A Suitable Consort (For the King and His Husband)

by R. Cooper

  “Hardly a trick,” Mil assured him smugly. “You’re just one of those that need morning sustenance before they can think. You’re thinking now, I see.”

  Mattin made a face.

  Arden intervened by squaring his shoulders. “All right,” he said decisively, drawing both their gazes to him. “Keeper Arlylian has woken up and has work for me.” He didn’t guess. That was generally always Mattin’s reason for meeting them in the morning. Neither the king nor his husband were much for reading for pleasure or for knowledge, although Arden would when he felt he had to. But he preferred things explained to him and to then ask questions. When King Arden had first started sending requests to the Great Library, Mattin had researched for him and written summaries. At some point, that had become this. Arden considered him. “You have thoughts about increasing the size of the granaries? You know, I never thought so much of a ruler’s time would be spent discussing grains. But here we are.”

  “What?” Mattin had filed his research about grain elsewhere this morning and had to concentrate to summon it to the forefront of his mind. “Yes. No. Not now. But yes—more hothouses too, with people trained to run them, so that more fresh fruit might be available and not only what has been dried or preserved. There is a large one in Agard, which the Dettavicci have maintained for centuries that I thought might be worth study. They need it there, with their heavy snows and long mountain winters. And since Bet Dettavicci is supposed to arrive in the spring—or so I hear—I thought you might write to them before then, to establish friendliness. But no,” Mattin summed up, shaking his head, “not right now.”

  He studied both of them in turn, confused that Arden would ask about grain at this moment.

  They were silent for long enough to make Mattin smooth his fingers restlessly down the sides of his cup. Then Arden said, “This is about the other occurrence, then, and what else was said yesterday.”

  “Are you surprised?” Mil pressed. “Look at him. He likely hasn’t slept a wink.” He and his husband shared another glance before turning toward Mattin with sudden energy. “Do you have something to discuss with us?”

  Arden drummed his fingers impatiently along the table top.

  Mattin made himself appear as calm as he could. “Tyrabalith’s suggestion,” he began cautiously. “He said it and the others did not disagree. The idea will be floated again, the next time with more deliberation behind it.” He eyed them both and found two blank faces. They had decided not to give anything away today. That was not helpful. Mattin let his tone get crisp. “How would you like to deal with it? I assume Cael already discussed it with you.”

  Arden nodded.

  Mattin looked away from their impassive expressions, down to his tea. “Ties and relationships with the noble houses might be strengthened without a new spouse,” he offered hopefully, gaze steady on his cup. His hands twitched, nearly trembling. “After all, there are some noble houses that might not view it as much of an honor, seeing as you already have a husband you adore. This new spouse would clearly be…” Mattin struggled to find something nicer to say than unwanted, “secondary, in your affections.” He took a sip of the tea, though it was cooler than he liked. “Also some might find offense in the fact that your first husband is, and I apologize, lower-status.” He darted a glance up, his heart beating quickly at having their silent attention. “Nonetheless, a political marriage to a ruler of your fame would appeal to some, and it would serve as a decent reminder to some louder politicians that you are of the highest rank.” He let the charge of traitor go unspoken. Mattin cleared his throat, ticking off points that had kept him awake for most of the night. “If you chose well, it would actually leave you with less to do—personally, that is. Your new spouse might handle some court events in your stead. You would need someone familiar with court to do that, of course, and the old families almost all are, in some way.”

  He wished they would interrupt him. Maddeningly, they did not.

  Mattin began again, after another sip of unsatisfying tea. “The downsides of this plan are, among other things, that you will have to choose carefully and well. You will risk offending some, but likely only those trying to rise in rank. And, if I may, you would be doing what Per Tyrabalith suggested, which I find distasteful.”

  This, at least, earned him a little chuffed laugh from Arden.

