and from my home
and for a king to wage war on a wolf
is as much the stuff of stories as the rest,
an ill-fitting vengeance.
let him
what good am I alive
what life is this that I lead
RUN
not this time
I will face him like a man
I will make them face me
I will make them look me in the eyes when they kill me
see that a thinking creature wears this skin
they will live with that knowledge
HUNT
I will not hunt the king
he has my oath he has my life
but this is the way of things the way it always is
he is man and I am beast
that is ever the difference between us
RUN
not any more
33
You
You are tired for hunting and lacking in bloodlust, but the sight of the count’s son riding out to meet the rest of the group at least sparks some enthusiasm for the sport. His hunting clothes, though borrowed, fit him well; he has well-turned calves and strong shoulders and a shy smile that he offers you, a little uncertainly. You nod to him in return, the expected response, and see his relief. Perhaps he thought you would hold his boldness against him. How uncharitable that would be, when you have tasted the sweet nectar of his kisses and felt the warmth of his skin against yours and allowed his touch to drive away your melancholy, even if only for a moment.
You find yourself falling back until you ride beside him, trusting those ahead not to stray from the trail. ‘Do you hunt often, in your father’s lands?’ you ask him, though it’s a banal question and well you might guess the answer.
‘Often enough,’ he says, predictably. ‘Rarely in woods that carry rumours of wolves, however.’
Perhaps that’s the cause of his hesitance, and not some lingering regret for the previous night. You hope as much; such concerns are easier to assuage. ‘Our chances of meeting a wolf are slim, if it pleases the Almighty to preserve us,’ you assurehim. ‘With luck we’ll meet only deer. Do you prefer to hunt par force, or are you a man for falconry?’
He shoots you a sharp look, as though reading euphemism into your honest enquiry, but whatever he sees in your expression softens his response.
‘It’s the hounds I favour, for the most part,’ he says, ‘though our kennels can’t hope to match yours.’
