Cast Thyself Onwards - ProfessorPlum (2024)

Chapter 1: Harken Unto Me

Chapter Text

It was now nearly two winters past, when a great number of minor Lords and Bannermen were assembled in junction to observe the coronation of James II as acting ruler, distinct from an entitlement as King, but with much the same conviction and fealty devoted to his new title.

One season earlier, the ruler King James, first of his name, had been divinely injured. When he went to mount his horse, the animal reared and threw the King to the ground where he struck his head. It has since been said that a single pebble can topple a Kingdom. He remained breathing for three days but was fated to die by the Endless Sleep. In the following days, the procession of the King's body was carried in currus by black mounted riders through the city before being laid to rest at the Abbey where his tomb had been etched since birth. Because the only Heir to the throne was not yet sixteen, it fell to the court to manage the Kingdom's policies and reside over matters of diplomatic constitution until the boy would come of age.

It was the first time I had ever glimpsed the Prince in person, James II, with my own set of eyes. He was keen featured but rather scrawny in much the make of his father. Dark of hair, and of pale complexion, he nevertheless commanded presence with the intensity of his gaze as he overtook his father’s throne with little words, seemingly unconcerned with the immensity of his new position.

I had scarcely been so close to the throne as to notice the golden threaded embroidery or faded backrest from kings who sat much taller than the dark haired “Boy King”, but the occasion presented the opportunity for additional security. My experience in the Legion’s infantry was suitable for a green guardsman, barely more than a doorstop. I had little training with a sword at the time, but had lasted three summers in armed campaigns and one in siege as a bowman. These were not specifics that I cared to mention to the Ceremony's recruitment, but provided me an untattered cloak to wear and a position thirty paces shy from the event with a view to rival any nobleman.

His dark eyes swept the room as he was crossed under God by the Holymen and I stiffened as, but for a moment, I seemed to have met his careful gaze. When he then stood to say a few brief words whispered in his ear by eager advisors, I was stuck by his soft tone and gentle manner when addressing the attendance. It was only after many men swore their allegiance and bent the knee, that I began to think it was a trick of the light to catch the lads eye. But again, as he surveyed the near silent spectators, I was certain his eyes and lingered on mine for the fraction of a second it takes to imbue a man with a sense of importance, coming from someone so senior in authority.

It was then I decided I would make a place for myself amongst the castles bounds, under the banners of the black sparrow, in service to a future King whose temperament knew nothing of, but whose presence was both regal and strangely enchanting.

***

The second time I encountered the Prince was the late spring after his Coronation as Regent. I had secured a position as Castle guard, and though I was primarily sequestered to the grounds and perimeter of the Castle proper, it was better pay from that of a city guard with twice the prestige. It was rather dull work, lacking the intricacies of a craftsman, the adventure of a journeyman, or the excitement of a calvary Bowman. The unseasonably warm sun simmered within my ill fitted armor, baking me like a two pence meat pie, but I held my resolve, using all the steady breath work and patience I had mastered while wielding a bow.

On a quarterly hour patrol through the lush gardens surrounding the outer courtyard of the entrance tower, I glimpsed from under my helm, the raven haired youth I knew to be the Prince. It was farther afield than I had been during the ceremony that Named him, yet his slim build and graceful stride was unmistakable. He was alone but for two guardsmen that tailed him from several yards in wake.

Having been the most interesting occurrence in my daily patrol in some time, I carefully adjusted my orbit of the gardens to account for the Prince’s leisurely gait. It took but several long strides while the sweat pooled at my temples and dripped down my back before I was in throwing distance of the Prince himself. I raised my visor and squinted in the bright light, the better to see him.

As a commoner, you come of age idolizing men likened to Gods without ever witnessing the achievements proclaimed in the songs you sing while drinking. And though I was rather disillusioned by the Church after hearing them speak of holy wars from the comfort of their wooden pews, the flesh and blood of royalty still held a childish reverence that I had yet to shake.

He appeared to be pruning a garden rose bush, cutting just above the base of two sprouting leaves, sacrificing the blooming bud but encouraging the new growth to propagate twofold. I walked nearer, ignoring for the first time all season, the oppressive heat and lack of airflow through my armored oven. I forgot myself, and forgot the noise I made, not in a bowman's slight garb, but the brutal metal of a knight, the clammer one makes as he clunks and clangs, no matter how well oiled. I only stopped when the Prince turned his head to me, a thin gold band resting on his brow, his hand still clutching the severed flower. We looked fixedly at each other for a moment, and as I could not read his expression, whether that of indignation or intrigue, I held my ground and my gaze.

And then, as swiftly as I had met his eye, he turned and continued his examination of the flower beds as if I were less consequential than the seasonal foliage

I dared not proceed this encounter, and began resuming my duty, before I noticed it. The flower the Prince had cut, a budding red rose, sat resolutely on the raised stone edge of the garden bed. As the two tailing guards had now followed their liege, and I beyond the scope of their helms, I strode several paces and knelt with a creak of my armored hinges to pick it up.

Were I a more foolish man, I might have thought he left it for me.

***

The third time I saw the prince, it was on the day I requisitioned to join the King’s guard, a name for which still served the same function despite not currently being applicable in absence of a true King.

It was from far off, atop a tower balcony a flight from the ground. He watched for some time before disappearing inside. I tried to catch his eye, wondering, though sheepishly, if he remembered me from our previous encounters, but there was no sign that he had even looked my way.

In the practice yard, surrounded by the lime-washed inner walls of the castle on three sides, we queued up to await a chance to prove our skill.

Each man would, on his turn, kneel and speak his embellished accomplishments and previous positions of valor before tasked with hand to hand combat against a Knight of high standing within the King’s guard. Many older men had proudly led successful skirmishes, boasting of their experience and devotion, while the younger amongst us touted numerous tourney wins and the value of their agility and youth.

The man in front of me wore thick plated armor and a smirk on his freckled face. He managed to knock the sword from the Knight's hand with four masterful strokes, earning him a clap on the back and a grimace from the others who awaited their turn. He wiped the sweat from his ginger brow and returned to wait with the rest who had preceded him.

When it came to me, I had little to my name but a sorted history as infantry cog and Bowmen amongst various men-at-arms campaigns and my current position as castle guard. I wore naught but a rusting breastplate and bracers and when I finished my own statement, the Knight laughed and told me I should return to my position spotting castle rats for the dogs to catch.

“I can read.“ I countered. “And write.” It didn’t particularly add to my prowess, but it was something I thought could set me apart from the commoner he thought me to be.

“What use have we for a literate sword?” He jested. I started to speak but he interrupted. ”Go now, before I dirty my blade with you.”

That was it. I had lost my chance to even audition with a sword and would never step closer to the Prince or the castle but for the outer perimeter. And then, I saw him. Emerging from the tower doors in front of the training yard and flanked by two other members of the King’s guard, strode the Pince. He wore a dark green tunic of a crumpled texture I thought to be velvet, though I had never seen the material close to.

He walked down the steps until he stood against the supervising Knight, who bowed his head upon seeing the lad.

“Choosing my guardsmen for me, are you Sir Braxon?” He said, addressing the senior Knight.

“My Prince, you were invited to observe and-”

“Well, I can hardly count the spots on your balding head from up there,” he laughed jovially. “And what of this one?” he asked, and to my astonishment, he was looking directly at me, his dark eyes meeting my light ones in a gaze that I dared not break.

“We’ve had some promising recruits, my Prince, but this one is an ill experienced city guard.”

“Castle,” corrected the Prince.

“My Lord?”

“He is a castle guard, is he not? I’ve seen him about.” His eyes were still on me but I held my tongue between my teeth so as not to speak out of turn. So it was true, he remembered my likeness and had acknowledged our exchange of glances, brief though they were. Before Sir Braxton could reply the Prince spoke again, this time to me. “What is your name?”

I bowed my head, averting my eyes for the first time in the encounter and placed a closed hand over my heart. “Sebastian, my Lord.” I said succinctly.

“And what of your skill with a blade?” He asked, holding his hand out to Sir Braxton. “Give me your sword, Sir, I wish to test him myself since you refuse.”

Although the Knight appeared apprehensive, his obedience was swift as he unsheathed his own sword and presented it, one hand on the hilt, the other palm-up on the underside of the blade, to the expectant Prince. He then turned to me, pointing his newly fetched blade to my chest and tucked his right hand behind his back.

The sword I wielded was indebted to me by position in the Castle guard, to which I still paid deep in the purse against with every month's coin I earned. It was solid and heavy though fairly balanced. While I stood head and shoulders above the Boy King and outweighed him by several stones, I had little formal training with a blade and had never in memory dueled a left handed man.

I did not ask any questions nor excuse myself from the proposition as I knew this to be my only chance, a chance which God himself must have granted me for the luck it seemed to be. I knew to mark the Prince with a sword would be suicide, but to loose was no less an option.

He wielded the blade swiftly, taking my slight hesitation as a chance to strike first. His pose was purposeful and his footwork, as he danced around me on the dirt, had the rigid agility of a man who has trained for years yet never seen the brutality of real battle.

I contented myself to parry his attacks, not daring to strike for my own but managing to close the distance between us so that he could not perpetrate his attacks with full force. His slashes became quicker and cleaner, clearly owning the practice and confidence in his swordwork that I lacked. But as we continued, the rhythm we formed seemed to turn more towards volley.

The chorus of our blades sang as they collided and the pattern of his swings became more varied as he tried to jab at my breastplate to which I evaded. When I finally challenged his swing and countered with a strike of my own aimed near his right arm, he let out a short cry of exclamation and blocked it only by the hair of his blade. He then swung back with such force that it knocked me one step back, giving him just enough space for the edge of his sword to graze my breastplate with a dull ring of metal.

But whereas the other recruits were finished once they were licked by a blade, the Prince continued to advance on me, keeping his distance and circling my perimeter to calculate my defenses. I could feel myself lagging as I deflected his following blows, and with one misplaced sweep of my sword, the Prince's blade rose up and kissed my cheek so that I felt hot blood begin to spill.

“Ha!” I heard him cry, strangely far off and fogged as a ringing built in my ears

My mind went white. I saw before me only endless fields of clawing death and my heart raced as though it beat the drums of war. The threat I faced could have been a scrawny fourteen-year-old boy king, or a vast opposing army, but all I knew in that moment was the burning clarity a man feels before certain death.

My thoughts still blank, out of pure instinct, I raised up my worn leather boot and kicked my opponent squarely in the chest.

The Prince fell backwards on the ground, the sword falling from his hand.

Within the space of a second, Sir Braxton had picked his blade from the ground and held it to my neck, awaiting an order we were both sure would follow.

Clutching his chest where the clear mark of my boot had marred the dark green tunic with dirt, the Prince stared at me with astonishment and, if possible, intrigue, though I barely had time to register before my heart sank to my stomach.

“Say the word, your Grace.” Sir Braxton spoke with contempt.

It took several moments for the Prince to compose himself as he stood, brushing the earth from his doublet carelessly.

“Well,” he began. “Had I known cheating to be allowed, I might have struck you harder.” There was indignation in his tone, but also the faint sign of a smirk. He eyed me keenly as my stomach twisted. “Sir Braxton, see this man leaves unharmed.”

My breath hitched.

“But,” he continued and our eyes met once more. “Before you do so, be sure he is fitted with the Armor of the King’s guard.”

The statement went unchallenged, but for a moment, both Sir Braxton and I shared the same look of incredulity as though copied from manuscript. I did not speak, my heart still pounding near the region of my navel. Sir Braxton was lost to words just the same, but was quicker to master his composure from years of experience. The Prince turned without another word and sauntered back to the broad tower with as much grace and dignity as one can muster after being bested in combat in front of their inferiors.

I knew then, that this was not the likes of a King that had reigned in my lifetime. This was something different.

Chapter 2: A Moment Betwixt

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As the season wore on, I accustomed myself to my new position in the King’s guard. Junior though I was amongst the thirteen honored with the official title, the post was an undeniable upgrade. It gifted this peasant born, vagabond marksman, the title of Knight to which my father, God rest his soul, would have scarcely believed.

My new armor was given outright in my Name, and after proclaiming allegiance and life long fealty, I was Knighted under God and the realm. Unlike the armor I wore as a castle guardsman, it was near impossible to don without the assistance of a skilled squire. Instead of assembled metal plating to cover the fronts of limbs and attached to the gambeson with leather straps, my new cuirasse was worn over a lighter arming doublet. All segments were carefully fastened together with thick string capped in silver, allowing for quick threading, and providing the wearer a superior range of movement. My torso was fitted with a standard form breast and back plate attached to a fauld, which hung from my waist down to my groin. Below that, a skirt of mail, and worn on each leg, my greaves fitted from ankle to knee. My vambraces and gauntlets clung to my forearms and covered my knuckles in steel, leaving the undersides sheathed in leather. Although it was rarely expected for a Knight of the King’s guard to face actual combat, the prestige afforded by a well shone suit of armor gave the Kingdom the appearance of both wealth and fortitude.

While I once patrolled the perimeter of the castle, accosted by all the elements of the natural world, I now rarely saw the sun but from the shafts of light that beamed through the iron worked windows. My heavy footfalls echoed through the empty stone halls and off the peaked ceilings of the corridors. I often stood for half a day outside closed chamber doors, shutting my visored helm (although not required to be worn whilst indoors) to hide the view of my shut eyes as I dozed.

I was now privy to much of the comings and goings of the Castle’s occupants and guests, and some days, as my post commanded, a rear wall station within the Council hall; a glimpse of the politics integral to the Kingdom’s governing force. The Prince and standing Reagent was often a member at these meetings, where he had garnered a reputation for being quite clever when it came to strategic insight, and was well versed in the lineage and territorial occupation of both enemies and allies.

His ideas were often well met, yet he possessed a temper and arrogance that somewhat marred his potential with unpredictability, an asset in a General but a liability in a King. When he spoke, it was with a conviction I admired, but often challenged his council and pushed back on advice.

However, as many words that were spoken pertaining to war and conquest, tenfold were those focused on the trivial matters of the Kingdom such as import taxes and the regulation of silk and linen. And so, there was rarely a time when I was fortunate enough to hear the Prince voice his insight.

Some, perhaps on the council itself, took this erraticism as a sign of inexperience and the folly of youth, but rather than stare blankly at the old men that surrounded him, the Prince’s eyes were always alert, always studying the speaker at the table, or else on the others, awaiting their turn to speak. His eagerness seemed to me, a sign of a precocious nature and if not fated to be a great king, at least, indeed, a good one. He rarely if ever glanced in my direction during these meetings, but with visor down and back stiff as a cot in a poor house, I would have scarcely recognized myself.

As I dazed wearily, keeping composure not to nod off at my station near the entry door of the Council hall, my ears perked up at the chirp of crisp voices, mainly that of the Prince.

The discussion centered on where coin was being insufficiently spent on items such as the care and maintenance of the gardens in the courtyard and surrounding landscape.

I saw his dark eyes perk up at the mention.

"And tell me, by what chance have we at inspiring fidelity when our hedgerows are crowded and overgrown?" He asked lazily. "Is it not presentation that matters the most as I begin my reign?"

There was general mumbling.

"Your Grace, perhaps we can pay the gardeners less to reduce expenses, or hereby require less men for the same task." Suggested one of the Prince’s advisors.

The Prince’s retort was swift. "And perhaps you can fulfill your duty more appropriately in the leather working boots of the gardeners. That arrangement serves both purposes, does it not?.”

I let out a barely audible laugh that I trusted my helmet to muffle, but it came out louder than intended. I could have sworn I saw the prince incline his head towards where I stood, though it seemed that with an unspoken air, the conversation had been resolved and resumed its previous sedative nature.

When the meeting had adjourned, I accompanied the Prince back to his quarters before the start of a new patrol shift. After slowing to walk near to me but keeping his gaze ahead, the Prince said lightly, “You naught not show such a jaunty disposition.”

I Kept silent at first, but I felt the tension of expectancy and replied, “It was but a cough, your Grace,” rather cheekily.

He smiled but then signed. “All the joy in this world could be sucked out by ten sober old men ‘round a table.”

“I simply appreciate your affinity for the gardens,” I replied. And forgetting myself added, “I used to help my mother in the garden when the garlic sprouted.”

“Is that so?” The Prince seemed amused.

“It is. But she has since passed.”

The Prince's sly smile never wavered. “Then we shall plant some in the garden on the morrow. I’m sure my advisors would approve of our generous supplement to the kitchens.”

We spoke no more until we were at the door to his chambers and he touched me lightly on my vambrace. “And do get some honey for that cough.” He chidded, dismissing me on my way.

***

Thereafter, I often accompanied the Prince as he performed his general duties throughout the day, sometime in addition to another Knight, sometimes alone. First to the barber surgeon to trim facial hair it did not seem the Prince possessed. Then the north wing of the castle where the cartographer had asked for clarification regarding a minor border line dispute. Then to the east hall where the Keeper of Coin awaited approval for a new minting, designed to commemorate the Princes Regent’s coronation as King held the following summer.

These activities amused me; not firstly because it provided a significant improvement from my menial work as a sentinel, but also afforded me many moments, often alone, with the Prince to which I had developed a peculiar admiration.

Perhaps it was the words of my fealty oath, finally finding a purpose to serve a superior who was not content to have me parish for some vague notion of God or conquest. Perhaps it was that the Prince somewhat reminded me of myself at his age, though I was now nearing a decade older. While I had never held matters of such importance as he, I had been certain, despite my father’s remarks to the contrary, that I would someday make a name for myself.

The most enjoyable aspect of my amelioration in the Prince's favor, was tailing him on his frequent constitutionals through the garden in the inner courtyard. Though not as impressive as the sprawling greenery located outside the castle proper, the inner bailey joined all four cardinal areas of the main castle but was only accessible from the hall leading to the west tower where the Nobility chamber rooms were located. As so, it was a very secluded area, and because the sun only shone down directly at high noon, it made for a temperate and shadowed vista for much of the summer months.

The Prince wore a fitted brown tunic and raw linen apron. His gloves appeared more weathered than any other garment he owned, and only the golden band on his brow eluded to his true wealth and status.

It seemed with a great fondness that he showed to me the pearls of his labor. Although the trees had been planted many years before his birth, the flowers that sprawled about their bases, dotted like blue and white jewels among their twisted roots, were of his effort, a testament to his late Queen mother. Though he had never known her but for the warmth of her womb, it was said she often wore gowns of blue or white, and was remembered so in her many portraits about the castle.

The Prince busied himself amongst the garden beds, using a fine blade to cut away at a lavender bush. “It is the only place I truly feel myself in spirit.” He confided.

“You can prune away any parts which are undesirable,” he paused. “Elements you wish to leave behind.” He held up the square, branching stems of the herb and inspected them. “And leave to flourish, only what is deemed palatable.” He did not look my way nor did I deem he wished me to respond.

I knew not if the Prince spoke so candidly to all who presided over his watch, but I felt profoundly elevated to be privy to his musings, though I could not help but to presume their connotation.

It pleased me when I received word one afternoon that I was to resume my patrol in the West tower. Normally, shift rotations were conducted on a weekly basis and thus I knew it was likely to be a summons from the Prince himself, though not directly stated as such. When I arrived, partially winded from my ascent up the many stairs, he was perched by a window overlooking the countryside.

“My Prince,” I acknowledged him with a bowing of the head.

With a motion of his hand, he called me neared so that we both stood in the light of the same window.

He stayed turned towards the outstreating view, but inclined his head up at me, his eyes fixed on my covered face. “Remove your helm, I wish to look upon you.” I did so, my yellow hair dirty and unkempt below it, bracing it under my arm. “Ah, see here. You have handsome features, Sir Sebastian, no need to hide them behind steel.”

“As you prefer it,” I acknowledged with a nod. “But Surely I have not climbed a hillside of steps so you could admire me.” The comment was in jest and was glad the Prince took it to be so when he smiled.

It felt unnatural to be so close to him. I could count the buttons on his fine silk doublet, and smell the sweet, fragrant soaps in which he was bathed. If my memory served, his eyes bore a likeness to that of the late Queen, though more likely, the portraits I had seen of her. His features were soft but his jaw was firmly set and his large eyes and long lashes imparted a delicate and refined appearance.

Feelings of an impure nature sturred inside me. I had not laid with a woman in many summers, and the Knights of King's guard were oathed from taking a wife. Though I did not miss that which I was not destined to have, this moment of subtle intimacy tickled my stomach and warmed my loins as any maiden had ever done.

The Prince continued, his eyes trained back through the window. “I only wanted to ask you, what is it like beyond these lands, beyond this castle and this realm? I have only once visited a Vassal's keep to the West once, with my father. I have hunted in the Kingswood. But for that, I have stared at these same hills, this same parched grass. Even these clouds seem to take the same shape from one day to the next.”

“I have seen a great deal of this county’s land, but it was much the same as this.” I gestured to the hills of glass outside the tall window. Sensing this brevity was dissatisfying, I continued. “I have seen bogs, with fog as thick and dense as porridge, where the waters rose to my knees and soaked my britches. The leaches there were not wielded by a physician but the devil himself for the places they hid.” I shivered at the memory. “I have looked across flat far fields with the tents of armies gathered like the scales of a fish, rippling as they billowed in the wind. In the North, I’ve marched through ice cold enough to freeze a man's blood as he is cut and shatter on the ground before him. And to the south, fields of golden wheat that swayed like the ocean, and struck down men with sickness of the sea.”

I had been adrift in memory, looking out over the fields to the distant crop of trees that begat the forest beyond. When I regained myself, the Prince's eyes were dark, yet filled with a brightness, and watching me intently.

“I long to see such sights.” He lamented softly.

I lost myself in the vastness of his eyes. “If you desire it, I would show you all.”

Our heads turned to look at one another, but bodies remained facing the window, a hands width apart but separated by the immensity of our standing.

When I could not bear to swim in his gaze any longer lest I drown myself, and turned back to the view, not truly seeing any of it.

And then, as we stood in a bountiful silence, the Prince raised himself on the tips of his well dressed shoes and pressed his lips to my unshaven cheek as though I were a tourney knight who had won a fair Lady’s Favor.

He then left me for his chambers, taking all the breath in my lungs with him and leaving me frozen as a stone carved statue. My mind raced and my cheeks flushed as I raised my hand to touch the spot where, if I had not mistaken dream for reality, I had been kissed by the Prince.

Chapter 3: Tangle Unbound

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After our sensual encounter in the secluded hallway of the west tower chambers, I did not see the Prince for some time. I found it difficult to wear my gauntlets in the following days for the sweat that slicked my palms. Despite my relative innocence in the ordeal, I nevertheless expected at any moment to be escorted to the gallows. I checked every man’s hands as he passed me, whether page boy or knight, lest he bore a sealed scroll calling for my arrest

My helm now remained in my quarters at the Prince's initial request, my eyes now darkened due to the sleep I lacked and on display for every man to see.

Because of my apparent banishment from the Prince’s perimeter, I spent more time around the other knights of the Kings guard. Sir Braxton, the Knight Commander, had his own quarters, but the rest of us often slept and supped together, patrolling the corridors in pairs when the situation commanded.

I was accustomed to keeping to myself, but saw the benefit of holding such company. I heard remarks only trusted in private and could scarcely believe what was said between fellows regarding their sworn Regent the Prince.

It was often remarked that, as royalty, his arse had never been accosted by the cruel leather of a belt and his temperament suffered for it. They thought him prone to rash decisions and impulsive punishments, and told me he was regarded as unreliable by his contemporaries and tyrannical by his critics, who often found their words caught in their throats at the end of a noose.

Many of those, even some amongst the King’s own guard, referred to him disparagingly as “Boy king”, and myself as an ill bred lap dog. The ginger haired Knight with the clever swordwork I had met at recruitment, Sir Patrick, often snided the fact that I had never even held a position as squire, and thus was undeserving of Knighthood. Were I a man born of noble birth, these comments might have rattled my constitution, but as it was, I had been called much worse by far more imposing men.

What concerned me more pressingly however, was the way in which they described the Prince. As someone who felt a deeper connection had been established between us than any of my fellow guardsmen, I had seen only the qualities of a just and tolerant leader.

Aye, I had heard tell of the way men were dealt with when they treasoned or challenged the Prince in his doctrine. Though the ends they ment had always come through the lens of royal justice to my ears. Since I had begun my post in the Kings guard, I came to see the actions of a benevolent and insightful ruler.

It was with great surprise, when I was handed a summons, not to court, but to a hunting expedition in the days to come. The Prince desired to mount a brief hunt and win himself the game of the season, which tended to be smaller deer and woodco*ck as the summer months waned.

It was to be a two day excursion, returning on the third day and requiring only bowmen, experienced men of tracking, two squires to aid and carry the black sparrow house banner, and several hounds to chase down pray. It was not to be par force, which required a great deal of planning and many more days of persistent tracking to bring down larger game, but simply for sport and the enjoyment of a swift hunt before the season’s changed and it became too cold for the comfort of the Prince.

As intimate as the affair could have been, had it been only the prince and I, it was unheard of for a single knight to accompany the prince so far afield from the Castle for any reason except necessity. And as it was, I joined the procession as we rode from the main road to the end bounds of the city, passing the farmlands and crossing the river until we came to the edge of the Kingswood.

During my last siege as Marksman under King James the Brazen (as he has since come to be known after his death), I had taken two arrows to the right breast and shoulder. Sparing a nipple was of no concern to me, but I could no longer draw back a bow to its capacity, rendering my skills as a bowman obsolete, and my purpose in life, at the time, under question.

I felt invigorated to be out of the castle in the open air, free from my heavy mail and plating, and dressed in slimmer leather chestplate reinforced with metal studs to provide additional protection, but much less cumbersome than my usual attire.

The Prince seemed too to share my sentiment, if not more so. He raced ahead on his stead much to the behest of the other guardsmen. He seemed to express a careless excitement I had not seen in him, a boyish disregard for the bounds of his regency.

In a trodden clearing, we made our camp as the darkening sky signaled dusk, the sparse clouds reflecting the last of the sun’s light on their wispy undersides, and competed with the budding twinkles of the first evening stars. We arranged our tents in a circle, a fire burning in the center that would smolder out as two squires took turns in watch.

As I lay in my tent, on a sleeping pad much stiffer than my castle bed, my thoughts drifted to Prince James. I could not deny that my inclusion on this trip had signaled to me more than could have been said in words. He desired me at a place by his side, selected me out of my fellows, and wanted in some small part, to share this experience with the man who he had kissed so tenderly.

My sleep was untroubled and filled with the desires I dared not promise myself. Until that was, when I was disturbed by a rustling of the forest floor and a subtle ripping of fabric near my head. I opened my eyes to darkness, considering the silence.

“Are you awake?” Came a soft whisper from behind my head.

I lifted myself, perched on my elbows and spun my head around. There in the dark, I could just make out the outline of the Pinces head, peeking through a newly cut opening in the back of my tent.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my voice low. I was sure someone still held guard by the fire, lest he had dozed off on his post.

I was not certain, but I thought the Prince to be smiling. “I bade my footman drink from my wineskin, the daft lad, he shall be asleep till morning.” He reached a hand through the cut tent canvas and tugged at my night shirt. “Come.”

In the dim light of the dying fire, we slipped through the rear of my shelter and I followed him softly though the back of the campsite where the horses were tied. I scarcely had time to grab my cloak, my heart racing with apprehension and excitement.

The Prince quieted our horses with sugar he produced from within his satchel and we walked them a good distance in the darkness, thinking each snap of the twigs beneath our feet would call down the company upon us.

When he deemed us far enough away, we mounted our steeds and rode blindly into the night, trusting the beasts below us not to lead us headlong into the shadowy trees that we darted past.

After a short time, we were called to stop by a small stream, the moon above casting a blue glow about us and dancing on the water’s surface. Tying the reigns of our mounts to a sturdy branch, I laid my cloak on the ground and we sat together in the stillness of the night. My heart hammered so wildly inside my chest, I wondered if the Prince could hear its rapid desperation.

The Prince produced from his bag, a wineskin, oil jar, and waxed paper wrapped about bread, cheese, and fruit. Though we had supped pottage at camp with the others, we filled our bellies with the rations and laughed as we swapped the wineskin between our mouths.

“This is from a fruit called Olive, I trust you have not tasted an oil so rich,” he told me, pulling the cork from the oil jar with his teeth and tipping it onto my bread. “You know, I have not been hunting since my father passed.”

“So you do wish to hunt?” I asked. “I thought perhaps..” but my words trailed away, letting the sharp savory flavor of the oiled bread coat my tongue. It was not that I did not trust the Prince with my candid words, but that I did not want to admit to myself what thoughts had crossed my mind. That this whole excursion was for the chance of our midnight adventure, for time alone with me.

“Truthfully yes,” he laughed, and though the light of the moon reflected in his eyes, I could tell he understood the words I had not said aloud. “The chase, the thrill, when you can taste the prize in your heart, but a breath away.” And I could not tell if he still spoke about the hunt. “It is a thing of beauty, is it not?” He asked.

I felt the caress of the wind and saw it flutter his dark hair, the soft shadows cast from the moon onto his striking features, and I was not speaking of the hunt when I answered. “It is.”

And then, I was leaning nearer to him, tugged by impulse and carried by a burning compulsion. I tasted the bitter olive on his lips and parted them to feel the tenderness of his tongue.

We lay on the hard-knit fabric of my traveling cloak, my mouth roaming the landscape of his neck, guided by my traveling fingertips and stripping him gently of his silken bedwear.

The heat from his body beneath mine radiated through me, stiffening my resolve and my aching extremity as I exposed myself between his naked legs. Cradling his head in my hand, I gripped his hair and tilted his head back as I sank my mouth upon his exposed throat, his pulse dancing on my lips. I felt for the bottle of expensive, imported oil, and covered my shaft with the slick fruit of the olive.

I slipped slowly between his yielding folds, the aching tunnel of his flesh surrendering resistance. My manhood urged my stride forward but I resisted, taking care to expand his channel before I pursued. Forwards and back I alternated, only sieging the entry though I was braced to take him fully. His fingers clawed like daggers on my back, pining for an end to the torment but begging for further assault. I delved inwards, longing to sink myself into his depths and holding steadfast to continue my rhythm, to draw out of him and then sink deeper with the following thrust.

I felt like a rope pulled taught, the knot at the base of my navel throbbing to be undone, yet gathering tighter with each exertion.

“Please,” the breath in my ear implored, its meaning balanced between plea and yearning.

I craved to plunder the richness of his bounty and to breach the yoke inside. To cause my seed to overflow and spill from him as I plowed the damp earth within, planting myself firmly in pursuit of a harvest.

His trembling grew as his body submitted, and finally I broke past the density of his confines and undid him from the inside. The animals we became were ruled by no man, no God, but by the earth and by pleasure itself.

I could feel his head thrashing back and forth, unbound from thought and comprehension, hips bucking wildly, first against me, then away, in a restless pattern. I took his member in my hand and stroked it as my own, the spasms beneath me rippling throughout my fingertips and pulling me further into his tightness.

When I felt his muscles tighten and shudder, spilling himself between us, I reared my head back and unleashed a torrent of ecstasy, the release of a clenched fist undone, the breaking of a wave.

Hands slipped about my body; he could not grab hold for I was slick with sweat, my breath heaving my body into him deeper till we both sank back, untethered.

We lay, panting and blind, overcome with resolve.

***

In the light of morning, naked and adored with dew, the Prince looked as common as any man without his dressings, but as radiant as an angel. I did not desire to wake him, but my duty to do so called upon me.

We dressed in relative silence, but there was no shame nor discomfort between us, if anything had changed, it had been to nourish the burgeoning flourish, the deeper embrace of our connection.

He packed his satchel and I bundled my cloak, resisting the urge to inhale the scent of our togetherness, and made on our way back to camp. The damp morning air stinging our flushed faces, and I could not help but steal myself several glances; the ruffled dark hair, the satisfied expression he wore, his slender hands which had traveled so intimately about my body.

It had only been a short while of riding, our gazes distracted by each other, when I heard the high and frightful whinny of the Prince’s horse, and in an instance the atmosphere changed.

The beast reared and threw the Prince from his saddle. I thought for one terrible moment that the boy had met the same fate as his father, but the Prince quickly regained his footing and drew his sword while his horse galloped on into the brush.

I jumped from my stead and darted my eyes about, expecting to see the snake that had surly spooked the creature, but instead, my eyes fixed on a man, laying on his back in the dirt, still shielding his head from the rearing hooves of the Prince’s runaway mount.

Swooping down, I grabbed the man by his matted hair and pulled him to his feet, intent on telling him off for sneaking about like a treasonous spy, though his snapped bow and tattered clothes gave the looks of a common huntsman.

Before I could utter a word however, the Prince held the top of his blade to the man's thin neck. “You lurk about in my Father’s woods. It is illegal to hunt here, and so you wish to kill me and take my spoils!” he bellowed, his eyes wild.

“My Prince! I did not know, I swear it. My children are hungry and-” the man blubbered

“Silence!” the Prince shouted, the sound dampened by the surrounding trees. He looked quite mad; his crown lay on the ground where he had fallen and twigs poking up from his raven hair, eyes alight with anger.

“Sebastian, end this man’s life for the attempt on mine.” He ordered, gaze still fixed on the pleading man I held before him.

I could not say why I hesitated. I had killed many men before, but none perhaps as pitiful and senseless as this. It did not matter however, for in the moments it took me to hark the Prince’s command, he had taken the task upon himself, pushing the end of his fine blade through the man’s neck like scissors through parchment.

Dropping him out of surprise, the man fell to his knees, gurgling and choking as blood spilled from his wound and darkened his tunic. He grasped and clawed at his split throat as though trying in vain to staunch the flow. He then fell to his side, his lifeblood draining from him and heaving out with each pulse of his slowing heart.

The man's eyes stayed wide open, unblinking and unseeing, and his lips flapped like the mouth of a fish above water. I stared at him, feeling my breath slip away much the same as I watched the dying man before me.

The Prince, who I had almost forgotten was there for a moment, then swung his blade down on the man's neck in a chopping motion. It did not sever the head from its body, but ended the man’s life with a stern blow, severing his tendons and barring him open. I thought this out of mercy at first, but he swung his sword down again thrice more, splashing thick ropes of scarlet onto us both.

I looked at him, and him at me, his pale face splattered in red. He was breathing hard and I could not read his wide eyed expression. He threw down his sword, all traces of anger absolved.

“He- that man tried to kill me.” He said, and I was not certain if he was rationalizing this to me or himself.

Yes, it was outlawed to hunt for game in these woods, and men who violated this were often put to the sword or heavily fined, but that was after a trial and judgment passed by men under God. The law stood as enacted by King James the Brazen, and withstood through the regency of his son. All knew of this law, but often risked the many acres of woodland in order to hunt for themselves or their families. I had known men in the city butcheries who bartered for the white tailed rabbits that bred only in the King's Forrest, and had never known a coney to taste so fine.

“Come now,” I said, snapping out of my fugue and walking to pick up the Prince’s crown. Brushing it of dirt, I set it upon his unkempt pate. I retrieved his sword and wiped much of the blood off against my britches before sheathing it back at the Prince’s side, for he showed no care to do so himself. “We must return you to camp.”

I helped lift him to the back of my mount before climbing up to sit in front and take the reins. We rode quietly, though my mind roared between my ears. This could scarcely be the same Prince who had softly listened to my tales of travel, who nurtured flowers in his mother's name. The intimacy we shared now seemed distant, transparent and thin as a sheer curtain. The cruelty I had seen seemed to fracture the portrait I had painted of his genuine nature.

Perhaps I was nothing to him as well, as expendable as a careless hunter, recruited for my features that seemed to charm the Prince so. It was not the act of violence that bothered me, nor truthfully, the judgment and sentence passed so swiftly. Only that I had been foolhardy enough to consider that I knew him, that I could ever truly know a Prince born of his wealth and status. I felt shame for allowing a connection I was sure now was once sided, to allow my blind allegiance to foster compassion for this impulsive boy.

