. A quick look to Lord Percy showed the Earl giving his cousin a cautioning stare and then a permissive nod.

“I’m so pleased you think so, your Majesty,” Serilda replied as she handed her reins over to the Earl and then stepped out onto the road to curtsey before the Crown Prince. “I have always treasured my memories of the Royal Hunt. Especially the memorable day when his late Majesty chased down that beautiful white stag.”

“Ahh, yes. As I recall, King Henri made you a pair of gloves from it. My father always considered you his lucky charm, Lady Serilda,” Nicholas replied, his words inflected with an odd measure of gentleness that clearly irritated the silent Crown Princess beside him. “Perhaps you will be my lucky charm this year?”

Muffled whispers of disapproval and alarm rippled through the nobles on either side at the Crown Prince’s rather callous behavior. Borghese masked the tickle of a laugh in the back of his throat with a cough.

‘Is Nicholas—actually flirting—with his father’s old mistress?’

“I must apologize, your Majesty,” Lord Percy called out from behind the Marchioness. “But my cousin has promised her companionship to me.”

“Oh?” Nicholas frowned with pointed annoyance at the Earl. “But you already her to yourself most of the time, Lord Percy? The Lady has been staying in your Manor until the Kensington Manor has been refurbished.”

Borghese almost bit down on his tongue at the reminder of the Kensington Estate he had purchased from Countess Constance at a criminally low cost. Percy and Nicholas had pressured the Marquess to return the ancestral land to Marcioness Serilda only days ago—at the same time price.

“It is my sweet cousin’s first time participating in the Royal Hunt, your Majesty,” Serilda responded soothingly as she stepped back to take the Earl’s arm. “I hope you won’t mind if I show him the ropes this year?”

“How commendable of you, dear Lady. I suppose I ought to do the same for my wife, although Eleanora believes herself to be the most capable hunter here.”

Borghese could barely control the grin twitching at the corner of his lips as he beheld the strained look of resentment that passed between the royal couple. ‘So it was just a façade after all. Well, that didn’t last for very long.’ He turned to offer Earl Coldwell a knowing smirk then stepped forward to address the prince. “Your Majesty, where is Duchess Kirsi? I believe I heard she was to oversee security for this year’s hunt?”

“Ah,” Nicholas paused and turned in his saddle to scan the sloping hillsides on either side of the road. “I believe she was to meet us here?” He turned to the Prime Minister, who nodded affirmation. “But it appears her Grace is running late.”

“How typical,” commented Viscount Bennet from behind Borghese. “This is why positions of authority shouldn’t be passed out to those with no experience.” His voice was loud enough to draw a pointed glare from Lord Percy, who also stepped forward to address the prince.

“Might I suggest we wait a few moments longer, your Majesty? Her Grace has undertaken quite a bit of responsibility in such a short amount of time. The least we could do is grant her a few more minutes.”

Nicholas sighed and adjusted his jacket uncomfortably. “Your request is reasonable, Earl Hawthorne. Very well, it’s only polite to give the lady a bit more time to make her appearance.”

Another scathing look passed between the royal couple that did not go unnoticed. Borghese could already hear the whispers of gossip stirring in the ranks behind him when Eleanora abruptly jumped down from her saddle and preceded to storm back through the line of nobles to one of her ladies in waiting. When the Crown Princess returned, she was carrying a single glass and a bottle of wine, which she opened enthusiastically after reclaiming her saddle. Nicholas flinched and then scowled as the cork sailed past his face.

“Don’t worry, your Majesty,” Eleanora commented in a mocking tone as she poured her a glass. “I wasn’t aiming for your face.”

‘Such pathetic behavior for a potential queen.’ Borghese glanced to the nobles behind him to see a similar sentiment etched upon their faces. ‘Ah well, I suppose it won’t hurt to wait a bit longer while we allow her Highness to humiliate herself further.’ He shot a smug look over to Earl Hawthorn, who was scowling at the princess in obvious disapproval. ‘If the Hawthorne boy was counting on the princess to secure his position as next Prime Minister, then he clearly miscalculated.’

“How long do you think the Duchess will take?” one of the Royal Faction nobles muttered impatiently.

“Perhaps she is still trying to choose a dress,” suggested another.

Borghese glanced over at Coldwell, who shrugged and then gave a subtle affirming nod. ‘It looks like we’ll be waiting a while. The half-blood appears to have taken our threat seriously.’ He chuckled and snapped his fingers, prompting his steward to step forward with a box of cigars that were quickly passed around to the waiting nobles.

“Might as well enjoy a good smoke while we wait,” Coldwell commented as he lit the Marquess’s cigar first.

A distant rumble pulled Borghese’s frowning gaze to the horizon as the cool breeze blew the sound of an unexpected storm in their direction. A moment later, the horses around them shifted uneasily. Feeling the distant tremors beneath his leather boots, Borghese whirled around. The gelding at his side jumped in startlement beneath the blast of horns that stampeded over the previously quiet countryside.

A line of mounted knights rose over the crest of the high rising hillside and then descended towards the road in a wave of banners, thundering hooves, white tabards, and glistening armor.

“What the blazes?” Viscount Bennet nearly choked on his cigar as he turned towards the swelling tide.

“That banner! It’s the knights of Bastiallano!”

