Chapter 7
Despite Gustav visibly panicking about his choice to withdraw from the rest of the afternoon, Francis assured the older man that he would dutifully go to the supper that night and pick up the tournament again tomorrow when it resumed.
He decided to take Archie as his plus one for supper. Since this trip was turning into a social nightmare, Francis felt he needed the support.
Archie was boisterous and intimidating in a way that Francis was not, especially wearing an eye patch, and he guessed that his annoying rivals would be less inclined to bother him with Archie there.
After an afternoon nap, wash, and change, it was straight on to an early supper.
“Is old Gustav upset that you gave him the heave-ho?” Archie asked, as they entered the Harem.
That’s what this hall was, Francis now knew. The Harem. He couldn’t wait to tell Archie.
“I’m quite sure he will welcome an evening off,” Francis replied. “He appears fraught.”
“Yes, if he wasn’t grey already, he would have turned it by now,” Archie quipped.
They were early to supper, some of the first guests to arrive.
Francis wanted to switch things up this time. He refused to get stuck down at the bottom of the table again.
“Archie,” he whispered, gesturing at the head of the table. “Secure a good spot.”
“Right.” Archie flew in, pouncing on two empty cushions just before the Count of Pertengo could nab them. “Taken!” Archie declared, spreading himself across two cushions. “Better luck next time, Pertengo.”
“Well, I never!” the count huffed, and had to find another seat.
Francis tried not to chuckle. Things were more bearable with Archie. He sat down as Archie made room for him.
“I could get used to these relaxed suppers,” Archie commented, lounging back on his cushion.
Francis glanced around the table as it filled up, noting the dirty looks from several of his opponents. “I’m not sure how relaxed this will be,” he said.
“Is the king gracing you all with his presence?” Archie asked.
Francis had no idea. Whether he did or not wouldn’t make all of this less awkward for him.
All during supper, as Archie ate and chatted away, oblivious to Francis’s inner turmoil, Francis kept noticing who among his rivals were making alliances.
Which ex was speaking to which enemy. Prince Hiro was cosying up to Wittensbach, of all men.
Montferrat was conferring with Haugwitz.
And Visconti kept shooting Francis dirty looks, as did Pertengo.
Francis had lost his appetite. Not only for food but for the competition.
To make matters worse, when King Omar did join them for supper, he was once again concealed by a screen, and guards.
Shrouded in mystery.
Francis began to wonder if there was something amiss. Not that he was likely to get any answers.
He went to bed that night, in his sumptuous guest room, unable to sleep from thinking too much.
After much tossing and turning, Francis got up and went for a stroll out on his very own balcony. The air was warm, no danger of catching a chill. And at least in the moonlight, he wouldn’t become sunburnt.
His poor nose and cheeks were rosy and sore from one day in the sun.
As Francis gazed out on the moonlit garden below, he spotted some small dots across the lawn playing under a blossom laden tree.
He watched and realised with delight it was a trio of cats.
They scampered around the tree, one bouncing halfway up the trunk before jumping back down, chased each other for a bit, then darted away into darkness.
A shame they were far away. Francis would like to see the cats up close.
Maybe tomorrow.
* * * *
If Francis had had any inkling of what the day ahead would bring him, he never would have gotten out of bed.
Nay, he would not have boarded the ship bound for Istanbul. He would’ve stayed in Stormburg.
After a morning much like yesterday’s, meeting with Gustav and Archie for his breakfast, they went downstairs to find the rest of their party and wait to be told what to do and where to go.
“Any ideas what you’re competing in today?” Maddie asked him.
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Francis said. “Hopefully a solo activity. I’ve had quite enough of partners here.”
“I sketched this yesterday, sir,” Christian said, offering his sketchbook to Francis. “Just a scribble, but I had to immortalise the moment.”
Francis happily observed a pencil drawing of two men fencing and recognised himself standing over Wittensbach in victory.
Francis allowed himself a smile. “Excellent work, Christian. I should like to get this framed.”
They all shared a chuckle at Wittensbach’s expense.
It was the last chuckle Francis would have that day, before Yusuf with the long grey beard announced to the gathered assembly that today’s activity would be wrestling.
Francis was not fond of wrestling, but had been forced to do it with his brothers when they were younger. Mostly as an excuse for them to rough him up.
“Wrestling?” Maddie said. “How strange.”
