Chapter 13 #2
Then Lord Leighton slammed down his cup and rose in a rush.
Crownsblood hands already at weapons tensed. Neither Prince Osian nor Princess Aldreda flinched.
Lord Leighton sniffed and bowed very formally. ‘Majesties. If you will excuse me.’ He marched from the tent, staggering slightly.
The tension did not abate.
Princess Aldreda emptied her cup and lifted it. ‘As you were, everyone. I feel we were in the middle of a particularly good song?’
The shrewd tent stumbled to comply. Kenelm Radnor huffed a laugh as though relieved and made a joke to Prince Wystan and the courtiers.
Meilyr’s body remembered it was allowed to breathe.
Beside him, strain emanated from Prince Osian. The arm around Meilyr’s waist was as firm as stone, and it was some time before Aldreda whispered something to the prince and he affirmed, all too quiet for Meilyr to hear.
Finally, too long later, the prince leaned in to twine a lock of Meilyr’s hair about his fingers. ‘Let us to bed, then.’
They went arm-in-arm, like lovers. Ser Pedr and Ser Siddel followed into the sharp freshness, across the open towards the prince’s tent.
Laughter and talk bubbled from a small fire closer to the trees, and as Meilyr picked out familiar faces from both the prince’s and Aldreda’s knights, Ser Blythe waved them over.
‘You four joining us, Majesty?’
It was easy to like Ser Blythe. She was solid and uncomplicated, like a more outgoing Ser Pedr, and had warmed to Meilyr the most out of Prince Osian’s knights. ‘I’m just scaring the shit out of Garrick,’ she explained with a grin.
‘You are not,’ Ser Garrick defended, cleaning his daggers.
‘Which story is it tonight, Blythe?’ the prince asked, mirth easing some of his strain.
Ser Blythe dropped straight back into theatrics.
‘It’s a new one, Majesty. One that happened in the forests just west of here, on the borders of the Green Wastes.
They say a poor Cyngaleg lass whose wife was deathly sick walked into the darkest, oldest depths of the woods, to call out and offer her blood and her soul to the otherfolk.
Three days she walked and she bled, and finally they answered. But it was not enough.’
‘They took her eyes and her tongue too?’
‘Macsen,’ Ser Blythe groaned. ‘Don’t spoil it.’
‘My ma used to tell us that one,’ Ser Macsen explained. ‘It’s definitely nearly as terrifying as whatever you’re drinking.’
Meilyr had expected a more notable change in atmosphere with Prince Osian being present, especially considering the subject matter. But the knights seemed more than comfortable.
‘Goodnight, everyone,’ the prince said, gently leaving them to it.
The fireside was a chorus of ‘Goodnight!’ and ‘Goodnight, Majesty, Highness!’
Ser Pedr and Ser Siddel remained posted outside the prince’s tent. The inside was sizeable, with a small brazier for warmth not far from the entryway. A large nest of bedding and furs beyond constituted a bed, complete with a stitched throw of the White Dragon.
The thrum of tension returned as Prince Osian let him go. ‘Forgive me,’ the prince said, tired, and stepped away to ready for sleep.
Not looking at him, Meilyr began to unfasten his hunting belt. His fingers were stiff and shaky. This was a world away from the clamour of the feast tent, and yet another from the calm routine of the prince’s chambers.
They were about to share a bed.
Old fears stalked through the shadows. But the prince had given him no reason to fear him – no reason to fear this, at least. What they acted out for the court had not bled into privacy.
‘I have something to attend to briefly,’ Prince Osian said.
He was dressed down to soft breeches and a long cream under-robe, hanging open beneath his collarbones.
He did not meet Meilyr’s gaze. ‘Try to sleep, we will be required with the dawn.’ He went to the fire, to some papers there, and sat down.
Meilyr stared at his back, hands stilled on the buckle at his own waist.
All right. One thing at a time.
He folded his clothes neatly next to the bed as the prince had done, but hesitated over what to do with his new dagger.
‘I will not be offended if you keep it with you.’ Prince Osian continued writing whatever it was he worked on as he added, ‘I usually keep mine under the pillow, in fact.’