Had I sacrificed everything, my position, my affection, my life, for someone who’s whims were as fickle as the changing winds? I felt defeated, as drained of blood as the dead poacher, and decided I would be cast aside the moment the Prince found something new to catch his interest.

***

When we returned to camp, it was clear our excursion had not gone unnoticed. Two guards marched swiftly to my mount and lifted the Prince down gently. I was not shown the treatment, as I was unceremoniously dragged off my stead by Sir Braxton, backed against a sturdy tree trunk and reprimanded, his hand clutching my collar tightly.

“If you wish to endanger yourself, so be it.” He exclaimed sternly, his graying brows furrowed, eyes squinted with disdain. “I have served this Realm for thirty writers, and am Knight Commander to our future King. You serve only yourself. If you ever put him in danger, I will see my blade run you through. Clean yourself up for f*cks sake.”

I had naught to say in my defense. The blood that covered our clothes and faces did not tout an innocent stroll in the woods. Though any amongst the men would have followed the Prince at his behest as I had, any words I might have said espousing my regret could hardly compete with the deluge of them within my head.

Though Sir Braxton stood a head shorter, his presence loomed large, I thought might strike me, but instead he released me gruffly and turned to tend to the Prince he served. I stayed standing with my back against the bark, feeling as though he ought to have made good on his word and skewered me where I stood.

A fool I was indeed, for letting myself be blinded by lust and princely affection, to immolate my honor for a brief and fleeting passion.

Chapter 4: To Be is to Suffer

Chapter Text

Word of the disastrous hunting expedition had spread like a plague amongst the ranks of the guard, to which it seemed I was both loathed and respected depending on the man you asked. It seemed I had either endangered the Prince's life for my own glory or valiantly saved him from the same fate as his father. I cared not to dissuade the rumors lest the true nature of our encounter be called into question. It was of no concern to any that a man had been slain, and though I still wrestled with my own emotions regarding all that came to be, none could know of the union that had transpired between us.

I had cleaned the blood from my clothes with my own two hands, attempting to wash away as well, my complicity in its existence. While members of the King’s guard had all their garments taken and washed at the city bathhouse, I scrubbed my fingers raw and worked the blood from my doublet with fevered passion, watching the suds slowly assume a rust coloured hue.

My father had been a charcoal burner. There was not a scrap of linen in our home that did not bear the stain of soot, no matter how vigorously my mother scoured the fabric or how long she left it to bleach in the sun. I thought of her as I wrung the water from the cloth, of what she might have thought of me. Proud of my accomplishments and status, or disgusted by my naivety and acts of sodomy?

Hard though I had tried, I could not rid my conscious of the perversion of my acts, nor my linen of the dark stains that remained, now a testament to my hubris. I tossed the clothes in a pile to be burned, wishing to drown myself in the dark waters of the wash basin.

***

I supped alone each night, not wishing to endure the remarks that met my ears when I engaged in company. When the other knights returned to rest, I made sure they found me already turned in or else with my back to them, feigning sleep. But this night, I had lingered too long in my wasted attempt to purge the guilt from my day clothes.

“Settle us a bet, Green Knight.” Sir Patrick entered the chambers with two other men of the King’s guard, sipping wine from a silver goblet and standing before me. “Who made for the better mount, your horse, or The Boy King?” One of the knights laughed but the other did not, looking between me and Sir Patrick wearily.

“Had it been any other man to carry the Boy King back, unaccompanied and bloody, he would have lost his head,” snided Sir Patrick, pushing further to insinuate that my continued existence had required tossing of a certain Princely organ.

Before I could find the tenacity within myself to breathe through the gathering storm of my anger, my hand acted as if by its own accord, springing forth and connecting my tightened fist with the bridge of Sir Patricks bulbous nose.

The vile ichor sprang forth from his nostrils as he was knocked to the floor. And for the second time in a fortnight, I had sullied my wear with another man’s lifeblood. I would have had myself a row if the other Knights had not held Sir Patrick back.

“You’re just as mad as He is.” The words followed me as I left the chambers, wishing to cool my thoughts in the night air. I longed to cleanse myself of my concupiscence and the indignity of my nature.

I knew naught but that I had to right this, for I could no longer gestate in the wallowing of my unbridled thoughts. I had tortured myself enough with my piteous ruminations, and if not to dismiss myself of sin, perhaps find solace in my penance.

Without so much as my gauntlets, I stalked the length of the darkened halls. The breeze thought he apertures that lined the high walls, doing little to cool my heated temples. I marched until I faced the stone steps leading to the west tower and to the Prince's chambers. It was not common for any man to call upon the Prince after dusk fall, but he responded to my rapping on his door with permission of entry.

He had his back to the door, his hands clasped tightly behind him, facing the large widow as the curtains billowed beside him in the pale evening light. “Oh, Sebastian,” he said when he turned to see my likeness. “I have meant to send for you, I just thought it more appropriate to-” he stopped upon seeing the grave expression I wore.

“Would you accompany me? On a walk?” I asked gruffly, not wishing to allow myself the temptation of his secluded bed chamber.

“I- but of course, Sir Knight.” He smiled with a playful bow, donning a silken robe to cover his nightclothes and followed me thusly.

We did not speak as we descended the many steps from the tower to the silence of the west hall. We passed one Castle guard that could have been sleeping at his post for the attention he paid us. When we had reached the relative privacy of the darkened inner courtyard, I let spill my transgressions by the light of the watching moon.

“I hit a Kingsman,” I admitted

“You hit him?” he clarified, confused and drawing his robe tighter about him for the chill. I wished to draw him nearer, to warm him, but I resisted this.

“So be done with me. For I cannot bare it any longer. Be done with me and spare me myself.”

The Prince tilted his head to the side, his brow furrowed in confusion. Clearly he thought my calling held different intentions. “What are you-”

“If you had heard them- the things they say.” I thought if he would dismiss me, I might mercy us both before my tongue slipped further.

“People will speak,” he shrugged.

“About us, our- union.” I swallowed hard but the Prince seemed untroubled.

He plucked a pale flower from a raised garden bed and examined it passively. “Do you know what men said of my father?” I had heard many ill words about him, none that I wished to repeat to his son. “They said he was a lecherous drunk, a bedder of women, boys, goats.” He tossed the flower aside carelessly. “But of this, none was true. He preferred his goats skewered by roasting pikes alone.” He jested with a small laugh that I did not return. I knew his meaning; that words alone could do nothing against the ruler of the land.

I was not comforted though, and my face must have shown this, for he stepped closer to me, studying my resolve. He pulled at my heart like a loadstone to an iron ore. Taking my hands in his, he peered up at me, his eyes consuming my very being.

“I wish to say my peace, my Prince.” I mustered, more softly than I had intended.

“Please,” he started, and I was struck painfully by memory of the same word, whispered so intimately in my ear the night we had coalesced under a similar sliver of moonlight. “Call me by my name.” He finished.

“James,” I heeded, the effort to do so, sitting unnaturally in my throat. “What we are- what we had, it cannot be.” I held his gaze though I longed to tear myself away. I was saved from this however, as the Prince lowered his head.

“I see,” he nodded. “Now you have had me, you no longer want me. I must have misunderstood.”

“No-” I started. Despite myself, I was more enamored than ever, though this caused me great shame. I wanted him, to surrender the deepest reaches of my being, and yet to do so was to offer a single grain of sand to the vastness of the ocean.

“There is madness within you.” I said, surprising even myself with the boldness of my claim. “And I do not wish to be hurt- or perhaps, I deserve only to be so. For I cannot bear your absence, and yet to be with you would surely cause me great suffering.”

Prince James considered me for a moment, smoothing his thumbs across my palms. “It is not my intent to hurt you, Sebastian, but if both were to cause you pain, would you not choose the one in which we might be- something?” He blinked his dark eyes up at me, his lashes as fine and full as a painter’s brush.

And there he was once more, the Prince I had sworn to serve, the regal sovereign whose passion disarmed me and who looked upon me with such sweetness. Though my mind screamed its objection, my heart dictated my response, incapacitated by his tenderness. “I would,” I unfolded.

And as he leaned up to meet my lips to his, I knew I lacked the compulsion to stop it, knew I was powerless to my desire and to my Prince’s devotion. Though I could not shake the forbidding that inched its way into cracks of my conviction, I knew at least that I was more to him than a fleeting lust, bound by our nature and our unyielding intertwinement. The extent to which that entailed, I could not say.

I was momentarily undone, reveling in his sultry scent, the feeling of his fine, straight hair as I ran my fingers about the nape of his neck. The pressure of his tongue was swift and rapacious, pulling me into him and extinguishing all trepidation amidst the deluge of his heated embrace.

I loathed myself for my defeat, the breaking of my will against the rocky shore of his bay. But all I desired was this, this moment of stillness and connection, and my concerns faded from me into his firm grasp as he pulled me closer and kissed me under the delicate beauty of the heavens above.

Chapter 5: By Torch and Twilight

Chapter Text

I felt as if I had been pulled out to sea by a gallant wave, the shore disappearing from sight, powerless to stop it. Though rather than thrash about, prolonging the inevitable, I accepted my fate and let the turbulent waters carry me further, drifting under the surface peacefully as the waves rolled above.

Hardly it seemed, could I remember what my life had been like before being so swiftly taken in by the Prince and the enchantment of his waters. I still felt an uneasy swell when he would call me to his chambers or lean up and steal a kiss from my cheek, though I could not deny the other parts of my body that swelled when he did this.

I began to feel a sense of familiarity that did not damper my excitement, even amidst his unpredictable nature. Often I would act as his dissuader, rationing him against foolhardy compulsions, in jest though they may be.

‘No, we cannot set sail on the marrow and live together at sea.’
‘Yes, we must obey the laws of men and God and keep ourselves secret.’
’No, you can not name me Consort and proclaim our union.’

But I did not grow weary of his daydreams, particularly when they concerned our relationship. For the nature of our coupling would surely be easier to bear if we had no one around to admonish us, and I could not stop myself from considering his proposals, impractical though they were.

“Sebastian,” he cooed from his large canopy bed, and I knew to follow would be another conjuring of his lofty propositions, though this one seemed less mad than usual. “I want to visit the city. Not as a Prince, but a commoner. You can show me about an alehouse, we can have a drink to which I know you are so fond.”

I had to admit, the chance to see and experience James in a setting I undoubtedly had more experience in, tempted me for a moment. The opportunity to relax in his company without the threat of the castle’s watchful eyes was intriguing to say the least. “And what would you wish to see in the city that you could not see here?”

“Everything. Anything. It becomes so dull to walk the same halls day in, day out. So tediously mundane.” He looked at me pleadingly.

“And what of your hunting trip?” I asked, half genuinely, and half to remind him of the undesirable outcome that had transpired.

“Oh but that was ages ago,” he waved his hand dismissively, though it had been but two months. “I have always wanted to see the inside of a tavern. To get drunk on cheap wine and observe the spectacles. I would bet men dress up in costume and dance with mares under the moonlight,” he laughed

“It is not like that,” I responded with a twinge of annoyance at the way in which the Prince spoke of his common man. “We drink and we sing and yes- if a fellow has too many spirits, he may dance with a mare. But there is no spectacle, it is all done in good fun.”

“Then show me,” he challenged, clasping his hands together. “Please, Sir Knight,” and disarmed me.

I bowed my head, biting my cheek, before I looked back up to meet his hopeful stare. “I assume you have a plan of some sort?” and his eyes lit up like the spark of struck flint.

He told me of the clothes he would wear, raw and unadorned fabric. Of his plan to slip out of a certain back castle entrance, how we would set out at night fall and return before the rooster crowed. He told me of the sturdy rope he had acquired, of the window in the stairwell of the west tower a flight below his chamber window, just small enough that he might slip through it without altering the Knight that guarded his door.

“And that is all well and good-” I started, passing over some obvious objections I could think of. “But what of your return? You will never be able to climb your way back up that rope.”

James held up his slender arms and flexed his biceps, considering his own strength. “You may have a point,” he agreed. “And what if we wait for the change of guardsmen, it should happen before the break of dawn- you can find out for certain- we shall wait until you have the morning shift at my chamber door...” He trailed on, thinking out loud to himself with a manic, frenzied look in his eye and I knew it was to be.

“Alright,” I stopped him eventually, his dizzying scheme turning my head in circles. He met my eyes expectantly. “If you wish it, I will take you.”

He beamed at me, and it was almost worth the foolishness of our plot to see him do so. “Oh thank God-”

“But if you drink yourself silly and end up dancing with a mare, I shall leave your Princely arse to be trampled.” And smiled despite myself.

And thus, less than a fortnight later, and much to my own bemusem*nt, the plan was enacted.

***

I helped James clamber through the slim window, pulling his thin frame inside the darkening stairwell. I knew I could not have fit through if I tried, and had the Prince not been lithe and slender as a willow branch, he would not have either. He appeared much smaller than normal in only a linen undershirt and his gardening breeches, his golden crown missing from his dark hair. I was struck by how young he looked, and prayed I was not falling victim to the deranged fantasy of this boy’s delusions.

Unrolling the garments I had brought to aid in our plot, I handed over a plain brown kirtle and helped him secure it at his middle with a belt. I draped my traveling cloak over his shoulders to warm him and hide his face should he need it. It was too long for him and dragged heavily on the ground as he walked, but was at least, partially concealed and looked no more noble born than I.

Were I perhaps five summers older or had grown out my beard to an sufficient length, I might have passed for his father. But as it was, he was to be my bastard younger brother should anyone inquire. For one, because we shared no likeness, and for two, I found the notion quite humorous.

We walked swiftly through the corridors, and kept close to the walls, harkening for any sound, but we only came about two easily distracted castle guardsmen. Leaving through the heavily watched front tower entrance was out of the question, but there were several secluded back entrances that the Prince was keenly aware of, in case a situation arose in which he would have to make a daring escape from the throne.

I thought it best we set out on foot, though it would take longer. Horses were valuable and costly to maintain, typically owned by the wealthy such as nobles, knights, and affluent merchants. Since we wished to appear as none of these, we brought with us a lantern and skin of weak wine lest our walking parch us.

It was a brisk evening, but the smell of dry leaves and a gentle breeze of the coming autumn refreshed our spirits and strengthened our stride. We passed the time chatting fondly and even chanced a few moments hand in hand, feeling my worries compress and slip from my mind.

When at last we came upon the city proper, I guided us past the closed shops on the main road, continuing on to the beaconing hearth lights shining from the alehouse windows where a broom was struck out above the door as signage.

The tavern was filled with the tapping tumble of cast die and the clink of mugs being cheered. Men laughed and hollered, clapping their hands and calling out to one another over the dense chatter; at one side of the room, two men bellowed a ballad and at the other, a lute was plucked inexpertly. Light flickered off merry faces and twinkled at the rims of half-drunk glasses and wine glazed eyes. The smell of a well stocked pottage and the yeasty musk of malted barley beer filled our senses. I had known such scenes since I had been about the Prince's age, but had not visited any in the many months of my Knighthood.

I turned to James, he seemed overwhelmed but his curious eyes darted about, drinking in the sight of such revelry as I knew he had scarcely seen before. Though I wished to present a stately composure, I could not hide my grin. “You grab us a table and I will fetch us some ale,” I told him. Here I was not afraid the Prince would be recognized as such. Even if someone gathered his likeness, which many common men knew only from description, it would not register in their addled minds that he might call upon a place such as this.

It was hard to locate the raven hair of the Prince amongst the merriment, but I finally spotted him in the far corner of the bar and made my way with two large mugs. I placed them on the overturned barrel that was set as a table, spotted with wax from the candle between us.

I watched as James took a sip from his mug. “This tastes… gone-off,” he said, examining the ale with suspect and wrinkling his nose.

“Aye, it tastes like piss, so be a good lad and drink it swiftly,” I laughed, taking several large gulps of my own. It had been some time since I had drank so deeply of cheap ale, and it filled my belly and clouded my head pleasantly. Feeling unburdened by my title for the first in many moons, I contented myself and considered the Prince fondly.

“Is there some celebration?” he asked me, still puzzled it seemed, by the atmosphere.

In a far corner, a row was started in one moment and was settled in the next. A table of tanned farmers near us banged their fists on the table in unison as their fellow downed his whole cup in one go. A hurried alewife rushed about, dispelling rabble and topping off pints.

I nodded. “Oh indeed, every hour spent not shoveling sh*te is one to be celebrated.” I reached towards him and cheered myself against his mug before finishing off my drink.

I urged my drinking partner to finish his cup before a bar maiden made the rounds and filled our mugs. I slapped two pence upon the table. “And you used to come here often?” James asked me, rightly reading my familiarity.

“Of a sort, nearly every night since I was a lad, spent about half my pay each time as well,” I smiled fondly, though I had not exactly been rewarded each morning with empty pockets and a throbbing head. “There is an inn as well farther down the road I would frequent more often.”

“Much the same as this?”

“Yes, though I guessed us less noticed here. Why? Does this surprise you?”

He shrugged, tossing back his ale and wiping the foam from his upper lip. “Just that, you seem… more refined than these men. You can read, you are well spoken,” he added.

“As I have mentioned before, I thought myself a scribe before joining the infantry. Apprenticed three years as such. But here, you will find talented scribes and illiterate charcoal burners alike, so what of it?”

“It is very… well, common, is it not?” His tone was disparaging.

“Maybe to your standards, but not every man can have his wine presented on a silver platter,” I shot back. Although my current position was vastly preferable, I was not ashamed to come from common birth. My Parents had been some of the hardest working people I had known, including any that settled within the castle.

“You must not think me prejudiced,” the Prince said, trying to justify himself. “After all, I am quite fond of you.”

“Oh?” I asked. “And am I so common?” I felt a bit stiffened by his show of privilege and attitude, but any anger I would have felt had been drowned with my last cup of ale and so I drank another, for I could not truly fault the Prince for his ignorance.

“Of birth perhaps, but I know you to have the heart of a Knight,” he said, and I laughed for I knew it to be a compliment despite its rather backhanded sentiment.

***

After several more ales and enjoying the round of a song eulogizing The Brazen King James and his love of mead sung by several drunken fellows, the Prince seemed to quite enjoy himself, despite the earlier disdain for the commonality of it all. It became harder to judge the time as we quaffed our drinks and delighted in each other's company, but I had indulged often and heavily enough to have at least half my wits about me, and was able to convince James to accompany me home, before it became obvious we had deserted our positions.

We walked in the worn cart tracks on the road leading back to the castle, teasing one another but intertwining our fingers between us. I was feeling fluid and unrestrained, my inhibitions fleeing from my center and dissipating out through my fingertips.

It started to rain, the first of the season, and I knew within the taverns and alehouses about the city, farmers rejoiced and drank to their crops. Though at first a gentle sprinkle, it soon grew to a torrential downpour, and I directed James to stow our lantern with my cloak he wore. It soon became an onslaught of wetness, soaking us through to the bone and roaring in our ears.

We trudged along, desperately so, in search of a place of respite, for we could no longer see the road that stretched in front of us and the Prince began to shiver, the rain soaking through my woolen cloak and weighing him down.

I spotted a fenced pasture and the darkened farm beyond it, rain flecking its outline. A snuggly built shed was set some distance away and to our luck, the chain that closed it was just long enough to allow the Prince to slip between the doors, and myself to squeeze in after him, the old wood catching my shirt and tearing a hole in the fabric as I struggled inside.

I hung our lantern on a sconce metal hook and cast the shed in a dim, warm light. It was built for storage, performing dutifully, keeping the stacks of hay, barrels of animal feed, and sacks of grains protected and dry. It was not large, but contained several piles of earth-smelling pasturage. On the floor was a bed for sleeping that looked like it had not been used in some time.

I laughed. “Seems a husband was cast to the doghouse,” I mused, gesturing to the bed.

“On this? This is not a bed, this is a…pile,” he gestured his hand aimlessly about the bed. “Do you mean to tell me you actually live like this? With dirty straw stuffed into a burlap sack to sleep on?” I thought he jested but his indignation was obvious from his expression.

I chuckled at the lapse in his knowledge, how he could be so informed of matters of reigning importance, but ignorant of simple facts of life. “I haven’t in some time, but in the infantry we had naught but a thin bed roll and cloak. So of this, I think you would prefer.” Feeling high-spirited, I grabbed some of the ‘dirty’ hay from the floor and threw it at him.

He looked playfully offended and gave me a jovial shove. My brain buzzing with the ale and a growing sense of boyish exuberance, I pushed him back, and our tussle soon found us embraced, pressing our dampened bodies together and letting our hands roam free and far.

I felt his palm grip me below my belt and then slide away, teasing, finding the hole in my shirt and slipping his fingers inside to stroke my skin. I was pressing him to the wall, grinding my body against his and fumbling with the tie of my britches while I feasted on his warm wet mouth, his heavy shuddering breath.

My manhood stiffened, the length starting to near the region of James’ navel and stretching almost to his breast, aching to fill that same area inside him. I knew he could feel it against him, for he simpered and arched his hips forward to press into me. For my girth, I did not wish to mount him dry, and instead held the hair atop his head and directed him downwards. His knees thudded against the straw strewn floor and I tilted his head back with the grip on his hair, wishing to look upon his fervent face.

He looked back up at me with an anxious excitement, his pupils wide and hungry.

“Open your mouth.” I spoke firmly, moving my hand to his chin where I stroked it with my thumb. He did as he was told, opening his jaw and exposing his soft, wet interior to me. “Wider,” I commanded, thumbing his bottom lip.

The Prince widened his mouth, his gaze still fixed up at me, doe eyed through his dark lashes. He looked but an innocent babe, though I knew him to be far from sinless. If he appeared to be an angel, it was indeed a fallen one.

When I had savored the sight of his beckoning orifice, I pressed down my stiffened prick so that it pointed level and guided it forward to stretch the Prince's lips around it.

He worked just the head, eager and senseless, pressing me to his pallet. It felt inexperienced but enthusiastic, licking the length of me before allowing more of it to enter inside of him as I urged forwards.

His hands moved to my hips, gently pushing back against my thrusts, stopping me from overwhelming his depth. After trying it vain to push past this resistance several times, I grabbed his wrists tightly and held them at my sides. I thrust into his open mouth, his head hitting the wood behind him and keeping him pinned in place as I drove myself past his conviction. I grunted and sank further, ridding his lungs of air and overtaking his restraint.

I could feel his throat tightening as he gagged and aimed to dislodge me from his gullet, but I held him firmly impaled until I thought he might turn blue. I drew back, allowing for a single gasp of air before pulling at his arms and forcing him to me as I buried his nose against my coarse crop of hair.

Though he choked to take me, James did not struggle against the assault, allowing me to use him as a hammer uses a nail, driving it into its place. And even as he struggled to free his wrist from my overpowering grasp upon them, his lips still urged forth, wishing to bare my width, excitement evident.

A fleeting urge to faint him crossed my mind like a red flash of heated steel; to render him unconscious, to feel his throat relax around me, expanding him completely, though my intentions were not so cruel. I wanted him to experience every second of this, to endure the fullness of this violation. I had already taken him between his legs, and now he would know me in every opening he possessed.

I pushed him further against the wooden wall, muffling the noises that seeped out from him and inundating the passage of his virgin throat, compressing his frantic tongue down along my length. I felt the tension building in my loins as the rapid pace of my hips knocked the back of his accommodating mouth, begging to sow my seed. And when I could hold back no longer, balancing on the precipice of pure desire and endless lust, I spilled into him, holding him firmly as I pulsed with oblivion.

When my eyes finally opened once more, I cast them down to the extent of my domination, to James’ furrowed brow and unadorned pate.

“Swallow,” I instructed, and I felt him trying to heed me, further constricting my sensitive organ. But by blocking his airway with my prick, much of it was forced out of him and ran down his chin. It was not until I pulled myself away that he obeyed, swallowing what remained and panting for breath.

I put myself away and kneeled on one knee in front of him, smearing my humor from his chin, pressing it back to his mouth to feed him his folly. He closed his parted lips and cleaned me of myself, his eyes heavily lidded and dark with passion.

My Prince seemed to be as spent as me, flushed and winded though apparently satisfied. He wrapped his arms about me and we lay on the summer smelling hay and listened to the heavy pounding rain slowly lighten to a dull tapping of the wet earth. Though necessity drove us from our daydreams, I could have lay there with him for an eternity

***

By the time we made it back to the castle, the dark curtain of stars was lifting from the esterning sky, and orange light began to crest the tops of the tallest trees. Our minds were still dizzy from drinks and it was a wonder our feet still carried us onward.

I could still taste myself on the Prince’s lips as we clung together, supporting our tired legs and pressing our spent bodies together for warmth. In the dark confines of his chamber room, James flung off his shirt and boots and I was quick to echo him.

Tired and sated, we collapsed as one on the Prince’s large bed, as though all that mattered in the world, was making sure neither let the other slip away to sleep without following close behind.

Chapter 6: Of Fate and Feathered Beds

Chapter Text

As King’s guardsman, I slept on a mattress filled with wool, and as castle guard I had a cot to my name, but never had I felt a softness like that of the Prince’s fine feathered bed. It was plush and yielding, almost uncomfortably so; my body felt stiff in comparison, as if I were imposing on its nature with my brutal shape.

When I opened my eyes, I could tell from the faded light that it was still quite early. We had fallen asleep atop the covers despite the chill of the morning air, and the Prince's body was pressed close to mine, still deep in dream.

My head pounded, but I let my hands roam his lean body in comfort. I had never seen him asleep before, he seemed so still and calm, traits not usually present in his wakefulness. The soft pattern of his breathing was peaceful and hypnotic, and my mind was temporarily alleviated from the dull aching as I remembered the events of the previous night, my fingers wondering his resting form.

It was the first time we had spent so long in each other's company, not burdened by our duties or the presumptions of our societal standing, and I felt I had seen a new side of James. Though he could be arrogant and bore the spoilage inherent of his highborn status, he showed a willingness to engage with his common man, and after all, it was not everyday that a Prince would bend the knee and take what was given to him so eagerly. I had never dreamed I would have the lips of nobility pressed so intimately around me, and of course it helped that he was a scheming little devil; as I reminded myself, our outing had been his idea after all.

I was not surprised by the Prince’s stiffness when I worked my hands lower about him. I remembered waking many a morning to the same occurrence when I was his age. The co*ck would not yet have crowed, but mine would have risen fully. I could barely suffer a stern breeze before the firm pressure of my braies confined me uncomfortably, and many days I would awake to find I had already coated my bed cloth with the sinful conclusion to my erotic dreamings.

I softly stoked the Prince through his britches, my palm cupping him to feel his fullness in my hand. The drawstrings at his waist were tightly done, and I had to move my body between his legs, using two hands to undo them. James sighed softly, in the rapturous throws of unconsciousness. I gently released him from his garments and viewed him in the full light of day for the first time. He was of average length and pink in completion, swelled with Kingsblood, and had not yet managed a man’s full crop of hair.

I breathed in his rich scent, my head pressed closely to his nether regions, opening my mouth against his length and savoring the softness of his skin.

James stirred with a small moan, his eyelids fluttering. In his wake, he moved a hand to my head and softly gripped my yellow hair, brushing it gently.

I took the head of him in my mouth. He tasted quite clean and fragrant, with the faint salt of perspiration, and I began to work him, first into my mouth, and then out with a readied eagerness. His breath hitched as he whimpered, allowing me the full feast of his manhood.

I moved my hands beneath him, grabbing the firm muscles of his buttock and pushing him up to meet my mouth, indulging in his groans of desperation as he arched his hips back down and up again.

Despite the care I showed to him, and the longing I expressed while doing so, I had never taken a man like this. It satisfied an inherent oral fixation, like a babe to his mother’s breast, a tot to his thumb for comfort. I could have kept going for ages, feeling the way he squirmed about beneath me and whispered my name on his delicate lips.

And then it was broken.

We both jumped as a hard knock sounded on his chamber door. I sprung back, saliva bowing from me to the Prince's length and breaking from my mouth as I moved back from him.

“Sir Braxton, your Grace,” came the man’s Knightly tone as he waited behind the sturdy oak of the chamber door.

“One moment!” James called, his voice breaking like an unburgeoned youth. Turning to me with his eyes wide but resolutely set, he scurried under the covers and pulled them to his breast. “Go now, out the window!” he said in a frantic whisper.

I dashed for my boots and tossed them on, not bothering to tie them and nearly tripping as I bounded for escape. I slipped from the same window that James had the night before and started to descend as I heard the Prince grant the man entry.

I could still hear the words spoken from inside the room as I moved myself slowly down the rope, not daring to look below me at the nauseating depth of the west tower.

“Your Grace, it is a matter of urgent importance. I must request your presence in the Council hall.” I paused in my pursuits, listening in interest.

“And it could not wait till I have risen? What is this matter of which you speak?”

The Knight paused as though casting his eyes about the room. “I would prefer to relay this information in the council hall, my Prince. The council members have already been gathered.”

I panicked and began to climb quickly down the sturdy rope. But as I distended with haste to the lower stairwell window, I realized my folly. There was no chance I would be able to fit myself inside of the scant opening as James had done so easily. With considerable effort and relieved not to be clad in heavy armor, I slowly pulled myself up to the Princes window, clutching the sill by my fingertips, my feet slipping on the protruding stones. I always dreamed I would die by sword or else by sickness as my parents, but as I dangled above the certain death below, I knew no better awaited me above.

“Very well, Sir Braxton.” Came the Prince’s exasperated sigh, surely his head pounded as firmly as mine did, though I did not pity him from my position. “Give me a moment to dress and ensure Sir Sebastian is called upon to accompany me.”

My heart pounded, my fingers aching from the strength of supporting me, my sweat gathering and threatening to slip me from this mortal plane.

“He- My grace, he did not show up to his morning post. I can assure you he will be dealt with-”

“No,” James said, almost too quickly. “No, I will deal with him, no need to trouble yourself.”

“Your Grace-,” came Sir Braxton’s stern voice, hesitating as if to speak further, and I ventured to know what he longed to say. “As you wish, my Prince.” And I was relieved to hear the metallic clang of his armor as he was dismissed, though I could not help but to obsess over the words he had not said.

“James!” I called as the door shut behind the Knight Commander.

There was a patter of footfalls as he ran to the window. “Sebastian, by God, what-?” he started, grabbing my arm and helping to pull me inside.

“The bloody window is too small,” I grunted back, finally managing to lift myself from the precarious edge, flexing my stiffened fingers.

He began to dress himself in his usual regal attire, splashing a pitcher of water into a basin and washing his face. “You best wait here, he will no doubt be waiting to accompany me,” he said with a roll of his eyes. For the threat of urgency, the Prince seemed wholly unconcerned, but he answered my question before I spoke it. “It is always urgent matters with them. Probably want me to approve a new budget that grants them more coin.”

He plucked his crown from a plush cushion beside his bed and placed it on his brow. The Prince looked at me, his head co*cked to one side like a stringed puppet, contemplating my silence.

“I think he knows.” I said solemnly.

The Prince considered me for a moment and then waved his hand dismissively. “He knows nothing. And if he does- so be it, Sir Braxton is loyal to me and my crown as he was to my father.”

I was not comforted, and the Knight’s knowing science still rang in my ears louder than the sickness from drink. The Prince instructed me to join him when I had made myself presentable, and depart from his room lest I find myself faced with some thoroughly startled chambermaids.

As James left for his council meeting, I lingered in his chambers for only a moment. I felt plucked like a pheasant; naked, waiting to be roasted or else boiled and served with a stew. The shame of my doings battled the purity of my desires, and though I felt more dreadful for being known than I did for my sins, it would not reassure me to know that the man who wished to fleece me possessed steady hands. It was true, I was often by the Prince's side, and the favoritism he displayed compared to the other Knights in his guard had certainly not gone unnoticed.

***

When I returned to my quarters after the lengthy walk to come upon them, I had to fetch a squire to help me don my armor. No other knights remained inside as they had all gone on to fulfill their daily schedules, and the boy who assisted me seemed perturbed by my latency, no doubt having been interrupted from his other tasks.

He tugged stiffly at my lacings, with more abandon than the usual delicate expertise, and when he had finished, he bowed silently and dismissed himself without giving me a second check-over. I thought for a moment that he might at least act more grateful, as he undoubtedly desired a Knighthood of his own someday, but I wished not to fall victim to my own privilege.

As I made it to the council hall, I could hear raised voices from beyond the door. I thought it best not to interrupt the assembly, but I need not have entered for further context, for the topic of discussion was clear even from the other side of the wall.

“As I have told you, I do not wish to be married off without my say,” came the dismissive bellow of the Prince’s heated tone.

“You are not being married off, we simply wish you to consider this proposal.” The second voice was nearly as loud as the Prince’s but in a less aggressive manner. “You must at least make the appearance of contemplation.”

“Do not tell me what I must do.” There was a moment of tempered silence following the Prince’s words, until I heard Sir Braxton speak, which was most unusual for a council meeting for he generally kept his peace on matters.

“As your name day approaches-” but he was cut off.

“As my name day approaches I have bigger concerns than who will warm my bed.”

“This is not about your bed, this is about your Kingdom.” Sir Braxton spoke with a fatherly sternness that seemed at least to quiet James’ temper.

“I will speak no more of this, the Council is adjourned for the day.” There was a heavy quietude about the room that seemed to echo throughout the chamber, and then the scraping of wood on stone as chairs were slid back from their places at the table.

I hastened to remove myself from the scene, but seconds later, the Prince had flung open the door and strode past, not even glancing my way. Standing still as the council members began to trickle from the open door, I kept myself resolute in a guardsman’s stance, and none paid me mind but for the last.

“I wish to speak with you. You may accompany me to my chambers.” It was Sir Braxton who spoke, and with a firm tone that tightened my stomach, I nodded and followed suit.

A dull, pinching nervousness crept over my skin. Though I stiffened and stood tall, not wishing to betray my constitution, I could feel the tightness in the room like a trebuchet about to spring forth.

“Have a seat, my son.” He gestured to the table and chairs within his chamber and poured two glasses of fine wine, though he remained standing. I had never been called to his room, and though not as large or decadent as the Prince’s, it was fine and fairly spacious with a carved wooden bed and a large hearth to warm him in the winter. I did not know what to expect, but his demeanor was of a softened sort, much more so than his usual rigor. I sat as he bade, accepting the wine to ease my nerves.

“I do not know to what extent,” he started, holding up his palms, “nor do I wish to. But to this I know, if I have seen it, so have others.” He picked up his wine glass but did not drink, swirling the contents. “The Prince may say words alone can do no harm, but this is the naivety of youth. Words are pebbles. And a single pebble can topple a Kingdom.”

I drank deeply, not wishing to answer, and he continued.

“I have seen this sickness before, it does not dissipate or fade with time. There is no remedy, for this I know.” He stared solemnly at his glass, and I said nothing back. It would not take a smart man to infer his meaning, but it was just vague enough to not infer direct accusation.

Sir Braxton put a hand on my shoulder with paternal nature, looking down at me. “His proclivities will not change, but someday, his fancy will. We must prepare the Kingdom for that eventuality.”

My resolve stiffened at being referred to as James’ fancy. “That is conjecture, Knight commander.” I said, finally finding my voice on the matter.

“And tell me, of your first love, does she lie in wake at night, lamenting your Knighthood?” he shook his head. “Kings are fickle men, their allegiance is to no one but God and themselves, but their duties are to their Realm.”

In my past, I had bedded various women, but I had never entertained ideas of marriage or family with any. For the truth, I had never craved another like I did the Prince. His whole being imbued me with vigor and spirit, and the holy church of his embrace enticed me, drew me in like the beckoning of a steeple, his open arms an altar at which to pray.

“We must preserve the future of the Kingdom, not only for the Prince, but for your conscious.” He said this with a kindness, but I was not feeling very diplomatic.

