Captive Prince: Volume One (19 page)

Laurent’s words last night had been a shock. It was hard to reconcile what he now knew with the manner and the bearing of the man. The Regent gave no sign of his—tastes. Damen might almost have thought Laurent was lying. Except he could see in Nicaise’s actions all the ways it was true. Who but the Regent’s pet would behave as brazenly as Nicaise did in the company of princes?

Considering Nicaise’s loyalties, it was strange that Laurent had seemed drawn to him—had seemed even oddly to like him—but who knew what went on in that maze of a mind?

There was nothing to do but watch while the riders mounted and waited for the first signal of game. Damen wandered over to the mouth of the tent and looked out.

The hunting party, sunlit, spanned the hill, flashing with jewels and polished saddlery. The two princes were mounted alongside one another, close by the tent. Torveld looked powerful and competent. Laurent dressed in black hunting leathers was an even more austere sight than normal. He was riding a bay mare. She was a beautiful mount, with perfectly balanced proportions and long hips made for hunting, but she was fractious and difficult, already covered in a thin sheen of sweat. It gave Laurent, controlling her under a light rein, a chance to show off his seat, which was excellent. But it was show without substance. The hunt, like the art of war, required strength, stamina, and skill with a weapon. But more important than all three was a calm horse.

Dogs wove their way through the legs of the horses. They were trained to be calm around large animals, trained to ignore hares and foxes and deer, and focus on nothing but sanglier.

Laurent’s fussy horse began acting out again, and he leaned forward in the saddle, murmuring something as he stroked her neck in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture to quiet her. Then he looked up at Damen.

It was wasteful of nature to have bestowed those looks on one whose character was so unpleasant. Laurent’s fair skin and blue eyes were a combination that was rare in Patras, rarer in Akielos, and a particular weakness of Damen’s. The golden hair made it worse.

‘Can’t afford a good horse?’ said Damen.

‘Try to keep up,’ said Laurent.

He said it to Torveld, after a chilly look at Damen. A touch of his heels, and his mount moved out like she was part of him. Torveld, who was grinning, followed.

In the distance, a horn blew, announcing game. The riders kicked their mounts and the whole party streamed towards the sound of the horn. Hooves thundered after the baying of hounds. The terrain was only lightly wooded, with trees scattered here and there. A large party could canter. There was a clear view of the dogs and the front runners, who were approaching a more heavily wooded area. The boar was somewhere under the cover. It was not long before the party was out of sight, through the trees, over the crest of a hill.

Inside the royal tent, servants were clearing away the last of the luncheon, which had been eaten reclining on strewn cushions, the occasional hound wandering in only to be pushed good-naturedly off the cloths.

Erasmus was like an exotic ornament, kneeling obediently on a cushion the colour of yellow apples. He had done a beautifully unobtrusive job of serving Torveld at lunch, and later in arranging his riding leathers. He was wearing a short tunic in Patran style that exposed his arms and legs, yet was long enough to cover his scarring. Reentering the tent, Damen looked nowhere else.

Erasmus looked down and tried not to smile, and instead blushed, slowly and thoroughly.

‘Hello,’ said Damen.

‘I know that you have somehow arranged this,’ said Erasmus. He was incapable of hiding what he felt, and just seemed to radiate embarrassed happiness. ‘You kept your promise. You and your master. I told you he was kind,’ Erasmus said.

‘You did,’ said Damen.

He was pleased to see Erasmus happy. Whatever Erasmus believed about Laurent, Damen wasn’t going to dissuade him.

‘He’s even nicer in person. Did you know he came and talked to me?’ said Erasmus.

‘—He did?’ said Damen. It was something he couldn’t imagine.

‘He asked about . . . what happened in the gardens. Then he warned me. About last night.’

‘He warned you,’ said Damen.

‘He said that Nicaise would make me perform before the court and it would be awful, but that if I was brave, something good might come at the end of it.’ Erasmus looked up at Damen curiously. ‘Why do you look surprised?’

‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t be. He likes to plan things in advance,’ said Damen.

‘He wouldn’t have even known about someone like me if you hadn’t asked him to help me,’ said Erasmus. ‘He’s a prince, his life is so important, so many people must want him to do things for them. I’m glad I have this chance to say thank you. If there is a way to repay you, I will find it. I swear that I will.’

‘There’s no need. Your happiness is repayment enough.’

‘And what about you?’ said Erasmus. ‘Won’t you be lonely, all by yourself?’

‘I have a kind master,’ said Damen.

He did pretty well in getting the words out, all things considered. Erasmus bit his lip, and all his burnished curls fell over his forehead. ‘You’re—in love with him?’

‘Not quite,’ said Damen.

There was a moment of silence. It was Erasmus who broke it.

‘I . . . was always taught that a slave’s duty was sacred, that we honoured our masters through submission and they honoured us in return. And I believed that. But when you said that you were sent here as punishment, I understood that for men here, there is no honour in obedience, and it is shameful to be a slave. Perhaps I had already started to understand that—even before you spoke to me. I tried to tell myself that it was an even greater submission, to become nothing, to have no value, but—I couldn’t—I think it is in my nature to submit, as it is not in yours, but I need someone—to belong to.’

‘You have someone,’ said Damen. ‘Slaves are prized in Patras, and Torveld is smitten with you.’

‘I like him,’ said Erasmus, shyly, blushing. ‘I like his eyes. I think he’s handsome.’ And then he blushed again at his own boldness.

‘More handsome than the Prince of Akielos?’ Damen teased.

‘Well, I never saw him, but I really don’t think he could be more handsome than my master,’ said Erasmus.

‘Torveld wouldn’t tell you this himself, but he’s a great man,’ said Damen, smiling. ‘Even among princes. He spent most of his life in the north, fighting on the border with Vask. He’s the man who finally brokered the peace between Vask and Patras. He’s King Torgeir’s most loyal servant, as well as his brother.’

‘Another kingdom . . . In Akielos, none of us thought we’d ever leave the palace.’

‘I’m sorry that you’ll have to be uprooted again. But it won’t be like last time. You can look forward to the journey.’

‘Yes. That is—I . . . I will be a little frightened, but so obedient,’ said Erasmus. And blushed again.

The first to return were the foot-huntsmen and the dog handlers from the first station, who were bringing back a set of exhausted hounds, having released a second fresh set as the riders swept past. To them also fell the job of destroying any dogs that were wounded past recovery by the sharp-tusked boar.

There was a strange atmosphere among them, not only the heavy, tongue-lolling fatigue of the hounds. It was something in the faces of the men. Damen felt a twist of unease. Boar hunting was a dangerous sport. At the mouth of the tent, he called to one of them.

‘Has something happened?’

The dogsman said, ‘Tread lightly. Your master’s in a vicious mood.’

Well, that was order restored.

‘Let me guess. Someone else brought down the boar.’

‘No. He did,’ said the dogsman, a sour note in his voice. ‘He ruined his horse to do it—she never had a chance. Even before he rode her into the fight that shattered her rear ankle, she was blood from flank to shoulder from the spur.’ He pointed his chin at Damen’s back. ‘You’d know something about that,’ he said.

Damen stared at him, suddenly feeling faintly nauseated.

‘She was a brave goer,’ he said. ‘The other one—Prince Auguste—he was a great one with horses, he helped break her in as a filly.’

It was as close as any man of his station would come to criticising a prince.

One of the other men, eyeing them, approached a moment later. ‘Don’t mind Jean. He’s in a foul mood. He was the one had to stick a sword through the mare’s throat and put her down. The Prince tore strips off him for not doing it fast enough.’

When the riders returned, Laurent was riding a well-muscled grey gelding, which meant that somewhere in the hunting party a courtier was riding double.