“I think the king just wants to see you all at it,” Archie put in, which broke the tension and made them laugh.
“He’s right,” Christian said. “This is just a game, sir. Don’t take it too seriously.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Francis said.
Hopefully his opponents wouldn’t either.
With his best foot forward, Francis separated from his party, they to the spectators’ tent on the lawn, Francis to the gathering competitors.
The lawn had been cleared of all equipment today, and circles drawn in chalk upon the grass.
He was determined to give it a go and crossed his fingers he didn’t end up with Wittensbach again.
What Francis hadn’t expected was to be asked to strip down to his trousers only, and have warm oil poured all over him.
He balked.
Oil? In the sun? Half naked?
His skin would turn red and blotchy. None of this would look pleasant. He would look ghastly, in fact.
He almost bowed out, but then he caught Montferrat and Hiro sneering at him, so Francis steeled himself.
He was not a coward. He would give this his best shot.
How hard could it be?
* * * *
Francis awoke the next morning with his body stiff and bruised, his face and entire upper body sore from sunburn.
What a mistake yesterday had been. What a huge mistake.
Turkish oil wrestling was, in fact, incredibly difficult, thanks to the oil making the opponents and the ground slippery.
That alone would have been tricky enough, but now all the other suitors saw him as a threat they were playing dirty. Francis had been tripped, bitten, elbowed, and had just about every dirty trick in the book thrown at him in the short rounds he’d managed before bowing out.
No more wrestling.
The thought of dragging himself out of the sumptuous bed and going out to meet the rival suitors again was not appealing.
Neither was the prospect of another gruelling day spent battling them all in a contest of sports Francis had little interest in.
This all seemed rather silly.
He was busy staring at his ceiling and the pretty tiling up there, when a servant came in with a tray of that sweet chai, and informed him that a communal breakfast was due to be served in the Harem.
Francis imagined his rivals eating all the food before he got there. Or worse, spitting in it. And what other mean-spirited jokes did they plan to play on Francis today?
No, it did not appeal. None of it.
Francis drank a cup of chai, got dressed into white linen trousers and matching tunic. He found a white turban with a white veil, enough to keep the sun off his head and hopefully disguise his entire face if he draped it just so.
He stepped into a pair of delicate blue slippers with gemstones on the turned-up toes, grabbed a red apple from the fruit bowl, and made his escape out of the window.
To hell with this silly competition.
Francis had to scale down a rose trellis, but it was sturdy enough. He bit into the apple to hold it in his teeth as he used both hands to climb down.
His muscles ached, but he went slowly and carefully and safely made it to the ground.
The garden he’d landed in was quiet and peaceful. Francis hummed in approval and ate his apple as he calmly walked away.
If he acted like he belonged, he probably wouldn’t be disturbed.
Shame he didn’t have a book to read, but Francis wagered he could find something interesting to keep himself occupied.
More interesting than having to deal with all those rival suitors, at any rate.
The garden was exquisite, and quite pleasant in the early morning light before the sun was too hot.
Perfect for Francis.
He wandered here and there, admiring the exotic flowers and fruit trees, breathing in the sweet smells. This garden was quiet, blissfully devoid of any people.
He followed mosaic pathways past stone fountains, and miniature ponds with goldfish swimming among lily pads.
Near one pond, Francis spotted a cat. A calico, with a beautiful tri-coloured coat, and golden eyes. The cat seemed young; slim and small. But really, Francis was no expert.
He bent down and offered out one hand. “Hello, there,” he said softly.
The calico regarded him for a moment and didn’t move. Probably too interested in the goldfish.
Francis was determined to pet a cat. He lowered slowly into a crouching position, with the intent on offering his hand to the cat. Unfortunately, his sore muscles put up a protest, and Francis grunted in surprise.
The cat scampered off.
“Oh, no, wait!” Francis pleaded, struggling back into an upright position. “I didn’t mean to frighten you off. Mister cat?”
The calico had trotted off behind a neatly manicured hedge.
Francis followed, and came upon a gorgeous, oblong shaped fishpond, raised from the ground with a brim wide enough to sit on. Several cats of all different colours, long haired and short haired, were already making use of the stone edge to sit and watch the fish.
“Oh, hello, there,” Francis said, quietly so as not to scare them. “Hello, cats. My, there’s a lot of you. Aren’t you marvellous?”