“Sir, you are a good man, but you know nothing of me.” I stood, his hand falling from my shoulder. “I am a fighting man, and for what I want, I will fight my way through hell for it.” I set down my glass. “I may be possessed of a sickness, but my conscious is clean.” I held his eye, wishing to make my meaning clear. I knew the man to be an honorable one, and I was certain he spoke true regarding the Kingdom, but he could not know the true depth of which our connection stemmed.

Sir Braxton stared at me, not with anger, but a piteous disappointment. “I ask only of this for the Prince’s sake and the legacy of his Reign. If he insists upon you, please, make him see sense.”

“I cannot make him do what he does not want.” I said. “Surely you must know this.”

He finished his wine and set it on the table beside my glass. “I know that you are a fighting man, Sebastian, and you will do what must be done.”

***

“I simply refuse, and they cannot make me. They think they can, but I have the final word on the matter.”

I was back in James’ quarters, sitting at the edge of his bed as he paced about the room, ranting around the whole situation while I sat quietly, half listening.

My meeting with Sir Braxton in the hours before still weighed heavily on my mind. Though I knew our connection to be strong, I was trying to rationalize how our union could really be of benefit to the Prince beyond our own happiness. I could hardly bear him an heir, bastard or no, no more than I could let fly an arrow into the face of destiny, ensuring our future.

James sensed I was lost in my own ponderance and came to stand between my legs, wrapping his arms about me and looking down at my furrowed brow. I buried my face into the fabric folds of his britches. He stroked my hair and I felt his familiar warmth and chaotic emanations. “I want you,” he breathed. “And only you.”

I nearly choked out a sob, though my resolve was much stronger. I felt his body before me, sturdy and solid, and somehow, mine. I wished not to speak of our conversation, Sir Braxton and I, ignoring the gnawing ache of my heart as I hugged my Prince to me. It may have been selfish, but I longed for the heat of his body to rage inside of me and burn away my labored thoughts to ash.

I wanted to devour him, to consume his body like Christ and accept his holy offering. Mouthing the outline of his member beneath the linen, I panted, gripping his backside and drawing him closer until he undid his fastenings and laid himself bare. A sharp craving enveloped me, wishing not to think, only to act. I longed for the Prince to tell me what to do, to conduct me completely, release myself from obligation and submit to his guiding hand.

James directed himself between my lips, tipping his head back as I resumed the pursuit of his pleasure that had been so cruelly interrupted that morning. It felt intoxicating, the way in which I handled him, drinking from his presence, and dropping off the side of the bed, sinking to my knees at the Prince’s feet.

The lack of practice made my jaw ache, but I need not have suffered long. As I held him in my mouth, sucking his stiffness like a parched sailor, his hands gripped my hair and his hips spasmed as he shuddered and came forth. I felt him spill within me, tasting like the thick salt of the sea, and coating my mouth in a subtle bitterness. I kept him there as he twitched against my tongue and finally released him, looking up at the Prince with all the admiration of an apostle to the coming of Christ.

He looked down at me, his eyes heavily lidded, his face glowing as though illuminated by halo. I melted at the gentle stroking of my cheek by his thumb, and I felt for the first time, like a religious man.

We lay in his soft bed together, though I knew now to leave before nightfall, and he traced circles on my chest with his fingertips. I was still lost in deliberation, though I had found a blank decisiveness on my knees, drinking from the Prince’s ordained spring, raptured in his solitude.

“I think you should do it,” I said, breaking a long and comfortable silence.

“Do what?” he asked lazily.

“I think you should at least ‘make the appearance of contemplation’.” I said, for I knew he would take my meaning.

James signed and laid his hand down flatly. “It is true,” he started. “I just wish... That things were different.”

“I know.” I hugged him closer to me. “But we will do what needs to be done. Not for the Kingdom, but for us.”

And though he stayed silent, he squeezed me tightly and I knew without words that he had agreed.

Chapter 7: Ire and Lust

Chapter Text

The soft curves and convexes wound around me like a growing vine, limbs like wild ivy and long flowing hair tangled about with the conviction of unweeded roots. Fingers sprouted like saplings and clung to me as lichen clings to bark. Stone molded marble clashed with bountiful earthen mounds, balancing make and nature, filling my mind with such thoughts. To carve, to sculpt, to plant, to nurture.

Smooth skin was parted by rough hands, my fingers slipping asunder and dividing the folds of plush velvet. As I brushed the hooded veil, working between the fine threads of fabric and pulling apart the seams, I wove inwards and out, embroidering a tapestry of urgency and pleasure.

When we moved as one, it was with a heat that rivaled the hottest kilns, firing our uniformity and baking our carefully carved shapes. We were crafted and glazed, filling our porous fibers and etching our clay surfaces, sealing our union with a raging flame

For this I told the Prince as he had asked of me, what it was like to lie with a woman. Though I had spoken at length to satisfy his curiosity, he did not seem amused with my answer. “But I am better, am I not?” he asked, and I lacked the foresight to stretch the truth appropriately.

“Not better, but different,” I said, but quickly regained the single strand of wit it seemed I processed. “But what we have, it is enhanced by our devotion.” I tried to assure him, but he rose from the bed where we lay unclothed and sated and began to dress.

“Well perhaps I will come to know for myself soon enough, though the thought disgusts me.” Surely he intended to wound me with this jest, but I accepted this retaliation to my overly descriptive depictions. “Go now, you must dress, or would you rather present yourself to our guests so.. fully?” I felt relieved to hear him quip, though it was still with a certain stiffness.

The urgent matter that had so unfairly displaced our enraptured encounter in that delicate morning a fortnight before was a sealed letter from a house within the Prince’s Bannermen. This particular Lord had not attended the Prince’s regency ceremony, and who his advisors called ‘skeptical’ of a new ruler’s reign, without further judgment of his temperament. They were a wealthy house, claiming both esteem and patronage to the first King James, owning a substantial part of the Crown’s armed forces and therefore felt afforded in their hesitation.

Truth be told, it was not a terrible proposition on paper. The Lord’s third daughter had not yet been wed, and though older than the usual bride offered to a young Prince regent and lacking the dowry of a first born daughter, it would indeed consolidate their solidarity with the future King and ensure their continued support with his justly acquisitions, whatever they may be.

And so it was that we were graced by a procession of Lordsmen from the north. Their banners bore a silver jackdaw on a field of blue, an expensive dye to maintain, and the panache on each regal knight shared the same deep colour. The black sparrow that hung as our own emblem seemed almost plain in comparison

We welcomed them forth with proverbial open arms, the Prince leaving his high throne and coming to kiss the Lady’s hand himself. An ostentatious yet amorous show of reception, had I not been standing but a length away.

While Lady Margaret may not have been the most beautiful of women, she was quite comely in a subtly refined way. Her brown hair fell in rings to one side of her head without the usual adornment of nobility, speaking to a simple variety of elegance. She wore a powder blue dress that matched her thin eyes, and her round face bore a soft smile as she curtsied in his presence.

The man that escorted her however, her cousin Henry, gave little more than a courtesy nod of his head. Intentionally refusing the bending of his knee which forbade the formal yet resigned nature of his House’s position. He eyed the Prince wearily, keeping close to his kin and Charge.

It was to be for seven days that they stayed with us, resting their horses after the long journey; giving the Prince time to consider the proposal, or at least give the appearance of doing so. At first, I was quite pleased that James had considered my opinion on the matter and agreed to entertain the notion of his kingly duties. If not only to satisfy his anxious advisors, but to show that he could indeed be counted upon to perform them if necessary.

However, as the days lingered on and the Prince’s conversation with the Lady Margaret became more emotionally intimate, I could not help but to feel he was playing an overly romantic role if only to scorn me.

I felt sickened with jealousy, not only in my loins, but in my heart and throat, as though the affliction of which I suffered had encompassed my entire being. The worst of the matter was that I could feel James knew exactly how I received this treatment. His side eye glance, his cheeky smile, the boy wanted me to bear this savage spite, and reveled in my compliance.

Though I could not tell if it was for my hand in this occurrence, or simply to prove his ability to work his way under my skin, he clearly enjoyed the effect it imposed on me. Standing watch as he simpered sweetly to a Lady which he had no real intention of wedding, just to watch me writhe uncomfortably was a new low, an act of opposition for which I had not yet known him to possess. I had asked him to consider the proposal, not make a fool of our union and his title by entertaining the possibility so gratuitously.

They walked together, with the hints of clouded sunlight dappling their regal garments. I despised how proper they appeared in each other's company, as though bound by more than their status. Enjoying the societal margins in which they both excelled, a delightful expectancy that the Prince and I could never experience.

As they strolled contentedly, I heard their voices, carried by the stiff breeze, back to my unwilling ears as I tailed him with two of the Lady’s own guardsmen. “-Yes our garden is quite large, yet never have I seen such variety.” Came the Lady’s complimentary words.

“Oh this is just for show, the real treasures lie within my personal garden. I have a lemon tree from Spain, though it has not yet flowered. The weather here is disagreeable.”

She was tall for a woman, and met his height if not overtaking him by a hair, but could match his eye at level and hold his gaze as he spoke. I wondered if she felt the same pull from those dark eyes as I did, as though being dragged off a cliffside and flung off the words’ edge, but enjoying the fall.

“I would love to see it sometime,” she told him, and I no longer felt the itch of my armor or the cool heat of the sun, only my want to betray my honor and send her sprawling to the ground.

“It may yet happen, though I do not need ripe lemons to look upon the beauty of nature.” He courted, so sickly sweet. I hated him for this game he was playing, with me and the Lady, and knew he would not flaunt himself so ostentatiously had I not been in their presence.

We spent little time together while we hosted the Lady and her company, and the vicious act of requesting my guard to accompany their brief acquaintances counted not. I missed the feel of undoing his fine fabrics and the smell of his scented soaps as I nibbled his ear. It was decided our profile should be kept low and our relation more guarded with the increased security and reproachful eyes of the Lady’s cousin Henry, always looming wherever James was.

My fingers longed to caress him and also strike him, for I was growing more spiteful over his treatment of me. This continued exhibition of normalcy was almost comical when we both knew he bore the same affliction as I, though perhaps him more so, for I at least was not repulsed by the notion of intimacy as God intended.

Lost within myself, I failed to see that the Lady’s cousin Henry had appeared beside his Knights. He watched the two Royals for himself, eyes squinted but not for effort to block the sun. He leaned closely to one of the Lord’s Guardsman and said, “Keep a close eye on him.” To which arose gooseflesh upon my neck.

***

It was with great pleasure when the sun rose to a cloudless expanse on the final day of the Lady’s stay. I was surprised when I was called to James’ chambers in the early hours usually reserved for the Prince’s washing, dressing, and morning Prayer had he processed the inclination. I felt incredibly conflicted as I climbed the steps to his room, already secured in my armor and forbying myself from submitting to whatever notions the Prince professed until he apologized for his mistreatment of me, wondering vaguely if he had ever apologized for anything in his life.

“How do I look?” he asked, holding his arms wide, dressed in a sea green doublet with fine gold buttons. I did not answer him, sure we were still engaged in some childish game against my will. “For it is not every day a King accepts a Lady as his future Queen.”

“You make a fool of yourself.” I told him, unable to bite back the words as my face flushed with anger.

The jaunty smirk I was sure he had so carefully prepared fell from his face. “I thought this was what you wanted,” he said, and I could truly believe he meant these words, yet I could not tell if he had dropped his act.

“I never said that-”

“This is all upon your request. I am simply playing a part, and playing it well.”

“Then perhaps attempt to play a decent man. I have feelings, which you seem either to ignore or exploit intentionally,” I rapped a pointed finger at my chest, feeling my cheeks blush. I wanted to take him, force him to see sense and carve my name in his pale skin with a pointed knife.

He scoffed at me which pushed my limits. “Have you tried having less of them? For you act like a damn maiden.”

This was simply too much. He could not act so f*cking unconcerned when he held my heart like pincushion, content to puncture me. I grabbed his shoulders, wishing to strike him, unleash the indifference that he seemed to so easily impale me with.

“Unhand me,” he said sternly. “Your King commands it.”

“You are not yet my King.” I responded, shaking him as I trembled with the substantial burden of my emotions.

He had a mad, spiteful look in his eye. “Perhaps then, I will only bed her and take her virtue. It may not be better, but it will be different.” And I knew then for certain that he wished to mock me with my own words.

It was not the blatant affront to my character which hurt me, but that he seemed to care so little for the earnesty with which I expressed my truths. For he could not seriously still be caught up in my meaningless musing regarding my past.

Perhaps it was out of pure frustration, or simply the piercing look of those dark eyes, so perfectly poised to cut me, but I grabbed James’ shirt collar and pressed him to the wall, pinning his stomach to the polished wood.

Though the steel between us remained cold and unyielding, I could feel the heat from his body, sense the quickening pace of his pulse radiating throughout his thin frame. I kept him restrained with the heavy weight of my armor and overpowering strength, even as he pushed back against me. With indelicate hands, I yanked off my gauntlets and tore at his britches until they were pulled down from the taught muscles of his arse. I should have spanked him, for his temperament he certainly had never been so by his father, but my wrath was of a different breed.

The words he spoke to me, begged of me, fell deafly upon my ears as I lifted my mail and pulled at the strings securing my codpiece until it fell. My co*ck stiffened in my hand, exposed from my armor as though to relieve myself, but hardened with a vengeful blood.

His tightness betrayed him, for to relax would be surrender yet ease the brutality of my intent. I spit upon my hand, slicking the surface of my manhood and dragging it back and forth between the Prince’s clenched cheeks. Preparing him mentally for the assault though doing nothing to ease the discomfort it would bring.

I felt like a fur clad heathen from the far north, a bellowing stag in rut. It was not passion but a fervent hunger, not only to stake but to claim, that drove my body unto his. Breaking his resistance and deforming his passage around me.

“Stop, I cannot take it,” he begged, tears springing forth from his eyes. “You are hurting me,” he shrieked, crying like a babe, but I only grunted and pushed myself deeper. His body was drawing me into him now, despite the desperation with which he tried to push me out.

“I am going to be sick,” he warned me, and I covered his mouth with my hand.

“If you do, you will swallow it.” My cruelty surprised even me. His small body shook with the force of the intrusion, the rattle of my metal plating dampened by the refinement of his garments. When I removed my hand it was only to grab his hips and pull his yielding tightness upon me. I could not sink myself fully into his depths for my constricting armor and his unaided dryness, but still I filled him like a wooden peg, driving to join our bodies with the precision of a skilled craftsman.

I bellowed like a Dane, wishing to burn his thatched roofs and cut down his bells, climb his raised steeple and spear him on his own wooden cross. I was no longer even angry, only manic and compelled by my own burning lust. Hurting him as he had me, was now secondary to the budding hunger I reaped from his unwilling body.

“I am sorry,” he cried, and it almost broke me from my violent fervor. “Sorry,” he repeated, my pillaging faltered. I lessened my grip on him, my frantic pace stumbling. As if by some act of divinity, or simply the softening of my siege ram, he had escaped my capture, turning and pressing his back to the wall away from me. He whimpered like a wounded white-tailed rabbit, cornered but discontented to die.

The shame rose in me like the quickening of a tide, flooding my extremities and condensing my sweat to chill and cause me shiver. Though moments before, corrupted by jealousy and anger, I had been sturdily braced, I now shriveled internally, my own desire turned ill and begetting malady.

Gripping James' tunic tightly, I fell before him to my knees desiring repentance, but deserving only of spite. And as if I were naught but a scolded child, I wept at his feet. I could not remember the last time I had cried. A cascading ripple of sobs shook me and I could not halt them as tiers pooled about my eyes and stung my cheeks as they fell. It was all too much to bear, this heat, this emotion, and it poured from me like the flowing of a spring, fleeing from the well deep inside me.

I hugged him to me and cried on his shaking legs, clutching the hem of his shirt. The clarity of my actions now weighed heavily on my conscious, my head no longer shrouded with the toxic cloud of lust. I had gone too far. Exacting my revenge for the hurt and pain that had succumbed me had seemed to me a profound justice, an expression of pure retaliation. But now I felt only shame and indignity.

To apologize for my actions would simply be an insult, for I did not deserve to be forgiven. I choked out the only words I could muster. The only ones that seemed to, if not justify, at least articulate my pitiful hostilities.

“I love you.” I clutched harder at his fabric, like a drowning man to a life raft, the only respite in the storm of my own barbarity.

The Prince did not respond, but did not pull away from me. Faltering only to keep himself standing as I threatened to pull him down. He stroked my hair, letting me dampen his fine clothes with water from my weeping eyes and nose.

When he finally spoke, his words were harsh, but his tone was calm and almost tender. “You f*cking fool, Sebastian,” but he continued to caress my hair. “I love you too.” And though they were words I longed to hear, I knew I would never deserve them.

My head was jerked with a sharp tug of my scalp as James twisted his fingers and grabbed my hair painfully. “But if you ever take me like that again, I will have you flogged within an inch of your life.” And these words at least were of some comfort to me.

***

James sat mightily on his throne. The appearance only slightly broken as he leaded to one side to accommodate the pain he surely felt in his backside from my savagery. The guests had all converged in a gathering of farewell, thanking the Prince for his hospitality and the provisions he had gifted them for their journey home.

All stood in wait for his words, though they did not come swiftly. He toyed with the congregation and their stiffened silence, relishing in the effect he had on them no doubt. Though he may have announced his rejection in letter or by swift mounted messenger, he had decided that before the procession left, they would heed his words and return knowing they had not secured a throne for the legacy of their house.

James started by addressing the guests, speaking to their allegiance and reminding them of the oaths they had sworn to his father. If anything, he seemed to delight in the fact that he was denying them this honor when they had so blatantly refused to bend the knee to his reign of power. Whether he wished to take a wife and queen, seemed secondary to his desire to prove that this house held no sway over him, that it was he who dictated their allegiance.

The Prince spoke from his high seat, casting his eyes downwards at the impressive assembly. “While I did indeed enjoy our meeting,” and he paused for no reason but to hang each man upon his words. “I am afraid I can not proceed with this union of marriage.”

The Lady’s guardian and charge stiffened, narrowing his eyes at James, having clearly expected a more illustrious outcome. I watched him quite closely, recognizing a guarded temper brewing quietly.

“She is too old, the change may already be upon her.” The Prince continued, completely unnecessarily. While she was certainly older than the average bride of a young King, near to my own age, this was no doubt a slight verging on slander for the House's Pride. “She is past her prime.” he added, stiffening the blow. “Tell the good Lord that he will bend the knee to me and we might yet find her a more appropriate husband.”

This would have been the end of it, the final word on the matter that concerned not only the Prince, but the Lady’s family and myself as well, but then the cousin Henry stepped forth, the impulse to defend his Lady’s honor proving too great to ignore. “No,” he said loudly.

He did not bow, but stepped forward with purpose, closer than many dared come to the Prince or his throne. He was so close I could see every muscle that made up his enraged expression, see the pulse that throbbed in his closed fist. “My cousin is a Lady of honor, and she will not be so ungraciously dismissed by some co*cksucking Boy King,” he spat.

I dared to believe words of this nature had ever been spoken in the Throne room or in the face of such overwhelming sovereignty. I almost admired the conviction, though the words cut at me. It seemed I was not to be the only one shocked by this audacity, for but a moment, no one spoke, not even the Prince whose name had been so severely besmirched.

It came upon me to act firstly. I drew my blade and marched swiftly to where the man stood indignantly. Though I wished to relieve his head from his body, I used the pommel of my sword and knocked it hard against his head as blood blossomed down his brow. Two members of the King’s guardsmen came forth and hooked the man by his arms as he staggered, dragging him from the Throne room. Several of the visitor's own guards stiffened, hands on their hilts, but it was clear they were outnumbered and they could not deny the serious offense that had been committed.

With an air of conviction, The Lady Margaret spoke up, quite bravely. “Please, Your Grace, he spoke only out of his admiration for me.”

“Be quiet, woman. I have no love for acts of defamation.” James waved her off. But she continued.

“Please, you must be merciful, for he truly supports only your claim. He forgot himself, surely.” It was unclear to me what she meant by this, as the Prince’s claim was the only one held for the Kingdom. But James did not not seem to harken her words, instead ushering his guards to escort her away, much more gently than her cousin.

***

“He shall be tied to a Heretic’s Pyre and sent to God in ashes. This is my will.”

The Prince stood at the head of the council chamber table shortly after the incident, calling his men to meeting and declaring his fate for the defamer Henry.

His advisors sang a chorus of objection, trying in vain to make the Prince see sense, though he remained in blind opposition. “This is a vast overreaction, your Grace. The sentence, passed-”

“And without trial!” Echoed another.

“-Is paramount to perjury of oath. This Vassal holds seven thousand strong, with others rallied to his claim-”

And now it was the Prince who interrupted him. “And what of it? So they have seven thousand men, I have five times the number. If he wishes to retaliate, I will erect a separate pyre for each and they may burn together.”

“Your Grace, your father never-”

“My father could not stand the smell, I have no such objection.” It was true that there had been no men burned under King James the Brazen, and though men were justly punished for their crimes against the Crown, a pyre had never been raised to deny a man his burial under God.

Sir Braxton met my eyes with his stern ones from his seat at the table as if to admonish my complicity, though I could change James' mind on the matter as easily as I could command a mountain to move aside for a cart horse.

It seemed with a disagreeable silence that the Prince had made his intentions known and none among them could convince him otherwise. Though I wished it not to be so, my gut twisted with the suspicion that it was my violent actions against him that urged the Prince’s decisive resolve.

***

Since there was no dedicated area for execution by burning, it was held some distance away from the town square gallows, having been set in a location devoid of flammable structures like the thatched roofs of shops and houses. Though hangings were not uncommon, there were few of the peasant class who had bore witness to a public burning in their lifetime. Only the old among them could remember a time in which King Aldus, James’ grandfather, had burned three men at once for treason. It was the last time the ashes of man had coated the neighboring town in soot. It had been said that the screams were heard all the way to the coast and shrouded the eastern sky in black clouds for two days.

As his last testament was read aloud, Henry was not given the right to speak as many were granted, the crime of defamation robbing him of his last words. He was instead bound at the mouth to deny his chance to beg God forgiveness for his soul.

The pyre, having been coated in pitch, ignited quickly from the executioner's torch. The flames leaped like excitable fish from the well-stocked kindling, jumping higher and licking the man’s bound feet within moments of being lit.

The screams rose higher than the church bells as the flames began to swell. The man atop the pile, tied to a post, thrashed and bucked like a cornered rat, and though I could hardly see his face, I imagined the sweat pouring desperately from his brow with no hopes of extinguishing that which bellowed beneath him.

It was not usually the flames that killed the men fated to die by pyre, but the smoke that filled their lungs from the wooded pile and burning flesh below them. Should they be deprived this kinder, choking death, the guttural shrieks could last for nearly an hour, till the last vestiges of their lifeblood had been boiled away, and their blackened skin peeled from their bodies.

The smell was indeed unpleasant; though I had imagined it to be so only by its association to cooked meat such as pork or beef. Instead, the foul stench of singed hair and charred muscle overwhelmed the perimeter as though a last act of opposition offered by the dying man as retribution for his suffering.

I had watched many a man perish, often brutally, though for this sight I looked away, the gnawing bile of guilt rising in my throat. Many commoners covered their noses or else wretched dryly as the black smoke billowed forth, enveloping the whole city in the sulfur coated brimstone of hell. Even the men of God looked on with dismay at the immolation, despite condoning the act, believing burning would purify a soul from sin and heresy.

It was only James’ expression which I could not read, seemingly unaffected by the fumes or the hateful cries of the tortured man. As the thick, dark fumes exhausted their way up to the heavens, the only thing that flickered across his features was the dancing flames reflected in his dark eyes.

Chapter 8: From Weaned to Wary

Chapter Text

While we may have long marinated in the immensity of all that had been, like a pheasant in a good strong stock, we were soon faced with more pressing matters.

The first of these came to my attention as I sat in a shadowed corner of an Inn I had often frequented in my youth, drinking myself through a barrel of strong honeyed mead. Though it had been nearly a month since the fiery spectacle of the public execution, a putrid smell still seemed to linger about the city, even as the stiff autumn winds blew from north and chilled the air.

It would have been vastly preferable to drink in the company of the Prince as we once had, clad as commoners and exploring more than just the proclivities of the common man and his alehouse habits. But as it was, James had become very sullen as of late dealing with great stress and pressure from his advisors, filling his head with news of dissension amongst few of his Bannermen. And though I still accompanied him in close proximity on most days, I was feeling slightly neglected, our intimacy becoming unmaintained. Rather than keep to the guards chambers, drinking wine while I battled mumblings, I rode down to the city in an attempt to enjoy myself, though ended up with the less desirable outcome which sometimes affects a drunken man, self pity.

As I sipped steadily from my goblet, losing the count and feeling my purse lighten considerably as I did so, that was when I heard it. A soft song sung in whisper by some drunken travelers. While the tone was merry, the words poignant and incredibly dangerous.

“Where once we knelt for good King James,
The brazen man no more remains.

For on the stone he cracked his head,
A single pebble bayed him dead.

Now on the throne, naught but a boy,
His temper mad, his crown a toy.

To Lord Richard, his reign to bring,
Good health and peace, the one true King”

I nearly spit out my drink, the slowness of my ale addled mind requiring a moment for the words to register. Though I could scarcely believe my ears, their meaning became apparent in the few fogged seconds it took for my head to clear and my conviction to settle.

Lord Richard. I knew of his name for he was the bastard older brother of the current Prince regent. But surely he held no claim to the throne, for he had never been legitimized. His story I knew only for its uncouth brevity.

He had been born before I came up, out of wedlock with the Queen and to a woman of common birth. Instead of abandonment as many Kings would surely have done, King James the first took the child in and raised him justly, though he would not give him his Name, instead anointing him Richard.

As the King begot no living successors at the time, Richard was to be legitimized on his sixteenth birthday, naming him Prince and heir to the throne. But after nearly fifteen years, a miracle from God had filled the Queen’s womb with their first living child. When James was birthed healthy and alive and Named after his father, it was clear the King now had a noble born son, and Richard was no longer considered in line for the throne.

When he had come of age, he was married and now lived as Lord in a minor hold to the east with his family. Of him I knew little more, and had never heard James mention his name. It was said that he kept to himself in a castle by the seaside, and had sent a vassal in his place to bend the knee for James’ anointment as Prince regent.

Now in his third decade, Richard was said to be a kindly man, having two children of noble birth and straying far from matters of politics and diplomacy. I could not justify his claim to myself, nor presume to know the validity of this drunkard’s song, but I rode back to the castle soon after, the damp night air sobering me as I sped my mount onwards, driven to tell the Prince what I had heard.

My words could have been the mishearing of a mead clouded sot, but as it happened, shortly after this, the Prince received word from his Counsel that confirmed the bardic ramblings I chanced to hear.

***

“We have received a notice, your Grace.” The old man said, clutching a roll of parchment and standing to address the council members. “Lord Richard has staked his claim for the throne. He has several houses that support his claim, including…” he paused. “It seems the Burning of the defamer Henry and rejection of proposal to the Lady Margaret has rallied them to his cause as well.” He ended, his tone going quite as though fearing the Prince’s retaliation.

“That loathsome whor*'s son,” James spat. “How have I heard no word of this?” He demanded readily.

“We have heard rumors, but none substantiated. We thought it best not to trouble you- after all he is a bastard, it seemed none would support-”

“Was not William the Conqueror born of illegitimacy? You fools, and why have I no Master of Secrets? Sir Sebastian said they sing songs in this traitor's name.” I stiffened where I stood at the mention of my name. “So now he wishes to meet with me?”

It seemed none among the aging men wished to answer him first. “Your Grace, he has offered this so-called courtesy as he wishes to proclaim his acquisition in person. It is an old tradition, but it is not advisable for you to agree. He may seek to try and.. relieve you of your crown, without need for war.”

“Richard will not hurt me so cowardly, he has always been weak in that way. Too honorable for his own good.” The Prince said, waving his hand as though to dispel a bothersome fly. He stayed quiet for a moment, his thoughts working quickly behind his dark eyes. “I see now, this is of my doing. I have let you all bend my will for two winters now, and because of this, my Kingdom falters. I will have my words as law from this moment hereon, King or not.” And none seemed to challenge the Prince on this matter though the Council shifted uncomfortably. “I will ride to meet this traitor, and bring an army to back my claim, show him of my force and numbers and he may yet bend the knee and spare his head and his child heir.”

***

I had marched many times with men-at-arms, often for so long, my feet felt numb at the end of the day, which was a blessing only to spare the pain of the blisters. Some roads had seemed to stretch on to the edge of the map, twisting like a serpent, tapering in the distance and appearing to end just beyond a distant hill. When we would arrive at the top of the fell, our mouths parched and backs heavy with sweat, the road would continue on, snaking its way to the next rising knoll.

But for the dottings of wild poppies or daisies, spattered like a painter’s brush fleck, it seemed our only company was the thick grass which sprawled so densely and numerous I wondered if any army of men could match their count. Sometimes we passed small pastures or farms, their wattled fences containing an idling sheep or goat which some men swore looked as fair as any maiden after so long on the road.

You knew you had reached the battlefield even before the call came down the line. The resistance of stone would give way to far stretching fields, not of grass but of dirt. Our feet would sink and slip about on the sh*t-thick mud, and for all the trampling of cavalry and horses, every man must brace himself, lest he fall and be sent face first to eat from God’s own chamberpot.

This procession was vastly different. I was mounted for much of the travel, sparing my feet but numbing my backside instead. The dull pain that radiated up my spine from arse to neck bone from hours of placid trotting was still preferable to draining my boots of blood each night. James rode rather comfortably in a two-horse carriage, reading books pertaining to the gardening practices of monks, or else riding on his coal-black steed at the front of the cavalcade.

The nights were more enjoyable, we shared the same bed under the heavy fabric of the Prince’s large tent. And though I often ached from the hardness of a saddle, it was not the only thing that hardened at my Prince’s behest. While it was often the Knight Commander that accompanied a nobleman in his private chambers for his role as sworn protector, it was I who was called to guard and serve by his bedside, and in it.

With the brazenness of his father and the air of someone who had never faced true consequences for his actions, James displayed a rather careless disregard for our secrecy. I however, had felt the abrasive metal ring that ended a sturdy belt upon more than one occasion. For this, I was not so prepared to bear the welts of whatever punishment might be inflicted by God or man for our shamelessness.

Still though, I could not deny it felt wondrous. Roaming the countryside on horseback, feeling the cold wind through my hair and then sleeping so contentedly with my Prince at my side. Were it not for our bound destination, I would have been happy to continue on like this for many months, even as the stiffening chill forbade the coming of winter. When it snowed, I knew my metal plating would become so cold it would burn to touch, and rather than trapping the heat of the sun as it did in warmer months, it would become a prison of ice, chilling everyman to his core.

The salt sprayed air and brine of a coastal gust stung our faces with flecks of sand, and we knew that we were close. While James seemed foolish enough to meet his brothers’ request, he was not so much so as to do this at Richard’s castle which undoubtedly hosted increased fortifications and a strategically familiar landscape. But I trusted the Prince to judge his brother’s temperament, for I certainly did not; I would put faith in no man who would so willingly break his oath to the Crown.

After ten days, we could finally glimpse the flat and vast domain of the sea. Though from far afield it appeared to be spread like a gently rippling blanket, I knew it to be a deceptive illusion, that waves as tall as mountains could converge at a moment's notice and swallow ships up whole.

We welcomed the sight, for it meant we were nearing the place that our scouts had dictated would be advantageous for a meeting. The sandy hills to the south-west gave us leverage for bowmen to strike should the occasion call, and we were pleased to be informed by returning riders that Lord Richard came henceforth with only a third of our numbers.

James dressed that morning in silence, and I could not know whether he felt nervous to greet the brother that wished to dethrone him. His black doublet was adorned with a gold pin of the sparrow to match the emblem of our banners, and he carried a sharp but short sword at his waist to display his willingness to entertain conflict. “Have you considered how you want to play this?” I mustered myself to ask him, reaching for just a small scrap of insight into his aims.

He seemed un-wavered, though it could have been a mask. “Does a sparrow consider the notions of a worm?” he asked back, avoiding a plain and rational answer, because of course he would.

***

Upon seeing the man’s face for the first time, I knew him to be the son of James the Brazen. Richard bore the same sturdy jaw and thin nose of his father. He had a close cropped beard and his nut-brown hair curled about his brow where he bore a handsomely etched crown. He smiled as he addressed us, his arms open as though in invitation, though they could not have embraced while on horseback.

“Brother,” Richard smiled genially, and his voice was warm and full. “It has been too long.” He dismounted his white steed as a show of good faith, he wore no sword upon his belt, but his Knights were kept close in his league.

James clutched the reigns of his mount firmly. “You are no brother of mine,” he bit back. “Not when you sneak behind my back and conspire to take my crown.”

Richard co*cked his head to the side in much the same manner as James often did. “I have done no sneaking, baby brother, as I have called you here justly to announce my claim in person. And can you not see, I have one already?” he pointed to his brow where his trader’s crown sat. “And from what I have heard, your head has grown too large for yours.”

“If you mean to insult me, at least be creative,” James snapped back, though I could tell Richard had ruffled him. He was compelled to dismount his own horse, though he did not stray from his station and kept close beside where I stood.

The older brother strode forward and men on both sides fingered the hilts of their swords. He stopped within a stride from James, standing taller and sturdier, yet it was me who he seemed to address. “Is this the one?” he asked. “Hm, I thought he would be younger.” But not leaving a moment in which to contemplate this surprising statement, he turned back to James. “Despite the circ*mstances, it is good to see you. Hope long has it been, six years?” he asked conversationally, but James was having none of this falsehood.

“I should take your head here and now,” The Prince said, his fists balled, though Richard kept quite calm.

“If you could reach my head with that toy you call a sword, I would gladly bare my neck.” His smile never faltered. “But that would not stop my army of ten-thousand from advancing on you. For we may not match your numbers, but our conviction will surely be heeded.”

James scoffed. “Is that what you tell your men? You would make a shameful general.”

And now Richard laughed, a low and hearty chuckle. “Alas, it is true, but I will make an inspiring King.”

***

It was a fortnight later, after we had returned from our trip, contemplating all the while, the magnitude of the convocation. I had certainly not felt comforted by the outcome, and I could sense the foreboding brew of a tempest as a sailor spots the darkening clouds on the horizon before a storm.

In even the time it had taken for us to return and regroup on our efforts, the traitor Richard had advanced his requisition, taking a small castle and town near to his home. It was said that he burned no houses nor pillaged the monastery of coin, but he had cut down the man that lorded there with only three-thousand men, and now occupied the area, calling any of the Princes scorned or unsettled Bannermen to his claim.

I stood in my usual position at the Prince’s side as he addressed his Council. They were worried, but I could not say if it was for their Prince or their coin.

“Send five-thousand men to Ostenfold to reclaim it. I wish Sir Sebastian to lead the charge.” Had I been of lesser resolve, I might have shown my shock to this revelation, but as it was, I stayed quite still as if I was not screaming inside my head. I had never led so much as a march, and though I had been training myself to better wield a sword, I had no notion of how to direct others to do so. “It is his first claimant in his usurpation, and he will wish to keep it.”

It was Sir Braxton who spoke now, having the authority on military intelligence. “Five thousand may not be sufficient, my Prince. For Lord Richard may wish to show himself and his force on this matter.” He stood swiftly with a small bow. “Let me take eight-thousand and I will return Ostenfold to your keep.”

“I must deny this, Sir, for I have other duties for you.” James said, his fingers steepled together. The Knight nodded though he looked unsettled.

His Advisor of coin spoke up. “If I may, your Grace. A war is a costly investment, perhaps we may squash this rebellion with betrothal. He has a daughter does he not, perhaps he will be satisfied with her as Queen?”

“You jest! This man rallies to seize my Throne and you wish me to marry his daughter? No, if there is to be war, we will find the coin.”

“We then may need to increase taxes to fund this.”

“I will not have my subjects taxed while another vies for their allegiance. If it comes to be, we will appropriate tides from the church.”