The Regent came first into the tent, stripping off his riding gloves, his weapon taken by a servant.

Outside, there was a sudden baying; the boar had arrived and was likely being stripped down, its belly skin cut open and all the internal organs taken out, the offal given to the dogs.

‘Nephew,’ said the Regent.

Laurent had come with soft, padding grace into the tent. There was an aseptic lack of expression in the cool blue eyes and it was very clear that
vicious mood
was an understatement.

The Regent said, ‘Your brother never had any difficulty running down a mark without slaughtering his horse. But we aren’t going to talk about that.’

‘Aren’t we?’ said Laurent.

‘Nicaise tells me you influenced Torveld to bargain for the slaves. Why do it in secret?’ said the Regent. His gaze tracked over Laurent slowly and consideringly. ‘I suppose the real question is what motivated you to do it at all?’

‘I thought it was terribly unfair of you,’ drawled Laurent, ‘to burn the skin of your slaves when you would not let me flay mine even a little.’

Damen felt all the breath leave his body.

The Regent’s expression changed. ‘I see you can’t be talked to. I won’t indulge your current mood. Petulance is ugly in a child and worse in a man. If you break your toys, it is no one’s fault but your own.’

The Regent left through the folded tent flaps that were held open by red silk ropes. From outside there came voices and the chink of saddlery and all the milling hubbub of a hunting party, and nearer to was the sound of the tent canvases flapping in the wind. Laurent’s blue eyes were on him.

‘Something to say?’ said Laurent.

‘I heard you killed your horse.’

‘It’s just a horse,’ said Laurent. ‘I’ll have my uncle buy me a new one.’

These words seemed savagely to amuse him; there was a jagged, private edge to his voice. Damen thought, tomorrow morning Torveld departs, and I am once again free to try and leave this sickening, treacherous, overripe place however I can.

The chance came two nights later, though not in any way that he had anticipated.

Woken in the dead of night, torches flaring and the doors to his room flung open. He was expecting it to be Laurent—when it came to these nocturnal visits, these abrupt awakenings, it was always Laurent—but he saw only two men in livery, the Prince’s livery. He didn’t recognise the men.

‘You’ve been sent for,’ one said, unlocking his chain from the floor and giving it a tug.

‘Sent where?’

‘The Prince,’ said the one, ‘wants you in his bed.’

‘What?’ said Damen, bringing up short, so that the chain pulled taut.

He felt a sharp push from behind. ‘Get a move on. Don’t want to keep him waiting.’

‘But—’ Digging his heels in after the push.

‘Move it.’

He took a step forward, still resisting. Another. It was going to be a slow journey.

The man behind him swore. ‘Half the guard is hot to fuck him. You think you’d be happier about the idea.’

‘The Prince doesn’t want me to
fuck him
,’ said Damen.

‘Will you
move it
,’ the man behind him said, and Damen felt the prick of a knife point behind him, and he let himself be taken out of the room.

D
AMEN HAD SURVIVED
summons from Laurent before. He had no reason for the tension across his shoulders, the anxiety in his stomach, curled and hot.

His journey was made in total privacy, giving the false outward impression of a secret rendezvous. But whatever this looked like, whatever it
felt
like—whatever he’d been told—was wrong. If he thought about it too much, hysteria threatened: Laurent was not the type to smuggle men into his rooms for midnight assignations.

That wasn’t what this was.

It didn’t make sense, but Laurent was impossible to second guess. Damen’s eyes raked the passageway, and found another inconsistency. Where were the guards who had held position all along these corridors the last time Damen had walked them? Did they stand down at night? Or had they been cleared out for a reason?

‘Did he use those words—his bed? What else did he say?’ Damen asked and received no answer.

The knife at his back pricked him forward. There was nothing to do but continue along the corridor. With every step he took, the tension tightened, the uneasiness increased. The grilled windows along the passage threw squares of moonlight that passed over the faces of his escort. No sound but their footsteps.