they’re looking to find him a wife–
no rumour spreads as fast as one of love.
the kingdom burns with it, the taste of the story
on the wind and on the wing.
the daughters of kings and counts, the hope
of a kingdom and its people.
perhaps I should be happy for him.
if a wolf can feel that kind of happiness.
at the very least I wish them the best of luck.
a sly remark and no mistake.
I suspect they don’t know the king the way I do
but perhaps I’m wrong about him
perhaps I have misunderstood him
I am only a wolf after all and what do wolves know of these things
31
You
There’s a young man standing in front of you.
He’s handsome enough, a few years younger than yourself but with the bearing of a grown man and a strong fighter. His expression is pleasant, and he shows no signs of resentment or discomfort as he is presented to you, though the muttering from the rest of the court is difficult to ignore.
‘Sire, I fear this is some trick of the count’s,’ says your seneschal, low and urgent in your ear. ‘He intends to cause you dishonour, or to provoke rumour, but—’
You glance at him, and then the young man. ‘Dishonour?’ you echo, beginning to understand the commotion. ‘Is that the motivation you lay on this particular envoy?’
The seneschal flushes red. ‘For what other reason would he send his son, my lord?’
You can’t help it: a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. ‘Perhaps he seeks knighthood,’ you suggest. ‘How unlike you to leap to conclusions.’ You know, even as you say it, that this young man is not here to swear himself into your service – not in that way, in any case. No, the count has seen the endless parade of daughters sent to court you, and minded their lack of success; now he tries another tack. No wonder the court is so uncomfortable.The young man’s gaze is steady as he meets yours, and he allows you to appraise him without once fidgeting. He’s as demure and personable as any of the young women who have been presented to you this week, and you wonder whether this was his father’s idea or his own.
‘Tell me,’ you say more loudly, directing the remark at the visitor himself. ‘By your own account, are you here for knighthood or to cause me dishonour?’
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch or bluster. ‘Neither, my lord,’ he says. ‘If my presence here is not pleasing to you, I’ll leave immediately, and there will be no difficulties between our households following this. I give you my most solemn word.’
You already knew you had nothing to fear from political reprisals if you sent him away – you’ve been paying close attention to these matters lately, and though his father’s powerful enough, he doesn’t have enough allies to cause you trouble. But it’s intriguing to hear it from the young man himself, and to know that he’s not relying on fear to provoke you into action. Nor, you think, is he particularly keen to leave.
It is unwise, perhaps, but for the first time in months, you have a mind to see where this might go.
‘And if not dishonour,’ you say, your tone still hard, ‘what did your father mean by sending you, and not your sister? You do have a sister, don’t you?’ you add, as though uncertain of it, when you know well that she’s a beauty courted by many, and witty besides.
For the first time, the young man looks nervous, glancing at the seneschal as though seeking permission. Your advisors, you sense, would love to tell you that this is improper and shouldn’t be countenanced or obliged even as a matter of curiosity, but they don’t dare, unless you yourself express enough discomfort to assure them of their right to say as much.
The young man says, ‘My father noticed that no lady had yet won your hand, and had the idea that you might respond favourably to an alternative approach.’
Tactfully worded, but bold, nonetheless. You raise your eyebrow. ‘Your father has taken it into his head that I only get into bed with other men,’ you say baldly. ‘And has sent you in the hope that I’ll prove him right and confirm all his suspicions about our kingdom.’ Ever the rumour has circled that your people are minded to seek the pleasures of adolescence even as adults, and neglect the begetting of heirs, and that your priests turn a blind eye to the practice. You think if this were really such a rural backwater or deviant borderland, untroubled by the censure of homilists, your father would not have been so disappointed by you, and would not have sent you away – his reasons were no secret, even if they were never uttered aloud.