Meilyr turned the knife over in his hands, then laid it on top of his clothes. To the prince’s look of askance, he said, ‘Then I will have no need of mine.’
It might as well have been a mile between him and the fire, it might as well have been two inches. He clambered into the furs and blankets, trying to stay small and quiet.
It was surprisingly comfortable, if cold. He could not lie still. Tried to find a position that allowed him to keep an eye on the fire, without staring.
Moments or bells later, Prince Osian rose. He barely disturbed the layers as he climbed beneath, and settled as far from Meilyr as possible on his side, back turned.
Meilyr held his breath.
There was only the high peak of the prince’s shoulders in the dim, diving into the valley of his waist in the blankets. He was as still as a mountain.
A little heat from the wine crept into Meilyr’s cheeks. Proximity.
Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen.
Carefully, Meilyr rolled to face the back of the tent, away from the prince.
‘I can sleep by the fire, if that would make you more comfortable?’
Meilyr tensed. The prince was asking.
He had to swallow before he could answer. ‘It would be better for me to do so, if Your Majesty wishes it.’
‘That is not what I asked…’
Meilyr turned enough to make out his shape. He was tense, but not from malice. ‘Thank you, Majesty. But it is a cold night, and neither of us would fare well in the chill and out of sleep.’
Silence stretched for a count before Prince Osian said, ‘If you are certain.’
Meilyr settled, turned away. That had helped. The last of his panic levelled.
It had still been a very long time since he had shared a bed. Even when he had, he had never grown accustomed to another’s presence: their breathing, and their rustling. They had always been too close, too loud.
Prince Osian was like stone. His presence was there at Meilyr’s back, but…
Perhaps not stone, but a tranquil lake. The waters lapped softly, and despite himself, Meilyr traced towards that smoothness through their bond, spreading his fingers slightly to assist the sensation.
The prince was tired and somewhat tangled with frustration, though it did not feel as though it was directed at Meilyr.
Yet again he was startlingly easy to read this close, but Meilyr knew to leave whatever troubled him well enough alone.
Oh, damn it.
‘Lord Leighton,’ Meilyr broached quietly.
He had been right, from the way the prince’s emotions sharpened.
Before he could retract the words, Prince Osian said, ‘Yes, he is one of the reasons my father agreed to the relocation of my holdings to Eascild. With Sanford’s monopoly over most of Cyngalon’s remaining viable mines and their hold over the river, he presents a dangerous figurehead should the Marches attempt to oust themselves from the Crown. ’
The honesty was unexpected. ‘Do you believe that is possible?’
‘I believe he would not care about collateral damage should such an opportunity arise.’
The rest hung in the air between them. After a while, the prince softly said, ‘Sleep well.’
‘You as well, Majesty.’
Meilyr stared at the far tent wall, then at his eyelids. Something had eased between them, despite the severity of their talk. Warmth gathered inside the blankets, emanating from the man behind him. He allowed himself to nestle deeper, fractionally closer.
The sounds of the camp muffled further as the faintest press of the wind stirred. Forest noise, the breathing of trees. The subtle life of the wild – of Cyngalon, out there in the dark beneath the clouds and the stars.
Meilyr slipped into sleep, not even troubled by dreams.
The forest perspired in the damp afternoon. It was a relief to break
at the river for a midday meal, giving riders and horses a chance to
cool off.
The party remained indifferently jovial, but Meilyr’s gaze returned to the trees.
The steady breath of the broad beeches, the ash and the oak, was… different. The waves of bluebells bowed their heads without their usual bobbing laughter. The knitted dark of the depths seemed drawn back – deepened, like the shore heralding a tidal wave.
His blood thumped.
Surely it was only the odd weather and his unease at the hunt miring his senses.
Trees, after all, generally remained indifferent, especially in woodland as old as this.
They had lived long enough to know little could affect them beyond the slow-crawling invasion of disease, and that calm apathy generally did not waver.
Of course, any number of bwystfilod might still call these lands home.
Beasts.
The ancestors of this forest had been the backdrop for countless stories, as all old forests in Cyngalon were.
