“Bring my mount!” At times, servants were impossible.
“If my master heard, it would cost me a day’s wage—”
“Imps take your wages!” I unknotted my pursestring, fished out a silver pence, flicked it onto the straw.
“I’m
your master. Bring Ebon!”
Kerwyn bit his lip, bent for the coin, nodding. “A moment, my lord.” He disappeared through the tall double doors to the inner stable.
I paced, fuming. Palace freemen recited petty rules and instructions, forgetting whom they were supposed to serve. In reality, we, the House of Caledon, served them. Vast sums from our treasury supported fools like the lazy, argumentative stablehand I’d sent away.
Muttering, I reknotted my purse, tied it to my fraying belt rope. In a gesture of munificence I’d thrown to the floor a half month of my stipend for sundries, and the Chamberlain would merely laugh were I to ask for more.
The door opened. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting the stableboy, leading Ebon. Instead, I met the stern eyes and graying beard of Griswold, Master of the Stables. “How may we serve you, youngsire?”
I flushed at the rebuke. Were he pleased with me, it would have been, “my lord.”
“I came for Ebon.”
“So Kerwyn said. He isn’t ready.”
“He’s mine to ride when I wish!”
Griswold pursed his lips, considering. Then, “After you take a horse, there’s none to stop your killing him. Here in stables, they’re mine to protect. You can’t feed him a bag of oats and then—”
“That’s for me to say!” What these folk needed was a firm hand.
He sighed. “Very well. I’ll tell Queen Elena you overruled me.”
I stopped short. “Griswold, there’s no need—”
“She’s my mistress. I must.”
I swallowed. “She’s ill. I don’t want her disturbed.” His stern visage didn’t waver. “Very well, I’ll wait.”
“Good.” He opened his hand. The silver glinted. “Stablehands are paid well enough; no need to spoil them. This is a month’s wages.”
I reached for my coin. “That was only for—”
His hand snapped shut. “Kerwyn didn’t earn it, so he won’t keep it. But you gave it away, so it’s no longer yours.”
I held fast the shreds of my temper. “Neither did you earn it, sir.”
“True. It’ll go to the Chamberlain, with an explanation.”
“Imps take you, Griswold!” Chamberlain Willem would tell Mother, and she’d have him close his purse to me for a month if not more.
“Yes, youngsire, you’ve always had a temper.”
“Don’t do this!” My cheeks flamed.
“You do it to yourself. If you’d be our King, learn the art of persuasion. At least pretend to have patience. Exhibit grace.”
I forced the words through unwilling lips. “I’m sorry, Griswold.” The gall of a servant, to lecture me.
“Too easily said.” The old man turned, passed through the door, swung it half closed behind him. “Unless ... you’d like time to consider the fix you’ve put me in?”
I knew that he knew he had me. In despair I asked, “How?”
“Comb Ebon yourself.” That wasn’t so bad. As we passed through the gate he added gently, “And a few stalls need cleaning. Time for an energetic lad to reflect, while he busies himself.”
I cursed long and fluently, but without voice. Petulantly, I followed. A day of revenge would come.
Late in the afternoon, in foul temper, I rode Ebon down the trail as fast as was safe. Rust would no doubt be within his father’s stronghold that guarded the harbor. If not, Stryx was not so large I couldn’t find him.
At the foot of Castle Way the road passed through a formidable gate in the walls of Llewelyn’s keep. Another gate, near the shore, released traffic to a seaside road that passed through town.
The arrangement of road and keep would force an invading army to subdue Llewelyn’s stronghold before attacking the hill to the castle. Over time, tradesmen’s wagons had bypassed the keep by driving through an adjoining field, but even the awkward Tradesmen’s Cut was well within arrow reach of the keep’s high walls.
I had word sent to Rustin. Of course, the gatekeepers dared not hold me waiting like a commoner. Within the sprawling keep, I paced Ebon slowly along the garden path.
Rustin loped to meet me. “Rodrigo!” His smile was framed by a mop of curly red hair.
“Rust!” I was almost giddy with relief. Rustin’s moods changed like the summer breeze. At times, we’d be giggling over some trivial incident, when his face would darken abruptly, and all joy would vanish from his voice. It was best then to leave until his good humor returned. When I’d sought him with Elryc, a few days past, I’d given up after an hour and trudged back up the hill.
Still, at seventeen, two years older than I, Rust was my closest comrade. I hesitated to say “friend.” A Prince of Caledon dared have no friend.