“They will not think kindly of this-”

“They will not, but they will stand by me as I am ordained by God, and Richard is an alley-born bastard.”

***

He had taken tea in his bed chamber at a table near the window. There were ripe figs and plump green grapes in a large clay bowl. A red fruit the size of an apple that I did not know bore a cluster of rubies like a bejeweled brooch. A freshly baked roll billowed steamed as he cut it, and a white wheel of soft cheese was stuck with a knife. Rich, golden honey sat untouched but the Prince spread his bread thickly with a dark jam and sugared his tea heavily.

“Will you join me?” he asked, and though I was tempted by this fine spread and the Prince’s beckoning smile, I chose to stand.

My worries swirled around my head like the tea spun about James’ cup as he mixed it with another spoon of sugar. If he wished to honor me with this post, he had been mistaken. Surely Richard would expect him to be as green as to appoint his unqualified yet fancied Knight in a position to overtake him. I could not possibly understand his motive, if not to reward me, possibly to challenge or punish me?

I needed to ask this of him, if not for my sake, but the sake of the many men I would surely lead to their deaths. For I had heard the speeches generals made as they rallied their men for the coming carnage, I had seen them race valiantly on horseback, spears held high, charging headlong into opposing forces. I did not think myself a coward, but a general I was certainly not.

“James, as much as I wish to please you… I do not know if I can succeed.” I said plainly, not wishing to twist my words or conceal my meaning as he often did.

He smiled softly. “Oh Sebastian,” he started, sipping his tea from a dainty cup and pouring one for me. “That is not simply the only purpose for which I have named you.” And I wished him to tell me exactly why he had. “Do all men not desire to lead an army?” he added as though I had asked for this.

My words caught in my throat. “I- What? Would you have me fail then?” I could not venture to guess what plot the Prince wished to serve by letting men die needlessly under my direction.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, pushing a saucer towards me. And though I was severely questioning my own sanity as I did so, I nodded. “Then heed as I command. For Richard thinks me a petulant child, and I will let him do so by your hand. Sugar?” And when I did not answer he took it upon himself to do so.

My head spun with the effort of attempting to decipher what the Prince could possibly desire to gain from my defeat, how this could be at all helpful to securing his Throne. Was he perhaps testing me? Dispensing so much resources for naught but to see how I handled myself with my own charge? It seemed impossibly impractical, but I had learned not to put anything past him.

The overly sweetened tea I sipped for lack of words. I did not know what James meant to do, or the lengths he would go to enact his intent. He told me only that he thought me bright enough to know when to give up, and not to get myself killed acting a hero.

Chapter 9: The Spilling of Sin

Chapter Text

It was not till sometime after that I was made aware of the Prince’s true intent. As we fought and killed and died in brown-bloodied muck, as we cleaved heads and hands and unleashed coiled intestines from the bellies of men, two-thousand more marched to the east shore. While more than half of our number lay trodden at our feet, skulls crushed in by our steeled toed boots, those two-thousand men invaded Richard’s Castle by the sea.

Intent on securing his first major victory against the Crown, Richard’s Keep had lacked its usual protections. Sir Braxton, Commander of the Kingsguard had easily overwhelmed the sentries that secured the hold and taken the one thing that unites the priorities of every Nobleman under God, his legacy.

Though the boy was but eight-years-of-age and weighed little more than a spaniel, Edward bore the responsibility and birthright of his father’s heritage. The notion was cruel but fair. Life for the prisoner and the head of the traitor Lord, or death for his son and only heir. All would have gone according to the Prince’s plan, had it not been for me and my actions.

***

Though the procession of soldiers that had marched with the traitor Richard on his meeting with the true Prince had all the aspects of a fortified troop, the mismatched tunics and rusting jackchains on the foot soldiers we faced did not bear the same prestige. Many among our opponents were likely farmers or mercenaries, and though undoubtedly hosted a few decent sell-swords about their ranks, all held a scattered and crude appearance.

The steel we wore and wielded spoke to the authority of the Crown, and in comparison our standing bloomed like a few white roses in a sea of wild weeds. For though we had the cold kiss of coin on our side, it was with pale, grave faces that our scouts informed us that Richard’s numbers were more than the three-thousand he had taken the Hold with.

I mounted my horse and rode to a higher elevation overlooking our destination to the north with two other Knights and one rider who had ventured nearer to observe the fortifications close to.

“Their numbers are many but their ranks are weak. ” He told me, pointing to the heavy stone walls and dottings of soldiers inside and out of them.

I tried to make out their groupings for myself with the keen eye of a bowman, but I could not count them for the dim light of morning. I acknowledged his words and responded in turn. “We will brace archers here on this high area but station them nearer. If we can break their formations, they may shatter like glass.”

“If they stray or separate they will not move to the east for the sea cuts them off,” the younger Knight pointed out, his dappled mare nickering as he turned to face the northwards castle.

I nodded to him. “Then we will lead fifteen-hundred west to block a retreat and keep them contained.” I motioned to the second Knight, his bushy beard and hair obscuring most of his features. “Wait for my call to send in the footman from the south. We will hold till they advance to the bottleneck of these two hills, from there we may crush them as they come with our calvary.”

While my words spoke in terms of landscape and compass points, I saw the land in my head as a great map that stretched from sea to sentry. Our men I imagined as small shining figures sprawling like lamplight to the dark corners of a cellar and scattering the rats that hid in darkness. I knew not of the plans of our enemies, or strategies they might execute, or if what we employed would bring us justice. I took only what I had learned from the skirmishes I had suffered and tried desperately to expand what I could surmise from this vagabond army before us.

They stood for a cause which they believed more strongly than their allegiance to the current ruler. They may have sworn oaths or bent the knee, at least their Lords had, but they saw an opportunity to stand in opposition and give their lives for the beginning of a purpose that they clutched to with greater conviction.

Truthfully I did not wish death upon any of them, and did not desire to stain my conscience with the blood of any father, brother, or son. But as my future King commanded of me, I knew I must fight for his name and his throne. If only to show that fidelity and allegiance are not so easily won, that oaths are not easily forgotten, and that the true power in the Realm united under Prince James II.

Should we succeed, which seemed wholly uncertain, the Crown would send more men to hold the territory. It would mark the first show of dominance for the reigning ruler, forcing Richard to contemplate the power he exerted amongst those who promised their Banners in his name. It seemed a solid course of action, but I could not for the life of me understand why I had not been granted more men. For there had been charges mounted against greater odds surely, but lacking the veteran knowledge of a seasoned general, I could only hold out hope that our trained infantry could overcome the others' inexperience. If God was merciful, I prayed he would guide my tongue so that I may speak my words true.

As the morning lingered on, each moment seemed to stick to the next and pour forth like heated honey. We felt a raw and aching expectancy as each second skipped twice over but also appeared to stretch for hours. A rising tension filled the heads of every man, as though a harp were plucked on its highest note, the ring never dampening but sustained in our ears.

Calls finally came when the last drop of sunlight fell into the bucket that was the field before us, filling the vessel to the brim, and overflowing, basking both armies in unseasonable sunlight. They came forth, finally spilling their number closely knit from the waiting walls of their castle. It was certainly an interesting course of action to not only hold defenses, but advance on the aggressors, speaking to a readied confidence that fit finely with my plan, but unsettled me as well.

I spoke to my men, of those who gathered to take a knee or turn an ear to my presence among them. “I stand here now, born no less common than any of you.” I did not know what to say, but I spoke from the heart as the heavens weighed upon me for the number today would bring them. “We have tilled the same fields, felt the same soil beneath our feet, and share the same wild dreams for glory. When our foes meet us, they will flee from the solidarity of our ranks.” I saw the heads of men perk up to harken my words as I called to them from my station and I removed my helm so they might see and hear me better.

“So fight today, not only for your future King, but for your kinsmen here among you.” Several men rapped on their breast plates and I drew my sword from my side. “We will salt the earth with their blood and wash the soil of this Traitor’s fields. Fly as Sparrows and pierce the hearts of all who oppose us.”

I paused, looking into the eyes of the men before me, trying to strengthen their resolve as I met each one. "Remember, we do not fight for glory alone but for the hope of peace and the safety of our families. Let the enemy see our strength and know that we are unyielding. On this day, let our courage be a testament to the power and might of our legions. Fight for your brothers, your God, and your Kingdom.” With my last words, I raised my blade into the air, wishing to inspire a confidence that filled me like a strong, stiff spirit. The men around me clapped their plated hands and shouted their approval and somehow my own conviction grew from the sounds of the rallied shouts.

When I returned to the overlook, the cries from below me were nearly as loud as the ones advancing on the clearing below, but invigorated and swelling with a frenzied excitement like a hive of angry wasps.

By my call we remained farther back, taking advantage of the sprawling terrain that lay between us, and thinning their forces over a wider area like butter over a long stretch of bread. I gave word that the light troops such as archers and crossbowmen were to fire as one and disrupt the defender’s formations. I watched the high arcing arrows soar like a flock of pointed birds, falling to their prey with a sharp whistle. Any man not braced with shield was swiftly shot down, but many kept the charge, advancing on the footmen that lay in wait for my command.

But as the traitor’s barrage neared the foot of the two hills we waited behind, they began forming a holding line, and I took action to strike them hard before they were bolstered. I gave the signal from my high position and a flag was raised to call the cavalry charge.

A wave of sturdy knights and mounted sergeants launched from their wait. I heard word that some of the defenses had been breached and most of the enemies were now breaking off and flowing through the space between the two knolls herded cattle. I called to know if the bowman’s skirmish had stopped, for when bodies became packed like sickling piglets, the archers could not fire for fear of hitting our own men. When I heard no answer back, I rode down nearer to the base of the long sloping hill and gave the lead to the footmen to attack any they saw make it through.

The chaos nearer to the fight was much louder than it had been carried up by wind to where I observed. I raced to get word of the calvary's position on the other side of the enemy’s blockade, passing through the first clashes of invading infantry. Men roared and bellowed, the hacking of metal plating echoed with a dull pounding but the song of steel striking rang like church bells.

I saw the younger knight who had relayed my command engaged in sword fight, one arm bleeding badly and his mare nowhere in sight. It did not take me but a moment to ride to him, unsheathing my blade and running it through the neck of his opponent. I did not consider his fate, for his helm hid his face and his humanity, I knew only that I must receive an update of our progress.

I began to ask him what word he had beyond our skirmish, but as I did, my mount was struck and flung me from it. It surely took hours for me to fall, though it must have only been a few solid seconds before I hit the earth. I was on the ground and had lost sight of my man, blinded by the bright sun shining off every shield and helm.

It was impossible to gain an understanding of our position from the ground. Everywhere I turned men fought in a blur of color and sound. Spears sprang through the action, either landing with a thud in the dirt, or else making contact through their target with a sickly squelching. The blade of an axe flung inches from my face, and I heard its squealing cry as it ripped the air, almost taking my nose along with it.

It would be easy to lose oneself in the noise, to see a fellow soldier and race to aid him, then dart to the next body who did not bare your colors, though it was often hard to tell under the mud and blood that coated them. But I knew it was I who had to take charge of this madness, orchestrate this choir of brutality from above and not succumb to the disorientation.

I dogged my way to the base of the hillside and began to climb on foot, my heavy armor seeming to drag me down as I panted to reach my destination. As I arrived, winded but unwounded, the bushy-haired Knight awaited my arrival. He told me what I knew to be as soon as I looked from the top of the outcrop. Nearly all of Richard's men had scattered through the bottleneck, and now met our foot soldiers and mounted cavalry on the south side. All other opposers were pushed back from our men to the west, though refraining from engagement by my command.

His words came clearly to my ears now that we had risen above the calamity. “It is as we planned, mostly. They held strong lines against us, but we breached their formations and they continue to spill into our arms. I have sent a scout to the north to check for reserves but he has not returned. As I see it, we may advance to the castle soon, for our forces are still strong-”

But he was stopped by the bellow of a brass horn from the north. Far afield, further north than the castle, the pinpricks of men appeared in the distance like stains of color on a sheet of green. “They have sent for reinforcements,” I said sullenly. Our men had discarded many of the brigade traitors, overtaking the play, but now we had no sum of the coming marchers. “Send another to count their number. Have any archers duck down and spy for scouts. They will not know how many of us remain if we keep to this side of the prominence.” He nodded to me and was gone.

I listened to the crashing waves of men below me, it was the sound of stone pulled out to sea, rolling and churning, rendered smooth on all sides. My pulse quivered, my breath thick and my armor drenched in the rust colored blood I knew was not my own.

As a bout of cloud cover fell over the sky, I no longer had to squint to see the approaching tide. As they rushed on, overtaking the castle and nearing our positions, my heart sank. Our clever tactics and ambitious use of resources would be no match for the couple-thousand I guessed there to be. And as they gained on us, I saw a streaking white stead bringing up the rear and flanked by suited Knights. Though I was far, my suspicions were confirmed as the scout returned to report his count. “They ride with three-thousand.” He paused, looking wavered. “Lord Richard backs the charge himself.”

Many Kings, traitor or not, would not risk their lives to lead their armies if they did not anticipate a victory. Though many among his men looked in the same undignified quality as the foot soldiers now impaled by our blades, their resolve was undoubtedly stronger for the man that accompanied them. His white mount seemed to glow despite the shade we were now cast in. They rounded the castle to the west and I had only a brief moment for which to warn the men stationed there.

I ran down myself as neither Knight had returned to my side. There were a number of banner-bearers of smaller holds, all tailing the rear of the procession with the generals, sticking up above the riders as their flags rippled. They were clad in a variety of house colors or else tattered tunics like a quilt of many fabrics. I instructed the men to hold firm against the first wave of attacks while bowmen fired from above, only ripping small holes in the forthcoming coverlet.

The younger Knight had regained his dappled mount and found me as I was racing to the tail of the mounted infantry, awaiting the clash. He held out a hand to me, inviting me up. “We should call a retreat. They overwhelm us!” He yelled to me. I pushed his hand away and drew my sword.

I thought of my Prince and his rightful claim, the love and trust he placed in me, and decided I could not return to him as a coward. My conviction was sound and my head strangely clear. “The calvary is already advancing. Call the light troops to retreat and any remaining footmen. We will take as many as we can with this charge.” He closed the fists of his extended hand and with a solemn yet understanding nod, spurred his mare back to the rear forces.

Blood coated my body and dried in my matted hair. My eyes were wide as though scared to shut, even to blink seemed a cruel taunt of momentary relief. My hands seemed to shake like a die cup, but when I held them up, they appeared quite steady.

The sun poked out in patches from the clustered clouds above. I breathed in deeply and though it smelled of iron and sweat and the dredges of mud wafted an earthen aroma, I savored it all. I had been close to death before, but only now did I truly accept its embrace. All that I was or had been melted into the dirt that scuffed my boots, my body was born from the ground which I walked and I anticipated its return. Floating as though carried by a gust, I charged forth to meet my brethren against the onslaught of Richard’s reserves.

My sword held high, my spirit shifting as though watching from far above, a lone man amongst many, moving as a group and standing strong as stones against the breaking of the tide. I felt a part of every man, my bones hardened as the same sturdy steel that each among us wielded, waiting for the collision of the oncoming torrent. When it happened, I thought my ears had failed me, for I did not hear the sound, only the beating of my own heart and the rapid pulse of our number, moving and churning and bracing as one.

Blood splashed upon me, my blade swinging as an extension of my arms, rending through armor and muscle and bone. The screams and cries and bellows chanted like the echoing hymnals of clergymen, held in rapture and bathed in the presence of God. I gazed upon the full spectacle of man’s hubris, the desire to claim and own and concur, insignificant compared to the vastness of the sky and wind and waves of distant oceans.

In the last moments, my head danced only with that which filled me with contentment. I felt the sturdy tug of a bowstring pulled to my cheek, I plucked flowing garlic beside my mother’s knotted knuckles, I embraced my Prince and kissed him deeply. And then, I suffered the scalding stiffness of a blow to my temple and I resigned myself to be no more, the darkness beckoning me with finality and completeness.

And then, I awoke.

Chapter 10: Ever Woven Litany

Chapter Text

My head pounded like a hammer to an anvil. Surely heaven would not account for this pain, and were it hell, I thought it to be surprisingly cold.

My body ached and I attempted to open my eyes though one seemed stuck shut with the same dried blood that stained my shirt. When I went to rub it, I found my arms hung above my head and rattled the chains they were bound with. It appeared I was confined in a dimly lit stone dungeon, for the caged bars reminded me very much of the city jail where I had once spent the night for the breach of peace that was a drunken brawl.

I shivered in my linen underclothes, my throat dry and my lips cracked and parched. No noise met my ear but for the squeaking of rats and the slow, damp drip of water from the cellar walls. It was not uncommon to take prisoners after a conflict was won, but I neither saw nor heard any inclination that I was accompanied by my brothers in arms. As the blur of battle dizzied my mind, my vision swam before my eyes and the blacksmith forging between my temples wrought heated steel with loud and consecutive blows. The darkness consumed me once more, a brief respite from my dismal circ*mstances.

And then it was as if a wave had overtaken me. I had returned, soaking wet to the dark prison cell, my arms numb from their position above me, and my wrists hanging limply from their shackles. The fellow before me held no compassion in his shriveled grey eyes, gripping an empty bucket and staring down at my shuddering form. “Wake up,” he barked at me.

I coughed and spluttered, the water unsticking the blood from my eye. “I am awake,” I said back and was met with a sturdy blow to the face with the wood of the water pail.

“Quiet now or I gives you anotha’ wallop.” He threatened me with the bucket as the taste of iron filled my mouth and spilled from my lips. I could do nothing to defend myself and harbored a savage spite for the man. “They calls me the Runner, ‘cause whens they run, I catch ‘em.”

“Should they not call you the Catcher?” I asked, feeling my slights were the only form of rebellion I was afforded. Another swift blow fell to the top of my head and added to the aching of my skull.

His cruel smile was filled with ugly yellow teeth and I spat blood onto the ground before me. “Go’ yerself an audience with the King.” He stood over me and jangled keys about wrists until they were bound in rope and then flopped down to my lap like lifeless fish. They felt numb and useless, and I could not raise them even to wipe the blood from my chin.

“I know no King,” I murmured, feeling the nudge of a small kick to the stomach dealt from the Runner’s heavy boot.

I groaned as he pulled me to my shaking legs. “He’s the gentle sort, but I isn’t. So keep that tongue between them teeth or I’ll relieve you of it.”

My legs felt like boiled carrots, yielding to my weight and threatening to collapse me once more to the floor. The Runner held my shirt collar like the scruff of a dog and all but dragged me from my cell. He was taller than I and sturdier of build, had I held even half my normal strength he would have been a challenging foe. I had no choice but to trip over my stumbling feet in his massive wake.

When we had made it up several stone steps and emerged from the heavy cellar door, my arms began to fill with the pricking of a thousand tiny needles, the blood finally racing back to my barren veins. Two guardsmen were positioned at the entry and took me from the Runner’s firm grasp, hooking their steel-covered arms under mine and pulling me as they marched forth. The Runner followed behind us, his ring of keys jingling like chainmail and blocking a retreat, though my feeble legs could do no more than stagger.

Judging from the hair on my cheek, it had been a few days time since the fighting took place. It was possible I had been transported to Richard’s Keep, though I guessed he would wish to stay in Ostenfold in the event a second assault from the Crown was mounted. When we arrived at the throne room, I knew it to be so, as the peaked and sloping roof matched the exterior ones I had observed from my position as general.

Richard sat on the few carpeted steps leading to a Lord’s throne that he had taken claim of. He was bent in distress, one hand clutching his brow. When the Runner announced our presence, he stood and awaited our stride till I was dropped gracelessly at his feet. I did not wish to look upon the traitor's face, no doubt he aimed to kill me when he found I would say naught against my oath.

He grabbed my chin to examine my face but I pulled away with enmity. “What have you done to him, Runner? He looks worse than when you brought him in.”

“This one’s go’ a mouth on ‘im,” the large man replied.

My mouth swelled with blood and I spit it at Richard angrily. I was quite proud of the spread I achieved when it splattered the man’s frowning face and fine light doublet.

Richard calmly withdrew a square of cloth and wiped my insult from his face. “Fetch him some water. To drink this time.” He told his man and was swiftly heeded.

I wished to refuse him, deny him this act of courtesy that would prove my opposition. Yet when a clay jug was thrust into my bound hands, I brought it to my peeling lips and chugged it like the first tit to a newly born infant. The cold, soothing water seemed to flow through me like a stream, flooding my pinching nerves like a carved stone fountain.

“Speak plainly, Sir, for I bear you no ill will.” He started when I had drunk my fill and panted with the excursion. “Was this your plan from the beginning?”

I thought this a foolish question as I could see no benefit to nearly dying of dehydration just to spit upon the face of my capturer. Truthfully I could not have answered him even if I wished to for I did not know of what plainness he spoke. The realization dawned in his eyes and his expression was almost one of pity. “You do not yet know,” he said and I hated that he read me so earnestly. “So you would give your loyalty for one that does not return the act? This must indeed be the bounds of love.” His lack of disclosure bit at me and I sneered, though I wished to return his words. I stood on weakened legs to face him as a man, his honey-hued eyes so different from the Prince’s dark ones.

“And what do you know of loyalty and love?” I snapped back, finally breaking my silence as he spoke of James. “You betray your own brother, your words are as false as your claim. Do not speak to me as if you know what measure of man I am.”

Richard blinked at me, and with a sharp pain I saw the same perceptive expression I knew James to wear, one of searching, of seeing through to my true colours like the pains of stained glass. “Did you know,” he stated, his tone calm. “When I was young, the late Queen grew pregnant many times before she birthed the boy that binds us both. And each time, I would pray to God alone at night, kneeling at my bedside, hands clasped tight, that the seed in her stomach would wither and perish.” I was aware the late Queen had birthed two children before James, but both were buried in the abbey before their first name day.

Richard continued, “She swelled with child thrice whilst I lived there, and twice more before my time. It was said she processed a poison womb, but I began to think it was of my doing. That by the grace of God, I had willed these children to die.”

I did not interrupt the man, the stains of my blood settling into the fabric of his shirt, drying into the threads and marking him with my spite. “For this sin, I punished myself justly. I tied blades to leather straps and flung them at my back. I scratched my knuckles raw and tore my fingernails till they bled.” I winced at his description but his words did not sway me.

“For my father may have tolerated me, perhaps even liked me of a sort, but I was never to be his pride for I reminded him only of his shame. For his failure to produce a proper heir, and his weakness to bed another. I knew even then, that I was endured only for the claim I possessed, but I wanted so desperately to show my father what I was capable of. For all his follies, his adultery, lechery, blasphemy, I commanded myself I would be better. I would be the man the Kingdom deserved, and I would rule with amity and kindness. If these babes had died, it was on my hands but orchestrated by God’s design.

“When James sprouted from his mothers poison womb, I knew it was to be my end, for my father wept with a joy he had never expressed over me. But I knew also, that he should have met the same fate as his kin, for her poison planted within him like a sprouting weed.”

“You’re wrong,” I started, my dry throat rasping my voice.

Richard continued as if I had not interrupted him. “He never cried, you know. And always unnaturally apathetic. Never had to prove his claim or fight for the affection of our father.

“Though I tried to do my part, I never recovered from what was taken of me. And now he takes from me again. His impetuousness, his disregard, the burning.” And he looked away from me now, staring up to the high windows that cast in light. “Our father considered it barbaric, as do I. No man should suffer in that way, just as no son should be taken from his father.”

And finally the root of his dismay emerged, his voice nearly breaking but recovering quickly and gathering himself as he elaborated. “You see now? He has taken my son, Edward, and I suffer knowing to what end.” He looked back at me with wide, pleading eyes.

“Why tell me this?” I asked of him, for if he wished to kill me he might spare me his life’s story and be done with it.

“Why?” He repeated, almost surprised at my question as though he expected me to read his mind as James often did. “Because, I wish you to write to him. I heard you are capable. It is quite simple, his lover for my son.”

I stared at him in disbelief. I saw now James had always intended me to lose the battle, too tempting of a distraction not to drive Richard’s forces. Though whether he wished me to be captured or killed in the process mattered little. “He will never agree.” I told him flatly. For all his forethought and strategy, James would not allow the unfortunate result of my imprisonment to sway his resolve.

“Then make him,” Richard urged me, and I saw the pain and longing in his expression. More than an heir, Richard wanted his son returned to him though it seemed an ill trade. The life of a common-born Knight for a nobleman's heir.

Though I stood bound in ropes before him, it seemed Richard was the man imprisoned by his misdoings. “I will write him of your terms, but I will not pretend to convince him. But in return I ask this, when he denies your request, take my head swiftly so I shall not suffer any more of your sibling’s quarrel.”

Richard looked to me with a deep gratitude I did not feel was deserved and put his fist to his heart. “On my honor,” he said and I returned it with a solemn nod.

***

When I was ten summers old, I was taken in with an apprenticeship for the city scribe.

I was honored by the position, though my father wished me to burn charcoal in his blackened footsteps. It started by learning the alphabet, practicing my penmanship, and poring over the reading material available in the shop. Learning the latin phrases required double the work, and much of my time was spent duplicating texts to reproduce books and copying the delicate line-work of letters with skillful precision.

My steady hands traced characters as fine and thin as any monk’s work. I could name every form of ink and the products used to make them, my nimble, young fingers could bind a book in half the time as my Master and twice as exact. By thirteen, I could read and write and found myself peeking at unsealed scrolls I delivered for coin.

Though it was satisfying work, I was often in want of a more exciting profession. My back ached prematurely for my years and my legs became restless, always bent and sitting over vellum or parchment, my nose pressed nearly to the paper to trace the subtle calligraphy. I began taking more work as a pageboy, writing and delivering messages within the city, earning double the pay for the two jobs which I often pissed away drinking or else spent for my family. My favorite activity was taking letters to members of the garrison up near the castle. The heraldry of the plated knights was enchanting; their long steel swords hung at their sides like a fearsome declaration of their faculty, exclaiming their status.

My Master tsked and shook his head sadly when I announced I was no longer pursuing his career. “It is a shame to see you go, for you wield a quill more precisely than you ever will a blade.”

But I did not wish to wield a sturdy sword, for I had used my savings to purchase myself a hunting bow and five straight arrows, which was much more affordable. After mass with my parents on Sundays, I would practice in the fields with mates of my age, steadily improving my aim and concentration. There came a point where I could let all five arrows right to the middle of the painted hay targets before running to retrieve them all and beginning again. The sun would hang over my head and fall steadily to the west, casting the pastures in golden light before fading to a dim, inky blue and dotting the pastures with the twinkle of fireflies. When I could no longer see my bowstring for the darkness, I returned home to dream of flying as a flock of pointed arrowheads and striking far and true.

***

As I paused, quill poised to strike the parchment of my message to the Prince, I lamented my situation and all that had led to it. The quill was of fine white goose feather, and I guessed the ink to be a rich iron gall with a low concentration of water.

It seemed daft to start the letter “Hoping you are well,” for it certainly would not find him so, and thus I put only his name and my affection, To My Prince, James. I did not wish to make my words needlessly poetic nor did I think I could convey the vastitude of my sentiments in the message I had agreed to write. Expanding only minimally on the situation we found ourselves in seemed a cruelty when I wished to say so much more. Truthfully I did not know if this was to be the last words I would ever write or say to him, but I pushed these thoughts from my mind so as not to blot the parchment with my sorrows.

I explained the terms which Richard bayed me and only hesitated when signing my name, for I yearned to signal my deep love for him. Instead, I filled my quill with thick, dark ink and concluded, Yours forever, Sebastian.

Perhaps for all my efforts, I ought to have stayed a scribe.

Chapter 11: Fair Winds of Fine Calling

Chapter Text

The request for a prisoner exchange was sent swiftly by a bannered mount, though it would take nearly a week for it to be received and a week following to obtain a reply. A pigeon was faster, but a rider was more reliable and sent with him a show of trust and reliability that portrayed his importance. For this reason, I was under guard at all times while I remained at the castle, though was no longer made to stay behind bars.

At the castle Ostenfold, I was granted my own private chambers and attended to by the maids who had served under the previous Lord. Perhaps Richard hoped this show of reception would somehow encourage God to look favorably upon James’ treatment of his son while he remained a charge of the Crown. It did not seem likely the Prince would harm the child, but I knew his disdain for his treasonous brother boiled deep, and could not discount the possibility, especially when he received my letter.

If these thoughts stirred in Richard’s mind, he kept them close to his chest, performing his lordly duties with his usual rigor and acumen. On the second morning after I had put in writing the entirety of the words that would seal my fate, Richard appeared at my chambers. As I finished dressing in the fine garments set out for me, no doubt belonging to the previous occupants of the castle, he showed himself into the room and looked me over.

“I will have the servants light a fire for you, winter always comes quicker by the sea.” Richard spoke quite warmly despite the chill in the air. He held his hand to his guardsman and received a leather bound ledger.

“While I have you in my keep,” he continued, as though I were a visiting nobleman and not a captive to barter. “I thought you might assist me by keeping notes. I am holding court today and I will hear various petitions regarding the Hold. Treasured are those who practice the importance of diligent record keeping.” He wagged his finger like a school teacher.

“If you command it,” I told him stiffly, for I did not wish my final days on earth to be spent as bookkeeper for the traitor’s affairs.

“While I do not command you, I would certainly appreciate you lending your talents. There are few among our number here who can aid me in this task. I have sent for the scribes of my household now that it seems my stay here is to be extended,” he smiled meekly. “But they will likely not arrive for several days.”

I considered the man. He could have kept me chained in the cellar for my designation as prisoner, but as I had just slept quite well on a sturdy castle bed, I accepted his request only for this kindness.

He handed me the ledger book and spoke to me as I accompanied him to the great hall where he would grant his audience. “You must tell where you learned to write so deftly, Sir Sebastian. You are a Knight of common blood, are you not?”

I did not care to learn how he had come to know this of me, he was the usurping type so spies were no doubt employed. “The good Lord spoke the knowledge whilst I slept one night,” I remarked spitefully, for he did not deserve to know this of me.

Richard laughed. “He spoke to you a sense of humor as well I see. Very charming, indeed. But my Runner spoke true, you do have quite the mouth on you.” It was not a compliment, and had the subtle hint of a warning, but he admonished me no further.

I stood in his wake as he sat the modest throne and began to hear the ails of his recently acquired hold. As Richard passed his judgment on matters regarding the common folk of Ostenfold, my quill scratched attentively, keeping the words pertinent and succinct.

A thin and balding farmer removed his cap when his place in the queue had arrived before Richard. He bent his knee and knelt in front of royalty, keeping his eyes cast down. “Begging your pardon, me Lord-” and he was swiftly interrupted by Richard’s guardsman.

“You speak to the true King Richard, he is no minor Lord.”

The peasant recovered quickly. “Apologies, your Grace. I is addressing your Kingship on behalf of us farmers what till the fields. Under the last master of this Keep, we here did provide four sacks of grain each, seasons allowing. This month we have given six though many of our fields were trampled during the siege.”

Richard considered him. “There are many additional men to feed as we hold this territory. If you can manage us five bushels, I will send some soldiers to aid as farm hands. They will not be skilled, but they will be able-bodied and help you rebuild and ready for winter.”

“Much thanks, your Grace.” He rose to his feet and bowed before leaving.

A man of God, judging by his dark robes, approached the throne and bent his knee thusly. “I come bearing a matter of Holy importance, your Grace.” He started “We at the monastery provide the churches of this area here with wine for communion, but we receive our shipments from the Crown held wineries. They have ceased trade with us and the neighboring villages since your acquisition. As it is, we are quickly running through our supply.”

Richard nodded at his words. “The castle has a great store of wine in the cellars. I am not taken to drink, you may use it as reserves for the time being and we shall see about establishing a vineyard for future production.”

“May God grant you his favor,” the man bowed his head, the top of his pate shaven smooth, and returned to his monastic duties.

Before the next man could speak his peace, the doors to the great hall were opened and all attendees, including myself, turned to observe the newcomers, my eyes torn from my transcriptions. Two armored guards entered, escorted by the Runner and dragging the disgruntled body of a young man.

All heads turned to watch as they marched up to where Richard sat and dropped the lad as the Runner spoke on his behalf. “Pardon the interruption,” he started, though he looked quite pleased to do so.

“This one writes nasty songs, I shan't repeat ‘em. Caught ‘im singing unkindly of you my King. I beg your will to take his tongue and hang ‘im by his lute strings.” For the large man gripped about in his pudgy fist, the lute surely appropriated from the musician.

Richard looked dismayed upon the kneeling lad. “So you are a writer of music?” he asked.

The bard did not meet his eye but stammered out, “I beg forgiveness, your Grace. Coin often comes from humor alone, I meant no offenses.”

All were quiet amongst the gathered, my quill poised over my parchment, hovering as I regarded the scene. Surely an offense of this nature would warrant the tongue at least, especially if the lad had been daft enough to perform his slander in the presence of the Runner who I knew to act as a sort of reeve about the Keep.

“Runner, grant this man his instrument, for I wish to hear this song.” The eyes of the lute plucker widened with dread, but was not touched in the head so severely as to resist the request spoken by the arbiter of his fate. He accepted the instrument and stood, strumming it into tune and finding his pitch before beginning his ballad, his tone jovial despite his circ*mstances.

“King Richard the Wetter,
for he soils his bed,
and when his tum rumbles,
King Brown Sheets instead.

His maidens are are comely,
yet he can’t do the deed,
‘cause his willy be softer,
than a bent willow reed.

Thy mother a harlot,
her knockers quite big,
for trust me, I had her,
and she squealed like a pig.”

He looked quite pleased to play his song for the sitting King, but quickly hung his head for the embarrassment of such subject matter. Were it not such a serious occasion, I might have been tempted to laugh, for I loved a song at the expense of nobility as much as the next common drunkard. My heart sank for the poor lad, daft though he was, and I neglected to document the specifics of his phrasing in the official writing of events.

The silence that filled the room after his hands stopped dancing the fretboard was nearly as loud as the music itself, though much more tense, like a string tuned too tightly.

After what felt like a lifetime, Richard clapped his hands together. “Delightful,” he exclaimed, though none followed suit in his applause, unsure how he intended to proceed.

Richard’s hands went to his belt, unclasping a drawstring pouch as the room waited with palpable anticipation. “Let it not be said I am no patron of the arts.” And he tossed a coin to the floor in front of the quivering fellow.

The man before the crowned leader looked around, unsure if he was being mocked or truly bayed to leave unscathed.

“You will not soon forget this act of mercy. I would not rid my future Kingdom of song, but strive to ensure their lyrics are sung in my favor. King Richard the Kind, come now bard, what rhymes have you for me?”

The lad mustered himself against the possibility of leniency, strumming his lute enthusiastically, and began his new verse in the same melody.

“King Richard the noble,
He’s righteous and kind,
his crown shines so brightly,
you’ll surely go blind.”

And Richard clapped once more, this time accompanied by the whole of the room, who found these words much more agreeable and worthy of praise than the previous. Despite myself, I etched these lyrics down in the notes as the man was shown from the castle, beaming quite proudly. The only man among us who looked dismayed was the Runner, though he voiced no dissent against his liege.

***

As the days passed, I began to grow more comfortable in my position and accustomed myself to the castle bounds, despite being tailed at every waking moment by Richards plated Knights. I maintained my work as penman and bookkeeper in spite of the procession from his homestead gracing us with several trusted scribes.

While I did not wish to ally myself with the man, I began to endure myself to his keen insight regarding the practice and policies he enacted as King, a traitor's title as it remained. Richard even allowed me ride with him and several of his Knights as he visited the outskirts of the town, presiding over his acquired lands and seeing his rulings were heeded where it concerned the trampled farmlands and sacrament wine.

Banners that bore the same black sparrow adorning James’ castle were changed from a sky of white to a field of green, symbolizing the new growth that his reign foretold and differentiating Richard’s claim from that of his brother’s whilst keeping the emblem of their shared house.

