Evidently exile was insufficient to cleanse your name of those whispers, if still they follow you.
But the young man says, ‘No,’ so firmly that it draws looks of disgust from the manners-minded courtiers. ‘My lord, no scheming of my father’s would draw me here if I thought he intended you harm. I’m here because I asked leave of him to come.’
You eye him again in this new light. There is no fear or shame in him. He has never known exile, never been cast out. ‘Give us the room, please,’ you instruct, and when the hall is empty of all save yourself, your guest, and your seneschal, you say, ‘Elaborate.’
‘When word reached us that you were being courted, my mother’s instinct was that my sister should be among those paying you suit. You met her once, though some years ago now, and seemed to show her favour, though I’d not presume that you remember such an occasion—’
‘I remember,’ you interrupt, though you were both onlyyouths at the time, her beauty still unformed and you awkward and ungainly. ‘I’ve heard that she has flowered and flourished in the years that have passed.’
‘Sire,’ he acknowledges, with a small bow of the head. ‘My mother’s thought was that she would have as much chance of winning your hand as any other, but the question was raised as to whether that were any real chance at all. Your failure to find a bride thus far cannot be due to the unsuitability of the candidates who have presented themselves, so we thought perhaps your interests lay elsewhere.’
You suppose it was inevitable, that people across the kingdom and beyond it should speculate about your tastes, but it still feels strange to hear it presented so honestly. No doubt others think the same, but would not voice it, and still more of them fear you’ll cloister yourself eventually and leave the throne open to any capable of seizing it, since your father made it clear enough he expected that sort of thing. And that’s assuming good intent and genuine concern, and not ill-feeling towards your kingdom and its stubborn refusal to become part of their great empires and speak their tongues and conform to their liturgy.
You might have hoped they would expect more from you than the neglect of your kingdom for the sake of your own desires, after these past months working to prove that you have a greater sense of duty than your father. Perhaps they do you the courtesy of assuming you intend to name an heir another way, but you fear you have not yet won their trust.
‘And so you asked to be sent instead,’ you say. It’s not a question, but he makes a noise of assent anyway. Your next inquiry’s half a mockery, a note of mischief creeping into your voice: ‘And I suppose that was out of concern for your household’s future, was it, and the status that might be earned should you succeed in winning my favour?’
He takes a breath. Looks at the seneschal. Looks back at you. And says, ‘No, sire.’ Then, halfway to mischief himself, adds, ‘My father is a count. I do not lack for status.’
Interesting.
Despite yourself, your attention’s been caught by the young man. You can’t keep him in your household for long, you know that – it wouldn’t benefit either of you. But he is unabashed and uninhibited in a way that you find intriguing, and it seems a shame to send him away without exploring that at least a little more.
Your seneschal will disapprove. You try not to resent that, for he has been your saviour these past months, and his disapproval is grounded in a politic mind and a canny sense for the winds of favour, but you wish his sense of duty did not cost him his sense of sport.
You glance at him – he is trying hard not to frown, and not entirely succeeding – and then fix your gaze again on the young man. ‘You’ll stay here tonight, then? You’ve travelled far; you must be tired. There’s a feast planned for the end of this week, and . . .’ You’re forgetting something, some other plan for these next few days.
Before you can admit defeat and ask him, the seneschal says, ‘The hunt, sire. There is also the hunt.’
The last before Michaelmas, the end of the season for roebuck. You have missed so much of the hunting this year, your stomach still easily turned by the chase, but you have promised your men this mustering and you will not fail them. You smile at the young man and say, ‘Well, of course you must join us for the hunt.’
It’s not preferential treatment. All of the young women have been housed and feasted, before being sent away with gifts to ease the sting of rejection. You’ll do the same for him – andin the meantime, you may as well ride out together. Perhaps the sweetness of a new companion by your side will ease the unsettled chill in your stomach that still haunts all thoughts of hunting.
You have servants find him a place to sleep, clothes, food. You inform the stables that he’ll be riding with you on the hunt, and that they should ensure his horse is made ready. Then you look again at the mount – a quality beast, but better suited to travel than hunting – and tell them to prepare instead one of your own coursers for his use. You do everything properly, as though he were any visiting nobleman, and you treat him with all the kindness and distance with which you treated all those daughters.
But not one of those daughters was bold enough to leave their bed in the dead of night and mount the stairs to your chamber, knocking so softly on the door that at first you’re unsure what woke you. None of them stood bashful on your threshold, skin pale against the open neck of their undertunic.
None of them said, in a voice so low as to be hardly audible, ‘Send me away, and I’ll go.’
And if they had, perhaps you’d have done exactly that. But you don’t send him away. You remain where you are, propped up in bed, with your bedcoverings and hair disarrayed by uneasy sleep, and hold his gaze until he takes a few hesitant steps across the room. And then a few more. And then, finally, after what seems like an age, he’s standing in front of you.
He looks younger like this, away from the formal trappings of petition. Or perhaps it’s only that he’s nervous: you see him twisting his fingers into the fabric of his tunic, and the frantic way he swallows.
You say, ‘Do you want to go?’
He shakes his head. No, he doesn’t, does he? He came toyou, this bold count’s son, and he must have known that his quest was doomed from the beginning – that as king, whatever your own inclinations, you could not make a husband of him. And yet he thought it worth trying, if only so that it might bring him here, half-dressed, to your bed.
He has the advantage of height on you, when you sit there in your bed and he stands before you. But he kneels, and places his head in your lap.Fealty. For as long as you want it, and whatever you require of him. You run your fingers through his hair, startled by its softness, and feel the gentle warmth of him. You have had little time in recent months for simple intimacies, and the warmth of slow touch and quiet company.
You take him by the hand and pull him up so that he’s sitting beside you on the bed. You trace his shaking palms with your fingertips. You say, ‘Do you know what it is that you want?’
He’s wide-eyed, more innocent than you expected from his confidence earlier, and you have the sense of having caught him with his guard down. Perhaps he never anticipated coming so far. Perhaps he thought you’d turn him away at the door.
He says, ‘No.’ Then he swallows again, his gaze drifting to your lips and back up to meet your eyes, and says, ‘Yes. I would like to kiss you.’
His lips are warm. It’s no kiss of peace – it’s filled with fire, setting you alight, and you shudder under his touch as he runs his hands along your arms, as though marvelling that he’s allowed to touch you at all.
You break apart, and he says, ‘Am I . . . may I . . . sire, I don’t want . . .’