The coming of Khaim had pushed back the wild but could never destroy it.
Meilyr himself had been born just within the borders of the Green Wastes.
Though the strangeness he felt now had to be of his own mind, he knew all too well that there could be any number of things in the hollows and the bark that did not care for trespassing humans.
‘Ghost stories,’ a crownsblood scoffed, not far down the bank. ‘You Denelanders are so suspicious.’
‘You are telling me there is nothing in Khaim that makes you think twice about sending your children into the woods?’ Ser Pedr stood beside their horse, fingers twined in their mane. ‘It is not ghost stories, merely fact.’
The other crownsblood, one of Prince Wystan’s – Terrell, maybe? – sighed and splashed his face with river water. ‘I’m just saying, don’t get yourself on edge. There’s nothing that could come out of those trees that we couldn’t handle.’
As Terrell clambered up the bank, Ser Pedr met Meilyr’s gaze. Recognition stirred between them both.
‘Damn dogs and their gods-forsaken barking.’ Lord Leighton hauled violently on his reins and thudded furiously from his horse, far too close, before almost dragging the animal to the water.
Cynefrith’s nostrils flared, ears back, giving Meilyr an excuse to turn into her neck to soothe her. Even though the revulsion was mutual.
Prince Osian guided his grey mare in beside them, separating them from Lord Leighton. Without a glance, the prince went to refresh his waterskin.
He had been further down the river. Thankfulness blossomed in Meilyr’s chest.
The horn-call to mount came, Princess Aldreda’s eagerness unabated.
The sounds of the hunt crowded everything else as the royal party led; the two eldest heirs were flashes of dark gold and cobalt at the helm, their hunting garb more muted than their court colours.
The ground dropped, steadily then sharply. Meilyr had to sit back almost flat to keep his seat as the undergrowth knit close, making it difficult to find a path.
‘Return to the rise,’ Princess Aldreda called. ‘Find another way down!’
The command rolled audibly up through the bunched riders, those at the rear turning to pick their way back.
In the small commotion, Lord Leighton brought his horse beside Meilyr’s. ‘Do you require assistance, Highness Cadogan?’
‘No, thank you, Lord Leighton.’
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let me accompany you on the climb.’ He reached over and grasped Meilyr’s reins, urging their horses on.
Meilyr had no time to object. Cynefrith flattened her ears to her skull, shoved against Lord Leighton’s horse as the two made the ascent in great strides, further from the other riders.
As soon as they were on flatter earth, Meilyr pulled at his reins.
Lord Leighton did not let go. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Their knees were wedged together, their horses jostling unhappily. ‘You act as though I startled you.’
‘You certainly startled my horse,’ Meilyr bit. ‘Please, Lord, give me my reins.’
As he tugged them, Lord Leighton grabbed his wrist.
‘You should show more grace to your betters. You look very fine in our attire, but do not forget who clothed you. Who owns you.’ His voice was low, eyes unashamedly hungry. ‘You would do well to be taught some manners—’
The pounding of hooves. A flash of cobalt. ‘Lord Leighton,’ Prince Osian called, ‘let him go.’
Lord Leighton shoved Meilyr’s wrist away, dropping the reins. ‘Majesty, you are mistaken! I merely offered to assist Highness Cadogan up the rise, wherein he asked that I linger.’
‘Do not lie, Lord Leighton.’
Cynefrith pulled away, moving behind Prince Osian’s mare. The prince remained between Meilyr and Lord Leighton, voice the calm of an ocean as the storm builds. ‘If you do so again, I will be left with no choice but to follow through.’
‘How dare—Majesty, you would hold this peasant’s word above mine?’
‘He is Prince Consort of Cyngalon. And I would take anyone’s word above yours when you have so openly lied.’
Along the rise, Princess Aldreda – both of their knights behind her – made swift ground towards them.
Lord Leighton pulled his horse in a tight circle to rein in its frantic pacing. ‘Majesty, it is not…’ Confusion knit his brow. ‘It is not…’
There was barely enough time for him to look startled.
Crack. A barb of red, wet tree branch snapped out of his upper chest.
He lived long enough to stare down at it, eyes bulging.