I thought perhaps he wished to impress upon me his influence, so that I may carry word of his prowess and aptitude far abounds should I ever be released from his charge. Though he could have simply enjoyed the company of one not so eager to lick the mud from his boots as those that surrounded him were keen to do.

It was a damp and overcast day when he steered his white steed around the north facing wall of his keep, diverging from the routine trot of the castle’s perimeter. I was mounted in his wake, though his patrolling sentries would have surely shot me down had I the proclivity to test my allowance.

“Is it true you are a bowman?” He asked me, one brow raised as he dismounted his horse under a bridge that led from a guard tower to the castle proper.

“Was.” I corrected him, swinging my leg over the saddle and following his lead on foot. “As my damn shoulder never fails to remind me.” I felt more at ease when we were no longer contained within the castle walls, and knew his temperament to be one of stability, not prone to retaliation for small jests or quips, which suited me well.

“Come, I wish to shoot with someone who will not let me win,” he laughed, nodding to his two Knights which dismounted much slower for their armor.

My nose ran for the cold, but the fine padded gambeson I wore kept my core quite warm. I could see Richard’s breath cloud as he spoke and his nose and ears pinken, but he looked alive with the vigor of an infantry scout.

He led me to a makeshift range that showed signs of weather and age, standing as a testament to the castle's previous inhabitants. It was a modest set up with only three sacks of straw painted and positioned far afield to serve as target practice. A few decent bows and an iron arrow basket were the few elements that seemed to have existed only since the castle’s change in government.

He handed me a bow but I declined, bracing his own and firing a single arrow near the heart of the worn targets before us.

“I have a great fondness for the skill. At my castle I have a private range. Twenty targets I boast, in under a minute.” He told me proudly, and I saw the glimpse of a younger, less polished Richard.

“Easy,” I responded.

“While on horseback.” He added and I raised my brow in veneration of the claim. “So why have you not resumed your practice as a left handed archer?”

I stared at the bow almost longingly. “That chapter of my life has ended,” I shrugged. “It would be an affront to its memory to embarrass myself so.”

“Come now, you are a skilled writer, humor me and begin the sequel.” He inclined his head and I pinked up the offered bow, studying it and holding it out uneasily in my left arm.

It felt awkward, like trying to lace a doublet from the top down or sitting to relieve oneself. My muscles pulled like the tensioned bowstring, accommodating the adjusted positioning of my stance. When I fired, it was with the amateur reluctance of a green archer, flying far from its intent and begetting a laugh from my companion.

I nocked another ash-wood arrow on the heavy soldier's bow and raised it with cold-numbed fingers. My right shoulder could never again grant the mobility needed to pull such a string, but my left did not currently possess the strength required to do so. Once more my arrow strayed as though I were again thirteen, unable to control my mastery and cast it as I willed.

Though I felt put out and somewhat humiliated by the insufficiency with which I wielded the bow, it did bring back fond memories of summers long past, firing the only five arrows I had to my name and honing a skill that my father promised would amount to nothing. I could almost smell the dry grass and hear the rhythmic buzz of countryside cicadas, even though the air around me remained quite frigid.

I drew another arrow, my left hand ineptly threading its nock into the thick hemp sting and pulling it back as far as I could muster. Though I visualized my target quite plainly and could clearly see where I wished it to strike, as if by the devils forked tail, it flew several strides to the right, missing my mark completely.

As if in competition, Richard outdrew me and unleashed his own two arrow volley in quick succession, hitting both within a breath of the target’s center.

I kicked the dirt. “You shoot like a whor*son,” I barked at him out of frustration, forgetting his status but for a moment. But he responded quickly in turn.

“And you bed but a boy, account for your sway and you might yet hit your mark.” I was taken aback by his banter, but heeded his words. I aimed my dominant hand farther to the left, struggling with the weight of the sturdy string, my fingers positioned clumsily at my cheek. My arrow kissed the top of the target, tearing the sack but continuing on uninterrupted. It remained the closest I had gotten, but embarrassingly scant. I swore aloud but Richard chuckled. “Ah, by a hair,” he said. “Yet I do think I have seen a wench do better.”

“Say, I did not know your mother taught you the skill,” I jested back. Richard did not answer but smiled, drawing back his bow and letting an arrow right to the center of the painted sack, showing me up with a decisive certitude.

Though I had lost miserably at our spirited match, I was feeling rather invigorated by the activity. When we rode back to the castle, the grey sky giving no indication to the passage of time, I thought myself almost lucky to be afforded this opportunity to practice what I had pushed from my mind for the longing it brought.

While it would surely take years to come close to the mastery I had once taken for granted, I felt daft for considering it a lost cause. My sprites felt lifted even as my muscles stiffened and grew sore from the unrehearsed maneuvering. Perhaps if I was still living by next winter, I could actually pose a challenge to the traitor King and his fondness for the skill.

The exuberance of our excursion was cut short by the grave look on the face of a windswept messenger awaiting Richard’s return in the throne room. I saw his bearded jaw stiffen as the rider nodded an unspoken confirmation and retrieved from his jerkin, a bound scroll that I knew contained the immensity of both our fates.

Richard beckoned me nearer. “This concerns you as well I think, Sebastian” His composure was staunch but I saw his hands tremble slightly as he unstuck the sealed roll of parchment. I could not help but feel a small amount of pity for the news I was sure the letter would bear, but I did not wish the retaliation I was sure would follow.

His eyes moved quickly over the words, though they must have been brief, for a moment later he looked upon me with an expression that concealed his knowledge like a hooded cloak.

“You are a fine man, Sir Sebastian. Under different circ*mstances I might have called you brother. But the will of God is often a mystery.” Our eyes met and I could not read them. Richard handed me the note and I held my breath.

I knew the words to be by James' own hand, from the summons I had often received of him. The tightly curved lettering was leanly cramped, and slanted with the unmistakable tilt of his left handed scrawl.

To the Traitor Richard,

This is by no account and act of peace. If my Sir Knight has not yet cut you down in two weeks time, your heir will be presented in exchange on the same ground where we last met. Should your men advance, he will be executed for his father’s treason.

Prince Regent James II

I scanned the short letter twice more, not truly daring to believe it. Surely James had some scheme plotted for this occurrence. In what world could his devotion to me eclipse his desire to see his brother face justice? Though I knew our bond to be strong, it seemed a grave mistake to trade my life for Richard’s son when he had so cleverly acquired the boy.

I hid my sentiment behind a placid veil of empty reaction, knowing the skill apparent in both brothers to read my emotions so unfairly. “It is to be,” I said to him, not sure of my own meaning though certain of my words.

Richard nodded to me, looking as if my mask of incredulity had not bothered to obstruct my insecurity and complete confusion at all. “It is,” he answered, and although I had anticipated an entirely different outcome, I could not help but feel surprisingly conflicted by the agreement.

Chapter 12: Brandish Contentment

Chapter Text

I stared into the jolly rolling blaze of the fire set for me in my chambers. The night air chilled the bone and nipped at exposed flesh, but the warm dance of the flames kept me quite content. While I watched the burning logs steadily crumble to ash, I could not help but think of my Prince and if he looked upon a similar sight, what he might be thinking in this moment, of me perhaps?

For on the morrow, we would set out to converge again on the same trodden grass where we had once stood to meet Richard’s invitation. After much time in his company, I saw now that this had been no farce or trick, Richard truly was a man of tradition and chivalry. Though I could not forgive him for his affront to the Crown I had sworn my oaths to, it was largely less personal an attack than I had led myself to believe.

During my stay as his charge, I learned that he had been quite strategic in his subtlety since the announcement of his father’s death nearly three winters before. He had set to poison the minds of his brother’s Bannermen engaging in treason with every folly James fell prey to in his youthful naivety. Though the Crown held firm all the oaths that had not been bought by coin, Richard had double his brother’s years and much experience dealing with these Lords. They knew him well, though he often refrained from political intercourse, and instead proved himself as a man of conviction and even temperament.

Though the threat of rebellion was disruptive and unfavorable, James’ character both through indelicate measures and persistent inaction had become harder to ignore. He kept the same council as his father before him, not yet appointing any new alliances or bolstering withstanding relationships. These deeds alone might have been excused of him, for the boy was not yet supreme ruler, but tensions regarding their devotion began to simmer. Richard had taken to compounding these doubts like a river carves a channel over time, one wave after the next. He was able to rationalize with them that, while they had sworn fealty to a Prince regent, they had not yet done so for a King, and thus straddled the fine lines between treason and justice like the pointed lance of a mounted jouster.

And of course, there were other matters that called to question the Prince’s rule and right to do so under God. While a man who gives himself upon another was considered a sodomite, the man who takes was judged ever the worse. I knew we had been less than careful where our discretion was concerned, but it was not until Richard’s blatant banter and firm understanding of how just valuable I was to the Prince, that I realized how open of a secret we were. Though James’ proclivities might have been known to Richard even before our coupling, and though he did not seem to share the disgust for the affliction as many God fearing men did, it was undoubtedly an aspect of his brother’s reign that he was unafraid to exploit.

A Boy King with a poisoned heart and a terminal madness. It worked well to sow the seeds of disloyalty amongst those who had merely accepted James' ascension for their oaths they had sworn to the late King. While Richard had not yet garnered the majority of his brother’s claimants, he had an undoubtable knack for disguising his seditious intentions with the tempered hand of a diplomat. Now that his claim to the throne had been publicly announced, it was only a matter of time before men would have to review their allegiances, and decide with certainty, who they wished to King.

***

Richard came to me in the early hours of the morning, before I had even changed from my sleeping clothes and the only light issued from the dying embers in the heated hearth. He came alone and unaccompanied, looking less composed than I had ever seen him, his brown curls untidy, his hands wringing. I thought if I had lacked the resolve of a decent man, or perhaps possessed it, I might have struck him down, avoiding whatever hardships lay in store. Though I was still groggy with sleep, I considered the ease of which I might grab his neck with my fingers and choke the spirit out of him with my large, rough hands. But as it was, I stared down at him instead, waiting for his words.

“We are marching at dawn, and should arrive in two days' time. I just wished to speak some words with you before our departure.” I nodded to him, my eyes adjusting to the blackness outside my window. Richard saw where I glanced and came to stand overlooking the darkened landscape of his Hold.

“I only wanted to thank you, Sir Sebastian.” And I kept my surprise contained. “For had we not plucked you from certain death, I would surely be marching to my own today.”

I cleared my sleep-parched throat. “And had you not, I would indeed be enjoying a divine eternity. And yet, you may have treated me more unkind, so of this you have done right by me." I answered him truthfully, though not wishing to thank him for his thwarting of my Prince's plot and forcing my complicity in its undoing.

His eyes focused far beyond the darkness of the coastal grounds. “I ought to be with my wife and daughter, instead I am many miles abound, caught up in my brother’s games. I will say this, of his love for you, it surprised me.”

“You did not know this of him?” I asked, for I thought I knew of what he spoke to, James’ sinful inclination.

“Of that, I had my suspicions.” He inclined his head back to me with a sad smile. “But I speak for the act itself, of love. For I did not know him of this humanity.”

“You still think him born of poison?” I asked, for James had surely shown Richard at least the love of kinship at some point.

But Richard did not speak to my question. “When we were still young, James had a great number of caged birds. I thought he must care deeply for them, the attentive way in which he tended their plumage and nurtured their soft melodies. But when he grew bored of their songs, he swung them by their necks until they sang no more.”

He turned from the window and faced me once again. His honey brown eyes bore a tired and worn expression that made him appear older than his years as he continued. “So either you are a shiny new songbird, or you are a mark of something I did not believe he had the faculty to possess.”

I knew then that I should have died on that field or else ran myself through while I still held a blade. My life was not worth the men that had died for James to enact his ambition or for Richard to grapple for what he felt had been taken from him. For this I longed to tell my Prince, beg him to see sense and keep the boy, let Richard strike me down and spare me the indignity of trading my life for his. I should have been kept far away from this twisted mess of noble roots, deep below, where the worms of common folk devoured decay and fed the tubers of high-born trees.

Had I the sense of my father, I would have flung myself from the tower for straying above my position in life, for daring to seek more than I deserved. Even my anointment as Knight was a step nearer to the conquering chaos ever present in the congenial blood of aristocracy. The higher one rose, the closer they grew to the vast stretching skies, looking above the dirt and worms below them and deciding, were they not just so tall and mighty, that they were worthy of the whole forest.

***

It was with an eerie silence that both armies stood to face each other across the dew damped field. I felt as if each side were waiting to strike at the drop of a pin, and the only catalyst that held them back balanced on the shoulders of two anxious prisoners.

An invisible line was drawn nearly fifty paces apart, an unspoken barrier that no men dared to cross. No words were uttered, the fog settling about our feet as though we were the stalks of tall grass, rooting ourselves in the passing moments and solidifying as part of the landscape. Even the morning birds hesitated to sing, the tension holding the breath of every man and beast, condensing in our throats.

The sun had not yet crested the firmament, and the haze that hung heavy and wet, blurred the separation of land and sky. I was quite cold, and longed for the plating of armor if only to hide the nakedness of my simple doublet. I could see James, on horseback, dressed in black as though for the funeral of his unmasked plot. Beside the Prince and his heavy cavalry, I made out the form of the small lad, hands bound as mine were out of custom, and just as much a victim of these Ruler’s vein aspirations. The two sparrows looked on with mutual distrust, a kindred flame of longing and loathing, one soaring in a sky of white, the other perched on a field of green.

And then, with the goodwill of a distraught father, I felt a Knight’s heavy gauntlet shove me forward and I began to walk across the field. The crisp grass crunched under my boots and echoed in the vast silence. One soldier, clad in heavy steel, trotted behind me and I felt I might be struck down at any moment from either side, bracing myself for the piercing blow but advancing with purpose.

Across from me, I watched the boy’s small figure flanked by another suited man walk forwards before I had reached halfway. I glimpsed the cold-rosied cheeks and nut-brown hair of the young lad as we crossed, he looked unscathed, but kept his eyes forward with a remarkable dignity that exceeded his age.

And then it was over before it had barely begun. I was standing at my Prince's mounted side, though he did not look at me, and Edward was safely in his father’s embrace. The two rival garrisons stayed bound to their positions, neither trusting the other to retreat peacefully. I was surprised by the actions of the younger brother, for after a moment of seemingly heavy deliberation, turned his black steed and passed back through his stationary banner bearers, signaling his army to withdraw.

The binding on my hands were severed, freeing me from my imprisonment by the Traitor Richard, yet I still felt as though I were bound by the heavy ropes of fate. My actions, though quite virtuous in the moment, had cost the Crown a valuable asset with which to barter the end of this dissension. Though I could not have known of the intended ends, to which I was not informed, I truly wished God had guided a sharp steel arrow through my misplaced heart.

***

James had not kept idle while I had been a prisoner in Richard’s Keep. He had sent several legions to the Holds of his Bannermen, challenging many who he thought to be in league with the traitor from the colors described to be present during the siege at Ostenfold. While some may have indeed taken leave of their Lords to aid in the rebellion, it was in good measure to prompt the fidelity of those who were oathed to him with a procession of soldiers at each Lord’s door.

Owing to the diminished number of men, we returned to the Prince's large castle much quicker than the last time we had traveled east with the Crown’s impressive company. We spoke few words to each other in the week-long journey, the Prince often inundated with word from the generals he had sent to strengthen his allegiances and the progress they had made.

When he summoned me to his tent at night with the hand-scrawled notes delivered by pageboys, I ignored him, feeling a savage bitterness in denying him for all his foolishness. I knew he would not punish me when he had only just extended such a valuable resource to see me safe. And though I did truthfully wish to warm his bed and press his cold fingers to my heated chest, I could not face the tower of words I had waiting for him if I dared open my mouth in his presence.

Each breath I drew felt borrowed; my time on earth had come and gone and yet I was still living, blood still flowing through me, skin still tingling as it clung to my undeserving bones. Had I died there on the field, giving my life and love and dignity for the Prince I served so completely, I would have died in contentment, and James would have served better for it.

How could I now face this Prince and all his madness, when he had dishonored himself so publicly to retrieve me. He might as well have declared his sodomy and forfeit his anointment as future King under God. Would the church now support Richard’s claim and cost James his birth-right because I failed to keep my co*ck in my britches? Would they turn a blind eye to his actions as long as he did his duty and bore them an heir, simply to maintain their show of power?

I did not wish to burden my common brain with these thoughts of Kings and conquest, and thus I pushed them down and drank heavily of the Prince's fine wine. I wished to drown myself in drink, lacking even a sword in which to relieve my suffering.

***

When we had returned, the cold castle walls felt distant and lonely; the guard’s chambers were heated by hearth, but were consistently drafty for its large size. I did not even pull at my covers to warm myself, convinced my shivering was penance for my crimes, my persistent malfunctions.

The note that I received on the second night of our homecoming almost lightened my grave expression. It said simply Please? in Jame’s tidy cursive. And I knew I would heed them.

Carefully, I built up my defenses, brick by brick, until I had constructed a sturdy barrier against the Prince’s calculated assaults. I felt dreadful for the clever plot which I had foiled, but I did not bear the responsibility of my returned presence, for that was on James’ shoulders now, and to which I owed my life unwittingly.

He would certainly be angry with me, wishing to unleash the poised attack against my convictions which I rightfully deserved, but guarded heavily against. I had ached for our union, thought many times of his smooth skin and devilish look of defiance, but now I dreaded facing the madness he kept coiled inside him.

I knew not the true reason he had spared my life at the cost of his delicate scheming, yes love, but that word did not seem to signify the magnitude of the position he had placed me in. Was I supposed to be grateful? Indebted? Perhaps he wished me to serve him as a dutiful steward, kissing his royal boots for the chance to breathe another pitiful helping of air. While I had kissed many arses, few were outside the comfort of linen sheets and my sharp tongue often kept me from submitting so willfully to authority.

When I finally cast eyes upon the Prince, my brick laid walls shuddered and cracked. He bit his quivering lip, betraying the dower composition of his noble persona. “Leave me,” he instructed the two guards that flanked him. They looked upon me uneasily, having neither word or metal plating with which to honor my sworn defendee. But when the Prince turned to see they had not obeyed him, they bowed and removed themselves quickly.

We were left alone in the entrance to the courtyard, meeting each other's gaze and feeling my body ripple as a puddle accommodates a drop of rain when a storm has ended. I did not know how to proceed, the words I had prepared, catching in my throat, even as I had so carefully practiced them.

We walked as we had once done, in the inner courtyard where James nutured the labor of his passion. Many of his precious plants were shriveled in the cold, or else had been tentatively replaced by more seasonal vegetation. Christmas roses lined a long stone stretch of dirt, their flowers not yet blooming, but their dark vines branching bountifully.

James led me to a patch of his garden that seemed, at first glance, to be abandoned. Nothing sprouted or grew, nor withered for the chill.

“I remember you once told me how you used to harvest garlic with your mother,” he began. “I know it is not much to look at now, but I heard its flower is quite pretty, in a subtle sort of way.”

I observed the earthen mounds, the careful sectioning of the garden bed to allow space for the peasant herb. “I did not know you remembered,” I said, feeling a strange and distant longing for my mother, and the admiration for James’ efforts to honor it.

“A curious plant. It is often associated with common folk, I have never considered to grow it. I read it is to be planted in the fall, and harvested in late spring. I wished to have something more impressive for you when you returned but..” he trailed off, and I wondered if he was truly lost for words as I had never seen him be so before.

“It is a kind gesture,” I replied, though the fact of my continued existence seemed more than enough to satisfy me, the debt of my failure strung like an angered hornet. A melancholic frustration overtook me, for expressing myself in writing was simple, but speaking the words to his striking face seemed impossible.

His dark eyes searched my face, trying to read me. “Did you wish me to leave you to my brother?” He asked, not with spite, but with a sincere tone, attempting to understand my hesitation.

“I wish-” I began, but I could not articulate what I wished. “Why did you not tell me to retreat?” I asked him, unsure if those were the words that mattered or if I cared for the answer.

He looked slightly taken aback. “Truthfully, I thought I spoke quite plainly to you. I thought you knew when to give up.” I could have laughed for his earnestness, though I was not feeling very jovial.

“You have never spoken plainly in your life,” I told him, angered that he would see it so. “You twist your words like a rope maker and knot my thoughts about my head.” Finally I was building the courage he sapped from with his keen eyes. “I fought for you. I fought to bring you glory and peace. By your command I bloodied my blade and killed for you, your Kingdom, your f*cking honor. And you tell me I should have tucked my tail between my legs and returned to you a coward?” My voice was raised and my head was hot even in the cold night air. “I understand why you sent me, it was indeed the perfect plan to lure Richard. Send your untrained lover to lead the assault and play to his perception of you while you rob him for his folly.”

My hands shook but I maintained my rant, finally spilling all that I had kept locked so tightly behind stone. “But f*cking Christ, James.” And my light eyes battled not to leak. “If you thought I would not readily die for you, then you do not truly know me at all. For what I love, I would fight to hell for it.”

James displayed a compelling patience as I said my peace, though I wished he would speak and save me the deafening silence between us.

After a long moment, he finally did, his tone soft and if possible, betraying the hurt my words may have caused him. “When I received word of the retreat, I was troubled that it had not come from you. I know of your courage, of your morality, it seemed you would not lead men to die needlessly if I had been more… explicit in my intentions.”

He took my shaking hands in his as he continued. “For I did not think- I did not even consider that you would give your life so boldly for me. When I heard you had not been recovered I- well my tower room sits very high, I thought I might… join you.” A tear welled in his eyes and his pupils swam before me.

“You led your charge well,” he said, swallowing hard. “Many say you would have given your life for your cause.”

“You were my cause.” I told him plainly, for it was true. “And I would do so again. I would fight every man, a hundred-thousand to one, if you willed it.” I was drowning in his weeping eyes, my sturdy walls crumbling, and moved my hand to wipe his cheek. My head still danced with unexpressed emotion, but at least I no longer wished I had died that day in the throes of battle, for it broke me to know what my absence may have meant.

“Forgive me, Sebastian,” he said, and the words seemed almost unnatural coming from his noble mouth.

“I do.” And I did, though I did not know if I forgave my own blind allegiance to this Prince of chaos and madness for his hold over me.

“And I love you deeply.” James assured me. “But you must know this of me. I have never loved before,” he said simply.

“We all have our first loves, though we do not sacrifice Kingdoms for them.” I responded, kindly yet firm.

“No,” he corrected gently. “I have never loved, Sebastian. Not my father, not my brother, I did not know my mother- No one.” While I had only the experience of common-born affections, I did not think this a normal occurrence. “I thought the word a farce, a fairytale, until I knew you.” And I could not answer this confession.

James continued. “You make me feel such terrible things, Sebastian.” His dark eyes ate at my resolve, and I could not help but to crumble under his deep, dark stare. “Such agony is the thought of losing you, losing your favor. And yet I would feel this a million times over, just to chance you might return my embrace.” He gripped my hands, his wide eyes unblinking, and I wished to shield them as though I looked upon the brightness of the sun.

“I love you too,” I said back, for I could not match the immensity of his words. Though I loved deeply, I was not sure it was with the same violent obsession he professed to me. Mine was planer, simpler, and though I would fight for it, comfort and amity were always the ends.

While I was sorry they flowed for me, I savored his tears, knowing how much I meant to him, finally getting the answers to questions I had wrestled with for over a month. He could not assure me of my other worries and qualms regarding our relationship or his future, but I finally felt I deserved at least to embrace my Prince. I pulled him to me and felt his racing heart reunite with my own, beating as one unit. I did not cry, but felt a consuming relief. It relaxed me to spill my thoughts, even if they could not be solved all at once.

After a while I spoke, stroking my Prince’s thick, dark hair and feeling the cold metal of his crown. “I want my own chambers,” I said, and surprised myself so, for the request was not among the number I had thought most important only hours before. “And-” I continued, unrestrained. “If you wish to call upon me, you must do so yourself. I will not be summoned like a pet.” I was shocked by my own admissions as my walls were so thoroughly dismantled. “And I take my tea without sugar,” I finished rather meekly.

James removed himself from my breast, looking astonished but bemused. “If you wish it, it shall be,” he said with a small laugh that seemed to break the tension like a soft-baked biscuit. If our union was to be known, at least I might delight in the concessions of his affection.

***

Only the flickering firelight lit James' dark bed chamber, casting sprawling shadows around us like figures, prancing and rejoicing for our reunion. The sheer curtains of his window were tightly closed, glowing yellow from the thickly clouded sky outside. His dark eyes drew me to him like a moth to the flames reflected in his pupils and the tall jar of oil at his bedside illustrated his intentions.

We lay unclothed in each other's embrace, breathing in the scents that we had not inhaled for too long, the dark odors of skin and breath and yearning body. I wished to unite our fingers and tongues and members, to lick him in all directions like the points of a compass and claim him like unsettled land, planting my flag in his unexplored soil.

I was surprised when he mounted me, my stomach to the feather bed and his lips roaming the mountains of my shoulder blades. His legs weaved between my own and his fingers parted me like a dull knife parts a warm roll, bathing his fingers in his fair store of oil. My apprehension rivaled my excitement, my pulsing co*ck trapped below me, begging for the friction of the silken sheets that teased me. My whole body arched into his touch, aching for the feeling I did not yet know.

And then, thin fingers were replaced by the thicker trunk of his length, my stomach nearly turning over as he began edging himself further inside, rocking gently back and forth and moaning for the pressure I gripped him with.

The pain of his stride caused me discomfort, invading me like a fire poker, as if to brand my bowels with his heated iron. But as he drew deeper, farther than any foreign body had ever lade claim, I felt the embers of heated coal stirring within me, stoking within the pit of my stomach

It was as though my breath had been halted, for I could neither draw in or exhale, stuck suffocating inside myself, lungs screaming for relief. And then the spell was broken as I felt tight, flexed rings inside me yield to his form. I sucked in the air like the first breath of a babe plucked so uncouthly from the safety of a womb. My fingers tightened into fists and I did not recognize the sound of my own pleading whimper.

He filled a void I did not know I possessed, fitting inside me like the wooden stake slips into the head of an arrow and drawing back my bow string with the balanced tension of a career marksman. It was slow but steady as the hull of a ship breaching a wave. His body rose and fell with the tides and steered his might into the force of his thrusts, his stern cleaving me like the foaming white waters of a harbor.

The closeness I felt to him surely equaled the sturdy bindings of any book, flipping my cover with a reckless abandon, but stroking my spine and running his fingers over the raised black letters. He folded my parchment as if to mark his place, imprinting a scar that would deface me forever and blemishing my margins with corrections and details of his own. James’ solid bookmark slid between the crevice of my pages and wedged the leather so deeply I tasted tallow.

He pushed into me, all the falsehoods I had harkened from Holymen, condemning sodomy and damming the sinners of unholy acts. I had seen God only in his absence, had felt him only where flesh stands as barrier between blood. I could feel my own scorched blood, the shuddering tightness of my muscles clenching around him. As he advanced, I felt my body give way, my fight diminish. I purged myself of all thought, all allegiance, and succumbed to the serenity. I had never known God, but here I knew, heaven existed, and it was this.

I did not feel him spill inside me, for I was enraptured with my own pleasure, his hammer striking a place in my body that flashed and sizzled like a quenched sword. Without so much as a finger to aid the tempering of the aching blade, I came forth with a desperate cry of repose, only the expensive fabric and my own bucking hips stimulating my desperate prick.

James collapsed on top of me, his stiffness slowly softening as he hugged my body from above, pressing the weight of his longing down like a blanket of a soft, slick weaving.

My body was tired, but my mind had a clarity only present in the last moments of a battle. Was I truly so broken as to believe I deserved no happiness? For I could not explain my disdain for my own desires, except to concern God, who had certainly done me no favors. For I did not choose these inclinations, it was not born of pure lust, or out of boredom for the female sex. It was truly a deep and vast feeling of contentment, of perfect harmony like the chorus of a choirboys. When it was bad, he shook me like a raging storm. But in moments such as this, when we found each other in calm, and he gazed upon me as if I were the only survivor of a shipwreck he had swallowed in his waves, I could not help but to sink myself in his welcoming waters.

He held me as no one ever had, tightly and securely. I could have dangled from the edge of the earth, clutching only his arms, and I would trust him not to drop me. He would have burned all of England and salted every field, starving us both if it meant we would die on the corpses of those who would admonish us. It did not matter that my blood was common, that our union may have mocked the very order of nature, we would rejoice as we burned together in Hell, ripped from our bodies and our titles, should God not proclaim our love.

I did not feel like a fragile songbird, I felt strong and mighty as a lion, for James was my pride. Though I could not know if the Prince would tire of me eventually, I knew he would not simply discard me like an unloved pet, and if I was indeed a fighting man, I would fight to the death for him and his profound madness.

Chapter 13: Hue and Cry

Chapter Text

The first snow of the season fell like the feathery down of a fledgling, blanketing the castle in a fine white film, and giving the air a crispness which stung the nostrils to breathe.

The hearth of my private chambers kept me warm despite the chill of the season and the blatant whispering that followed this appointment were separated by thick stone walls and serenely out of earshot. It was larger than my room in Richard’s keep, and the bed was softer. A comely chambermaid changed my sheets every few days, and brought me wine and fresh bread in the mornings, and I resisted the temptation to give her arse a light pinching when she bowed to leave. For she was no tavern alewife, but the refined help of the nobles, and her pressed apron and wimple were as starched white as the fresh snow that coated the castle grounds.

When the afternoons allowed it, I walked with my Prince down near the soldiers barracks. Our feet carved weaving trails in the ankle high snowfall, easily spotting the painted wooden targets where the archer’s practiced. Since my stay with Richard the month prior, I had found my fingers itching for the weight of a bowstring, flexing even in sleep to pull and hold and then release with purpose. James was quite pleased to join me when I conceded to this desire, accompanying me down with a bow of his own which was much finer and lighter than my soldier’s recurve.

I winced as I stretched back my right arm as if to test the once reliable muscles. My shoulder always seemed to trouble me, more so in the cold. And so it was, I indulged the man that had once held me prisoner, wielding my bow in my outstretched right arm and pulling back the hemp corded string to touch my rough, left cheek. James thought it most amusing, as I now mirrored his own armed actions, and informed me that the key to practicing the coordination of my non-dominant hand lay stiffly between his legs.

I almost did not want the Prince to watch me practice, for though I enjoyed his company, I had often told him of my past and he had come to know of my prestige as a marksman. It hurt my ego to fail in front of him, not only for the ineptitude of my left handed training but for my make as a man. Had he been a maiden whom I wished to court, I would have never allowed him to observe me in my weakened state, for it was not becoming.

My left arm steadied, but my aim was still far from true. It embarrassed me to have him bare witness to my weakness when he had never known my true skill. In my prime, I could have pierced an apple from the pate of a man nearly a hundred yards afield, but now I would be lucky not to strike his head from just fifty paces back.

I wrestled with the application and expertise I knew I possessed, and the dismal quality of my aim that I was displaying so blatantly for James to see. His carved yew bow could not match the strength and distance of mine, but we often trained close to, making my misses all the more humiliating. Though he was much the better when wielding a sword, his mark rivaled mine with infuriating accuracy.

“Well met,” he said when he had finally hit the target on its fleeting edge.

“Indeed,” I answered, annoyed by his show of skill over mine. “But the wind was in your favor.”

James laughed. “The only wind that blows does so between your ears.” But his pride had befallen him, for his next shot sank into the snow far beyond our targets.

I wished to split his arrow with my own vibrancy, easily cleave it in two with the force of my sturdy pull, but I could not manage to show him up, mightily though I willed myself. While I could not yet come close to my former abilities, it was still engaging and quite freeing from my usual duties that consisted either of standing or of sitting while other men rambled on. My spirit was enriched so, and on the next arrow the Prince readied himself to fire, I nudged him with my elbow so that his mark could not strike true and our score could then be in draw.

***

When we were not bundled in heavy cloaks and pulling bowstrings, or embracing under warm blankets the better to practice my ‘left-handed coordination’, we were bound by our duties within the castle. My back had grown quite accustomed to the stiffening required from a King’s guardman as I presided watch over James’ lengthy council sessions.

For while our day-to-day ventures remained much the same, within the Kingdom, tensions still brewed like a boiling cauldron. James had sent legions of men to ratify oaths sworn by his Bannermen, and even now, as his advisors poured over old maps and curling documents, the large table lacked one man’s usual presence. Sir Braxton, who sat as respected Knight Commander and who had so successfully executed the capture of Richard’s son during my siege on Ostenfold, was now leading a charge to the north to call upon armies not rallied in decades. The council did suffer his absence, as there were few with his paternal hold over the Prince to challenge his outbursts.

As it was, James was convinced that in actuality, his council lacked two seats. While war brewed to the east under the traitor Richard’s continued efforts, the Prince had decided that he required a Master of Word to lead the charge against unfounded rumors and provide him information of a more discrete nature. There had not been one allocated with this specific title in some time, since the Master under King James the Brazen had retired for age and lack of need.

It had worked its way into James’ stubborn head, that he should visit this Lord who bore this previous appointment and seek his insight. He did not wish to be caught bare-arsed on the privy for a second time like he felt he had upon learning of Richard’s treasonous claim for the throne. He spoke that it would serve him well to strengthen this alliance with the nearby hold, granting him a seat at his council and hoping to strengthen his assets with a man of many words and secrets.

While he may have bayed armed sentinels bare his words as James had done with many others in his Kingdom, the excitement in his dark eyes when he declared his intentions to bring the news personally was not to be challenged. For a great number remained loyal to Lord Caldiff for his age and his rumored wisdom. Many banners of Lords past had heeded his direction, and his longevity stood as a testament to his consistent foresight. I had heard little of him but that his house was prosperous and his words were of strong regard. If it was necessary for the Prince to risk his safety on the day's journey, I could not know, but thought that if Sir Braxton had resumed his directive, he would have cautioned strongly against this idea. After all, James seemed just as eager to adventure from his routine as he was to forge testament to his reign.

Though the Prince was not to be persuaded against this ambition, he agreed at least to keep a low profile and allow for another Knight to ride with us, for it was never in question that I should accompany him for this deed. When asked my opinion on the third rider, I could think of few Knights even among the King’s guard that I trusted with mine or my Prince’s life. And so I settled on a man called Sir Ian, who I was only aware of for his proclivity for solitude. A strange but honorable fellow who I had exchanged few words with beyond casual pleasantries but who was not taken to disparaging comments or rumors.

***

As we readied for our day's journey, I prepared myself carefully. My sturdy sword hung at my waist, secured by a leather frog, and a hunting knife was concealed at my thigh. We would begin our venture on the morn and return by nightfall should all events proceed according to plan, which seemed always to be a precarious eventuality. The Prince had removed his noble crown, and though stood handsomely dressed in a thick woolen turncoat and hat, he looked well-to-do but not overtly so.

Sir Ian braced his lengthy limbs upon his mare, auburn brow wrinkling at the cold and frost condensing on his tidy mustache. “Bit nippy,” he remarked. “But no matter, my fellows, for it invigorates the spirit. Now that our porridge has settled, our prospects are bright.” He was settled with a touch of abnormality, but his accent was posh and he wielded a sword as well as any in our company.

Before James sat his own mount, I kneeled to the ground at his feet, wishing to imbue him to the safety of my own contentment.

“Here,” I said, bending my knee before him, and attaching a sheathed hunting knife to his upper leg, my fingers caring to brush him gently. I looked up at him sensually as I fixed the leather around his thigh and secured it with the two notched straps. “Now even if you are without sword, you will still have a blade.”

My Prince smiled down at me, admiring the addition to his equipment. I showed him my own dagger, easily hidden by a cloak, and hoped we would never need to use them. Sir Ian led our charge, myself bringing up the rear. “Onwards we tread!” The Knight exclaimed as though we embarked on a thrill-worthy campaign and not a half day's trot in sake of diplomacy.

