Pet: A Captive Prince Short Story (Captive Prince Short Stories Book 4)

by C. S. Pacat

  ‘Was Louans your first contract?’

  ‘No. I— there was one other. A regional merchant. For three weeks.’ He felt off-kilter. Was that the wrong thing to have said? Having a contract with a regional merchant didn’t sound appealing at all.

  He tried to recover. ‘And you?’ said Ancel, in his most velvet voice. ‘Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?’

  ‘I’m riding to Ladehors.’ Berenger was walking right past him, he was—was he leaving? ‘Parsins will help you settle in at the fort. I’ll arrive there in two weeks. Good night.’

  Ancel stared as Berenger walked out the door. It opened and closed, just like Ancel’s mouth as he was left standing alone with Parsins, in an empty wing of the residence.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At once, Ancel identified his mistake.

  Berenger was serious. His clothes were serious. His servants were serious. His fort was serious. Ancel didn’t need Parsins to tell him, he could see it the moment they arrived. Here was the library full of the tales of Isagoras and other boring people. Here were the stables full of unappealing horses, part of Berenger’s equine breeding program.

  Berenger’s rooms were positively austere, the furnishings expensive but not extravagant, his clothing dark and stuffy, designed not to draw attention.

  Of course Berenger had not responded to sophistication and debauchery, a pet straight from the ring, dripping with jewels and paint. Ancel had seen with his own eyes that Berenger owned six identical copies of the same brown jacket.

  Ancel at once immersed himself in boring. Parsins was happy to talk: Berenger enjoyed preferred plain fare, simple meats and bread; Berenger’s horses were at the centre of his attention, his favourite hunter was the dappled grey; Berenger prized loyalty above all qualities in his friends.

  Setting riders to keep daily lookout, Ancel was the first to receive word that Berenger was on his way home. Ancel quickly washed the paint from his face, and changed his clothes.

  Then he positioned himself in a chair in one of the antechambers near Berenger’s rooms and waited, with the fire lit, a lamp glowing beside him, and one of the big, illuminated books from Berenger’s library open on his lap.

  He was dressed in a loose shirt of simple white linen and plain trousers, his red hair tied back in a casual tail with a single leather tie. He looked up when he heard footsteps, and then stood quickly, closing the book. An unaffected young man, rising startled to greet his friend.

  ‘My lord,’ said Ancel. ‘I’m sorry, I—you took me by surprise.’

  ‘No. That’s all right. I came back early.’

  Berenger stopped and looked at him, taking in the new way Ancel looked, and Ancel thought, Bulls-eye.

  ‘You’re . . . I almost didn’t recognise you,’ said Berenger, ‘without all the—’

  ‘Oh this?’ A hand to his mussily tied back hair. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so early. I can change into something more—’

  ‘No. You look handsome.’ Berenger stopped and shook his head. ‘That is, when we’re not at functions, you should feel free to wear whatever you like.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Ancel.

  It was Berenger who took a step forward. ‘You’re reading Isagoras?’ Berenger was looking at the discarded book with its scrollwork pages. He looked up at Ancel in surprise. ‘What do you think of him?’

  Ancel couldn’t read, but he had planned all this from the moment Parsins had pointed the book out to him.

  ‘I’ve never seen the white cliffs, but I think they sound beautiful.’

  Berenger’s eyes warmed a fraction further. Ancel quickly stepped forward. ‘My lord, I shouldn’t be wasting your time with poetry. Let me take that for you—’ He took Berenger’s riding jacket from his hands. ‘Have you eaten? I can call for a small supper.’

  He was already calling for food to be brought, nothing rich or ornate as he would have ordered for Louans, but the plain fare he now knew Berenger enjoyed: freshly cooked breads; cheese and meats; a simple local cider.

  ‘Stay and join me,’ said Berenger. Ancel ate the plain food with the good manners of a merchant’s son, and none of the teasing flirtation that marked his own profession. They talked about Isagoras. Ancel had heard men waffle on about Isagoras before, so he knew just what to say. When he didn’t know what to say, he knew how to gaze into Berenger’s eyes and ask questions.

