Royal Quarry

by Charlotte Rahn-Lee

  “Yes,” said Manning, strangely pleased at the compliment. He’d only shot the rabbit, and not even in Albert’s company. His charge was clearly very observant of some things, if not, it seemed, of direction. He’d have to be careful.

  “What was it like?” Albert asked.

  “The army?”

  “Yes, when you first joined. How old were you?”

  “I was seventeen. It was… exhausting, for a while, and exciting. Then it became frightening, and then it became routine.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We walked a lot. I’ve crossed from one side of this country to the other on foot. We carried all our equipment, much like we’re doing now. We kept watch. We practiced fighting. And then we did fight.”

  “When you were fighting, did you see the enemy up close?”

  The question surprised Manning. It brought images to his mind he usually tried not to think of: faces twisted in rage or fear; lifeless bodies he’d stepped on; worse, the dying, beyond hope, suffering on the ground. It felt like an intrusion, this question.

  “Sometimes,” he said.

  “Did you… kill anyone?”

  “Yes.” Manning heard his voice sharpen at his answer. He felt resentful of this young man with his regally ornamental hunting attire: velvet with pearls sewn in, sturdy enough, but not meant to withstand any real weathering. How dare he ask such things about this war fought for him when he was a baby? It was done and over with—asking such questions could do no one any good. Manning’s body and perhaps his soul might belong to the crown, but surely his memories were his own to bury as he saw fit.

  Manning’s indignant thoughts were interrupted by Albert’s reply.

  “I’m sure I would have just died.”

  “Of course not,” said Manning perfunctorily. Albert’s self-pity seemed glib to him: how could the boy know how he would react in the face of death until he was confronted by it?

  “I can’t imagine what it would be like to have to kill somebody in battle, to see their face coming toward you and then end their life with a sword or arrow? I would lack the strength. Even if I had the strength of body I would lack the strength of will. Even my father, when he executes people, always has somebody do that part for him. You must be very strong.” He looked so small and scared.

  “When the other person is trying to kill you, it’s different,” said Manning gently, “Something inside you takes over. You kill to stay alive.”

  Albert looked at him. “Always?” he asked.

  “It always has for me,” said Manning.

  “I …” Albert started off hesitantly, but when he finally spoke it was quietly and all in a rush: “Two years ago I killed a man. He was a servant at the castle. Something had gone wrong, a thing stolen, I don’t remember. He didn’t do it, and neither did the two others taken with him. My father made me stay in the room as he asked them who had done it, and none of them knew, and they repeated and repeated that they didn’t know until he had a man cut off each of their left hands. And as the sword was coming for Tallis he panicked and accused one of the other two. It was clear it was not true, and my father had the swordsman cut off both his hands and his feet, and they all left him there on the floor, and my father told me to have someone clean up the mess, and the woman who came with a bucket and mop said that Tallis would die, was dying, slowly and in pain. There was nothing to be done for him, and no one dared help him for fear of punishment, but I could do it because I was the prince, and the prince can do no wrong, she said, and so I did. With a cloth over his face. It took longer than I thought it would, longer than it should have with all the blood he’d lost all over the floor and all over me, and I know now that when they come for me, the assassins or the executioners, if they ever come for me, I won’t be able to stop them. I will see that man writhing under my hands, and I will have lost my moment, and I will be dead.”

  He paused for breath.

  “I’m very sorry to have asked you about killing, if you don’t want to talk about it. It’s only that I envy your strength.”

  Manning didn’t know how to respond to this confession. He was angry that a person so young had been made to deal with so much; none of the men he had killed had been helpless or tortured before his eyes. He was surprised that the king was so cruel to his own son. Why are you surprised, he asked himself, with the orders that you are following now? Words of indignation or consolation that rose to his throat were choked back by guilt. If Albert survived the ordeal ahead of him he would some day stammer out a similar, terrible secret, and it would be Manning’s name, alongside Edward’s, among those who had wronged him. The prince envied his strength? If he were strong, he would have refused to do the job he was now undertaking.

  “No,” said Manning softly, “You have strength. I’ve seen how you’ve continued on this trip without complaint despite how hard it is for you.” He wanted to reach out and touch him, to reassure him with a hand on his arm, but he remembered the rebuke from yesterday and refrained.

  “I’m no good at hunting,” said Albert. He looked like he was about to cry. “I can’t track anything, I scare everything away, and I can’t shoot at all. I can’t even string my own bow.”

  “I’ll teach you,” Manning heard himself say. “Somebody taught me how to shoot, and I can teach you.” What was he doing? Assuaging his guilt? He just couldn’t bear to see Albert looking so unhappy.

  The rest of the day was spent at target practice. Manning set up a target on a tree a short distance from where they were. He strung Albert’s bow for him and demonstrated the best way to hold the arrow and how to aim. Albert was a willing student and showed some promise, but he was hesitant and lacked confidence.

  Being sure to first obtain the prince’s permission, Manning stood behind him to reposition his arms as he bent back the bow. He could swear he felt Albert lean back into him slightly as he came close, reminding him of their contact yesterday at the fallen tree. He could feel Albert’s shallow, nervous breaths against his chest. The boy’s whole body was trembling as he pulled the string back.

  “Relax,” Manning suggested, his voice quiet, right above Albert’s ear.

  “I can’t,” said Albert, “I’ll drop the bow.”

  “You don’t need every muscle you have to hold the string taught.”

  “… how?” asked Albert.

  Manning didn’t respond in words. Instead he slowed his own breathing, placed a hand on the top of Albert’s shoulder, ran it gently down his side, showing him. With his body flush against Albert’s, he could feel the extra tension begin to leave him. Albert’s neck and shoulders relaxed. His breathing slowed to match Manning’s. They stood together like this, Albert’s bow drawn, poised, relaxed. Manning could smell lilacs and sandalwood in the young man’s hair, still detectible under the earthy scent a night in the forest had given it. As he relaxed, Albert’s slender body came to lean against his with a trust that was beguiling.

  Manning could feel his face growing warm and flushed. His pulse quickened, and the beginning of an erection began to push at the front of his uniform. He stepped back suddenly, embarrassed, lest his arousal become apparent. This was not going well; his reaction was even stronger than it had been at the fallen tree. He would have to keep some distance between them. He couldn’t afford to be attracted to the king’s only son.

  When Manning stepped back, as if a spell had been broken, Albert simultaneously tensed up and released the bow. The arrow flew yards to the left of the target.

  Manning cleared his throat in an attempt to cover his awkward retreat. “Yes,” he said, “that was very good.”

  They kept practicing, and the whole day they didn’t move a step from where they’d stopped for lunch. We’ll have to get there tomorrow, thought Manning, as he built the evening’s campfire. No more stalling.

  ALBERT’S arms hurt. His shoulders hurt. Even his hands hurt. He knew they would only hurt more the next day, but he felt good, better than he had in a long time
. His aim was still by no means consistent, but he occasionally hit the target, and sometimes his shots seemed almost good. Manning had praised him so sincerely when he had sunk his first arrow into the tree that he was still smiling about it.

  Part of Albert was still worried about how much he had told Manning. He hadn’t meant to hand the bodyguard such a powerful weapon against him—it would only take a few questions from his father: what did my son say to you on your trip? You were alone with him for all those days and nights; come, surely he said something? Albert’s confidence had been betrayed by such questions to his servants before. He knew he could not trust Manning to lie for him, and yet he hadn’t been able to stop himself. This was always Albert’s problem. If he tried to show a little of himself, he could never hold back the rest.

  Albert shivered a little as he lay back on his blanket. It was a cold night, and the fire was doing an excellent job against the dark, but less so against the chill. Manning crouched again, catlike, not far away. Did the man ever sleep? By rights, Albert should have been exhausted, but his mind would not settle. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He wondered who had taught Manning to shoot and if his lessons had excited him, too. He remembered the touch of Manning’s large hand against his side. He wondered who the men were that Manning had killed.