When we departed, it was only with the thin fitted leather that guarded our breast and shoulders. The bracers I wore around my forearms were tight and reminded me of my success as a bowman, but would only serve as a fleeting defense against a blade should the necessity arise. Sir Ian looked discomforted by the slimness of the attire, which contrasted significantly with the usual thick metal of the King’s guard armor. I was glad for the chance to trade weighted steel with riveted leather, and felt quickly accustomed to the agility with which I could move. I wished for a bow, but knew I could never wield it as constantly as a sword, and it would only slow me down if I was made to choose in a pivotal moment, which to draw for.

And so it was that we kept a decent pace, the three of us, feeling somewhat vulnerable in our number considering one among us was so valuable an asset. But the Prince soon rode carelessly before us, as though no thought of danger or concern crossed his noble mind. I might have preferred to go alone with him, to speak openly and delight in our seclusion, but it was for the better that Sir Ian was abounds, for though our journey was short, the trodden road offered many opportunities for sequestered foes to lurk.

We broke from our steady pace only for a spot of lunch, unwrapping the cheese and bread we carried with us and dismounting to rest in the pale sunlight that broke through the clouded sky. There were not many places that were spared the cover of snow where we might sit without wetting our cloaks, but we found an outcrop of rocks where the ice was easily brushed away.

“I like a strong, stiff cheese,” Sir Ian proclaimed, a large bite taken out of his yellowed wedge. He had a smart, noble accent, but I knew him to be mild tempered and slightly eccentric, if not overly so. “The aged, the better.”

“You do not mind the smell?” James asked, considering the man bemusedly.

“Not at all, your Grace, for what smells enriches the gut.” And he patted his stomach while the Prince stifled a small laugh.

When eventually we came upon the small Keep around noon day (being hard to judge with the sun shrouded by clouds) I thought it at first to be a great bolder. For the castle towers were so old, their edges toppled and rounded like an ocean worn stone. The bricks were greened with ivy, and the snow hid any distinguishing obtrusions that might have differentiated it from the landscape.

When we were welcomed inside, I thought the Lord that sat upon his high throne matched his Keep with surprising accuracy. He was slumped and placid, bulging from his chair and even his white hair seemed to be the snow that crested the bastions on the exterior towers. Lord Caldiff looked upon us with squinted eyes, though from suspicion or age, I was unsure. He gripped a goblet with unsteady hands, his eyes slightly unfixed.

James bowed his head, Sir Ian and I knelt behind him in honor. The old man spoke, his cracked voice matching the splitting stone of his Hold but with a sharper tongue than I would have expected from his decaying appearance. “Where is your crown, son of James? For that is who calls upon me, is it not?” he asked, and though he sounded aged and ragged, still he had the booming presence of a Lord.

“I have displaced it, for my audience begs a certain subtlety.” Lord Caldiff nodded his head and James continued. “You served under my father and his father before him. You attended my Name day two winters ago, and I have come with little company as show of trust to speak with you.”

James held his hand to his chest. “As you have no doubt been informed, the Traitor Richard plots to usurp me. I have heard it told, you once served as my father’s Master of Words. I come to ensure your knee remains bent, and your conviction has not wavered. If you will have it, I would invite you to sit at my council, for your words were always welcome under my father’s rule.”

The Lord drank deeply from his goblet, the wine spilling from his withered lips. “Listen, boy, you do not become a man of my age by taking oaths lightly. Yes, the bastard has called on me, and I have known him well, even before your time. In fact, I was among the men that supported his legitimacy.” The Lord seemed quite proud, though for his allegiance to the Crown or to Richard I could not tell.

“He was never ennobled,” James reminded him, though he spoke with my own uneasiness.

Lord Caldiff was unwavered. “Though he gains the banners of many I have been told.” To this, James did not speak. “He has also, plenty of words to tell of you.” And he eyed the Prince with a speculative regard. “But to these I do not speak, for I know not of his reign, only of yours. And you have not shown me or my kin the kindness of audience or rank as of yet.”

“It is true my Lord,” James said. “For I was but a boy when my father passed, and I am now no longer. As my voice has deepened and my hair has sprouted, I wish to make right that which I have been neglectful.” And I thought his words wise and uncharacteristically humble.

Caldiff gave a small chuckle. A wine bearing servant who blended to the walls for the grey she wore, refiled his goblet. “So say you,” he said easily. “Then take note, boy King who wishes to be be true King, do not forsake those who have shown you favor.”

I knew James bit back a vicious retort to these prideful words, and of that I was thankful, for he only nodded and bayed the Lord the respect the man desired. When the Prince Regent did not speak against him, the Lord continued amicably. “I have a son, now in his fourth decade, that I would sit on your council. He contributes my will and prescience and thus displays the vibrance of youth, which slips from me like my wine-aided bowels.” While I did not consider a man nearly twice my age youthful, this was a clear dictation of his terms without the outright command to appoint his kin.

James spoke with his measured tone, the hand still clutched to his heart. “I would welcome him, graciously.”

“Then we are of one mind.” Responded the old and withered man, a look of contentment bridging his sagging brow.

***

We left on good terms in the slate grey afternoon, my stead leading the charge and Sir Ian following close behind. The Knight was in good spirits, but complained subtly that he wished for another break to nourish himself for the half day's ride journey ahead, lest his rumbling stomach spook his mount.

The evening light only barely surpassed the dim sky, striking it with a tempered pink that lit the underside of the clustered cloud cover and directed us southward. It seemed a successful venture though for their twisted, noble speech, I could not be sure. When James trotted on ahead as if he had already won the war, I knew it must have been at least satisfactory.

While the addition of one man on a council seat would hardly turn the tide of battle, it seemed like James needed something to ease his spirits in regards to his claim, and I was not one to disrupt his triumphant mood. Lord Caldiff’s son would simply be only one among many that seemed to reap the realm of coin without contributing much more than a headache to the future King.

When finally we came to the woods that separated our homestead from that of Lord Caldiff’s Hold, I could not help but to slow my palfrey. Though the air was fresh and the breeze blew cold, I felt a heated sense of urgency that did not parallel the relative tranquility.

I pulled the reins of my mound to stop, pausing before the looming path that led between towering trees. The stillness of their barren branches caused the hairs on my neck to solute in foreboding, though I could not know why. Sir Ian led his horse to the front of the charge, for his senses had not halted his stride. Not wishing to be left, I followed once James had passed as well, tailing the two and casting my eyes about wearily. Though the forest had shed most of its leaves, the shadow of their number still lingered heavily, blocking light and appearing like tall and twisted witches, black against the snow.

Sir Ian patted his mare affectionately, speaking aloud to it in order to lighten the tension of the deepening woods. “Worry not my pet, for dinner awaits us on our return, the finest oats a beast can nibble.” If this improved his horse’s confidence I could not say, but it certainly did not ease my spirit as the gnarled trees entwined above our heads, blocking the dimming light.

We made our way along the path as it dipped between two gullies, the sloping earth on either side of us blocking our peripheral. The procession slowed, and I tread carefully, one hand resting on the hilt of my blade, keenly aware of my hunting knife strapped stiffly to my thigh. Every scuttle made by the small beats of the forest caused my hand a nervous twitch, my awareness heightened, my suspicions mounted.

The solid hooves of our horses tapped rhythmically on the ground, the snow cover dampening the sound and easily marking our trail for any to follow. The warning crow of dark raven jerked my neck to attention, stiffly yanking my reins and pulling to a stop.

And then, with a high and frightful neighing of Sir Ian’s mare, my attention snapped to the front of the procession, where a cloaked figure had darted out in front and nearly sent the Knight from his saddle. “Good God, man,” he said, calming his anxious horse and halting its stride. “Do you wish to be trampled?” he blustered, affronted.

The cloaked man tugged down his hood, his greying beard gruff and unmanaged. “I is but a traveler,” he started, eyeing each one of our faces. He appeared unarmed, but his greedy eyes lingered on us and the steel at our sides. “Spare a coin for a man in need?”

Sir Ian looked down disdainfully. “You are but a nuisance, but I will spare a coin if it shall heed your journey.” But as the Knight reached for the leather pouch on his belt, I yelled out a warning, for in an instant an arrow had flown from the high forest to our right and lodged itself earnestly through the skull of Sir Ian. The force of the blow knocked him sideways from his mount where he fell limply. The Knight’s riled horse took off at a run before it would be called to stop.

James yelled out in shock, but within a moment, three more men jumped from the gully and surrounded us, two figures on both sides of the path, blocking a retreat, our beasts jostling us for their fright. I pulled my blade from its scabbard with a sound like a rolling grind stone, trying to steady my mount. One man held a bow, fingers poised to pull back the string, an arrow eagerly nocked and readied, aimed at my head.

The cloaked bandit made quick work, kneeling by Sir Ian’s lifeless body and relieving him of his coin pouch as they advanced closer, trapping our horses back to back. “Why don’t you toss that lovely sword down ‘ere.” He said to me, beckoning his gloved fingers. “Let’s be quick about it, yeah? And we can save the arrows.”

Regretfully, my eyes on the archer’s steady hands and the small daggers the other’s wielding, I dropped my sword with a heavy thud where it lay in the snow and mud like a silver streak of light. “You too, boy.” He beckoned to James who followed suit.

“That’s a good lad. Now get your arses off them horses so we can have a little chat.”

“We have coin,” James said quickly, though I wished to hush him, these men would not be bartered with. They would take what they wanted with as little trouble as they could bear. They may leave us to die of cold, or kill us if need be, but what we said would make little difference. For their trade was banditry, and we were their wares.

“Aye, these are well fed mounts, and them swords don’t come cheap. Down with ya.” He motioned to his archer who braced his bow in warning. I dismounted, nodding to the Prince to follow. My eyes sprinted like a pageboy around at the four assailants, searching for a weak point, a misstep in their ranks. They closed in on us tightly, and I could almost smell the rot of teeth and stale wine on their fogged breaths.

James pulled out his coin purse which was considerably lighter than it usually was and held it out. “Here, take it,” he offered casually, as though it were a cup of sugared tea.

The bearded leader motioned to his nearest fellow who lowered his blade and strode to honor the invitation. He judged fairly the size and weight of the pouch before he even felt it with the practiced eye of a career highwayman. “This’ll feed me youngins for a month,” he remarked excitedly. As the man’s gnarled fingers outstretched so hungrily to retrieve the treasure he believed he was owed, James sprung forth like a jackrabbit. He drew the small blade I had set at his thigh and sank it deeply into the bandit’s unwatching eye. The man fell back, clutching his head as blood spilled like a tapped barrel of wine, and James was again upon him, stabbing him once more as he lay upon the ground.

The Prince let out a ragefull cry and the bowmen fired an arrow that missed James’ dark hair by a fraction. Though I would not have chosen to take the odds of four against two, I quickly took advantage of the confusion, retrieving my tossed blade from the ground, and rushing the archer before he had time to fetch another arrow from his quiver. My blade sank easily through his chest, spearing him like soft butter. But as I pulled back, casting his soul to hell and turning to make quick work of the outlaw beside him, I was stopped.

While James had managed several spiteful stabs, the Leader among them had acquired the Prince’s short, sharp sword and held the point closely to his throat, his leather clad hands bearing the boy’s neck with a sturdy grip on his raven hair.

Only a few more inches and I could have the accomplice impaled to the hilt, but I knew I could never strike quick enough before the leader ripped James’ pale windpipe.

“Drop it!” he ordered me, panting as he spoke, and I did so, my sword clattering to the ground for a second time. The man that had been my second target picked it back up quickly and pointed it at me as I backed away slowly. I tried to close the distance between me and the Prince but only made it a few paces as my back hit our nickering mounts.

“That’s it,” he smeared, as he withdrew the blade from James’s neck and began rifling around the Prince's fine clothing. The tapered blade of the stolen sword tore carelessly at James' shirt, searching for other hidden weaponry or coin, his other hand still clamped at the boy's skull and forcing the Prince to his knees.

James was breathing hard, clearly panicking and not prepared to die silently. “Unhand me and you shall be rewarded. For I am your future King,” he struggled, and I shook my head at him, pinned to the back of my horse with my own blade pointed at me, fingers trying covertly to find my hidden hunting knife.

“Oh? And which might you be, the boy or the traitor?” he jested, clearly not buying this truth. “Nah, you may be noble but you isn’t no King.”

“I will have your guts ripped from your stomach-” James tried instead, and I wished to gag him for he only made things worse.

The man holding him grinned his blackened teeth. “Say, this be one fine sword, Lordling. Sharp as a needle it is,” and he poked James’ sword into the lad's kneeling leg, earning a sharp cry of pain and the red bloom of blood on his britches. My fingers found the curved handle of my knife, sheltered by my heavy cloak, waiting for the perfect moment.

“Please!” James said pitifully, casting his dark eyes up at his tormentor.

“This one cries like a maiden. Looks as one too,” the man laughed cruelly, addressing the only other accomplice still alive, his hand gripping James' hair tightly. “And that dirty mouth- you ever tasted a man’s grown co*ck?” He asked savagely, enchanted by the Prince’s dark eyes.

“Try it and I will bite it off,” James spat back, swiftly earning him a blow to the face from the hand that gripped the sword’s etched hilt.

“Can’t bite with no teeth,” the man laughed and I watched the Prince spit blood. “Now hows about you give my stiffened prick a nice, noble kiss and we’ll sees about lettin’ you live.” He laughed, clearly enjoying his display of utter dominance and turned to the brigand holding me at sword point. “Kill that one.”

“No!” James yelled, halting him, his eyes flashing to mine for a brief second, his white face splattered with red. “No, undo your britches, robber, and I shall take you fully.” The man who guarded me looked on with intrigue and annoyance, and I knew he wished to rob us and be done with it, but also wondered curiously if he would receive a turn of his own.

As Satan tempted the lustful leader, thinking himself lucky for the coin and concession of his helpless victim, he undid his dirty britches and James met my eye once more.

I acted swiftly, drawing my dagger and flinging it into the face of my captor where it lodged deeply. My sword sank but an inch into my chest before the man fell. As the bastard hit the ground, I rolled my body forwards on the wet earth and grabbed the blow from the fallen archer. Before the leader of bandits had realized his man had been slain, I braced the bow in my right hand, drew it back with my left, and pulled it tightly to my cheek with a steadily nocked arrow. I aimed for his head.

Without thought, without feeling, I exhaled and released the firm arrow with a whistle of crisp air. Though I had strayed from my mark by a margin, the pointed metal head struck the only surviving man in the neck, halting his fumbling hands and staggering his gate.

His heavy body fell to the ground, gargling on the blood that filled his throat. He choked and spluttered but I was not satisfied letting him slip away in peace for his actions. Though I had not spoken a single word since the apprehension, I strode over to the dying man and released my words in the form of flying fists. I beat his face with my knuckles, the arrow sticking out from either side of his strained neck, not let hard enough to clear his body, but ensuring he would not bleed out before I was finished enacting my will.

I grabbed his shirt for leverage and sank my closed hand into the soft tissue of his ugly features, mashing them to a bloody pulp. He hardly struggled against me, his hands flailing madly, unsure whether to block the assault or fumble feebly with the skewer in his neck. As his last fleeting thoughts wrestled with this dichotomy, I pummeled my frozen knuckles against his aspects, rendering them into a mask of gore and red matter.

Even after his breathing stopped, his hands limp and his head lolling back unaided, I continued to wail at his featureless form. I could not even feel the pain in my hand, for the coldness and adrenaline that raced through my boiled blood. The only thing I felt was a consuming sensation of anger and overwhelming retribution. I heard not but the wet squelching of muscle and the sharp knocking of fleshy cartilage. If it was the love for my Prince, or the crippled pride of my ego I could not say, but I continued to strike him until I could not tell the clotted red snow from his disfigured effigy.

My vision tunneled as though in a dark cave, seeing only a thin shaft of light that danced with scarlet. And then, I felt a solid hand on my shoulder, an anchor of respite in a storm of ichor waves.

Hands trembling, I turned to see my Prince, standing over me with an unreadable expression. I stood on shaking legs, my arms and legs and face colored in the vile insides of my rival. His hand went to my back, his head tipping to lean against my shoulder, keeping the silence that seemed to flood my ears like a rain cloud. He stroked my spine tenderly white I shook with boundless energy.

***

It was not the first time I had returned the Prince on a mounted stead, covered in blood, to his anxiously awaiting guardsmen. While Sir Braxton was not among the men that oversaw our return, I still felt admonished by the watching eyes beneath every helm. For it was surely easier to blame the arbiter of James’ safe passage than to openly call into question the foolishness of the Prince’s disregard for personal safety.

Surprisingly, James seemed more disturbed by the potential for his council to use this to call into question his future judgements, than by the events that had actually transpired. While I could not rid my closed eyes of the spread of crushed skull and brain, the Prince seemed assaulted only by the gauze and honey that treated his wounded leg. My hands and chest were bandaged, but my humanity felt ripped from my body, even as the Prince spoke of my bravery and bowmanship to all that tended us.

But it was not he who was made to tread the same dark path, leading a great number to the site of Sir Ian’s unceremonious execution. The manor of his death spoke to the inherent barbarity that is easily forgotten, but is present in every spirit. Who among us would not steal and defile and kill should its purpose outweigh our desire for the avoidance of conflict? When a belly rumbles with hunger and young pups cry with parched mouths, even a decent man will stain his soul with acts of violence.

Flies circled like vultures around the heads of the dead, and the air stank with the foul secretions of sh*t and blood, the ground wet and muddied with the aftermath of our tussle. Sir Ian was relatively unbothered by the hovering vermin, they swarmed instead over the dark mass of tissue that had once resembled a bandit leader’s harrowed face. The bodies of the undeserving were simply dragged away from the path so they might be food for the beasts that lingered about the forest. Sir Ian’s body was covered and placed with honor in a horse drawn cart to be returned to the castle and laid to rest under God.

Not one among the men interrogated me regarding the scene, and I did not wish to speak, instead leading the way there and trailing behind as we departed. More than sorrow or shame, I felt a distinct lack of those emotions that might have plagued me. My fists still stung and bruised deep purple, but I did not feel a cold rejection from heaven’s holy light. Instead, I felt justified, a bitter flower of anger for the events, and a willingness to repeat my actions.

Perhaps some of the Prince’s madness had rubbed off on me like the itch gained from a harlot’s unguarded c*nt, or perhaps he simply unlocked a seed that had always stirred in my stomach, sprouting now only for the nurture of his affection. It was almost a longing with which I yearned to return to a state of simple self pity, but my spirit had stiffened, and I knew I would readily break my hands on any skull that dared to harm my one true King.

Chapter 14: With Vigor Contrived

Chapter Text

War is not favorable. It can make men coin, cards played correctly, but not without the cost of losing what was previously laid out on the table. The only decent prospect of war is to venerate your integrity, to prove you have something worth fighting for.

The way it seemed to me, the simplest answer was often the best. Men could talk in circles like riled foxes, catching each other's tails until the seasons changed and devoured their enmity. Oftentimes, the best course of action was direct and resolute. You could not plan for every eventuality, in due course, the side that acts first has the best advantage. For what is the worth of your courage and freedom if you are not willing to die for it?

As the chill of winter settled in the sturdy stone walls, the Council meetings became so heated with speech, that the hearths had to be dampened and the wine watered down. Many more words were spoken in times of turmoil, for it rattled the coin in purses of those who had them to lose, and taunted the night thoughts of any not weary from field-labor. The topics discussed ranged from traitors to trade routes but rarely ever settled on one long enough to rest a conclusion.

Listening to old men talk was like the chatter of marsh frogs, for they bellowed concerns as mating calls over each other's heads, yet never found a match with which to copulate. One toad chirped about soldiers lost in a brutal storm to the north, while another croaked for territory disputes.

Lord Caldiff's son Lambert, a newcomer to the table and Master of Words, spoke in response to a pressing matter nearby. The grey hair on his temples appeared positively youthful compared to the Prince’s other advisors, and portrayed the seasoned confidence of a bullfrog. “Yes, I can speak on that matter. They station at Briar Hedge.” Master Lambert had answered. “It now serves as a confluence for a band of brigands united under the traitor’s green banners.”

It was a small town to the north-east, under title to no Lord and flanked by farmland. Now it hosted a minor encampment said to be bolstered by local support. Done by Richard’s orders or only in his name, we did not know, but it meant the general agitation by the Prince’s advisors was heightened for its proximity to us.

“It is likely a test of your will, of the bounds he may push and the limitations of the Crown’s reserves. If this is by the traitor's hand, he would have you question your safety for this breach of your territory.”

The Prince perked up as an excitement overcame him. “If I might lead a charge, I would show my force on this matter. They may rally to me when they see I do not hide behind bannerman as Richard does.” James said, a spark igniting in his eyes at the thought.

Sir Braxton shut him down protectively, freshly returned from a recent acquisition. “I am afraid that is out of the question, your Grace.” He began. “Your place is here, keeping the Kingdom united under your presence. It would not do well for men to believe they have a chance to strike you.” His words stung with the result of the Prince's last leave from the castle, the dressings still compressing his wounded leg, but James sulked all the same.

The Knight Commander continued. “It is a small area. If you wish to reclaim it, it will be so within a fortnight. Richard keeps his numbers to the east, these are likely mercenaries for they bear no united colors.”

My back stiffened and my voice leapt from my chest. The Crown needed a decisive show of force, a destructive catalyst that would break the formations of this rebellion as a Glazier breaks colored glass and reforms them in an image of his choosing.

This I told them all.

It was the first time I had spoken at the Council, for it was not my place to do so. Speaking not from a seat among the old men at the table, but from my Prince's side. I felt afforded by our bond in this venture, though I had not considered my words as carefully as I might have had I not been compelled so by the indecisiveness of their talk.

I was spared any chastising from these men by the Prince’s intrigue. “And how might I shape this window?” he asked sincerely.

“You could regain the area, but as it is, they drink and sup under Richard's rule.” I thought of the folks of Ostentold, who had so quickly accustomed themselves under the reign of a usurper. While the common folk could hardly mount a rebellion against armed forces, those at Briar Hedge seemed to actively assist the congregation’s establishment. “I would not have death wielded needlessly, but you will need more than a quiet reacquisition if you mean to match his spectacle.”

My uninvited declaration was met with an uneasy silence from those around us, but was broken by Sir Braxton’s tentative tone. “This is not without merit.” He nodded, for he often distrusted my judgment, but had come to know the influence I processed over our Prince. If I could give James the excitement he wished for, I may save him from his impulse to see it for himself. My record as general was not on my side, but I whispered in the ear of the Prince more intimately than any, and wished to be involved in a plot that acted according to plan for once.

He may have thought me mad, but the Knight Commander continued, managed and contained. “If it is not in your desire to portray tolerance on this occasion, your Grace, a more forceful show of your might would certainly be warranted.”

Lambert spoke on this, his tone calculated. “The river feeds many small streams around the territory, we will have them dammed. When their houses burn to ash, there will be no respite from the blaze.” His voice was sturdy and his eyes were cold; he gave the impression of a man who would sordidly strike by night.

The Prince was taken with his words, and whilst it had been my idea to sack this treasoner’s lair with the Crown’s swift justice, I let the men around me compound on this proposal without my collaboration. I was pleased to have my words harken by the Prince and his Council, but I did not want to push my luck by interjecting myself further. Truly, I believed James had yet to show Richard the pure power and assets at his disposal, and though their previous encounter had been an amicable trade, I wished to right the wrongs of my misactions that had spawned that occasion.

Though I watched the men discuss the assault without interruption, I was dismayed not to be selected to lead this charge of my bold contribution, nor even asked if I thought myself suited. Not even an injection by James that I might be afforded this position, though I knew he did not wish for a repeat of my previous charge. While I was dismayed not to go, the discussion concluded with a plot to see just five hundred strong men sack and dismantle the town of Briar Hedge.

***

As a small garrison was gathered in the icy mud just outside the castle gates. I watched them from my chamber window, lamenting my exclusion. They congregated in roughly-formed queues, some sharpening their blades on leather strops or else casting dice to pass time until word of their march was mounted the following day.

There was little risk in the venture, only the threat of ill-trained sellswords or resistance offered by rusting farm tools. It was a longing; to release a pitch-flamed arrow into a bundle of enemy thatchings, to march over stone and debris with a well stocked assembly, to burn and rend as one swift blade in the hands of many. Above all, I longed for the manifestation of success, ensuring to myself and my Prince, that my insights could prevail, that I might be worth more than the sum of my faults.

He was on his hands and knees, his slim, toned hips flush against me and his back arched, raising his arse to meet my steady thrusts. He was moaning like any well plowed lass, and my fingers found his stiffened length, pointed with conviction, and gripped him firmly.

The long ridge of his spine glistened like a desert channel, and I could have scaled the dunes of his bones and drank from the oasis that pooled in the dip of his back. The grip of his resilient body pulled me to him like the hungry mouth of a serpent, springing from the warmth of his sands and digesting me slowly. I seemed too large to be devoured by the creatures, too stiff and unyielding, but as a snake unhinges its jaw, the Prince relaxed with a practiced eagerness and accepted me fully. The force to draw back felt like an affront to the feast of his pleasure but was welcomed by a moan of waited longing as I thrust back to meet my thighs to his flexed buttocks.

Though my head was filled with a burning steam and my eyes were clouded and blessed by such arousing sights, my mind could not help but to wander. I wanted it, more than I wanted to drive my stiffened prick into the relenting grip of his tight passage. I needed to right my wrongs, fill the space created by my capture and prove I was useful as more than a hardened co*ck.

“Let me come,” I asked of him, my hips slowing and pushing myself to the hilt, the shoving halting but my member squeezed deep inside him.

“A moment more,” he begged. “I am almost there.” James panted, backing up against me to grant some fleeting friction.

I kept still, filling him yet driving him mad with my stillness. “No,” I corrected. “Let me come with your men to the skirmish. Let me brand and burn in your name.”

When he did not answer me, I released his length in retaliation, still pressed inside him intimately.

“It will not be pretty.” James said, grabbing my hip in an effort to resume my pace.

“f*ck pretty.” I growled, and let myself drive into him several more times, teasing him, drawing out his lustful moans.

I halted once more and James groaned, sinking his elbows to the bed, presenting himself so sinfully and tempting my resolve. “Trust me,” I urged.

James signed. “I trust you will not leave your Prince stiffened so. Please, or I will mount your co*ck on a pike so I may finish myself off.”

I spanked my hand down hard on his tender flesh, causing him to jump and tighten around me pleasantly. My spirit was filled with a burning desire that rivaled that of my loins. The darkness of my want consumed me more fully than the will to plant my seed.

“Command my inclusion. I am able, and will make you proud.” I sank deeply, applying much pressure to the bundle of nerves that lie within him, his legs shaking in rapture, but then I eased back defiantly.

“I know you are able, Sebastian,” he said with exasperation. With great effort, James pulled himself away from me, lying down on the bed and causing my co*ck to spring from him and bounce against my navel. Though my mind was resolute, it did not soften my determination. I wished to satisfy him completely and show my loyalty with more than just my stiffened blade. I would not fail to heed his carefully twisted instructions, for this time I would prove my knowledge and understanding of him was steadfast as the thrusts I so desired to fill him with.

I lowered myself down over his back, pressing his smaller body against the silken sheets and kissing up his spine as my aching appendage slid against his fine, fair skin.

The Prince spoke softly, his hips arching to meet me in helpless anguish. “I know you are able,” he repeated. “But I do not wish to risk you again.” And I knew he thought of the absence that had separated us so precariously in the months before, after my failure in siege.

“This time will be different,” I breathed, a sensual assurance of my devotion against my Prince’s ear. My prick parted the cleft of his arse and he let out a small gasp as I allowed myself onwards, returning to his shuddering embrace. I worked him slowly for a moment, feeling the twist of his desperate hips and the moistness of his slick skin.

“I will be careful, and I will bring to you glory-” I drove into his depths, “-and pleasure.”

The Prince moved a hand beneath him to molest his own throbbing manhood.

I continued a brutally stalling pace, listening to the intoxicant that was James’ lulling moans and whimpers, his breath quickening. “I will force their mouths to praise you and their tongues to beg of your mercy. They will feel your righteous might and proclaim your terrible wrath.” The words I spoke were those I knew would fall favorably; speaking of his reign and power only strengthened the noble blood that pulsed in the grip of his palm. I braced myself, nearly freeing me from the mighty grip of his muscles, before striking back down like the sturdy point of a lance.

“Say it,” I grunted, my heart hammering the sting of heated wax through the channels of my veins.

“Christ,” he screamed in anticipation of ecstasy, though I would not let him undo so easily. Grinding my hips against him, overwhelming his elation, I stilled myself once more. “Say it, James.”

Once more he moaned as I lifted and brought myself down again upon him. “Yes,” he relented this time. “Yes, you may go, please, oh God yes.” And I felt him writhe and sway with unparalleled release, frantically swearing like a blind beggar as I drove him to his peak and continued on past it.

I had beget my own desire, and as I continued to work my way past his manic gasps of overstimulation, I knew I could finally succumb to ultimate indulgence.

Nothing held me as snuggly as the Prince’s waiting sheath, not my own familiar palms, not the folds of a freshly bled maiden. And nothing filled me with a greater flood of satisfaction, even as I purged my humor into his quivering body.

If he was contemplating the consequence of his reluctant allowance, he did not show it. James grabbed at the sheets and panted as though he had bent his breast and ran through the darkened night, sprinting for his life. I lay on top of him, covering his form like a well-worn cloak, before withdrawing from him with a breathy moan and laying beside my trembling Prince.

“I love you,” I told him, resting my rough fingers on his sated backside.

He did not answer at first. I thought him to be sleeping perhaps, but he was not. With a dark and steady voice, he answered me. “Do not lose yourself this time,” he warned me. “Or I will find you and flay you myself.” And I was satisfied completely, though the sincerity of his tone caused me shiver.

***

Bells rang as a distant cry of defiance, a bleating warning to seek shelter or flee. Any who rode to our destination, dismounted at the outskirts to the village. For what could be more panic-inducing than to witness a legion of men charging headlong, running, not riding, as though to escape a terrible forthcoming fate. But we did not flee it, we carried it. Like fleas carrying an abhorrent disease, we jumped upon the small square; a tiny patch of brittle houses amongst a cross-stitch of farmlands.

We were driven like bats from a cave, called to by the beckoning night and instinctually bound by our wicked nature. We torched the thatched roofs until they lit like beacons of retaliation, emanating our intent as a testament to the might of the power we wielded. The snow melted from the heat of the blaze, revealing large earthen circles around the cindering huts.

My heart burned as brightly as the roaring flames, fanning the tinder in my stomach and roasting my inhibitions like a cast iron skillet. I felt alive and wild, my base desires animalistic and profane. We beat our plated chests as one and dispatched a vengeful justice to those who wielded weapons against us. The briggens scattered like insects from an overturned rock, and any make-shift encampments were fodder for our conflagration.

The green sky turned from a putrid yellow to a muddied brown, like the piss of the unhydrated or the muck that feeds the swine. Black smoke thickened like a damp cloth laid about the face, choking and stinging eyes and throats alike. The mail on my arms grew heated from torch flames, the sweat chilling me like a fever and clotting my vision.

I could not spot the armor of my fellow men, for the light did not catch steel through the blackness of the smog. Only my shuddering coughs heaved me onward, rasping like a monk who inhales too deeply from a thurible. I was not cleansed, but stricken, wishing to tear at my throat and heave my lungs from my breast.

The sun shone down on the savagery, appearing as a yellow apple in the soot-filled air. The density of the fumes felt like wading through a pestilent bog, and the smell was as thick and heavy as coal dust. Attempting to shield my eyes from the billowing vapors did nothing to stop my chest filling with the oppressive smoke. I felt I was drowning while on land, a flopping fish plucked from the sea and gasping from the weight of the air. Eventually, I bent down to breathe near the ground, as though my only grace was the smell of well-trodden dirt.

Someone called to me as I all but kissed the land, sucking in ash and earth and closing my stinging eyes. A stranger pulled me from the wind-swept miasma, free from the path of the draft where I might regain my equanimity. My vision was blinded with tears from my burning eyes, and I let myself be guided like a sightless vagrant to an unfamiliar space.

Walls of stone and lime mortar greeted my savior and I, slate tiles sparing the roof of our righteous flame. From the tall sloped ceiling and rounded candle brackets that hung from it, I ascertained we found reprieve inside the village church. Men, women, and children were huddled on the worn pews or congregated together on the floor. The heavy stench of smoke lingered in the air, but did not seem to penetrate the well-sealed windows.

“Leave the dog outside, can you not see his cruel steal,” a man shouted, his accent thick and spiteful.

The one who gripped me spoke with a woman’s aspect. “I cannot watch as another suffers, heathen or no,” she said.

“Then advert ye eyes. He will kill us all, the pillager.” Yet no one rose to challenge my presence.

Though I stayed coughing and swaying precariously, balanced on unsteady legs, I drew my sword at the assumption. “I am no pillager, man. I am a Knight,” I retched. “Sent on behalf of the Crown, do you not see my colors?” I asked, though my white cloak was gray with soot.

“We see you,” the same man spoke and I saw him more clearly now as the pain in my eyes ebbed. His skin was tanned and leathery, and his knuckles bulged like the knots on a tree. “Does the Crown want the tinder from our burned houses? Why have you come to rob us of our livelihoods, Knight of death?” He showed no fear at the brandishing of my weapon.

But as I steadied, again I was shook with a fit of gasping, as though my lungs were a broken bellows, punctured and useless. I fell to my hands and knees, my sword clattering on the harsh stone. I was offered a weak wine, and did not reach for my blade when I recovered. If they wished me dead for my actions, they outnumbered me tenfold.

“You abet the traitor Richard,” I spoke, when the burning embers in my throat had been quenched. “You aid in his usurpation. You are complicit, all of you.” But I did not feel as confident as my words portrayed.

“Aye, we aided them, and would again.” He said unrestrained. “King Richard has promised us seeds and stalks a plenty. The boy Prince, King or no has not held court for to listen to our plights. It has been three winters now. We can not let the fields lie fallow, for we have no legumes to enrich the soil.” The man eyed me as though to fertilize his fields with my flesh. “This war halts trade and hinders production. We care not who sits the throne, only who harkens us small folk.”

All who remained in the town, alive and unburnt, were those who bore no banners, only the waving linen sheets of common laundry. There were no examples to be set for those who wielded only shovels and pitchforks. I looked upon the soot-stricken faces before me, but I did not feel guilt for our mission. Should Richard’s supporters continue to rally, many more towns and villages would be set alight, by defenders and opposition alike. These peasants only agitated the hornets of war, striking their bundled hives with the pointed stick of rebellion.

I met his hardened eyes. “Take our gesture here as the will of God. Should your loyalties continue to fray, will we sever them to spear our weaving.”

“Loyalty will not till our fields,” he replied.

It was not with cruelty, but a measured finality that I spoke to him. “No, but your tears will salt them. For this war has just begun and if you do not stand with us, you stand against.”

I was grateful for their audience, for it gave me a confidence that could not be achieved by action alone. The men of this realm did not want credence, they wanted security. Bloodshed means little if it does not stain the clothes of its spiller, as a rose blooms much bolder if it is pruned. There were necessary evils to achieving sovereignty, and necessary concessions to be made. The part of myself that was tender, yielding, must be hardened and refined.

I felt I knew my place, my purpose, and it was not in that small dark church while the burning houses crumbled outside. It was in a savage and crippling love, and it was at my mad Prince’s side.

Chapter 15: A Blaze Thus Desired

Chapter Text

My return to the castle after the sacking of Briar Hedge was eventful. I wished to curl inwards and liberate my aching bones of exhaustion, should my rabid nerves allow it. Yet instead, I was made to debrief the excursion to Sir Braxton with the leaders of the charge. We had not slept since the night before the venture, riding for nearly two days on wearied rouncies to bring swift word of our achievement to our homestead.