  Then Ancel stood and demurred that Berenger ought to rest. Berenger smiled ruefully and said Ancel was right but he hoped they would talk again. Apologising for his tiredness and looking genuinely regretful, Berenger left for bed.

  The next day Ancel went out to the stables. He navigated the dust and the unpleasant smells and the horrible sounds. Ancel ignored every screaming instinct that was telling him to flee, and put himself into the stall of a grey spotty horse. He broke out into a cold sweat when it nosed his chest, then forced himself to put a hand on its neck.

  Soon enough, a familiar voice. ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she.’

  ‘She’s wonderful.’ He felt the presence of Berenger in the stall behind him.

  ‘Do you ride?’

  ‘No. That is, I’ve always wanted to learn, but never had the opportunity.’

  Berenger put a hand on the horse’s neck, near his own. ‘I could teach you.’

  ‘Really? I’d love that,’ said Ancel.

  He woke the next morning with his body screaming in protest. A few hours of horse riding seemed to have set every muscle in his thighs and back into agony. He limped about his own rooms cursing all animals but smiled and forced himself to walk normally when he came down for breakfast. He covered the wince every time he stood up or sat down.

  ‘Twinging a bit?’ Berenger said.

  ‘A bit.’ He smiled. He thought he could still smell horse, and ignored it.

  Servants brought out breakfast, a selection of different offerings. Ancel wanted the cake, but took the plain bread and ate it. Berenger sat back in his chair, watching Ancel approvingly.

  ‘I think it’s wonderful that you want to learn to ride.’

  ‘I’ve heard that pets sometimes accompany the nobility on hunts,’ said Ancel.

  ‘You’ll need a good hunter to do that. There’s a mare I think would be perfect for you, a strawberry roan. I’d be honoured for you to have her,’ said Berenger. And then, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your first gift,’ said Ancel, with a sweet smile, coving the stirrings of victory. ‘My lord.’

  It happened in the library one night several weeks later, as Berenger was talking about politics. Ancel nodded and half listened while Berenger said—blah blah the Prince, blah blah the alliance with Akielos—then, in the pause, Ancel looked at Berenger with sincerity in his eyes.

  ‘You want to be loyal to the Prince,’ said Ancel, ‘but the rumours trouble you.’

  Berenger looked over at him in surprise.

  ‘In the end, aren’t we all looking for someone to be loyal to?’ said Ancel, softly.

  There was a long moment of nothing but the sound of the flames from the nearby fireplace, and the warmth of Berenger’s brown eyes.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ said Berenger.

  ‘It’s what I never thought I’d find,’ said Ancel, ‘until I met you,’ and it was happening, finally, it was finally happening, the two of them drawing closer in the firelight, Ancel’s arms sliding around Berenger’s neck, leaning in to—

  ‘Ancel—no.’

  They were staring at each other from two paces away. What had gone wrong? He had read Berenger right. He was sure that he had read him right.

  There was a terrible, awkward silence.

  ‘You may have made assumptions,’ Berenger spoke first, not looking at him, ‘after I bid for you in the ring, but I—’

  For a moment, Ancel didn’t understand. An
d then suddenly the rejections and the refusals made sense. ‘It doesn’t have to be like it was in the ring,’ Ancel said in rush, relieved to have discovered the root of the problem. He hastened to reassure Berenger. ‘I don’t have to be the one who does that.’

  He waited for Berenger to get it. Berenger didn’t seem to get it.

  ‘You can fuck me,’ Ancel explained. Berenger’s eyes went wide. Was that the wrong thing to say? ‘I’ve always done it that way before. It’s what I’m good at.’ That was the wrong thing to say, too. ‘I mean, I want you.’ That was better. He should have said that first. ‘I want you.’ He moved a step closer, made it personal. ‘The way you want me.’

  ‘Ancel, you don’t have to—’

  ‘I want you to fuck me.’

  ‘That isn’t what I want.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’ Ancel said, in pure frustration.