  Suddenly, he felt those hands on him again, one on each shoulder. Albert started, his mind racing. Was this it? Did his father really mean to kill him? Had he chosen this kind man for the job? Was this why Manning hadn’t wanted to talk about killing?

  Manning’s face hovered above his, handsome, with a slight smile on its lips. Albert realized Manning’s hands were resting gently on his shoulders, not restraining him. Manning pulled back his hands, leaving the large jacket of his uniform resting like a blanket over Albert’s chest.

  “You looked cold, Your Highness,” said Manning.

  “Oh, is that all?” asked Albert, trying to slow his breathing.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission to approach.”

  Albert felt awful until he noticed the smile was still playing at the edges of Manning’s mouth. Relief flooded through him, and he let out a brief laugh.

  “I can’t take this,” Albert protested, smiling in his turn.

  “Please, Your Highness, I won’t miss it tonight, and you are cold.”

  “It has my father’s crest on it,” said Albert, indicating the jacket’s left breast. “Are you mistaking me for my father?”

  “It will be your crest, too, one day,” said Manning simply.

  “You could be tried for treason, trying to usurp my father’s place for me.”

  “It’s a good thing, then, that we are in the woods, far from the castle and any of your father’s spies.”

  Albert could have hugged Manning right then for saying such a thing. Maybe he would not betray Albert’s secrets to the king. Maybe they were safe together, here in these woods, far from the castle and any of his father’s spies.

  “Manning?” Albert asked.

  “Yes?” He had returned to his position some feet away, crouching against the tree.

  “Will you still be a bodyguard when I am king?”

  “Unless I’ve been killed by assassins.”

  “Will you be my bodyguard?”

  “It will be my pleasure, Your Highness.”

  “Could you really be killed?”

  “It’s a dangerous business.”

  “Then I don’t want you to be my bodyguard.”

  “No?”

  “No. When I am king, you can retire and do something safer and more pleasant than following around royalty who can’t look after themselves.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Mmmm…” Albert pondered this question. He had spent so long being afraid of this uniform that it had never occurred to him that the people who wore it had lives of their own. He’d never considered that someone like Manning might die to save his life. It bothered him.

  “Farm rabbits,” suggested Albert.

  Manning laughed, and the noise was sharp, round and beautiful. Albert grinned secretly into the sleeve of Manning’s jacket.

  “What should I do with rabbits?” asked Manning.

  “Raise them, feed them, keep them safe.”

  “I think I prefer the royalty,” said Manning.

  Albert tried to think of some retort, something witty comparing himself to a rabbit, but he was warm now, and sleep overtook him.

  THE next day was spent moving through the forest. Optimistic about his newly honed aim, Albert walked more slowly, searching the ground for signs of deer. He knew what he was looking for, the oval-shaped prints left by their hooves, but he had never been any good at picking them out of the uneven forest floor. He took his time, trying to be extra-thorough. Manning had done so much for him so far; he wanted to do this one thing for himself.

  Manning walked ahead of him. He kept turning to wait for Albert as he picked over the ground, but he never got too far away. The smile and the playful words from last night had left Manning this morning, replaced by some worry Albert couldn’t guess at. He seemed almost impatient in the way he looked back to see how closely Albert was following him, but he was professional enough, or polite enough, that Albert would never have noticed if he hadn’t been scrutinizing this shift in Manning’s mood.

  Perhaps he has a wife he’s eager to return to, thought Albert, or a mistress who works in the kitchens. He tried to imagine what kind of woman would please Manning, but he didn’t like any image his mind presented to him. Would she be someone quiet and gentle? Who performed little kindnesses for him without being asked? She certainly wouldn’t give him any trouble after he’d been tromping around after spoiled princes all day. Perhaps she snuck him treats from the kitchen. Or maybe he preferred a more Amazonian woman. Manning could have found favor with one of the gypsy women who sometimes stayed outside the town, a woman who could shoot as well as he, who knew how to survive in the woods. Perhaps he was in a bad mood because he’d prefer the company of his gypsy mistress.

