The Black Prince: Part I

by P. J. Fox

  He stopped.

  There it was again.

  A giggle.

  He could hear the falseness in it. A faint undercurrent, like the pull at his feet when he walked too far out into the lake. He was pretty sure, though, that the person the voice was with couldn’t hear it. Because the answering chuckle, while quiet, sounded genuine.

  The door on the left was ajar.

  Asher took a step forward. Then another. He placed each foot down toe first, as he’d been taught. A hunter’s silent walk, and one that he continually forgot to practice. But some long-buried instinct told him that silence was important now. That his life might depend on it. Still, he couldn’t run. Couldn’t retreat to the safety of the library, where he knew his tutor still was. Could only step forward, and forward.

  He had to know.

  He stopped. Leaned forward. Peered through the slit.

  Rowena.

  And a man he didn’t recognize. Which wasn’t so strange, in and of itself. There were men, and women, in and out of the castle daily. Local worthies, petitioning for various kinds of relief, or to have disputes settled. Representatives from various guilds, both at home and abroad. Visiting dignitaries. What made this strange was the fact that this man was sprawled in a large and finely carved chair like he owned it. And Rowena was on his lap.

  The chair was at an angle, their heads turned from him. He could see the man’s profile, and Rowena’s back. And see, too, that the man’s shirt was open to his waist and Rowena’s dress pulled down past her shoulders. The man reached up to fondle an exposed breast. Rowena giggled again.

  Asher stood rooted in place, wondering what to do.

  “You’re beautiful. A body like yours is made for a man’s pleasure.”

  “Tell that to my husband.”

  “These nipples. So firm and responsive.” Another low chuckle, from that strange man. A distinctly unpleasant and mirthless sound. “Makes me wonder whether the rest of you is just as responsive.” He slid a hand up the side of her thigh, pushing up her skirts.

  “But you promise you’ll help me.”

  “Aye, I’ll help you come.” He leaned forward, presumably to take one of those nipples in his mouth.

  She stiffened. Suddenly, her voice was harsh. The same voice she used on Asher, and on Isla. “No. Not until we have an agreement.”

  He leaned his head back on the chair. “Yes, yes. We have an agreement.”

  This time, she let him do as he would.

  Asher had never seen people have sex before, but he knew what it was. His parents had sex; they shared a bed and that was what parents did. Even if no one ever wanted to think about it. And John talked about sex all the time, although the only sex he’d ever witnessed was between horses. He claimed to have spied on the grooms when they met with their various girlfriends in the stables’ large network of hay lofts, but Asher knew that was a lie. John was too coward and besides, the positions he described were impossible.

  But all of that, even so…was different.

  Asher couldn’t explain why, even to himself, but a cold fear had gripped the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t wrong, the way spying on the grooms was wrong. It was…the word that came to mind was one he’d heard Hart use. And his father. Treason.

  Except…why? Maybe he was overreacting, he told himself. Maybe the help she needed was innocent. It didn’t have to be anything bad. In his heart of hearts, Asher knew that he was still a child and knew, too, that he didn’t always understand things as he should. The adults in his life all seemed to lack the confusion that had lately come to dominate his own thinking. Rather, they seemed confident. Assured. His father, for one, always knew what to do. And Isla, too.

  If Rowena was up to something bad, wouldn’t they know?

  Moreover, Rowena was his aunt. If he said anything bad about her, he might get in trouble. He knew his father didn’t like her much, and Isla didn’t like her much, but she was still a fellow adult and adults seemed to band together. Maeve had always favored those in her inner circle over Asher, punishing him if he complained that someone had been mean to him. Or worse.

  He didn’t think Isla was like that but who knew? Maybe that was just how all adults were, regardless of whether they were nice or not. After all, it wasn’t like any of them exactly included him in their counsels. They told him to go off and play, or study, or basically be anywhere but with them, while they talked amongst themselves.

  The man was gripping Rowena’s bottom now, lifting her up and down while she in turn gripped his shoulders. It didn’t look very comfortable. And Rowena, he could have sworn, looked bored.