Borghese sucked in a cold breath and raised a hand to shield his eyes as he confirmed the murmured statements of the nobles around him. He quickly spotted the small half-blood, riding at the head of her growing army, who continued to descend rapidly down the hill without breaking rank. The end of their formation was nowhere in sight. ‘Exactly how many did she bring? This is well over the two-hundred we were expecting!’

“You see, your Majesty!” Lord Percy called out as he left the road to mount his horse calmly. “Her Grace is only a little bit late.” The Marquess glared after the Earl, who offered him a cynical smile in return. “You should get out of the way, Marquess Borghese, before the Duchess runs you down.”

Coldwell flinched at the subtle threat and quickly grabbed Borghese’s arm as the nobles around them scattered, most hastily mounting their horses, while others abandoned them to the frozen stewards, who scrambled to escape as well, leaving behind the unhitched cart that contained all of Borghese’s prepared wine and comfort luxuries.

Borghese clenched his reins in silent fury. His attention was pulled between the tide of knights still riding towards them at a reckless pace and the half-blood who rode proudly at their head. The Duchess wore a shiny chest plate over a red dress covered in hand-sized black-metal swords that matched the crown and chainmail she wore upon her head. The Marquess was stunned to see that she was also sporting a sword, slightly smaller than the ones her knights carried.

‘Just who does that half-blood think she is? She’s going to trample us at that pace. Well, let’s see if she dares!’

The Marquess’s determination waned rapidly as the distance between them disappeared. By now, the Duchess was close enough for their gazes to meet. The cold smile she offered him snapped Borghese’s pride like a twig as his survival instincts took over. He quickly spun around to grab his horse’s saddle and clambered into it.

A blast of cold air washed over the Marquess and nearly cost him his footing as the Duchess blurred past. Lady Kirsi reined in sharply, her skirt of miniature swords cascading behind her as the pretty white mare reared onto its hide legs and turned to face the royal couple.

A billowing cloud of dust rolled over Borghese, who shivered against his saddle as the first line of knights came to a uniform halt three yards away from him. The sweat running down the Marquess’s neck and collar sharpened beneath an icy cold breeze he barely noticed over the rapid pounding inside his chest.

‘She-she looked like she wanted to kill me.’

“I’m delighted that you could join us, your Grace,” Nicholas said by way of greeting before he raised a brow and turned towards the hillside now packed with mounted knights. “You seem perhaps—overprepared?”

“I assure you, the increase in number will not be a burden upon the Gilwren estate or household,” Lady Kirsi replied, and then she bowed her head over the pretty mare’s mane. “I simply wished to demonstrate the seriousness in which I hold your Majesty’s safety.”

“I see. You certainly look ready for battle.” The Crown Prince offered her a bemused smile and then shrugged. “Very well, your Grace. I am touched by your efforts—however, I am also concerned that the number of knights you brought will chase away all the deer and wildlife ahead of us. And that would rather defeat our purpose for being here.”

“Of course, your Majesty. I have no intention of taking the majority of them into Gilwren forest. They will secure the grounds and remain on standby—just in case.”

The Duchess’s ice blue eyes turned sharply in Borghese’s direction, and the Marquess flushed with anger and alarm. Before he could retort, Earl Coldwell cut in front of him and addressed the half-blood with a polite bow.

“It is good to see that our safety is in such capable hands, your Grace. May the Saints keep you and the royal family safe.”

The Duchess pointedly ignored the Earl and turned her attention to Eleanora, who was still nursing a glass of wine. “Your Highness, I hope you have been well,” the half-blood murmured over a cordial bow.

The Crown Princess tapped her glass and studied her ex-attendant coldly. After a pregnant moment of silence, the princess simply flicked her reins and rode past the Duchess without a response.

“Forgive her, your Grace,” Nicholas called out with a resigned sigh as he rode up alongside the Duchess. “Her Highness is in a bad mood. Come. Join me, Lady Kirsi. I need someone with a level head to keep me company.”

‘First his dead father’s mistress and now the half-blood?’ Borghese shook his head and scowled as the Crown Prince and Duchess rode off. The Prime Minister, Viscount Kensington, Kensington and Royal Knights followed after them, and then the rest of the nobles were left to wait as the knights of Bastiallano filed out onto the road in ranks of four.

“I could be wrong,” Coldwell murmured as he maneuvered his horse to stand beside the seething Marquess. “But his Majesty might be actively seeking a new mistress.”

Borghese pursed his lips together and considered this for a moment. “It’s true that the Crown Prince has stopped visiting Lady Rosamund altogether of late. It’s certainly a likely possibility given his father’s appetite for women.”

“Perhaps, we could use this to our advantage to divert any possibility of a royal investigation?”

“Hmph.” Borghese impatiently brushed a layer of dirt from his jacket and trousers. “As long as I win the Royal Favor, that is all but assured.”

‘Nicholas has already chosen one bride the nobles can barely stand. He will have to be more careful when it comes to choosing a Royal Consort. Priscilla is still his best choice, especially given that they were engaged before. Lord Coldwell is right. There is no way Nicholas would investigate the family of his Royal Consort, much less accuse them of committing treason. And if Priscilla gives him an heir before that drunken barbarian can conceive, then the path to becoming Queen will be that much easier.’