  It just came out. A part of Ancel knew he should be horrified at himself for allowing his annoyance to show so plainly in his voice and on his face.

  But the rest of him had worked hard for weeks in this fruitless pursuit of a man with all the responsiveness of a blank wall.

  He thought of all of the endless horse rides, and the slices of plain bread, and Isagoras and all the boring books Berenger had recommended, that he had pretended to have read. He found himself with his hands on his hips staring angrily at Berenger. Berenger stared back at him.

  ‘In six weeks,’ began Berenger, ‘I’m attending court. As a single man, I need a pet to attend dinners and functions with me. For propriety’s sake. That is all. I don’t expect intimacy in private. In fact I prefer in private that you—that you and I—’

  ‘Court?’ Like a flower inclining towards sunlight, Ancel’s whole attention swung to the thought. He barely heard the rest. ‘You’re taking me to court?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The royal court. At Arles.’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a moment Ancel preened, thinking of the capital: the centre of fashion, of entertainments, of the aristocracy and Veretian elite. And then he remembered who he would be going with.

  ‘Well, I’m going to need a lot more jewels,’ Ancel said, his annoyance returning with a snap. ‘I know you like boring young men in cotton shirts, but I can’t wander around the palace looking like this.’

  Berenger was staring at him again, like Ancel was a stranger he was meeting for the first time.

  Ancel lifted his chin. ‘What? I intend to make the most of our time at court. I am incredibly good at my chosen profession. Not that you’d know that.’

  ‘It’s possible I didn’t realise how good until now.’ Berenger was still gazing at him with that new look in his eyes. After a long moment, ‘Do you even like horses?’

  ‘I can’t read,’ said Ancel.

  ‘I see,’ said Berenger.

  The next morning, Ancel threw away the plain white shirt and the simple leather hair tie, and came down to breakfast in the clothes that he liked: exquisite silks and velvets that felt good against his skin, wearing his hair pampered and long and out.

  Berenger didn’t say, ‘I see,’ but the implication was there in the heavy weight of his regard as he looked at Ancel across the table.

  Ancel lifted his chin, ignoring all the uninspired foods that Berenger liked and biting into a fruit tart. Since the boringness and the riding and the poetry didn’t work, he wasn’t going to waste his time with them. He was going to court—court! It was the heart of events and fashion, and he’d be surrounded by richest lords in Vere.

  ‘The horse I chose for you has arrived,’ said Berenger. ‘She’s a strawberry roan named Ruby. I wonder if you’ll like her.’

  ‘I like actual rubies,’ said Ancel.

  ‘I see,’ said Berenger.

  When the jewel-smith visited, Berenger simply said to her, ‘Show him the most expensive thing that you have.’

  For his part, Ancel stopped trying to seduce Berenger, and started enjoying himself. He had Berenger buy him new clothes, and jewels, and threw himself into preparations for his debut at court, peppering Parsins with questions about all the new styles.

  Berenger remained boring and serious, but it was good for Ancel’s reputation that Berenger did not have other lovers. Ancel was Berenger’s only pet, with no danger of a rival. Berenger spent his evenings reading, and then retired alone. Perhaps Berenger preferred women. Ancel had suspected that of Louans, who had liked him face down with his hair out. Pets played at that all the time. There were brothels for that kind of thing too. But it was very like Berenger to stoically maintain celibacy rather than frequent any of them.

  Ancel knew that much from the endless rides out into the surrounding villages, where Berenger still insisted Ancel accompany him. Every commoner in the province had a story about Lord Berenger: Berenger had remembered the name of their child; Berenger had stayed with them through the birth of their prize colt; Berenger had helped them with the purchase of equipment when they had none, saving the harvest. Perhaps the reason Berenger had no lover was that he was too tired, after meeting every person in the province, and memorising all of their names.

  ‘The court,’ Berenger began to explain to him, two days before they departed, ‘is very different, the entertainments can be—debauched—’

  ‘I’ve seen pets fucking before,’ said Ancel. ‘I am a pet. Remember? I’ll cover your eyes if you’re shocked.’

