The Black Prince: Part I (31 page)

Including, came the echo, whether Isla wished to host this thing at all.

But then Isla remembered that, were they to host another celebration, something quite exciting would happen. A magical event that she’d fantasized about mere hours before. An event that would, she decided, be so magical as to entirely compensate for the stresses any further exposure to Rowena might cause.

Rudolph would meet Arvid.

A
sher thought things were stupid.

Really, really stupid.

The mean one was back and he was
still
doing chores. Evidently being recognized as his father’s son didn’t mean he wasn’t still responsible for his own horse. A knight and a gentleman cared for his own horse, blah blah blah. Except he didn’t; no one Asher knew over the age of about sixteen winters did. His father didn’t waste time out in the stables with
his
horse, the great black behemoth.

It was all a scam.

The snow, as quickly as it had come, had started melting and the stable yard was a pool of mud. It was almost to his knees now; pretty soon he’d be swimming in it. Why didn’t he just dive in now? His half-frozen fingers were raw on the bucket handle, because he’d insisted on not wearing gloves. Because
he
was stupid.

He wore the ring on his forefinger. It
just
fit. In time, he’d grow. He wondered if he’d be as tall as his father. He didn’t think he wanted to be huge, like Arvid. Hart and his father were of a height, and Asher thought it was a good height. Enough to be intimidating but not so much that he’d never blend in anywhere. Asher didn’t want to have to wear pelts and file his teeth.

He sat down on the edge of the well. There was a cover, which had to be lifted off. And then, under that, probably still a thin film of ice. It was someone from the kitchen’s job to break through the ice every morning with a pickaxe, and sometimes again in the afternoon as well. Turning, Asher eyed the wood. Not enough to save a grown man being pushed into the well, but enough to prevent accidents. Asher wondered, and not for the first time, if he’d been the target of such…accidents.

Or maybe he was just paranoid.

Too many halfwits like John made it hard to believe in this inherent goodness of people idea that Isla seemed so keen on. Asher didn’t need to lie in bed at night, awake in the dark and fantasizing about monsters, to be afraid. He
had
enemies.

All he had to do, to see them, was come downstairs for breakfast.

He dropped his gaze to the ground. He didn’t know why he was so upset. He should be happy now. Except…so much had changed while so much hadn’t. He’d found, upon rising from his bed to greet his first morning as the son of a duke, that he was more confused than happy.

He’d thought of Isla as his mother almost since he met her. A spot for which she had no true competition. And never had had. Even when Maeve had been around, she hadn’t been. Asher had loved her, because of course he had, but his desire for true feeling between them had been unrequited. He remembered following her around, asking for a hug or to show her something, and her shooing him off. On a good day. On a bad day, she’d vent her ire on him with whatever lay nearby. He’d lived in terror of upsetting her. Looking at her wrong, making what she called
a bad face
, was enough.

Isla was…different. Reliable. And she was funny.

As for Tristan…Asher had long ago come to accept that Tristan was his father. At first, simply because everyone else seemed to think he was. But then, over time, he’d begun to see the similarities, too: in their coloring, in their mannerisms. Asher was a quiet, strange child who related poorly to others his own age. And while those around him might have chalked this up to many things, including the circumstances of his arrival at Caer Addanc, they instead chose to see Asher’s temperament as further proof of his true parentage.

The duke was no man’s boon companion.

Asher wanted to be like his father. Scary. And appealing to women.

And it had felt good to be recognized, and still did. Although the ceremony was really gross. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to do it, cutting the lamb’s head from its body. Hart had given him some pointers, which Asher had barely grasped through his shock. After that first blow, he’d almost turned tail and run.

Fear of what would happen if he did kept him going. Oh, he knew he’d still be his father’s son, but would it be legal? Still, far more importantly to Asher, he wanted his father to be proud of him. To feel like he was making the right decision.

To feel like Asher was worthy of the trust Tristan was placing in him.

There were rumors that Isla couldn’t conceive but those had mostly been spread by Rose and Asher didn’t believe them regardless. Rose was just bitter that she’d gone from being Isla’s companion to scouring pots in the kitchens. And besides, Asher had overheard Hart telling Callas once that Isla had been with child and had lost the baby. And Isla’s own brother—Asher’s uncle, now—should know best about his own sister. Better than some ugly, mean-spirited scullery maid with an axe to grind.

And besides, again, his father’s prowess was legendary.

He’d left a slew of lovers in his wake, most of whom, despite being cast aside at some point because the duke had grown bored, still yearned for his bed. If there had been no other children—at least, that Asher knew of—that had only been because he’d been careful. Asher knew, for a fact, that his father could have children. He was here, wasn’t he?

Even so, none of that was relevant. He hoped Isla had many children, because she wanted them—at least, according to what Hart had told Callas, no one ever discussed these things with Asher—and because he thought it might be nice to have a little sister. Someone to watch over, and protect. But whether Isla had no children or twenty, Asher was still the firstborn. Still the heir.

He had to be worthy.

Especially since he had a lot to prove.