  Mattin glanced upward once again, briefly looking to Mil. “And there is, again, the matter of your first spouse. I… am unsure if you would like him to also pledge themselves to anyone new, or to leave the matter as a political alliance to you only. Whichever way, the spectacle changes but will still matter.” There would need to be a spectacle. That was the point, really. “It is not only the nobles you would need to please, so the scene you present to those within, and without, the palace wall will be important. There is some precedent to consult, but I will not bore you with that until it is necessary. So, then, the question is—do you wish to take this suggestion seriously and look for another spouse?” He wrapped his hands tighter around his cup to still them before he raised his head. “You do not have to.”

  “Of course, he doesn’t,” Mil spoke at last. “He’s the king.”

  But that was not what they should have said, what Mattin had hoped for through a long night.

  “Oh.” It escaped him without any conscious thought, his stomach twisting around his breakfast. “But you are going to?” Mattin’s voice was soft and small. “You’re going to marry someone else?”

  “You sound upset,” Arden said, shifting in his seat. “Are you upset? We don’t want that. We can—”

  “You’re going to marry someone else,” Mattin said again, no longer asking.

  Arden leaned forward as if he might reach across the table. “Despite who suggested it, it’s not unreasonable.” He spoke slowly, without looking away. “I won’t say it hadn’t occurred to us before, because indeed it had.”

  Mattin hiccoughed, then flicked his gaze toward the fire, the table top, the shivering surface of what was left of his tea.

  “If you would prefer to be practical and discuss it only in those terms,” the king continued almost warily, “we have had several harsh winters in a row, after years of instability and forces marching over wheat fields. We would rather people had a spring and summer spent focused on planting and harvesting and rest than more fighting. I thought—we thought that might appeal to you as well.”

  “Oh.” Mattin was distantly embarrassed at how repetitive he was being. And childish, focusing on their love while they were concerned with keeping people fed. “Right,” he agreed faintly. “Then, there are things to consider.” He gulped his tea as he did just that, then he looked up, to somewhere in the space between the two of them. “If you are looking for an ally… for an alliance more than… a love match, there is much I will need to look into. Though I had already begun some of it.”

  “Did you get any sleep last night?” Mil’s gruff question stopped him, but only for a blink.

  “Hmm?” Mattin turned to dig through his satchel, currently full of papers on every subject but this one. “Not really.” He found his book of notes and a pencil and fiddled with them, arranging them fussily in front of him. “Per Tyrabalith meant it either meant to unsettle you, or provoke you into a fight… or I suppose he might have someone in mind already.”

  “Or all three.” Mil grunted.

  “Or all three.” Mattin made a meaningless notation, then paused. “No one with sense would assume that you would be cock-led around by a new spouse, no matter how handsome.” Mil echoed him, just the one word, cock-led, with a faintly shocked air. Mattin’s cheeks grew hot, but he ignored that. “Per Tyrabalith does have sense, so I do not believe that to be his intent, though he might try. He might want you to reject his choice, to provoke a fight that way. His manner was… not diplomatic.”

  “Cock-led,” Mil said again, clucking his tongue now. “What the palace youths get up to these days.”

  Mattin doubted that phra
se was new. Mil also likely knew worse, much worse. That was an attempt to distract Mattin. Mattin did not need distracting.

  He made another meaningless note while his thoughts raced. “So, then, to ensure that he can find no reason to claim insult, the field must be open to anyone.”

  The table seemed very still.

  Mattin carefully took a breath.

  “Although, not everyone would work for what would be needed. What they want, the members of the council, is someone from an older family.” He hesitated. “A beat-of-four.”

  Long ago, when there had been numerous Earls with their own lands to rule, with no one person to lead them, there had been similar marriages of alliance among the proud—and usually warlike—families. Not wanting anyone to forget the powerful names in their lineage, many of the new spouses began to combine pieces of their family name with that of their new house and then passing those on to their children. In effect, making many new houses from the old. It had become quite extreme in a few cases, with surnames that twisted the tongue to say, before the Earls had finally bent their knees in submission to one ruler, who had put a stop to the practice. But the names remained, with most of the oldest—except for some of those of the original Earls, of whom not many were left—having four beats to their names. It was those with simple surnames who had first called them beat-of-fours. It had been meant as an insult. It still was to everyone but the beat-of-fours, who embraced it.