The blood coursed through my body like broken glass, slicing me from within and begging for the release of unconsciousness, but we detailed our efforts with our Commander as we had done before setting forth on the mission. We looked like a pack of scroungy mutts, matted and dirty the lot of us, blackened with soot and sweat and our garments gnarled or ripped. Though we arrived home scorched and stained, it could not be said that our raiding had failed. We had achieved what we had set out to do, and had lost less men than could be counted on the fingers of one hand. The brigands had been swiftly disbanded, and the village was all but decimated for their lenient involvement.

I had left the church where the huddled forms of disillusioned small folk had taken refuge. They had not tried for my capture or resisted my departure, though it may have afforded them leverage for their plights had they known the significance of my Name. I did not turn my blade against them for their crimes of abetting brigade traitors, but I would not spare them any further pleasantries. I did not even thank the kindness shown to me by my savior, for it would have contended with my efforts there, and I did not wish to battle these contradictions in my smoke-suffered head.

Nearly all buildings burned and crumbled where straw thatching had been used to construct them. Animals were killed or else fled from their trampled pens. The bushes of brambles and thorns that surrounded the village, and for which it was named, were set ablaze to dissolve the dense barricade that protected it. Any who had made their encampments in the name of the Traitor Richard fled, or else were shot as they ran and dropped like autumn leaves, scattering the blackened soil with their decay.

When the Knight Commander was satisfied in his examination of our recount, he dismissed our company, but not before pulling me aside and addressing me separately. While I did not lead the charge personally, I was more senior than many as a member of the King’s guard and established confidant of the Prince.

“You have done well to quell his fierce ambitions,” he told me, and it was clear to whom he referred. I only nodded at his remark, my throat still caked in a sediment it seemed no liquid would absolve. “I only fear this is but a temporary remedy.”

“His will is strong,” I spoke, my voice low and dry. “He wishes to include himself in the action, not simply preside over it.” For this was true and an acknowledgement of the Knights allusion.

“You do not possess the fortitude to venture in his stead on every excitable whim. No man does,” he added, sparing the slight to my courage.

“I can try.” I grumbled, for it had been my will, sparing the Prince of his self-lead charge.

But he continued. “After Ostenfold, before word of your capture-” and I winced for this reminder. “-He would not eat, nor sleep. I thought to bar his window for the look of longing he imparted.” A lump gathered in my throat that was pure charcoal.

“I know what you would say to me,” I told him, liberating my Commander of the words he tentatively danced around. I needed strong wine and a soft bed, not a lecture, however warranted his concerns may be. “You did not call for my inclusion to negate the prospect of my… departure. But I am not a man contented with failures, to call others to fight while I sit idle.”

“You have shown yourself adept in battle. Well led and justly followed. I respect our future King and admire his keen insights, but he is still a lad- I do not quake in saying so- and his aspirations are often at his own expense.” And I knew he thought of the slain hunter in the Kingswood, the burning of the defamer Henry, of my capture at Ostenfold, and our recent journey to Lord Caldiff’s hold that had cost the life of Sir Ian.

But I could not focus on this mountain of misdoings, for I had little room in my head for pity and doubt. My mind drifted up the stairs to the west tower like a ghostly specter, longing for the warmth of James’ embrace and the feathers of his plush pillows. I had wrought destruction in his name and I wished to be rewarded if only by his gentle fingers in my tangled hair. I looked to my Commander with reverence, for his guidance was sage, yet I could not truly restrain the Prince and all his wildness.

“I will go where he sends me; to the bottom of the sea, or the depths of hell. If I can prevent him from harm, even by his own hand, I would gladly suffer my death. I will bear myself on every battlement until blades carve me like ivory and I am more arrow shaft than flesh.”

He looked at me as if to dissuade me from this notion, but I went on.

“I know of your devotion.” For surely he felt the same intensity from James’ dark eyes as I did, preaching to his well-sung choir. “But I have learned much concerning the diplomacy of Kings, and I will advise him to my fullest capacity.” Proving myself competent or worthy of trust would not assure him of the Prince’s safety. No man under God could satisfy Sir Braxton’s worry, for it was like the tender care a shepherd imparts to his flock, always vigilant and constantly concerned for their well being. But James was no yearling.

The man regarded me for a moment before gathering his words. “The fire of Kings can never be quenched, only tempered. I will serve him until he no longer needs me, tending him carefully lest he burn himself out. Take my words with you, for I know you mean to call upon him thusly.” And he looked to me as a father looks to a son that has grown too old to cane, as though he only hoped he had beaten me hard enough to imprint some decent wit. “Do not fan his flames, keep them burning steadily, and his light may guide us all.”

It seemed as though he wished to keep me in his throws until I fainted from tiredness, my eyes blinking heavily with sleep. But when I only nodded at his words, he cast me in the parental comfort of a fleeting smile and bayed me my leave. The locution of his advice spoke to his veteran experience addressing noble and common men alike. His intimate knowledge of the Prince and I’s relationship, afforded me the assurance that his insight was indeed well-founded and astutely derived.

I was sure he still saw me as the ephemeral fancy of a lad’s ascension into manhood, but his words were flavored with honey-sweet patience. I savored his compliment to my prowess in battle and his acknowledgement of my unyielding devotion to the Prince. But while I digested his intentions like an over-baked tart, I could not help but taste the bitter tang of ignominy, to which I was so well-seasoned.

For while I tried not to stoke the Prince’s regal blaze, often dampening his leaping heat and burning myself to spare him the prospect of ravenous extinguishment, I knew deep within me, my own fire burned. One of compulsion, of obsession, and of madness. How could I proclaim to reason his brightness, to manage his roaring temperature, while my flames licked so eagerly at his bountiful kindling.

My hunger for the raid on Briar Hedge, my manic decimation of another man’s face, my overwhelming love for such a chaotic creature. I knew despite myself, we would burn as one until the embers consumed us both.

I felt I might be sick with the fever of my own thoughts, the dislocation of my sleepless senses. I knew only that I yearned for James' raging warmth to soothe my churning ailments. Something about the recklessness of his expanse, the integrity of his tinder, the way he seemed to burn continuously, made me feel calm and measured in comparison. Dismayed though I was that he was not in his chambers when I arrived, I knew he must be tending to his increasing duties, not yet informed of our recent return.

His bed was freshly made, elegant and pristine as a fresh-minted coin, the trimmings matching the same fine gold as a florin. I crossed the swept stone floor and sank to the covers, shaded by the deep blue drapings that curtained the bed. Pausing only to remove my muddied boots, I gathered the soft blankets about me, dirtying the Prince’s fresh linen with my unwashed garments. My yellow hair was matted and ashy and my sturdy jaw was rough with stubble and smeared with soot. The length of my body reached almost to the end of James’ large bed, but held me securely, letting me breath in the regal cleanliness of bergamot and clove. My mind became blank as an unwritten page, the smell of smoldering wood overwhelmed by the luxury of the scented sheets, lulling me blissfully into nothingness.

***

It had been late afternoon when our sorely band of brigand burners returned, the grey sky touched with pockets of blue and darting glances of pale sunlight. When my tired eyes became unstuck, fluttering open and filled with the sands of sleep, it was for the feather-soft touches of fleeting fingertips.

James was humming quietly. I had never known him to sing and could not discern a melody, but it was rhythmic and calming like being rocked as a babe. The room was dark, but the hearth crackled, seeping warm light that flickered and swayed. He showed no disdain or aversion to the squalor of my condition, brushing the short hair from my brow and untangling it of sweat and dried mud. He lay beside me, propped up on an elbow, licking his thumb and smudging soot from my cheek. His nimble fingers undid the leather fastenings of my torn doublet, unweaving the lacings and exposing my linen.

My mouth tasted of sour pitch and bitter bile, but he kissed me all the same. His spit was sweet and his tongue welcoming. He drank deeply from a tall picture, dark liquid pooling in the crevice of his lips and dripping from the corners, staining his open undershirt with reckless abandon. I watched him sensually, my throat parched and loins stirring. When he leaned down again and pressed his mouth back to mine, his parted lips flooded me with a watered wine. Swallowing his precious gift, I lifted a hand that felt weighted with lead and found the wetness of wine that slicked the nape of his neck.

On aching arms, I propped myself up and removed my undershirt. I sipped more weak wine from my Prince's sultry lips, spilling the sacrament between us and dotting the sheets with the dark essence of summer-ripened grapes.

James moved over my body, straddling my weary waist and scattered his hands like chirping crickets over my chest. The right of my breast and shoulder were marred by abrasions, rounded medallions of puncture wounds now long healed over. I lacked a nipple there, the result of a well-let arrow that had robbed me of my skill with a bow when its brother struck a hand’s width higher. James pressed these scars intimately, not enough to pain me, but with a tender firmness that caused me shiver.

He slipped from his garments as a cold-blooded beast slips from its skin, exposing the tender flesh of rebirth. Reptiles that roam the earth are descendants of a great garden serpent, cursed with undying until they return to the depths that spawned them. The Prince did not appear scaled so, instead, his smooth figure glinted golden, outlined by the hearth behind him, light-crested like a relic from a Godly paradise.

If my salted skin tasted of oil and ash, James did not show it, nipping at my ears as my calloused hands wandered his torso, my thumbs lingering on the tiny, pink buds of his nipples. I raised my head and lapped at them, a cat lapping milk, rough tongue on the soft feast of tissue, licking them erect as though hardened from cold.

He shivered, grinding his nakedness down upon me where I felt his heat emanate, smelled the spiced scent of his arousal. Hands darted like the restless beaks of ravens, grabbing at my britches and pulling at strings to reveal me. Truthfully, I did not know if I possessed the energy to please him fully, but my prick was lengthened and stiff as it met the pulsing flesh of his own. He bit my lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but with the sharp tease of possibility.

When he rose to mount himself on my iron-piked wall, I almost could not resist the urge to spring up and impale him. As my member slid so easily between his parted cheeks, I wondered when he had oiled his postern entry so thoroughly. Maybe he had waited by his window for my return, slicking his backside and riding his thin fingers as he yearned for me. Perhaps he readied himself so eagerly while he hummed me from my restfulness, and if so, the restraint to coax me so patiently was endearing.

He moaned as I filled him, bathing my loins in scalding lust. Though he could do no more than a gentle rocking as he accommodated me in the pit of his stomach, I was content to hold him there, gripped by his tightness and dipping my bucket in the well of his pleasure. The pressure consumed me like the depths of the open sea, dark and unforgiving, the twisted beauty of the yielding current compressing me with the weight of his waters.

He felt firm yet pliable, like warm beeswax heated by kneading palms. I lifted my dry hands to the wetness of his mouth, pressing down his tongue with my thumb and coaxing it in and back out. “Spit,” I grunted, my voice hardened from neglect. Coating my fingers thickly with wine-reddened saliva, I directed it down to his stiffened sex, a soft moan issuing from those sinful lips.

It seemed he had indeed been aching for my caress, the sturdy timber of my hardened plank. For though he rode me only a short while, like a horse trainer learning the temper and sway of an unbroken stallion, the length of his leather crop pulsed and gushed forth several spurts of unplanted seed. The image of his poor, untended co*ck, straining the cotton of his thin-threaded britches while he waited so dutifully for me kept me stiff, even as James panted in resolve.

I cupped his rounded arse for support, my fingers dimpling his skin, thrusting up into him as he shuddered and shook. Despite my weakened state, I was renewed by his gasping breaths, his balled fists which trembled on my chest. To finally reach the summit of our union was like jumping from a bridge, the swooping roll of my stomach as it turned in rebellion, attempting to flee from my falling form, and the icy plunge of the waiting river below.

The sweat cooled on my skin with a kiss of the chilled air. I shivered, my body relaxing as I sank back, nearly crying out when James pulled himself swiftly free of my invading manhood. My eyes were closed in rapture, but I felt the shift on the bed as he removed himself from it. I was not troubled by his absence, for perhaps he wished to clean himself of oil and sweat. A dampened rag wiped the sweat from my brown, the liquid from my chest, and the soil from my softened co*ck.

When he returned to my company, I wrapped my arms around him and breathed his fragrancy, the air of his essence. Though I was still dirty and more so unkept, I felt cleansed and unsullied. The heat from his body beckoned me like the wisps of light in the smoldering hearth. Sir Braxton had indeed been correct, the Fire of Kings can never be quenched, for it burned within their very blood, and I wished to baptize myself in my Prince’s flame.

Chapter 16: Unweeded, Unwound

Chapter Text

Waking up in a bed by my lonesome was never something I adored. Oftentimes, I enjoyed my solitude, preferred it even, but opening dream-glazed eyes to another’s company was a specific pleasure. The satisfaction of a full bed was like a basket of warm, fresh bread, comforting and whole. James was no different though he reminded me more of a bowl of tender fruit, with his tantalizing ripeness. I felt protective and secure. The way his breathing came and went like an ocean tide, such contrast to his usual intensity.

My mind was filled with the thoughts of the Prince and his nocturnal beauty, even as my ears were filled with the droning of his Council hall. It was now a daily occurrence, often held for several hours, made all the longer for the newcomer’s constant jabbering. Certainly he deserved the title, for Master of Words at least described his ability to ramble. He had a small pointed patch of hair under his lip, and with his constant chatter, appeared like a large toad trying to swallow a fluttering moth. I could not even confide his annoyance to the Prince, who seemed to quite enjoy Lambert’s dark waxing, especially when it concerned the whispers he acquired and his insight into Richard’s current occupation of the east trading ports.

Because of the recent acquisition, the Crown had halted dealings with most of the coast to the east. This was generally not a problem as we had sufficient resources to weather the shortage of many items, yet somehow, the Holds under Richard’s keep displayed a surprising lack of scarcity. “But no matter, you Grace, for I look into this even as we now speak.” Lambert assured him proudly. Though his present inclusion was like an unreachable itch under steel plating, he had been surprisingly useful. It was the closest James had come to the words of his common man since our outing to the tavern so many months previous.

It was also with Lambert's assistance that I convinced James to hold court, the first time he would do so as Prince and acting Regent. The people of his Kingdom wished for an ear in which to voice their plights, as the act of whinging freed the tongue and calmed the spirit, even if they were not wholly heeded. Really, it was the people of Briar Hedge that had dawned the realization on me like a steady sunrise. If the small folk felt they were heard, they might not be so easily swayed by treasonous promises from the ill lips of traitors.

So even as I disliked the man that acted so righteously anointed, as if his balls were tickled by Saint Peter’s holy fingers, I could not fault his appointment. My eyes nearly rolled in their sockets however, when he stopped me after the lengthy summit and sought to strike a conversation.

“When was the last time your boots were mended, pray tell?” He asked me and I looked down at my worn hunting boots. Strictly speaking, they were not part of my designated attire as King’s guardsman, but I had never been told-off for wearing them. They were comfortable, reliable, and had conformed around my feet pleasantly, though the soles did threaten to come unstuck. Lambert answered himself for me. “Say, Sir, why don’t you accompany me to the city cobbler? I have known him to mend the most troublesome tears, free of swindle, a decent bargain. A Knight of your standing should surely reflect the nobility of the Crown.”

I did not disagree, though I did not wish to entertain extended company with a man I merely tolerated; he was quick tongued and took pleasure in the play of argument. “I have duties to attend to,” I told him, thinking that I could visit the cobbler in my own time if I so desired.

“Nonsense, good man. I am sure the Prince will not admonish our venture. He might even thank me for improving the footwork of his favorite Knight.” It seemed Lambert would not take ‘no’ for an answer, a common affliction of highborn folk. I agreed to the Master’s request if only to stop his berating. We would both attend the Court of the Prince that afternoon, but there was time to satisfy the man’s request if we took our horses, much to my displeasure.

***

The sun was a cold light on this day, but the clouds had receded, melting much of the remaining snowfall from the weeks prior. It was a rejoice to many, for it had been some months since the sky blushed so blue, even if a strong north breeze still froze the snot in any lip.

There were limits to the pace of riding whilst in the city bounds, and for the bustle, it was often easier to walk. Thus, we dismounted by the out-skirting stable when we reached the city gates. We wandered along a side street; the main roads were cobbled, but most others were hardened dirt. The dusting of remaining snow was muddied here, too much foot and cart traffic to preserve its purity. And while often crowded, today was more so, for many people worked outside if their duties allowed them, bathing in the sun’s stiff rays as though spring had come early.

Being born of high status, Lambert did not drink from his wineskin like a common man, but poured it into a goblet first, though this process was less efficient. I had no such hesitations. I drank from my leathered flask as he sipped his cup, passing a procession of men supporting large wooden planks on their sturdy shoulders.

I was spared much of his usual prattle as we rode, but as we walked in close proximity, his leading the way though surely I knew the roads better, he began his consistent drabble of words. Like a leaking bucket, always dripping.

“Tell me, Sir Sebastian, how did you find yourself in such close company with the Prince Regent?” He asked me and I stiffened. “Come now, you are no noble, your sword work is decent, not exemplary. And yet, you have become emboldened so as to speak at the Council? You are kept but an arm’s length from him, sometimes less...”

“Say what you would,” I told him plainly, for if he wished to allude like some speech-twisted noble, I would sooner drink alone and mend my own boots.

Lambert chuckled, unrattled by my conviction, but he would not venture to do more than insinuate. “My father held my title as Master for nearly fifty winters. Do you know what he says about words?”

I raised my wineskin to drink. “That they are pebbles?” I asked, uninterested. I had heard this phrasing many times since the old King’s death, it was no new revelation.

The man looked pleased at my answer. “There are few things not spoken of, and fewer things I do not hear.” I supposed I should be grateful for his position as Master of Words, but I disliked his self-important tone.

“If you hear as you say, why question me so?” I asked.

“Because, you are a liability, and I must judge to what end.” It was an honest answer, but did not suit me.

“Then judge from afar, for your words are unwelcome.” A breeze blew between us and stiffened the tension of our exchange.

Master Lambert was quick to recover, offering a smile that did not quite reach his creased eyes. “You take me wrongly. I wish only to serve our future King, not indulge in rumors. I hear many pebbles tap at the window where he sleeps. If I am to measure which will break the glass, I implore you to aid me.”

I grunted in response, wondering whether he interrogated all of the Prince’s personnel so intensively. Before I made to ask him this, he changed the subject.

“It is my job to listen to the chatter of common-born men, such as yourself. I have gathered much since my appointment, simply by walking these well-worn streets and, well of course, for a big enough sum a man would sell out his own mother.”

As we walked, we passed by two women hanging their laundry in the unseasonable sunlight. “Let us stop here to drink.” Lambert spoke casually, and he leaned his back against a lime-washed wall, in earshot of the chattering housewives and sipped from his cup.

“They say he drinks his sorrows away at night for the stress of Kingship.” Came one woman's voice as she spread a linen sheet over a hanging line.

“Must they refill his goblet even till dawn?” The other asked as she smoothed out any wrinkles in the fabric.

“No, my sister is a launderer at the bathhouse. She said his sheets are stained with wine.”

“The poor lad, not even grown and already burdened so.”

Lambert continued our walk and I followed him. He moved as slyly as a fox, unusually limber for his age, and fast on his feet though his footprints hardly sank in the shallow mud. I ventured to guess that even in his nobleman's attire, he could sit under the sill of any window and peruse the rumors of the peasant class at his leisure, as a scribe flips through a ledger book.

“The perception of the Prince is favorable among the small folk, for he has kept taxes low even as his brother rallies for war in the east. The Church, however, is another matter.”

We paused near the door of the cobbler’s shop, the painted sign of a finely-crafted shoe, swinging in the light breeze. Tired as I was for talk of politics, I knew his words were well-based, and he continued to speak them.

“They claim since he is not yet King, he cannot appropriate tides for his war efforts. And there are other words,” he dropped his voice to a murmur. “A Knight for an Heir.” He tutted to himself. “You know, perhaps words of marriage would quell their Godly whispers. I myself have a daughter of thirteen.”

I gave a sharp laugh to this. “I would remind you of the last betrothal offered to the Prince, and the costly outcome.”

But Lambert matched my laugh. “I mean for you, Sir Knight.”

I nearly choked on my wine. “I am oathed from taking a wife,” I told him, for I could no longer tell if he jested.

“You are oathed to serve the Realm with your life. What could be more honorable than to break these nasty rumors of your Prince’s immorality. Besides, she is quite young, that is to your liking, is it not?”

I glowered at him, wishing to knock the pompous smile from his face. “The church will have their King this summer. And he is nearly a man grown,” I added with contempt.

Lambert smirked, tipping back his goblet. “”

“Leave your words where they are needed. I break no oaths, only noses when they stray to my business.”

“So, you deny this hearsay?” he asked with a portly banter.

“I deny nothing,” I shot. “But I will accept no falsehoods.”

He leaned back, either satisfied or resigned, I did not care to know. “Well, he has certainly found himself a wordsmith.” And he opened the door of the shoemaker, ending our conversation while my pulse still hastened with irritation.

The smell of leather and cork filled my nose, the gentle scrapings of wood littered the floor and I could hear the careful tapping of shoe pins. “How fair thee?” Lambert asked the man behind his workbench.

“Cold as a Norseman’s Hel,” the man responded. Lambert talked of small matters and complemented God's blessing of this beautiful day.

I set my boots on the table and the man took a long look at them, turning them over to examine the undersides. “Aye, three days work. Sides need stitching, soles replacing.” I did not like the idea of wearing my sabatons for the following days. Though they were officially part of my King’s guard armor, already I felt a blister brewing from lack of wear. “Two shillings on your return.”

“Two?” I asked, for I had had more mended for less.

“Surely that sword cost more than me life’s work,” he stated, crossing his arms over his aproned chest. “Want it done right, or cheap?” And I knew I should have come without Lambert or my metal plating if I wished for the commoner’s price.

“If it is a matter of coin…” Lambert said, reaching for his purse, but I held my hand to stop him. He would have loved to have this over me, as if I owed him anything.

“Three days,” I nodded to the cobbler. I turned to leave the dimmed interior for the brightness of the city, but Lambert was exchanging a few guarded words with the man and did not follow. Thinking he made to pay for my boots himself, I watched him closely, but instead, the working man handed him a small rolled piece of parchment before exchanging farewells.

When we had left the small shop, Lambert paused again, making a show of brandishing the letter. He unrolled the note and examined it briefly before tucking into his cloak. I knew he wished me to ask him of its nature, but the temptation was stronger than my will not to give him the satisfaction.

Lambert smiled when I relented the question. “Of this, you shall soon know.” And he padded his pocket teasingly.

We walked back to the main road, keeping clear of any traffic or horse muck that dirtied the stone. “Ah alas, my wineskin has emptied. Could you point a fellow to a decent alehouse?” he asked. “You were born in this city, were you not?”

“Just outside of it.” And then took care to direct him to a tavern where the ale was overpriced and watered down.

***

The Prince’s position on the throne to hold court for the first time was a well attended event. Minor nobility gathered to both sides of the room, standing as still and straight as the great pillars that held the ceiling. Many of the King’s guards were stationed, the Knight Commander and various council members watching expectantly as matters unfolded. All those who would petition the future King were collected outside the large open doors, allowed to enter only as the man before him departed.

There was much talking, yet it was not dull as the council sessions, as I rather enjoyed hearing James speak his insight and preside over matters by the steadied palm of his own hand. I knew he did not enjoy the repetitive and lackluster task of dispensing justice on such trivial matters, but he handled himself well, barely displaying the haste of his often excitable temperament. A scribe stood to his left, near to where I was stationed. The scratching of parchment saturated my ears with familiarity, though I could tell by his pen strokes that he did not write with such efficiency. The hurried darting of his scrawl forbade his inexpert shorthand, and I could almost feel the grading scratches as he nearly tore the page with his crossings-out. I wished to take on the task myself for his ineptitude, though my skills with a quill was not satisfied by transcription alone.

I was brought back to attention when a farmer from Brier Hedge was announced, and walked slowly to stand before the Prince, a hat not quite hiding the look of wonder as he gazed about the opulence of the throne room. White banners hung on the walls, the sparrow flying larger than any living bird. Narrow shafts of light beamed from the high windows and lit James’ fine features like the beacon of s lighthouse; a shining solution to the storm of his KIngdom.

“You have some nerve to show yourself at my court, ploughman. After your dealings with traitors.” James said, though I knew he appreciated nerve.

The man before him put a hand to his heart and kneeled. “My Prince, we were set upon by bandits bearing green. We could do little to stop them with their terrible steel and iron. They claim they settled under the new King, and who were we to deny them? We are not men of blood and coin but of earth and soil. My line has served under yours for nearly a century, I have no allegiance to any but the Sparrow that soars on your white banners.”

“You have fine words. But I grant you no concessions for your town’s complicity in hosting treason.”

The Farmer looked upon the Prince’s face boldly. “I ask thee not for concessions, your Grace. Only that you would permit me to earn back me integrity in thy beautiful gardens. For never a nub were greener than that of my thumb.”

It may have been the light, but I thought the Prince smiled. “I myself enjoy the feel of furtle earth, but I have all the landscapers I need.” The man bowed his head but it seemed James was feeling lenient. “There are several farms outside the city proper under the Crown’s employ. If you prove yourself as a laborer, you may yet one day tend to my gardens.”

The man removed his patched hat and dipped his head once more. “God’s great blessing’s, my Grace, for a trade to feed me family is as much a mercy as any.”

The next man to enter the hall did not provide as much intrigue, but was justly issued.

“I am the Guild master for the merchants of the city. With the east ports halted, our cargo must now travel by carriage to reach the other Holds in your kingdom. The roads are dangerous, more so now that thieves unite under a traitor’s colors. Begging your pardon, your Grace, but may we not have a small number of armed guards to accompany these deliveries?” He bowed deeply.

But it was Sir Braxton who spoke, his general’s voice nearly echoing in the quiet hall. “We have few soldiers to spare. Any not used must remain in reserves, ready to march as the war commands it.”

James tipped his head to the side, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne while he thought. “We may have no men to spare, but surely we have additional equipment. Perhaps if your travelers dress the part, they shalln’t be bothered by bandits. Their heavy steel will scare off the scoundrels as a scarecrow fools hungry birds.”

The man looked less than pleased, but the Prince’s ruling was at least a promise of action against the mountain of his troubles. The next man to bear witness to James’ measured rulings looked wet as a fish, though I could not tell if by sweat or by puddle. The Knight announcing him simply gave him the title of Eel catcher, which was more of an action than a profession.

“You do indeed look as slippery as any eel,” James commented and gained a small murmur of laughs from the watching audience.

The man smiled to be addressed as such. “Kind words, your Grace, for the eel is a noble beast. Suitable for lent as no other meat, and just as good boiled as dried. I ask your attention, for while we provide your majesty fifty bundles a season, my kin and I catch the eels at Pillar’s Passing. But as soldiers march their heavy boots to cross the bridge, we have had no luck in trapping the eels. For they agitate the poor creatures and scare them from the waters. Their spawning has stalled.”

The Prince pulled a face but answered him swiftly. “I do not like eel, nor fish for that matter. Hear me, I cannot build a new bridge just to spare your family’s waters.” The man frowned. “But, you use worms for your bate do you not?” The eel catcher nodded his head tentatively. “I will send you on your way with several racks of salted meats. Perhaps they possess more refined tastes, and will be tempted by this bounty.” The man smiled, whether thinking of the bellies of his eels or his kin I did not know, but was pleased regardless.

I could not help but to think of Richard as James dispatched the matters of his common folk with such confidence. While the older brother had indeed a knack for settling the disputes of his keep, the younger possessed a similar constitution and contributed his growing acuity even if it bored him to do so.

When the court was over and the doors were closed, many still waited to speak their peace. Much of the cort left the throne room and the darkening light from the windows was replaced with the flicker of many candles. James made to rise from his throne, looking tired and in need of good plowing, but Lambert approached him. “There is one more matter, your Grace.” he said, looking around at the emptying hall. James sat back with a slight frown and nodded his head.

“Yes?” he asked, betraying his annoyance.

“On the matter of the Traitor’s capital, I have received word on this today.” And he might have waited for the gathered council to speak, but I knew he liked the show of his bent knee while the Prince sat before him on the throne.

“What news have you?” James asked, perking up his deflated expression.

Lambert took from his cloak, the letter I had seen him collect from the cobbler that same day. “On this parchment, I have the names of three men. Each has property here in your city, but works as tradesmith.” James leaned forward, regarding the Master with interest. “By their hand, established routes have been journeyed to connect Richard with venues of trade. The Crown’s reserves, your very assets, my Prince, are being sapped from you as we speak.”

James swore. “I could have guessed, for his holdings have not withered as they should.”

“Exactly your Grace,” Lambert smiled, looking quite pleased with himself despite his dour report. “As a show of force, I believe we should have these vipers executed swifty.”

“Give me their names, and I will see them burned, a pyre for each.” And a flame seemed to flicker in his eye.

I found my voice on the matter, standing at his side where the scribe had paused, unsure whether his duties remained active. “A spectacle, I am sure.” I said, not wishing Lambert to fuel my Prince’s raging desires. “But would it not be better to have them hanged? Then their corpses could be displayed for all to see, we could even cart them to neighboring towns when they have stayed their course in the city. A reminder to all of your righteous justice, and a deterer to those that would enact such offense.”

James considered my words, nodding, and I felt pleased by his audience until Lambert spoke once more. “Better yet I think, we should sever their wretched heads and mount them for all to see. Less weight for the carts to carry, and a shocking reality for any who oppose you. Their tongues will lol from their heads and rot in the sun. Their eyes will be picked free by ravens. They will stand, disfigured, ugly under God for their sins.” He painted a vivid picture, and I knew as well as he that the Prince would eat it up.

“Right you are, Master Lambert,” he said. “Sir Sebastian, have Sir Braxton called upon to assemble men for an advanced guard. I want these men captured before the break of day on the marrow.” I nodded at his order though I felt slightly irked that he commanded me so.

I did my duty briskly, for the Commander had only just departed the assembly himself. There would be three men jailed tonight, I was sure of it, for Sir Braxton was indeed a man of swift action. Still, I felt somewhat heated and subdued. My earlier talk with Lambert still pranced in my head, not helped by his favor over me regarding the Prince’s intentions.

He was like a dark snake in the grass whom I wished to trample with my heavy steel toes. The Master of Words had not earned his place at the Prince’s side as I had, and did not truly wish to aid the Prince as much as he wished to bolster his own self-image. Even for all his winding speech that worked its way around James’ shoulders and whispered in his ear with a darting forked tongue, still he was no more than a newcomer, a robin on a windowsill.

When the guards had been sent and James had come to my chambers to seek my affection, I dismissed his audience. I stated I needed to visit the cobbler for an urgent appointment, even though it was near nightfall and my boots were being mended.

Chapter 17: In Thy Image

Chapter Text

Three men were lined up on the stone-risen platform usually reserved for hanging. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and a wooden block was placed in front of each while the gallows swayed behind them menacingly.

Hangings were a monthly spectacle, not an uncommon sight for the people of the city, bodies jerking and writhing, twisting like sack-drowned kittens. They were well-tended events, something striking to break up the monotony of their daily lives and provide something for the peasant class to talk about while they tilled and toiled.

When I was younger, I always came to watch the hangings, observe the curious nature of this vulgar entertainment. I would claim to my mates that, were it me, I would promptly jump before the ropes were hoisted, the bounding leap of my legs venturing me skywards. For when I fell back to earth, my neck would surely snap for the force of the splitting rope, sparing me the indignity of suffocation. Though these were only the musings of youthful ignorance, I had now seen enough death to fill the Abbey graveyard, and was immune to its morbid draw.

These men would not be hanged, not lifted by ropes till their feet stopped twitching. Instead, they would kneel and bear their necks, heads removed for their treason. The executioner wielded a sword of the same name, a sturdy two-handed blade, sharpened on both edges for a clean, swift blow. Though the sky was clouded and darkened since daybreak, the weapon seemed to gleam with malicious intent. It was a righteous punishment, but a rarely used form of justice, and thus, even the Prince attended this affair. Surrounded by his King’s guardsmen and propped up on his high carriage, he was kept well away and far above the lice-ridden heads of his commoners.

Each, allowed to speak his peace, was provided this mercy swiftly. “Long live the true King Richard,” said the first, before his tractor’s head was cleaved from his body. The hole in his neck pulsed and blushed, the raw flesh weeping blood.

The second man apologized, first to the crown, then to God, then to his mother, for the sins he had committed. His neck was no stronger than the last, head plopping to the wood with a weighted thud, red springing from its absence.

The third man said nothing, casting his eyes about darkly and looking to the soul of every watcher. But once the blade came down, he looked no longer. Oozing muscle surrounded a cresting white bone, a clean break for the dirtied sword.

The heads remained pointing out menacingly from the walls of the city gates for many days, freezing and then thawing as the weather showed the promise of warmth. The pikes had been driven in through their open necks and knocked the underside of their skulls. Their mouths hung loosely open, rotting tongues exposed. The flesh was grey and pale. Blues and yellows swelled in junction, creases deepened, pores expanded, skin seeping vile humors.

It was unsightly, a blemish of mud on a stretched frock, the squelch of horse sh*t on my newly mended boots as their faces watched me leave the city as the third day passed. My feet felt secure, but the yielding softness of their once-worn bottoms were now stiff and hardened. Taking care to trudge in the puddles that gathered in the spaces of cobble-stone cracks, I attempted to rid my soles of muck, and my soul of anger. The decay of their vestiges served as a branded reminder of Lambert’s work, like hot iron claims the hides of cattle.

“I will be glad when they are moved, for their deadened eyes follow me.” I spoke. I was still quite sour, a bitter berry, but I did not shirk my duties, as the Prince had bid me.

James laughed. “If it would settle you, I will have their heads turned eastward and they will watch you no more.”

We walked as I tailed him to his daily obligations. In a rare display of international patronage, a foreign painter had been commissioned to capture the Prince’s likeness, dictated for his upcoming coronation held that summer. While the man was renowned for his skill, his stay was compressed by his schedule, and thus many council sessions were cut short by James’ required presence behind a large stretched canvas.

This afforded little time to talk with him, regarding my grievances or anything else I might wish to say in private. He seemed to take my unsubtle stiffness as a sign to ease back, which was precisely what I wanted, and yet despised. For at least he might do me the courtesy of ensuring his devotion, when others threatened his attention so presently. Were it not for the Master of Words, always looming so eerily, like an owl in the rafters of a barn shed, I might have held his attention nearer to where I believed it was deserved for our history.

The room faced eastwards, a cool morning light flooding in, casting the Prince’s wine-dark doublet with a faded blue. They called it a Tea room, it was small but lavishly decorated like an elaborate royal pastry. And though there were many areas of the castle I had never been to, this seemed an extravagance I would have once chided. But for my time living within its walls, the castle hosted so many rooms, one dedicated to herb-infused water and tea cakes, bless me, began to seem almost sensical.

I could see why it was chosen for the portrait, for all the pillows and drapery, the fine fabrics of silk and velvet, the opulence on display was suitable for the message it wished to project. I held my tongue though, for the extensively lavish furnishings reminded me more of a wealthy tailor than a King.

The painter truly seemed a man of skill. His fingers worked fast, his collar was high and he wore a lace around his neck that was ruffled and full like the leaves of kale. Charcoal marred the blank linen with thick strokes, the angles sharp but the lines muddied and gathered. I shuddered to picture writing with such an implement, how I would construct letters with that brutal tip. The man seemed focused and unbothered, confident in his craft, though I did catch him dip his brush accidentally in his wine on several occasions instead of his paint water.

When he looked at me, I turned my head, pretending to admire the integrity of the cushions.

“I work better when I am not shadowed,” the Painter spoke, his long thin mustache curved up at the corners, but his mouth frowning down.

“He is a member of my King’s guard, he is welcomed for my stay,” the Prince said, inclining his head to me.

“No, no no, do not tilt your head so. It must remain regal and pointed as I sketch the outline.” And James' head snapped back to center.