It was one thing to suspect a thing and quite another to have it confirmed. And quite another again to have it proved to the entire world. Tristan
wanted
him. Unlike his mother. His real mother. And unlike the man he’d grown up believing was his father. Brendan Terrowin had never had time for anyone except himself. Which, Asher supposed, was why Maeve had fallen into Tristan’s arms at the first opportunity. Brandon had also not been…famed for his prowess. Which, according to court gossip, might have been the product of inbreeding.

Sitting there in the cold, Asher chewed his lip.

But if everyone had thought him, not a page but a bastard, then what difference would recognition make? That was his fear, and what had made him so irritable since shortly after his morning bath when the thought had first occurred. Those who’d been inclined to accept him still would, while those who judged children by their parentage would also still do so.

No one talked to him directly of course, not about anything important, because he was still just a child. But he’d heard the comments directed at Hart. Heard something of Hart’s tale before coming North. He’d also heard the comments directed at himself. No one in that horrible Highlands dump had batted an eyelash when Rowena was so horrible. That must, he’d concluded then and still very much believed, be how they all thought.

Everyone except Isla.

But she was a Northerner now, so she didn’t count.

He wondered who he’d marry. She probably hadn’t even been born yet. Most of the men he knew had married women far younger than themselves. Isla was, he thought, about ten winters younger than his father but he wasn’t sure. Isla’s stepmother was certainly much younger than the earl; he was
ancient
. He must be a hundred winters or more. Asher wasn’t certain he could count that high.

He sighed.

He was about to get up and go about his business—he didn’t relish another thrashing from Brom—when he heard a familiar voice.

“Well if it isn’t the wicket.”

Asher eyed the castellan’s son. John was, apparently, as stupid and unpleasant as ever. Asher had managed to avoid him until now, because John had been kept inside with his mother with his arm in a sling. Probably carding wool or something, with the girls.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You broke my arm!”

“You bit me.” Asher’s glare intensified.

“You bit me, too!” John sniffed. “I have a scar.”

Good
. But he was supposed to be chivalrous. As befitted his station. “Girls find scars attractive,” he allowed generously. “My father says so.”

“Yes, about that.” John, suddenly, seemed uncertain. “My father says I have to be nice to you.”

Inside, Asher perked up a bit. Perhaps things were changing after all. “You can start,” he replied, “with not referencing my mental state.”

“Your…huh?”

“Don’t call me crazy.”

“But….” John trailed off.

“Or I’ll break your arm again.” Asher tried to look extra tough.

John lifted up his tunic. There was a perfect half crescent of teeth marks on his abdomen. There was still scabbing and the skin around them looked red. But from healing, not infection. If the wound had become contaminated, John would already be dead.

A slow smile spread across Asher’s face.

Hurriedly, John dropped his tunic. “So, um…yes. One bite was enough. Please don’t take any more.”

Asher licked his lips. He looked up. “What?”

“I…I won’t call you…I’ll call you whatever you want.”

Asher waited.

“I’m sorry.”

I bet you are.
His little performance had been entirely for John’s benefit. In truth he had no memory of biting him there and had been surprised to see how much damage he’d done. He was privately a little glad he hadn’t done worse. It wasn’t that he was precisely
opposed
to murder; he wanted, after all, to be a knight and knights killed people all the time. It was that he didn’t want to begin his career by killing the son of his father’s ally.

“Girls really do like scars. Hart, too, is covered with scars—he has one on his stomach and it’s much bigger than yours—and he gets
all
the girls.”

“You…really think so?” John seemed hopeful.

Well, John certainly wouldn’t be getting the girls based on his fine looks or winning personality. “Yes. Scars are a mark of honor, my father says: they prove that you were, and are, stronger than whatever tried to hurt you. So, the more scars you have, the tougher you are. Plus you can tell the girls your war stories. About how you
got
your wounds.”

“They…like that?”

“They
love
it.” This based, too, on what he’d overheard of conversations between Hart and the other men. All of whom seemed full of suggestions on how to attract women. Which, if they were all such experts, why did they need each others’ help? But Asher decided to keep things simple. Besides, with someone like John, the idea of a girl,
any
girl, would undoubtedly remain theoretical for years to come.

He stood up. And not because he was vaguely worried that John would push him into the well. “I have to get going.”

“Where?”

“I’ll get in trouble if I’m caught doing nothing.”

John gaped at him. “Really?”

Gods. “Yes, really.”

“But don’t you have…I mean…a whipping boy or something? Now that you’re, I mean. Now that you’re…?”

“No. Of course not.” That was just in fairy tales. And in Chad. Where, according to his tutors, they also wore powdered wigs and put rouge on their lips. The men, too. “And even if I did it wouldn’t matter; a true knight never asks others to take responsibility for his mistakes and that’s what I intend on being.”

He picked up his bucket and began to walk.

John fell in beside him.

Asher was beginning to wish he’d broken John’s leg.

“So….”

“So if I get caught doing piss all I’ll get a thrashing from Brom.

“You could just bite him.”

Really?

“So,” John said again, “I was thinking….”

Shocker.

“Maybe you could teach me how to curry a horse. I mean, the way you do it.”