Belén appears in the stone archway leading to the cellar. “He is here,” he says, and I know from his grave expression that the news is not good.
“No one is to leave this kitchen,” I say, and receive a flurry of “Yes, Your Majesty”s in response. “Hector, Tristán, with me.”
Together we enter the cellar stair. It’s steep and cool and smells of wet wood and pitch. Alongside the stair is a smooth slope for rolling barrels.
Belén is at the bottom, standing over the body of another dead man. A boy, really. He lies on his side, his arm crooked beneath his torso in an unnatural position. Vomit soaks his shirt and puddles at the base of a wine barrel.
He clutches a scrap of leather.
Hector bends to pry it from his stiffening fingers. He spreads it open and says, “A note.”
“Read it.”
“‘Death to tyrants.’” Hector looks up. “That’s all it says.”
“Oh, God.”
With a cry of anguish, Tristán rushes forward and sends a hard kick into the boy’s flank. The body lurches; a dead arm flops hard against the ground, and something inside it cracks.
“Tristán, control yourself,” I say.
The conde whirls to face me, and for the first time, I notice the wet brownish stain on his linen blouse. “But . . . Iladro, my herald . . . he might . . . he could be . . .”
“I know. My own personal physician is attending him. We’ll do all we can.”
His shoulders shake with rage, but he nods. “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”
“I’m not convinced,” Belén says in his quiet voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Did this Felipe know how to read and write? If so, is this his handwriting?”
“Belén is right,” Hector says, and the two share a look of accord. “It’s too convenient to find him with this note clutched in his hand.”
I put my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose. The note is not proof—not really. But maybe I have to pretend it is.
I say, “Hector, will you learn everything you can about this boy? Maybe his family knows something.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. I need a demonstration. A show of strength. Tristán, what counsel would you offer me?”
His eyes narrow with the understanding that I’m testing him. “I suggest you have the kitchen staff flogged for negligence,” he says evenly. “I know it’s harsh, but it will do no lasting harm. You must send a clear message that you are not weak, and that you can retaliate quickly and effectively.”
I breathe deeply to steady myself. Yes, a flogging. It will be awful, but better than executions or dismissals. “Thank you, Your Grace. Why don’t you attend to your man now?”
He bows quickly and flees.
Hector studies me. “Can you?” he says gently. “I’ll give the order for you, if you like.”
I smother the instant feeling of relief. “No. I should order it myself. It’s a sign of strength, right?” Before I can change my mind, I hurry up the stairs, Hector and Belén following after.
My kitchen staff are still lined up against the wall, under the watch of my guards. Alentín sits on the edge of the hearth, praying. Lady Jada has returned from fetching Doctor Enzo. Her eyes are wide with excitement, no doubt anxious to relate these events to everyone she knows. I find I can’t bear to look at her.
I address the staff. “Felipe is dead, by his own hand. I believe he was the poisoner. I don’t know if any of you conspired with him. However, I do know that you were negligent in allowing the food to be served too soon after being tasted.”
I wait a few beats for it to sink in. Hopefully, they will fear the worst, and my punishment will seem mild by comparison.
“And so, tomorrow morning, you will be brought to the palace green.” Someone chokes out a sob. “There you will each be flogged, in sight of the entire court.” I see flashes of terror, but a few exhale relief.
I clench my hands into fists so no one can see how badly they shake. I have just ordered that innocent people be hurt, for my own political advantage. What kind of person does that? Someone like General Luz-Manuel, I guess.
A guard clears his throat. “Your Majesty, how many lashes are you ordering?”
Oh, God, lashes. I don’t know anything about that. I need to hurt, not harm. How many is too many? Too few, and the punishment lacks weight.
Hector jumps in. “I suggest ten each, Your Majesty,” he says.
I could hug him. “Yes, of course. Ten each.” I’ll have to watch it happen. Display myself at the flogging. The space between my eyes stings with threatening tears.