  That spike of fear again.

  He should tell someone. If she needed help, why hadn’t she asked his father? But then Asher remembered how, the week before, he’d overheard one of the pastry chefs tell her assistant that men like Hart—who could, in her words, really raise a tent—fulfilled needs that a woman’s husband couldn’t. Whatever that meant. And when he’d asked, after the wedding, why Rudolph and Rowena had gotten married if they hated each other so much he’d been told only that he’d understand when he was older.

  So maybe this was that kind of help?

  Silently, carefully, he withdrew. He didn’t want to see any more. Didn’t want to be there at all.

  Something still felt…wrong. Even if, as he’d decided, there were perfectly good explanations for all of it. He was just being a baby. But even if he wasn’t, he might not be a full grown man yet but he wasn’t a baby. He could take care of himself.

  He had before.

  And so he went about his business, and told no one what he’d seen.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Hart and Arvid pushed their way through the door, Rudolph between them, and into the common room. Heads turned. The place was about half full. Hart, by his dress, was clearly a nobleman. The other two were less…easy to place. A tribesman with more wool than an unshorn sheep and—a minstrel? An escapee from one of those all male harems that supposedly existed in the East?

  The nobility, and especially its self-impressed offshoots, was generally regarded as the scourge of the earth by innkeepers. But titles meant money. And for a little money, even the most ornery innkeeper could drum up a little patience. Approaching them, the owner of this establishment fixed a smile on his round face. “My Lord.”

  It was a guess. If Hart were something lowly, like a viscount, or if he weren’t titled at all then the “mistake” would be providential. But woe to the man who, through ignorance, gave another’s title short shrift. A baron might be thrilled to be confused for a duke, but no duke would accept being confused for a baron.

  Hart smiled. He’d already been drinking, although he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he appeared. Getting Rudolph sauced had been their only means of getting him to leave the camp. And he still had only the vaguest notion of where they were going.

  “This man has no brothers—”

  “He doesn’t want to bugger his brothers!” Arvid shouted.

  “And so it falls on us to aid him in his quest.”

  The innkeeper’s smile remained fixed, but alarm kindled in his eyes.

  “He,” Hart announced gallantly, to the innkeeper and to the entire common room, “is a virgin.”

  “Wait—what?” Rudolph seemed most distressed.

  “Well now the secret’s out. You can face your failing with honor, instead of hiding behind my—entirely proverbial—skirts.”

  “Is he capable?” The innkeeper seemed fascinated, in spite of himself.

  A good half of the inn’s guests appeared to be waiting for the answer also.

  “Will everyone stop asking me that!”

  “He is.”

  “And remaining pure isn’t a defect!”

  “He’s religious,” Hart confided.

  “Maybe he wants to remain so?” The innkeeper looked from Hart, to Rudolph, to Arvid, and back again.

  “No. He doesn’t.”

  “I see.” The innkeeper look
ed about, as though appealing to his patrons for help.

  “Have you women?”

  “Ah…yes.”

  “And ale?”

  “I believe,” the innkeeper said, “that you’d be more comfortable at a table. Please follow me.”

  They did.

  He led them to an open table near the fire, which crackled merrily. Nearby patrons watched them with open and good-natured interest as they sat, Rudolph between them. Hart dropped a handful of coins on the table. No sense in being coy about it. The innkeeper, after biting each, made them all disappear. Arvid burped.

  “My cock works.” Rudolph glared.

  A tankard was put down in front of him.

  “I assumed it did,” Hart replied. “But only for men.”

  “Men?” Rudolph seemed shocked.

  “Some men prefer other men.”

  “And some merely prefer willing flesh!” This from Arvid.

  Arvid, who could drink enough to put any ten men under the table and still not feel the effects.

  “Well, indeed.” Hart ignored his own tankard. “I came to realize that while there was indeed a problem, it was of an entirely different nature.”

  Food arrived. More food than any of them had seen in a week. And it all looked delicious.