  “A beat-of-four from a good house, with no history of anything remotely treasonous… or even scandalous, perhaps.” Mattin thought of several names immediately. “Though, I imagine you two would want someone a little daring.” He did not think he sounded wistful. He took pains not to sound wistful.

  Mil’s voice was, for once, quite soft. “I am dying to know what else you imagine, Sass.”

  “My name is not Sass,” Mattin corrected mildly, never really bothered by the nickname, wrong though it was. He put a hand to his throat, where it felt as if something was lodged. “And if you should… if you wanted someone you could grow fond of… we would need to consider other things as well. Not just the surname.”

  “Would we, Mattin of the Arlylian?” Arden asked, pronouncing Mattin’s name with a particular slowness.

  Mattin was startled into meeting his gaze, both of their gazes, after a moment. Each of them regarded him with innocent interest.

  He narrowed his eyes in suspicion that he was being teased yet again. “I was thinking of your happiness.”

  “I suppose it’s easy to plan from a desk,” Mil mused. “Harder to execute. Much like a battle. You miss things in all the excitement.”

  Mattin had never been anywhere near anything remotely like a battle, so he huffed. “What did Cael say?”

  Naturally, they exchanged another look before facing him again. “Much the same,” Arden answered at last, guarded. “With a few more specific and pointed notes.”

  “Oh yes, the notes,” Mil added, as if he had forgotten them.

  “More specific?” Mattin echoed a bit forlornly. He had wanted to at least be helpful if he could be nothing else. “I suppose she knows more of what would suit.” He frowned down at his book.

  He did not hear a thing, but Mil must have gotten up, because a weight fell onto Mattin’s shoulders and fur tickled his ears, and when he straightened, startled, Arden was still seated but Mil was not.

  Mattin turned to look for him and saw the dark fur at the collar of one of their cloaks. He could barely see over it. He had to tip his head back to meet Mil’s satisfied stare.

  “Where is your useless but pretty cloak, by the way?” Mil asked, before Mattin could manage a question, like whose cloak was he wearing and why was he wearing it?

  “I forgot it?” Mattin replied quietly. “Somewhere. Probably my desk or… the floor by my desk. Maybe?” He couldn’t actually remember seeing it today—yesterday.

  “You really should rest.” Arden stacked their abandoned bowls like a customer in an inn trying to make nice with the innkeeper.

  “But there is much to do.” Mattin did not want to rest. It would lead to thinking, which was dangerous. “I will consult with Cael, if it pleases you, and perhaps compile a list of possible candidates.”

  “Already?” They both spoke as one, their surprise evident. Arden leaned forward. “Impatient to marry us off?”

  Mattin ducked his head to put his unneeded book back in his satchel. The fur in his nose smelled like smoke and leather and all sorts of things that Mattin had no idea how to identify. It smelled of Mil, he supposed. Of an active life and strength and… well, something to do with weaponry, no doubt. He took a deep breath, then sat up.

  “If we have to go through many candidates, some only for the sake of avoiding causing offense, then it will take time. Also, you said you wanted a restful spring and summer. We should at least begin soon, in that case. Perhaps you could reach an understanding by the time the snow melts. That should be enough.” He tightened the satchel strap and trailed his fingers through the fur collar. “It would also give you time enough to plan festivities for the early fall. People like festivities. As they like love stories.” He widened his eyes. “Not that you don’t already have a love story. They sing them in the taverns, you know. Not that you frequent taverns anymore.”

  “Not that you know of,” Arden murmured.

  Mattin was distracted into studying him, then Mil. He got two deadpan expressions in return.