  ‘No. I meant that the court has changed,’ said Berenger, shaking his head, ‘since the King died. The Regent’s influence—’

  ‘You worry too much,’ said Ancel.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He remembered walking into Louans’s halls for the first time, the way he had felt shivery, standing in the biggest room he had ever seen.

  The palace was like that, surpassing all the pictures in his mind. He stepped out of Berenger’s carriage and looked up. The high-flung turrets were white and gold and seemed to shine in the light, like the glinting banners that flew, rising high above Arles. There were sculpted figures and miles of windows and great steps that led up and up.

  It was thrilling when palace staff came out to greet them, when they were taken in through halls and up wide marble stairs to the rooms where they would take up residence, two servants pushing open the double doors.

  Inside, Berenger’s palace rooms were glorious, rooms upon rooms, which flowed on from one another, with high, ornamented walls and ceilings, ornate floors with blue and gold tiles, and a second set of gilded doors, themselves covered in carvings depicting the stages of a hunt.

  Ancel walked in almost in a daze, too overwhelmed to affect nonchalance. Servants were streaming in with him, opening jewelled cabinets and laying out their things. He moved from one point to another, marvelling at each ornament. Berenger gestured to the room that ran directly off this one, saying, ‘That one’s yours.’

  ‘Mine?!’ said Ancel, and flung himself down happily among the cushions and billowing silk on the bed there, thinking that he must from now on always live in beautiful surroundings just like this. When he squirmed around to face the room, he saw that Berenger was watching him.

  ‘What?’ said Ancel.

  ‘Luxury suits you,’ remarked Berenger.

  ‘I think so too,’ said Ancel, in blissful agreement.

  He had servants dress him with particular care, diaphanous silk, jewels, the paint on his face glittering gold. Ancel caught glimpses of himself and Berenger in the shining surfaces on the walk into the presentation room. Together they looked just as a pet and owner ought to look: Berenger austere, serious, alongside a spectacular, gleaming display of his own wealth.

  The hall was thronging with courtiers, the crush thickest near the throne. Berenger was just one of several arrivals greeted by the Regent, though he was one of the more important ones. Ancel felt proudly conscious of every p
air of eyes on him, his beauty set off to best advantage. He quickly identified the pets, pleased to see several of them whispering behind their hands and giving him looks full of jealousy.

  More people were looking at him than at Berenger, and no other pet in the hall was being given as much attention. He could hear the murmurs of speculation: Who was the new pet? How had he come to serve Berenger?

  The Regent was an impression of royal silks edged in ermine, since—as a pet—etiquette dictated Ancel’s gaze be pinned to the floor. Berenger approached, knelt, murmured a few words. Ancel stayed many steps back in deep obeisance as this happened, but he was still presented. Berenger then knelt for the Prince, who was standing to the left of the throne, a severe young man in harsh clothing.

  Then they were backing away from the throne, the presentation done. Ancel’s heart was soaring. He almost didn’t hear when Berenger said to him, awkwardly, ‘Tonight, there will be a dinner and entertainments. It will be expected that you and I, that is—’

  ‘Are you worried I’ll be shy?’ Ancel reached out, and hooked his finger into the tight lacings that crisscrossed over Berenger’s chest, drawing him forward a step. As the glances of a dozen curious courtiers turned their way, he slid his arm around Berenger’s neck, and murmured into his ear, ‘I’ll make every lord in the palace want to be you.’

  Want to be you, and want to bid for me. It was so easy to play at pet that Ancel gave flirting with Berenger only half of his mind, the rest of him drinking in the fashion, the entertainments, and the attention he was garnering from all sides.

  Lord Orsin stopped by and requested an introduction, bowing low as he took Ancel’s hand and saying, ‘I see Berenger’s landed one to watch.’ Lord Droet looked at him openly from across the table, ignoring his own pet. Lord Ralin asked, was it true what they’d heard, about Ancel and Lord Rouart in the ring?