In the presence of his family we adopted semi-formal manners. In their company he was accustomed to give me the bow of intimacy, that nod of the head and the so-slight movement of the back. But, secluded in the orchard, we’d sprawl easily in the soft cool grass, and he would hear out my confidences, and offer his own.
He knew how I felt about my uncles, about the earls of the realm. He’d heard which lessons I liked and which I could barely abide. Heraldry, for example. Why in Lord of Nature’s name should a young royal have to study the marks on shields and banners? We had clerks for that folderol.
Today, we settled ourselves in his bedchamber on the third floor of the keep. He threw himself across a billowy divan; I crossed my legs in a thick, rough-carved cherrywood chair. I told him of my encounter with obstinate old Griswold. Rust said little, but snickered when I told how I’d been made to clean the stables.
I glared. “Great consolation you give.” Still, I felt better for the telling.
“Prince Rodrigo the stableboy!” Rust’s chest shook with a silent spasm.
“You mock me?” I scrambled to my feet, hand momentarily brushing my dagger.
“Oh, sit, dunce. Laugh at yourself before others do. Then they’ll have no need!”
Nonsense, of course. But, grumbling, I bore it, and let him coax me back to my seat. Rust was the only one I could talk with about Tantroth, Duke of Eiber. There was no doubt of our family’s position in that regard; everyone, including the uncles, expected Rust’s father Llewelyn to defend his keep and the city or die in the attempt, and there’d be no forgiveness should Llewelyn falter.
I led the talk in a roundabout manner, so Rust wouldn’t know my concern. We spoke first of clothing, and after a time I mentioned the bright dyes for which Eiber was famous. “They’re fitting me for a cloak of Eiber orange,” I said. Then, casually, “I suppose I should bid them hurry, lest the supply is interrupted.”
“How? By war?”
“It’s always possible.”
Rust pondered. “They say Eiber bristles with war implements, and Tantroth seeks an excuse to use them. Just a year ago he seized the Isle of Malth under some silly pretext.”
“And started a blood-feud with the Norlanders, who claim it.”
“He keeps a full-time army, you know. Imagine armed men who never return to their crops. A wonder his whole earldom doesn’t starve. Of course with such a horde he’s in no danger of falling. The dye trade should be safe.”
“Unless he wars on a second front.”
Rust leaned back, crossed his arms behind his head. “Ah, why didn’t you say so?” A gentle amusement was in his eyes. “Yes, he’ll attack us, when the time is right. At least, that’s what Father says.”
I listened.
“He’ll try for what he’s always wanted, Roddy. You’ll have to face it.”
“Imps take his grandfather, anyway.” I kicked at a pillow.
It was ancient history. First came Varon of the Steppe, who wrested Caledon and Eiber from Cayil of the Surk, and held them as fiefdoms. The son of his second marriage was Rouel, grandfather of Tantroth, the Duke of Eiber. But Varon’s son by his first marriage was Tryon, my mother’s father.
On Varon’s death the Steppe collapsed, overrun by the fierce Norlanders. Tryon seized Caledon, the most prosperous province, and was able to hold it even without benefit of the Still. His half brother Rouel, who seized Eiber, claimed Caledon was his by will of their father.
Over a generation’s time the Seven Wars decided the issue in our favor. After Tryon died, Mother was able to wield the Still, which balanced Eiber’s Cleave that sundered friends and allies. Now, the descendants of Rouel were the Nordukes, who held Eiber, in theory, as a vassalage of Caledon.
“Curse them all you wish,” said Rust. “It won’t help Elena hold the realm.”
“If only she had the ...” My voice trailed off.
We almost never spoke of the Power.
“Yes, it would help.” A quick grin. “But then you wouldn’t be among us.”
A soft knock at the door forestalled my reply. “It’s me, Sir Rustin. I had time before supper.” The door opened; a pretty little wench with russet hair peered in, hands twisting at her apron. “I’m so sorry! I—I mean—forgive me!” She glanced round in confusion, curtsied, and fled.
I growled, “What was
that
all about?”
Rustin shrugged. “Chela. She helps in the kitchen.” Under my gaze his cheeks reddened.
“Why would she—oh!”
His words came in a rush. “She’s just—we’re not particularly ...”
“It’s nothing to me,” I said, fighting for composure. “You’re grown.” Casually, I stood. “Well, I have business to attend. See you another day.” I escaped to the stairs, rushed out to the stable.