Paintings were not done simply for the patronage of the art, but to display a grandeur that encapsulated the integrity of the nobility depicted. One might display a Lord with a flock of sheep ten times its true size, or a Lady with the birthing hips of Venus when she possessed no such features. Thus was the nature of a diligent portrait, to capture expressed potential more than factual representation.
Many of these depictions hung about the halls of the castle, especially in places glimpsed by visiting aristocracy.

The Prince's mother’s effigy was echoed continuously, almost always painted in blue or white, a testament to her devotion to the Virgin Mary. Typically pictured with a belly full of child, she proclaimed her fertility, though she barely bore the King a living heir. While her face was always soft and sweet, her eyebrows bore the same thin arch as James’, with a similar mystery behind her dark eyes. The King himself had less images delineated in his name, though for those that remained, I avoided, as they remind me a bit too much of the Traitor Richard, with his brown curls and thin nose.

I remained with my back straight, my arms clasped at my sides, wondering if this was to be as dull a position as my presence at the Council chamber. James beckoned me nearer, still out of picture for the frantic artist. “Would you tell me a story?” he asked. “To pass the time?”

If I had not been stung as a nettle, I would have obliged my Prince’s request happily. “I know no stories,” I said stiffly, my eyes fixed on the window.

The Prince scoffed admirably. “Each moment is of reverence to you. Indulge me with your wit.” I felt a hardened pride at James’ words and cleared my throat for the tale I began to weave.

“There once was a petulant pig farmer,” I started, drawing from nothing, as skilled as any painter. “Some said he had the finest swine in all the land, for their fat-rounded bellies bulged with bacon. He could spend all winter slaughtering the sows and still have a fresh batch of piglets ready for ripening come the spring.” I could smell the sharp pigments used to scatter the painter's pallet, and continued with my story, not knowing to what end.

“But then there came a summer of pestilence, where the hooves of his stock blackened and their mussels dried. They would not eat, and the wetness of their bowels joined the mud of their pen. In search of an antidote to spare the livelihood of his life’s work, he sought the advice of a wise herbalist, a brewer of concoctions, a filler of vials.

“ ‘You slaughter and ravage them at your whim, you do not think for the mother you have taken or the son you have stolen, you think only of your stomach and the riches they bear.’ But she turned her back to him and her mortar ground like the scrapping of wet stone.

“ ‘Here’, she said. ‘Feed the babes with hemlock and sage, and they shall grow and multiply with vigor. But do not sell or eat of them until they are fully grown, for you must display your esteem of these forked creatures, lest they know of your dependency upon them.’ The farmer took the mixture greedily, paying as scant as she would allow.” The painter was now dotting strokes of color on the dark-primed background, and James kept his head held high, listening to my words.

“The man returned home and at once, fed the porkers by hand, even the runts, for he tasted the pork on his lips as they snorted and gobbled at the fresh herbs. As the season wore on, the ones nourished by the witches brew grew and lengthened in stoutness. He soon expanded their pen for the width of their stature, pleased to produce such a vibrant crop of brutes.” James had held his position quite staunchly, though his hands tensed in anticipation for every pause I took. Even the painter seemed engaged for the ceasing of his brushstrokes.

“But though the autumn had yet breached the leaves of color or departed them from their strong branches, the farmer's mouth began to water at the vastness of his yield. The bores were solid and engorged, the sows portly and sublime. ‘Only one’ he thought to himself. ‘Just the smallest.’ he said, though she was thrice the size of any sheepdog. ‘She will make for me a fine meal, and her hide will cure for ten shillings in the market’.”

I looked up from my unfixed gaze at the window, both the heads of the Prince and painter looked to me, though both turned away again as I became aware. “Yes,” I said, in both my voice and the farmers. “ ‘Yes, I will treat myself for my diligence’ and he plucked the sow by a sturdy rope pulled about her neck and slaughtered the beast in his work shed. No thought was spared to the words of the wise woman.”

“The fool,” James said to himself, but I continued.

“He hung the carcass to drain of fluid, the organs removed and his hands dirty with her blood. He wiped his brow, covered in the insides of his savage butchery. When he emerged from his shed, doused in gore and reeking of death, he smiled, for he would soon have his belly and purse full to bursting.

“But when he laid eyes upon the pigs of his drove, they met his with contempt. The words of the Witch filled his ears, yet he thought they could not know of his barbarity, for they were but beasts. And slowly, they marched upon him as an army of men, trampling their feed under cloven feet and sniffing the air for his terrible scent.” I paused to gauge the silence that followed, only the intake of breath met my ears.

“They surrounded him, their noses bunched and bristles aquiver. They smelled the air of his ill-compliance and the herbs that had planted in their stomachs. He shoved them back, his boots connecting with pudgy faces though more advanced upon him, robbing him of his footing.

“Their strong jaws gnawed at his flesh and rendered his brittle bones. They started with the feet and groin, but they made their way to his thrashing limbs and finished with the delicacy of his contorted features. They could smell it on him with their powerful snouts, could taste the blood and body on their bestial tongues. He had not waited as the woodswoman bayed. His greed and his hunger overtook him, as did the mangle of their gnashing teeth.

“When the sun rose fully to bathe the swine in the light of God, the mud was thick with savagery. For though the decay was fraught with flies, the bone and tissue had been consumed. All that remained of the petulant pig farmer were his pigs. Thus is life when ungrateful of a bounty yet provided.”

I did not know if a moral was undertaken, if a wrong had been righted, I knew only that I felt a vague reverence for my words and the meaning they carried. There was no smearing of paint or the washing of dirtied brushes, but finally the Painter spoke, his words enacted as if he had not hung on every word like linen on a clothesline.

“A foolish story.” he said, his brushstrokes resuming. “Pigs cannot eat of hemlock, for they will die,” and he laughed, his eyes and hand steadied on his artwork once more.

***

“So if I am a petulant pig farmer, are you a ripening sow?” James lay on the tidy bed of the chamber room he had afforded me, watching me slowly remove the cumbersome plates of my armor. Though I might have summoned a squire to help me do so, I simply wished to stew in my own solidarity. James had let himself into my room without my welcome, fingers evidently fidgeting from the long stay in the Tea room as he picked at the threads of my blankets. I had not permitted him entry, but he made himself comfortable as a hen on her brood, even as I pretended to ignore him.

“It was only a story,” I said shortly, the clatter of my undress hiding my derision.

The Prince laughed. “Why doth thou sulk so? Why weave stories of my ignominy, to shame me? To goad me perhaps. What end do you wish for this stiffness?”

“You read me as a book and yet you wonder why I stiffen?”

“I do not read you, that is a fantasy of your own conjuring. You imagine my eyes peer through you as a puddle, but for all the twisted speech you say I make, at least I do not hide myself in fiction and pretend you can see inside my head.”

I almost laughed but did not grant him the breaking of my resolve. “I am feeling out of my depth,” I admitted, and the truth of it surprised me, for I had hardly considered this reality.

“In what way?” His slumped form spoke to me, head tipped in a recognizable fashion.

I shrugged off my heavy arm guards, unbuckling the breast and back plates from one another. “As soon as I cleave a river of understanding, a new channel emerges.” James looked at me with confusion and I attempted to expand the words as they came to me. “I feel as though I am your right-hand man, and then I dip again to common servant. I try to match the chaos of your politics, the world in which you function, and then I am beat down again as an unrighteous challenger, a forfeit to the calculations of your court.”

James nodded, considering me. When he did not agree or defy my words, I continued. “One moment I have your ear to all matters, and the next my yells would not even breach your castle gates.”

My greaves were unlatched, my newly mended boots unlaced. I slipped from my skirt of mail, feeling naked for my simple garments and the baring of my emotions. “Perhaps I am the pig farmer. I should have taken their sickness as a message from God and raised cattle instead.”

“You self-pity so,” James said to me, and at first it made me stiffen in anger, but then I submitted to this truth. “For if I posit correctly, you are challenged by my Master of Words.”

And I knew he must read me or my meaning, despite his assertions against it. I did not venture to know how he had surmised this truth, since he had only just claimed his reading of me was pure fabrication, but I was relieved all the same. I only nodded.

James signed. “Do not think your words are not valued.” He beckoned me to him, and like a scolded dog I obliged. “You are very valuable to me. Your courage and insight is always sensible, in fact it is one of the reasons I love you so. You often challenge me, in ways I had not imagined.” I sat on the edge of my bed, watching his speech be crafted. “It would not be a secret, I am sure, for you to know that your presence has changed me. Before you, I simply saw those of common birth as lesser- not negatively so- but a way in which they needed to be led, like sheep.” I breathed in deeply, for this had been a secret to me. “But your existence has proved to me that I was wrong.” And I had never yet heard him say such things. “My birth is of circ*mstance, my nobility, a woven web of lineage and that is all.”

I layed down on the bed, my head resting in my Prince’s lap. “And yet,” he went on, fingers smoothing my hair. “I cannot help but to feel… superior, as though I was destined for greatness. Is this wrong of me?”

My answer did not come at first. My head was clogged like a flue ridden sinus, for I wished to speak, but was also encapsulated by James reverence. I had never heard a noble speak this way, even James for all his greatness, never saw them entertain the idea that all men were equals under God. In truth, I was not sure which I believed. For were it fact that our blood flowed the same, noble and common, it seemed a terrible reality that any should lead while the other followed simply based on good fortune.

“No,” I told him. “I myself cannot shake your singularity. If it is because of your status or my proximity to you, I do not know. But you possess something that is unique.” And I almost did not want to assure him so. I praised of him, this unusual humility, and did not want to spoil it, yet I felt my words come strongly. “I would die for you.” I said, but this did not seem enough. “I have been prepared to die for other men but... I would for you, I would die so willingly. It aches me to admit, for I cannot rationalize why, but for you, I would suffer the fate of death, the fate of hell, almost eagerly. For your being consumes me, more fully than a beast consumes the feast of flesh, or the church consumes the blood of christ. Noble blood or no, you are wild and unknowable, like a spirit of folklore. I may not always understand your nature, but you were made to sit the throne. Ordained by God, or by birth, or by whatever fabled realm spawned you.”

I brought my knees to my chest, huddled as the form of a fetus curls inside the womb of an expectant mother. I felt almost embarrassed, yet content, to be held in such surrender. James traced the pattern of my scalp as I lay in his embrace. I hated how easily he disarmed me, yet I loved his ability to do so.

“We are special,” James said finally, and I wanted his words, as a suckling babe wants the milk of his mother. “Whatever the nature of our birth, we were made to converge. If my words ever neglect you, know I feel your spirit within me always, crouched like a tiger, informing my actions.”

I felt calm and tranquil, any anger that had brewed ebbing like the clearing of a rain-soaked sky. “Now,” James started again. “On the matter that unsteadies your mind. No man truly understands the tides of war or the churning wave of politics. I myself only guess- calculated, and bound by my own cleverness- but I guess all the same. And as for Lambert-” and my breath hitched for the mention of my antagonist. ”-He is somewhat egocentric but- and do not argue this- he is intelligent and renews my faith in the life of my Council. When I am King, I will have most at my table replaced. Their loyalty is admirable, but their conviction slips from them with every winter that passes. Lambert has energy, and a dark presence that looms like a shadow, seeping into the cracks of foe-fairing towers. He has told me many things, he brings me more words than I have ever heard spoken.”

I scoffed but regarded him truly. “You can save your flattery for him, I am sure he will lap it up.” I said.

James laughed, giving my hair a playful tug. “Please, his head does not need enlarging any further.” Which caused me to laugh as well. “I tell you this, only so you can know why I trust him. If you would work with him, I might have two advisors at my table. You do not need to like him, but I wish you use your skills to aid him. You have patience and bravery, wield these in my name.” He tugged at my ear. “Play nicely, Sebastian.” I pressed myself into the fabric of his britches, his warmth calling to me.

“I think you should pose with a sword.” I told him, my voice muffled by the softness of his fabric.

“For my portrait?” He clarified with a chuckle.

“Men know of your affluence, your wealth is assured by your birthright. They need to see that you are strong, a champion of your Realm. When they see your paint-rendered face, they should see you as a man of action, a radiant light of a king, like a moon glowing brightly on the first night of a journey. An omen of possibility.”

“I will consider your words,” James said with a smile. “But my painter will not be pleased to start over.”

“Well, take his consideration lightly, for I saw him drink his paint water.” And we both laughed, filling us with the warmth of each other's company.

Chapter 18: Immoral Delight

Chapter Text

As much as it pained me to admit it, Lambert had been right on one count at least. For only days after he had spoken to me regarding the talk of church and their delicate position balanced between two precocious throne claimants, they invaded the reaches of their duties and breached the Prince’s castle walls.

With grim defeat, a new man now sat on the Prince’s council. It was not for lack of opposition on the Prince's part, for he had nearly cried with frustration at the ‘requested’ appointment of a clergyman at his table. But myself and Lambert convinced him that it barely mattered what he wished, for the Church was poised to either honor this installation, or back another certain brother for his claim to the throne.

A power that was not to be dismissed was the Church. For all Lambert's ramblings, he was correct in the words he’d gathered. They saw James as an unholy spender of their coin, and could not help their eyes from straying to the possibility of another who may treat their tides more appropriately. It was not only the egregious offense of taking money out of the pockets of priests, but the rather open secret of his sinful nature. While they would not outright denounce him this speculation, it was simply another reason to mistrust the boy who would soon be their King.

This was a final act from the authority of the church. Place our man on your council to oversee your acquisitional spending, or suffer the mighty wrath of our objection. The man who was appointed garnered no friends for his actions, as his addition stiffened the eyes of even the council’s oldest members. All saw through this obvious encroachment by the faith’s far-reaching fingers.

Bishop Cedric was a young yet pious man, clean shaven and quick-tongued. His thoughts were freely spoken, much to the bemusem*nt of the long-held positions at James’ court.

The man was controlling, God-fearing, a blot of speculation marred any words he spoke. He had the haughty air of authority, eclipsing even the wisest Council members with his church-devoted intrusions. I thought Lambert to possess a mouth like a war horn, bellowing in an obnoxious fashion, nearing on a vexing sermon. But Father Cedric prattled on like the dedicated God-fearer he was, turning any conversation into a lecture on sanctity and heavenly compliance.

Obviously this did not suit the Prince’s temper well, challenging the man on his assumptions took up nearly half of every convocation. It was the first instance I ever witnessed the men of his council roll their eyes at his discussion, instead of the other way round.

They spoke on matters of sanctity, a notion to which the Prince was most partial, for it concerned myself and our involvement. James challenged him for the matters of commoners, and why he should not tax them even as their church refused to grant a simple Regent the bounty of their tides.

The Bishop spoke, his enthusiasm evident even as his words lulled me into sleep. “It is like oil and water in the same glass, you may stir and shake as you desire, and yet in the end they will return to their natural state of separation as God intended.” Father Cedric said, for he claimed that God-ordained nobility could not interact satisfactorily with the folk born of common blood.

“And what of soap?” James asked back. “You see, your analogy is flawed. I have come to see that one’s birth matters little. It is more like… water and soil, though they contain different properties, only together do they flourish.”

And every man, whether agreeing or not, sighed in exasperation, for this chat would surely cost the meeting.

And so, for every word that was uttered regarding the claimants of territory or the new holds kneeling under an undeserving traitor, the majority was spent in a battle of wit and presumption. No meeting went uninterrupted by the Bishop telling the council what could not be afforded, and a line of scripture that might have been fabricated for the sense it made.

I nearly ripped myself from my skin from the ways in which these congregations transpired. No longer was I simply bored by the plights of coin-ridden men, but now I was unsettled by the impulse that they gripped me with. For I did not wish to be involved in their contrived dealings, but suffered so even in their sparings, for James constantly complained to me of the affront to his rightful precedence. I did not disagree, but I tired of his words both in the company of his Council and without, for it was a never ending tirade of slights and curses.

We stood in the emptied council hall, the grand arching windows facing southward, the hint of high walls from the city beyond just visible in the glow of waning sunlight. Though his advisers had departed, the Prince stood resolutely, peering to the view of his dominion, body practically buzzing with a brewing anger.

“If I could help you I would,” I told him, for no more quiet nods would satisfy his ranting.

“So please, draw your sword and end this torment,” he jested, and finally calmed himself, at least for the time being.

I snickered. “I will draw my sword, but only if you beg of me.” And I pressed myself to the back of him, feeling his frantic frame relax against me. There were few ways to calm a creature so restless, but he never collapsed and submitted so completely as when I took him like the sinful demon he was.

His head tipped back against my chest plate, and I could almost feel the vibration of his thoughts as they emanated from his chaotic brain. The leather underside of my gauntlets moved down over his front, gripping him as securely as a codpiece. James breathed a sigh of longing, my other hand moving up and clutching his neck softly. He felt like a delicate flower in my metal guarded fingers, his pale skin blooming with a soft blush, relenting to me and opening his petals for the pleasure of my touch. His length stiffened, confined by his wardrobe but filling my palm as it rested over his britches, indulging his heated lust.

It was unwise, but I would have continued, bending him over his own council table and ridding his thin body of tension as I filled him as hand fills a glove, snuggly and secure. But as my Prince simpered in my embrace, I was forced to spring apart from him as the weighted door of the Council chamber opened behind us, disrupting our enraptured encounter.

“Ah, surely I am interrupting nothing important,” Lambert chided with a sly smile. “My Prince, your royal painter has requested approval of your finished portrait. And your Master of Coin claims he wishes to resign for the affront to his position by our favorite new member.”

James stayed facing the window, back turned to his Master of Words. He waited until the flush from his face had ebbed and his conviction had softened before turning to heed the requests of his presence. “We shall continue our conversation later,” he promised me before departing.

Lambert did not follow the Prince, but stayed in the council hall, rapping his knuckles on the sturdy table as the door closed, trapping me in his company. It seemed I could not escape the dredges of politics, more scattered than any battlefield, as the topic now filled my ears like a whispered confessional. If it was not one noble crier, it was another, for even when I escaped Father Cedric’s grating assertions, Lambert prattled to me whenever I was not fixed to James’ side.

“We cannot function in his wake.” And I thought he meant himself in the proverbial ‘we’ for his words are often dark and somewhat Godless. Not for the ears of religious fanatics, and certainly not for me who had kept myself quite guarded in opinion, despite his attempts to pry it from me. He had now met his match as I had with him, the Prince’s favor instead replaced with a dampened resignation. I might have relished this dichotomy, the undesirable position Lambert was now thrust into, but the holy man's presence affected me negatively as well. James was sullen and pent-up, his energy not having an avenue for which to dissipate, sometimes even after our sheets were soaked with sweat.

“Why tell me of this?” I asked, annoyed I now had to contend with two high-born folk and their vexations.

“You are part of the Council, though you have no official title as such. This makes you an ideal accomplice for your motives match mine, and you may operate less restrictively than I. The others who sit at his table, they are old and their minds unwound. You are a man who fights, and I ask you now to fight with me. Allow me to venerate my modest inclinations, but I have a knack for telling knave from knight. You sir, are truly the latter though your common birth would deny it.” It was the kindest words he had ever spoken to me, and still they stung with the prejudice of a back-handed slap.

“Listen close, as I tell you a tale for which I myself have just now grasped.”

It was not a tale I wished to hear. He told me of a grand scheme, one that wound his mind like a turning gear, pressing into place and churning like an elegant clock tower. It was clear, Father Cedric could not remain at his position if James hoped to win the war. He was far too restrictive, too concerned with God’s role in James’ monetary ambitions. He saw the kingship as an extension of the Church’s hand, and not the other way round as it should have been.

It seemed a simple idea in practice. For if this man was to be let go, it would serve two purposes conjointly. First, it would rid the council of the opposition imparted by this zealous outsider. Second, if blamed on the Traitor Richard, it would ensure the Church's devotion to James’ rightful claim. The murder of a holymen was inexcusable, but Richard would have had to be several sandwiches short of a picnic to actually solve this problem for us.

I could not deny his idea, and yet I feared where this conversation led. I had dealt with enough of James’ madness to know the light that sparked in Lambert’s eyes was not of consolation, but of catalyst.

“He will fall, and we will have our Prince’s ear once again.” I scoffed at the simplicity at which he regarded this assurance, certain it was all a speech of postulation.

“Would that this would be,” I told him, still under the impression he waxed hypothetically.

“It would indeed. The opportunity presents itself so lusciously, and you would still pretend you have no stake in the matter?”

I looked at him steadily, realizing this was more than willful imagination. “I see no opportunity, only desire for a conclusion we cannot force.”

“You are bound by your simple birth. Think, really think. Our opportunities are endless. We could sever two heads of Cerberus and bend the other to our will. The Church longs for direction, thus is their fault. They crave a man to serve as they proclaim their heaven-sent savior.” He was close to me, nearly too close for comfort, his pointed goatee bouncing as his lips formed these wild words. “I say we give them that savior in our Prince. A man to lead them with the unrivaled will of God. If one of their number breaks, we will mend their chain with certainty.”

“You talk as though this is fact.” I looked around though there was no one to hear this wicked plot but the Allseer himself. “What if you would fail to spin these threads?”

Lambert grinned as he observed my consideration, even just to entertain the web he had woven. “Have some faith, man, or have you not listened to our newest biblical lecturer?” He laughed with a snarl of disdain. “Things such as this occur frequently when you are of high status, and can you honestly tell me the Prince would not wish this?”

I felt very much that James would wish for his inclusion in this plot, for I knew he held no objection to sorted death and cared very little for this pettish Priest. “Perhaps when you tell him of this, he will at least consider this tongue you wag, or perhaps he will have it cut off for your scheming.”

“Oh, you must not fully grasp my sense. The Prince cannot know of this plot.”

“And why not?” It was not easy to keep secrets from the Prince’s knowing eyes.

“If he knows, he will be complicit in this sin. I have seen what he is like, he will want to involve himself, enthusiastically I am sure. This demands a certain subtlety. We must spare his soul for this sin and keep him content with his usual duties.”

“But you would damn our souls to hell?” I asked.

“I would damn my own, for I swore my life to the Crown, surely this oath counts even in death.”

“And mine, Lambert?” I asked, for I did not claim to know where God sought to send me, even if my suspicions were bleak.

Lambert shrugged. “You have killed before, the largest breach of heaven’s light, a mortal sin. This is no different.”

“If that is true, many good men scatter Satan’s soot-fields.” For I had fought beside fellows as righteous as any clergymen.

“Mayhaps not. But you, Sir, do not seem a man to seek repentance.”

I stared at him for a long while, his grey eyes locked on mine. “If we were to do this, we would surely cast both our souls to hell, repentance be damned.” While I was not optimistic of my chance for immortal salvation, the purposeful killing of one so holy seemed an offense no penance would salvage. I would happily burn in eternal domination for my Prince, for his purpose surpassed my own, his reach and goals seemingly infinite against the limited scope of my own bounds. If I entered this agreement, this terrible plot, it was with the confidence of a man bound to death, fated for endless suffering, but burning with a conviction to rival any martyr.

The Master of Words nodded to me, and I wished he had more often displayed the might of his speechless stare, for it was quite powerful, until he broke it by speaking. “I would rather die a thousand deaths than submit this kingdom to unjust rule.” And I felt a kinship to him as I never had. He was nearly unbearable for his constant chatter and self-important resolve, and yet I saw now that he truly did possess a sort of twisted honor. Not the kind that bows with humility, but as one who holds his head high even as it is cleaved from his body. His job, his birthright, he took quite seriously. And even if he wished his actions to shape history over his desire to assist in James’ ascension, his determination was sound, and his concede seemingly boundless.

I thought of James and his weakened sanity since the Father’s appointment. Asking myself what he truly wanted, and if it could be achieved by just two conspiring men. I said no words to the master of them, but I nodded my head at his words, not yet agreeing to this fate. “How would we do this terrible deed?” I asked, and I could hardly believe I was considering his lunacy.

“This righteous deed.” he corrected me. “And we will do it with poison.”

“Poison is women's work. A method used by renegades and those dishonored. If I kill a man, I prefer to face him.”

But Lambert’s sly smile did not waver. “Precisely. Kings slay, Traitors poison.” He painted the scene to me as an artist lays brushstrokes. “Picture, Richard is no better than a scoundrel, a Godless usurper, he finds this new appointment of the Church on his brother’s council as a symbol of solidarity. He aims to tarnish this union and strike the Prince intimately. Even if they somehow suspected the Prince would risk the lives of his own Council members to rid it of their presence, it would be untrue, and the assertion to say he was complicit would start a war of its own. The Church wishes for peace on whatever side will give it to them, if only to keep their precious coin. Let us cement our side as the righteous victors.”

“You speak too many words, Lambert.” I told the men, feeling afforded in this by his confidentiality. “Simply tell me how this would be done so I can free the worry from my mind.”

“Now, it so happens my many words have far reaches. At my property north of my Father’s hold, I have an alchemist whose skill is unmatched. I trust him with my life for he has saved it many times. I would have him here with me if my Lady wife’s health was not so delicate and in need of his remedies. Go by my direction. Ask him for a draft of mending, he will know of what you speak.” I never thought of myself as a man of secrets and concoctions. Those were games for idle men, with ambitions for power and an absence of real labor.

“Can you not just send for it?” If I were to debase myself in this plot, it would not be simply to act as errand boy.

“These kinds of words are best not put in writing.”

“So why do you not take these words yourself?”

Lambert signed as though tired of explaining these contrivances, but if he wished me to aid him I would not simply heed him unchallenged. “The presence of nobility draws attention. You are only a knight, sent on a task by his superior.”

“You are not my superior.”

“Fine, a favor for a good friend, then.”

“And what of this favor? Ride for two days and collect a decoction that you might simply send a squire for?”

I did not know if Lambert had yet to consider this part of his spidery plan, but it was the first time he paused, windmills turning in his head as he ground the grain of his thoughts. “I have been thinking. Though this castle is mighty, its imposing walls have caused me a sickness for home.” I was not sure if his words were true or simply spun to advance our venture. “Surely as a soldier you have compassion for this plight, the extensive march of a convoy. If you were not robbed of this pleasure by your Knighthood, you would surely feel the hearty tug of your wife and children to return.” Every answer he gave to me seemed longer than the last, but that was his way. “I can no longer bear the absence of their affection, you see. I wish my youngest daughter to be brought to me so she might learn the ways of court and occupy my company.”

It was not uncommon for the families of James’ advisors to be welcomed to the castle while their relatives aided the Prince’s efforts. Many of the younger squires were children, or more likely grandchildren, of his current council members. “You would trust me with your daughter’s life?” I asked him, for unless it was for discretion, a noblewoman would usually be accompanied by a larger retinue for propriety and protection.

“I would trust you with a small vial of fate. And if my daughter wishes to honor my request and ride to me with a handsome knight, I would see you oblige her.”

“Let me think on this.” I said finally, for it was a mountainous meal to try and swallow.

Lambert smiled. “Of course.” he nodded. “But do hurry. The sands of this hourglass fall still in our favor. I do not know how much longer the Prince will last in Cedric's presents before he snaps the glass. If we do not act on this swiftly, he may act for us.”

“You know, this would not be easy. Men cling to life like water to cloth.”

“Men of the Church are careless, they think they lie safely in the hands of their savior. So let us sever God’s fingers and watch Cedric fall.” The hunger in his grey eyes reminded me of James’ though Lambert’s was a more anxious excitement, a desire to initiate, to be an incitement for the procession of power. He truly wished the Prince to rule uncontested, but Lambert wanted his own hand to be present in putting him there.

***

I came to James later, my armor stowed in a sturdy wooden chest along with my secrets. His room was quiet and cast in the dying blue light of evening, and James sipped his tea by the window. The sky gradated from a lukewarm orange to a deepening purple. A gathering of birds swarmed and danced like a dotted fabric, swaying in the breeze before they nested for the night. “Fascinating how they move as one, compelled by their nature.” He remarked when I entered, setting his tea cup aside.

My head was too full of deliberation to consider another, but I came to stand behind him as I had that afternoon, watching the moor-blue heavens sway with rippling flocks. “What I would not give to join them in their flight,” he said softly. I pressed my face down to the crook of his neck kissing his tender skin. If I could have sprouted wings and soared from the tall window, it would have saved me much strife. Would that I were a fledgling, bound not by land, at home in the sprawling sky, content to spread my feathers and be carried by the wind.

“Is everything alright?” James asked me, for even if he did not see my face, his perception was finely-tuned.

I answered only by slipping my fingers under the waist of his night-wear, teasing the area of his groin and the dark hair that sprouted there. The Prince shivered against me, his soft skin puckered with the bumps of gooseflesh. I kissed my way up his neck and took the flesh of his ear between my teeth. Even if I could take to the firmament and cast my worries aside for the vastness of the sky-sphere, I would not. For it would be too cruel to leave James to deal with this tournament alone, and I could not fly for long without the aching of my heart drawing me back as a homing pigeon is called to return to its roost.

Despite my non-answer, James pressed back against me, contented by the feeling of my hands upon him. My thoughts resolved to nothingness as I felt him, his skin smoothing the valleys of my mental peaks and compacting my uneasiness with the might of an apple-press. He squeezed my juices to embark on their venture of his cidered mead. I was honeyed and fermented, the yeast of my spoilage left in a field to cultivate environmental yield. When I had bubbled, and seethed effervescence, I tasted the essence of culture unfolded.

I deepened my reach, my palm compressed the whole of his length and bullocks in a bulging handful. My rough fingers abrading the smoothness of his nethers, I tread gently, holding him steadily and pulsing my fingers, massaging the fineness they found. I felt him grow like a sapling to a mighty oak, his stalk expanding and trapped in the cage of my fingers.

My other hand traveled up under his sh*t, feeling the dimpled muscles on the concave of his stomach. He leaned back against me, the cleft of his arse bracing my own stiffened conviction. When he whined for the pressure of my firm hand holding him, I released him from his torment, tugging gently upwards on the fresh length of him. Like the sturdy neck of a wine bottle, hard and smooth but for the lip of its cork, his co*ck stood proudly. Slipping the skin of his shaft back and then over the protruding head of his manhood.

The roaming fingers of my other hand journeyed upwards until they peeked out the collar of his linen. I tugged at it sharply and James brought his hands up, gripped the back of his shirt, and pulled himself free from it, casting his skin in the dimming light of indigo. His arms stayed raised, running the nails of his fingers against my head and shoulder, drawing me close as I sucked the skin of his slender neck. I tugged at his lacings which he always seemed to knot so expertly, using both my hands to undo them and free his lower half of britches. In the summer, this would be negated by a simple white smock, but my challenge was rewarded.

The Prince now basked naked in the shine of night. Small stars poked light in the blanketed sky outside, darkening his chamber until his skin shone like the pale waning moon. I cast myself of my belt and the hoes tied for each leg, my linen following them down swiftly. The air blew a cold breeze that did not shrink me, but felt like a hot blade quenched in water, steam issuing from the lamination of our skin.

My fingers found his neck and joined my hungry lips, as I stroked him at a solid pace. His throat was slicked from my feasting and I continued up to his moaning mouth. The Prince sucked me sinfully, parting his lips as I invaded inside him. I felt his strong tongue and the scrape of his molars, bathing me in the sweetness of his saliva. I brought his wetness down to where his cheeks joined under the dip of his back, splitting them to plunder his shuddering warmth, pricking him like the needle of a spinning wheel. James gasped and I bit at his neck like a wolf to a lamb, probing him deeper.

I released his prick, worried for the ephemeral nature of his pleasure, and not wanting to waste it on my palm. My now unoccupied hand lifted his leg to rest on the low window sill, bending his knee and driving my fingers further within. The length of my leaking member pressed longingly against the Prince's back but still I prepared him, plunging my digits into him like the center of fresh-baked fruit pie. I could have worn him like a ring for hours, but the pouch of my manhood ached terribly for its neglect.

I might have used the butter from the table or the oil by his bed, but I wished for his tightness to overwhelm me, push the many thoughts from my head like an ore cleaving water. Fingers once filling were emptied from him, replaced by the tip of me like a ripe, swollen apple. James groaned with the strain, as if it pained him, but I knew he craved it like the devil craves sin. He stood on his toes in effort to ease himself of my trespass but I pulled at his hip back down to spear him fully. I ate of his neck, his shoulder, the bone of his collar, but stopped just short of drawing blood. If he bled, it would be from the weight of my width inside him. His jaw I held firmly, baring him like a slice of crisp melon, devouring him to the rind. He let out a choked sob but pressed his hips to me, adopting this fullness.

“It is so much,” he whimpered, as if he had not taken it as often as he liked and sometimes even more.

I did not speak but held him to me, a low growl sounding from my lips as I began to slowly oscillate, first within him, then without.

His prick pointed like a white-waving flagpole, declaring his surrender to the mercy of my touch. His hand flailed and caught the framed window tightly, bracing himself against my powerful thrusts.

Beaten like the dust from a worn carpet, I pounded myself between James’ shaking thighs. He had gripped his own member desperately, spilling forth before my time, casting his seed to the stone of the window while I made him take me for this prematurity. I hugged him to me, growling in his ear and squeezing my fingers on his swan-like neck.

When I had him where I wanted him, my mind finally quieted. Robbed of words and language, a blank slate wiped clean. I am a polished stone surface, free of defacing text, the possibility of me is enchanting, the carved letters I might produce. Nothing compels me but my own steady chisel, poised to carve but paused in diligence, the hindrance of climax. To rend him open and expend the fluid from my loins would mean an end to this peaceful bliss, this consuming vastness of quietude. But much like a rounded boulder pushed from a hillside, once it began, there was no stop to its tumble. I released myself inside him, coating his bowels in my vile humor and nearly robbing him of breath with the clutch on his throbbing throat.

The sky outside was black now, a spilled inkwell. We panted in a silence broken only by crickets. I released his neck and draped my arm over his shoulder, hand flattened on his chest. “You are an animal,” he said to me between breaths, a contented compliment.

“And you cry out like my prey,” I answered him, finally freeing my voice for the emptiness of my thoughts. My body shuddered as I slipped from him, leaving his softly glowing form for the darkness of the bedchamber.

The force of my passion left me spent, my reserves depleted and set to desertion. The ungracious pooling of my essence slid down his leg; I saw a ghost of it glistening there, translucent like the silver of a mirror. If he had not been weakened so from my plundering, James would have surely licked the evidence of me from his skin like a tidy cat.

I sank to light the fire in the deadened hearth, squatting till my bollocks nearly touched the cold stone floor. Oftentimes, a servant would be summoned to complete this task, but I had grown up without such a luxury and could go from stricken flint to roaring blaze with the practiced hands of a journeyman.

James peered at his reflection on the surface of the basin in which he washed. “Father Cedric will have a field day with the marks you have given me,” he remarked with a smirk, examining the red blotches that dotted his throat like a rash.

It was not of comfort to hear that name, reminding me of the overwhelming conversation with Lambert, blackening my spirit even as the fire leaped and slowly lit the room. “Can we not speak of matters or men?” I asked him, standing from the hearthstone and brushing off my hands. I pulled James from his washing and pushed him to his bed, climbing on top of his body and smothering his lungs of words.

When he had finally rolled me off to lie beside him, he treated me to more comments about the priest and the terrible headache of his presence until I grabbed a pillow and pressed it to his face in jest.

Even all the strength of my mighty appendage had not quieted the Prince’s plights. I succeeded in dampening his resentful ramblings for the night, but come the morn, surely he would begin again, for the Council converged quite early.

For how long could I pacify his boiling rage when he was provoked so thoroughly, like a colony of angry red ants? Would he spill from the soil, biting and stinging and converge on his agitator? If my actions could not quell him, how long until he staunched this man, and to what end? As I wrestled with these thoughts and the spited words of my Prince, my questions began clearing, an answer already prepped and ready made, wrapped in a nice ribbon and served on a platter by two piercing gray eyes.

Like a clearing sky, a thinning fog, my mind was made. I would serve my Prince and cut down this holy creature. I sealed my fate to burn in hell as I held James to me and listened to his breathing soften and saved soul twinkle like the scattered stars outside.