  It was in the middle of this flight of fancy that Albert saw the almond-shaped imprint in the mud at his feet. He looked up, about to call out for Manning, but he stopped when he saw his bodyguard. Manning was standing ahead of him, atop a small rise in the ground, perfectly still, his strong frame taught like a spring about to be released. He had a hand raised to hold Albert back, but he was looking away, ahead of him, down into a glen below them. Albert’s breath caught in his throat. The man looked beautiful.

  Without looking away from whatever had his attention, Manning cautiously waved Albert forward. Albert crept up behind him and took hold of Manning’s outstretched arm (for support? For reassurance?). His eyes followed Manning’s gaze. Down below them, not much further from them than Albert’s target tree had been yesterday, was a large doe, serenely chewing on some undergrowth. Albert’s heart began to hammer in his chest, and he tightened his grip on Manning’s arm.

  In a silence that made Albert feel like a walking cacophony, Manning took the bow off Albert’s shoulder and placed it in his hands. He slipped an arrow out of his quiver and handed it to Albert. The deer wagged its tail and chewed. Albert shifted his feet and froze, sure his sound would alert the animal. When it was clear it had not, Albert carefully drew the bow.

  “Aim for the back of her shoulder,” Manning indicated in barely a whisper. Albert could feel his breath hot against his cheek. Manning’s hand rested lightly on Albert’s shoulder, and he tried to relax.

  He took aim as best he could, made a silent, wordless prayer, although whether it was for his good aim or the deer’s life he could not say, and let loose his arrow.

  It landed with a satisfying thwack in a tree a few feet above the deer’s back. The animal raised her head in alarm, looking in their direction.

  Caught up in his frustration, and perhaps a little relief, Albert buried his face into Manning’s chest.

  “I tried!” he cried out into the w
ool uniform. “I think I was breathing too fast; I wasn’t still enough. I’m sorry,” he added, although he wasn’t sure why he was apologizing.

  Manning’s body remained rigid, and Albert began to feel foolish. What had he thought would happen? That Manning would put his arms around him? He glanced up to see that Manning wasn’t even looking at him. His eyes were still pointed in the direction of Albert’s failed shot. Surely she’s run off by now, thought Albert of the doe. But then he heard Manning speak, his voice curt and urgent.

  “Go,” said the bodyguard, “back there,” and his arm pushed Albert away, down the hill they had recently climbed.

  Albert looked up and saw the deer bounding at them with surprising speed. He stood transfixed. He had never seen a deer attack anything before. Manning was shouting at the animal and waving his arms. It did nothing to deter the beast, but did draw it away from Albert who still had not run as he had been told.

  The deer reared up on her hind legs, making her taller than Manning, and brought her front hooves down on him in powerful, repeated strokes. Manning turned his back against the onslaught, his arms up behind him protecting his head. Albert was horrified. The attack went on and on. He thought of the bow and arrows now at his feet, but knew that he would almost certainly hit Manning instead of the deer.

  In the middle of this terrible spectacle, a definitively animal movement in the corner of Albert’s field of vision made him snap his head around. Beside him, not ten yards away, stood a small, spotted fawn. Like Albert, it was transfixed, watching the altercation, unsure what to do.

  “Stop!” cried Albert uselessly, as much for the fawn’s sake as his own.

  In front of them, the doe finally returned all feet to the ground. She looked ready to rear up again, but Manning took advantage of the pause to turn around and yell. She hesitated, froze, and then turned and bounded off into the woods. The fawn darted after her, giving Manning a wide berth. Albert cried out in relief.

  “Are you alright?” he called as he ran to Manning’s side. It was the first time in the few days Albert had known him that Manning didn’t seem entirely self-possessed. He was bent over, leaning with his hands on his knees, his breathing deep and uneven.