By the time I’d unknotted Ebon’s bridle, Rust had caught up to me. “I’m sorry she burst in.” His hand fell on my arm. “Wait.”
I shook him off. My voice was tight. “Another time.” I flung up a leg.
He caught me before I could mount. Ebon whinnied in alarm. “I’m sorry, Rodrigo. It must be hard for you, never having—”
I swung a knotted fist, and knocked him to the straw-scattered floor.
Rust lay on the planking, half-dazed.
“Don’t speak of it,” I said. “Ever.”
Hard for me? He couldn’t possibly imagine.
I was near sixteen, sported a faint moustache, tall almost as a man. The castle servants, young visiting cousins, my town companions, and, for all I knew, my little brother, rutted like stallions, while I writhed alone in the damp sheets of my chamber.
I could not lie with a woman.
“Roddy, I—”
I howled, “Shut thy mouth!” I clutched at Ebon.
Not that I was physically unable. Were I impotent, I’d be spared the frenzies of desire, the sticky sheets, the unbearable humiliation. But I must withhold my yearning.
Prince Rodrigo, heir presumptive to the throne of Caledon, must remain a virgin.
Else he could not wield the Still.
My vision blurred, I clawed blindly for the saddle. A sob. My own. I swung up my leg to mount.
A lithe form hurtled across the floor, hauled me from my steed, toppled me to the dung-specked straw. We rolled and thrashed. I pummeled Rustin’s arms, his chest, his face, until at last he pinned me helpless under his legs. “You’ll listen,” he grated. “As we are friends, by the Lord you will listen!”
“Get off! I’ll have your life!” I bucked and kicked. “Mother will—”
“Oh, stop your nonsense!” His palm lashed out in a slap that spun my head and rang against the rafters.
I squawked. “It’s treason to lay hand on—” I faltered, as he raised his hand again.
“Stop your foolery! Think you Elena Queen of Caledon cares if two youngsires tussle in the hay, as we have for years? Fah!” He flung a loose tuft of straw at my face. I blinked, unhurt. Rustin rolled to one side, releasing me. “Roddy, I’ve known for years how miserable your need makes you. Never do you speak of—”
I aimed a kick at his side, which he avoided by a dexterous twist. Again, he swarmed atop me, pinning my shoulders. His strong fingers seized my jaw, held it still. “You’ll listen, or I’ll stuff this hay down your throat!” He snatched up a handful, waved it in my face. “By the Lord of Nature, I will have my say!” His eyes blazed.
I sobbed in frustration, but knew better than to try to break free. When Rustin’s temper was well and truly ignited, he was a formidable adversary. After a time, I lay quiet. “Have your way.”
“Your word, that we will not fight, and you will hear me.
I had no choice. I nodded. He rolled aside, helped me to my feet.
“We’ve horse dung all over us.” He wiped his knees. “Let’s wash and change. Then we’ll talk.”
I followed him to the well, where we poured icy water on our leggings and shirts, until the worst of the mess was rinsed. Then, soggy and shivering, we ran up the stairs to his chamber and shucked off our soaking clothes outside his door for a servant to gather.
Inside, naked as I, he tossed me a towel and pawed through a trunk while I dried myself. He found clothes for himself, and dug to the bottom of the chest for his discarded, smaller garments. “These will do for now.”
I stole a glance at his parts while we dressed. Rustin had always been bigger than I. Hair adorned his chest, while I had none.
He sat me in a chair, pulled up another across. “I was four, when first I remember my father taking me to the castle. Even from the safety of his shoulder, it seemed immense, except for you, on your stool at Elena’s skirts. Then, you were barely two. We’ve been friends ever since. Why hide your grief from me?”
“Rustin, I beg you, don’t.” A wave of shame.
“Aye, I’ll do the talking; you promised to listen, not to speak. You think I haven’t seen how hard it was for you? When you were twelve, and your cousin Bayard began to moon over Lady Agora, speaking of her without cease until we wanted to plug our ears, I saw your expression for the first time. You stopped playing with Bayard then, and haven’t spoken to him since.”
I shifted, tried to look as if he talked of things that mattered not.
He studied me, gauged his words. “As each of our friends found a girl’s company, you withdrew from him because you couldn’t do likewise. I was the only one you didn’t abandon.”
I yearned to shut my ears, but I could not. I’d given my word.
“Surely you know Chela wasn’t my first. I’m sorry she came to my room. I’ve tried not to rub it in your face that I could satisfy myself, while you are barred.”