  “That isn’t funny,” he declared primly at last, and hoped they weren’t serious. “But if you had, you’d have heard some of the songs about you. You really are popular with most.”

  “Peace is popular with most.” Arden gently shook his head. “And I will do my best to maintain it.” His every word was grave and so sincere Mattin momentarily lost his breath. Then Arden glanced to his husband, who rolled his eyes, so he added, “Though I grant that there are some who do not make me feel peaceful.”

  “I’m already asking about him.” Mil grinned sharply. He meant he would consult with the eyes-and-ears he had established in the palace and capital, possibly elsewhere. Most rulers and their consorts had them; unofficial Keepers, in a sense, and trackers of gossip, usually. But these two had outguards who knew them personally at their disposal as well. “Added something to the soup without consulting the cook, he did. Like to know why.”

  This time when they shared a look, Mattin could read it clear as anything. It made his already upset stomach start to really churn.

  “You think he has someone in mind for you?”

  “Something in mind, more like.” Mil crossed the room to a low, long sofa, meant as a place for rest but now being used as a miniature armory. Mattin suspected the two of them had moved in here after that hurried coronation and never bothered or had the time to arrange for storage for their armor or weapons. “But don’t trouble yourself about that, Sass. Sniffing out trouble is not your job. Staying far out of trouble is.”

  “I’m not totally helpless,” Mattin objected. “Just because I’ve never slept outside or killed anyone—or even picked up a weapon in earnest. Or… or cooked my own food. Or left the capital for anywhere but my family’s lands….” He shut himself up, far too late for either of them to ever take him seriously.

  But though Arden let out another puffing laugh under his breath, neither of them commented, except for Arden’s quiet, perplexing addition of, “And what a reminder of what work I have yet to do.”

  Mattin didn’t understand, but the king was rising, so he rose too, and caught the cloak on his shoulders before it could fall. “Mil. Your—”

  “Keep it until you find yours.” Mil waved that off. “I’ve got plenty.”

  “You’ll be cold,” Mattin insisted, holding the cloak closed at his throat instead of using the clasp.

  “I’d rather you be warm,” Mil countered, somewhere between grouchy and cheerful, and froze when Arden kissed him on the cheek.

  “If you step any closer, Keeper Arly
lian, Mil will likely strap you into some armor as well.” Arden’s tone was delighted. Mil looked slightly murderous but did not contest the point.

  Mattin should not step closer. Mattin should take his leave. He should not ask why he would ever need armor, or imagine the two of them removing his clothing only to dress him up again in woven linen, or steel, or leather.

  He would look quite foolish, especially next to them. They were big, of course, and tall, but he watched them grow even more so as they added layers of protection over their more comfortable underclothes. Arden wore vambraces as well as mail, which meant he would be out and around today, and not in court or at a council meeting. He put a knife in his belt, and another in his boot, and winked at Mattin’s staring.

  “Not fashionable enough for you and your young set?” Arden paused despite the joke, as if he genuinely wanted to know.

  “You’re only fifteen or so years older than me,” Mattin mumbled, less than pleased when Mil handed Arden a sheathed short sword as well. The grip and hilt were plain. Mattin had seen some nobles his age wear hilts with fancy metalwork, a few with jewels. He exhaled. “You set your own styles,” he added, with a bit of achy despair when Mil was the one who curled the golden cuff to the shell of Arden’s ear.

  Mil grinned at that, or maybe at what Mattin had said, and twisted his hair into a short tail and tied it in place while Arden turned around to see to him. With no knowledge of armor, except for once impatiently helping a friend remove theirs in the midst of some heated foolery, Mattin imagined it did not take two to fasten the straps of a breastplate, or to kneel to do the same with greaves. These two must prefer this ritual.

  Mattin watched the king serve his consort, finishing with vambraces and sword, before realizing that he had not been speaking. He had not been doing anything but watching them attend to each other.