  “You see,” Hart continued, “had you brothers, I would assume that they’d have helped you, ah, feel more confident in yourself. But as apparently your only tutor in the arts of love—and dress—has been my sister, Arvid and I are taking that most sacred duty upon ourselves. We will, Rudolph, make a man out of you yet.”

  Either that or see him dead, whichever came first.

  Hart had only told Rudolph the truth, before, when he’d said he couldn’t act as nursemaid. Hart had an army to lead, an army in which every able-bodied fighter was equally vital. He couldn’t afford hangers on, or lightweights, or to lose anyone by the side of the road. Even Rudolph. So if Rudolph wasn’t going to die by his own hand, attempting to skin a deer and stabbing himself by accident, or falling from his horse, or tripping in a gulch and breaking his neck when he attempted to relieve himself, then Hart was going to Gods be damned well make a soldier out of him.

  A soldier, and a man. Who could think for himself, rather than asking Hart’s permission to exist. Because Hart was presumably now the stand in for Rowena, or Rudolph’s mother, or whoever else had ordered Rudolph around before.

  “Bees, I’ll have you know,” came Rudolph’s imperious voice, “are the height of fashion.”

  “Yes,” said Hart, clapping him on the back, “but we’re in Morven. Not Chad. A Morvish man needs no bees, embroidered or otherwise. Only his reputation, and a strong sword arm to back it up.”

  And funds, and education, and a horse, and a suit of armor, and a decent sword, and a cock that did indeed work, whether for women or for men. But revealing these truths wouldn’t be motivational. And Rudolph had everything that Hart could list, regardless. What he didn’t have, and what he most needed, especially if there was any hope of him surviving the next few weeks, was courage.

  This was, Hart knew, even if Rudolph didn’t, their last hurrah.

  After this would come the dark.

  “Come over here, lover boy, and sit with us.”

  Rudolph looked up. A beautiful brunette in flax dyed the color of lake water was looking him up and down in a decidedly admiring fashion. Next to her stood a second girl. A blonde. They were both well fed, their cheeks bloomed with roses of good health rather than cosmetic. Two pairs of pleasantly ample breasts were each barely contained by low-cut bodices, and looked ready to spill forth at any moment. There was no shyness here, no reticence. The pair, if anything, seemed amused.

  And eager.

  “But…but there are two of you.”

  The brunette’s grin widened. “There are.”

  Rudolph let them lead him to the other side of the table, where one sat behind him with her arms about his waist and the other sat on his lap.

  Arvid announced, quite cheerfully, that he was going outside to take a piss.

  Someone else sat down next to Hart. “Welcome to The Fox and Hound.”

  “Would you like a drink?” Hart asked.

  “Please.”

  Hart signaled one of the tavern girls.

  “You’re here with your…friend?”

  “Brother in law.”

  “Are you married?”

  Her drink arrived. She sipped it tentatively, and smiled. Hart still hadn’t touched his.

  Around them, the night carried on.

  Rudolph and the girls were now playing some sort of game, one which involved the removal of clothes. Slowly, and with much giggling. Rudolph appeared to finally be enjoying himself. Or, at least, the milk white skin in front of him.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s at home now. Waiting for me. I wish to return to her.”

  “She’s fortunate, to have a man so loyal.”

  Hart’s expression hardened. “I’m here, aren’t I? With you.” And he was already thinking of things to do to her. Because she was beautiful. And willing. With coin and, Hart suspected, without. He didn’t need to pay women. Never had paid them before, until he’d come north. He just preferred to pay them now. Because when coin changed hands, the expectations were clear.

  “Does it change how you feel about her?”

  “No.” His response was curt.

  “Then I’ve proved my point.” Her tone, in turn, was pleasant. Almost teasing. And her smile was warm.

  He supposed she had, at that.

  The girls stood up, Rudolph between them. They were both now naked from the waist up and he himself had lost a shirt. He seemed scarcely able to credit his good fortune, as they jointly led him toward the stairs and, presumably, one of the rooms above. If they were self-conscious of their charms, they gave no sign. Only laughed, and took turns pinching their acquisition on the rump as they each nuzzled an ear.

  “He’ll rise tomorrow a changed man,” