Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Hawthorn.
Symbolic of spring, love, protection. Hope and fear, sex and death.
Tree of the otherfolk. Arawn’s crown is said to be of hawthorn.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
ELEVEN
The day was bright and warm, the air cresting off the sea with a salty tang. The Heir Apparent was most keen to see the outer bailey, the battlements, courtyards and grounds, and paid particular interest to the training facilities, where dozens of crownsworn huffed and sweated in stringent rows.
‘Anyone promising? With Osian away, I’m positively itching for a brawl.’
‘I am right here, Your Majesty,’ the prince offered.
‘Oh.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘You want me to put you on the ground again? Because I will.’
‘You are both in your formal whites,’ Demelza reminded them, mild like a mother, bouncing Edeva on her hip. ‘And in front of company.’
‘At the hunt,’ the Heir Apparent enunciated, ‘I am going to wait until everyone is heinously drunk, then trounce you in front of your precious consort. Understood?’
Prince Wystan, nursing a hangover, looked ready to put himself on the ground. ‘You are both an embarrassment to the Crown.’
‘Says the one who can’t hold his drink.’
‘You did this on purpose,’ he grumbled. ‘Gods, can we get out of this sun? I thought it was supposed to be perpetually cloudy here.’
They did leave the training grounds, though not with any swiftness.
In the gardens, the small party dispersed, stopping in clusters here or there to admire the view or the flowers.
Edeva eagerly dragged both Prince Osian and Meilyr along, asking about giants and dragons.
As they moved through the rose beds, it was Meilyr’s hand she clung to, his other arm tight around the prince’s.
A barb of shock pulsed through her babbling, and Meilyr startled. It was not his own feeling but someone else’s. He turned towards the source, and familiarity blossomed, so discordant with reality he froze even before his eyes fully focused.
Haydn. Stock still, staring at him, caught between awe and shock. He was dressed in the whites and creams of the castle staff, beside the rosebush he had been tending.
Haydn. As clear as though he had stepped out of a memory.
Prince Osian followed Meilyr’s gaze. ‘Is something wrong?’
Meilyr forced himself to loosen his grip on the prince’s arm. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I merely thought I saw something.’
He had, but needed to pretend otherwise. He let Edeva drag them further, focused on her chatter so he would not look back, fighting to shutter his panic.
His former lover, there in the castle gardens, was not something he knew how to handle in his current state.
The rest of the day gave him no chance to calm down. Everywhere there
was talk of the coming hunt, a sprawling, five-day affair off in the
western hills. Though it would be a hunt in the most traditional sense
of the word, that great and noble sport of flushing out animals to kill
for sport, Meilyr could not help at each mention being reminded of the
other historical connotation of the term: the hunts of King Uhtric and
his descendants, when it was weavers and anyone suspected of being one
who were hounded to a bloody end.
At dinner, he drank more than was sensible; his senses blurred, but he was too on edge to find relief in it. Instead, thoughts of the last time he had drunk this heavily – with Haydn – distracted him to the point where he jumped when Prince Osian took his arm to retire from the Great Hall.
It had begun to rain. He hoped he could bury himself in his bed, but the prince continued the climb to his own rooms and deposited Meilyr in the middle of his parlour.
One little daffodil twitched. He was far too aware of his own body.
‘I wished to speak about your brother’s release,’ Prince Osian said, preparing tea.
Meilyr shivered. ‘Yes?’
‘He will be escorted surreptitiously from the castle after we depart for the hunt, if that is what you wish?’
Meilyr sat on the armchair, seized with surprising confliction. He wanted Celyn released, beyond words, but what would his brother do with his freedom? Quietly go home and behave himself as Meilyr had asked? He wanted to hope, but hope felt abruptly feeble and perilous.
Celyn had friends, which he kept separate from Meilyr. Friends who shared his hatred of Khaim. Meilyr had told him more than once not to entangle himself in anything dangerous, but Celyn was Celyn.
Was releasing him, after all this, the safest thing for him?
Guilt, and more wretchedness. Meilyr took the tea brought him. It was black, and fresh; the leaves bloomed in his mouth, steeping clarity. He was being selfish. Celyn deserved to be free, and Meilyr would just have to find a way to make him swear – really, truly swear – not to get into trouble.
‘Yes, thank you, Your Majesty.’
The prince settled on the divan. ‘It was part of our bargain.’
It had been, but the why still confused Meilyr.
He studied the prince over the rim of his cup, gently blowing steam across the space between them.
Again, the prince felt genuine, though marred by something oddly like uncertainty, perhaps even guilt.
That made little sense. It was easier to read him through their woven bond, rising like a band of living heat between them as Meilyr so much as brushed towards it, but the wine made things trickier.
As did Celyn’s warnings, repeating through his mind. Everything Meilyr had lost at the hands of Prince Osian’s family. Everything Prince Osian represented.
How would he know if the prince told the truth and let Celyn go home?
Earnestness pressed through the still-piqued bond as the prince said, ‘I trust the knights who I have given this duty. As soon as we are returned from the hunt, you can write to your brother. Perhaps visit him, with time. If there is anything he may need in your absence, please ask it of me.’
Not a hint of a lie or maliciousness, whatsoever.
Meilyr took a sip of hot tea. The fire popped in the hearth. ‘Thank you, Majesty. I will tell you if I think of anything.’
The prince nodded, turning the ring on his thumb with the fingers of the same hand.
‘There is one more thing we perhaps need to discuss.’ Through the bond, he was hesitant.
Meilyr focused, and it slipped away. ‘The hunt will require rather close quarters. I believe it may be wise to discuss… boundaries.’
‘Boundaries,’ Meilyr repeated. The word tasted odd.
‘Yes. We will be under intense scrutiny, and there are those who would be pleased to find anything to hint at our marriage being illegitimate.’
True enough. Meilyr could list several people already.
The prince looked into his cup. ‘However, I would uphold our bargain. I do not wish for you to be… uncomfortable.’
Uncomfortable. Another interesting word. Meilyr would have let the prince bed him if he had wanted it, that first night or any since. It was some small, strange miracle that had not yet been required of him. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But the lie is necessary.’
A flicker – of unease? – before the prince cleared his throat. ‘I told you, I have no desire to push you.’
Meilyr had heard that before. ‘It is not pushing if we have agreed. If we are both… willing to go that far for the lie.’
It was hotter in the parlour now. Probably the tea. The wine.
Princess Aldreda had said Prince Osian had never really shown interest in anyone. Did that mean…?
‘Forgive me, Majesty, but perhaps if you tell me what is expected of me or what you would like from me, I can confirm if it… crosses a line.’
Not that it would be easy. Not that intimacy of any kind, especially physical, ever came easily to him.
His weaving heightened everything, especially through touch.
All of the other person’s feelings, the good and the bad.
They muddied Meilyr’s own. Tangled him until he could not be sure where he began and ended, or whether what he was doing was out of his own desires, or simply obligation.
His wish not to leave the other person wanting.
His need not to feel their displeasure, or their frustration, and know he was the cause.
At least with the prince, that element would be easier. Their hearts were not in the mix. He could do as the prince wanted, and that would be all.
Memories of Haydn surfaced, and he pushed them away as best he could.
‘I have not—’ The prince stopped, pulling Meilyr back into the room. He swallowed, and tried again. ‘I have not had much experience with emotional relationships. The physical, a little, but…’
He was… Was he flustered?
Meilyr felt the heat in his own cheeks increase. ‘Ah. Well, no one would know, I think. From how you have been with me.’ He certainly would not have guessed. ‘I think, if we do what feels natural whilst pretending, and perhaps have a… signal.’
Was this conversation actually happening? With the prince?
‘That is a good idea.’ Prince Osian exhaled, relieved. ‘What did you have in mind?’
Meilyr had had nothing at all in mind, bouncing his nails on the rim of his teacup in nervousness. Oh, but could that work? Something physical, rather than words.
He set the cup down and stood, the prince’s eyes fixed on him as he stepped closer. ‘May I?’
The prince rose carefully, and damn if Meilyr did not keep forgetting how tall he was.
With what must have been wine-emboldened audacity, he laid his hand on the prince’s shoulder and tapped firmly, twice, with one finger.
‘That could mean may I.’ He then pressed three times with the same finger. ‘And this could mean that is fine?’
He felt foolish and somewhat light-headed, until Prince Osian touched his arm and tapped twice with the tip of his finger. It sent two reverberating jolts through Meilyr’s body, small and not unpleasant.
‘May I,’ the prince repeated, low and thoughtful.
Meilyr’s high collar was abruptly too tight, but he pressed three times with his finger. ‘Do you think that could work, Your Majesty?’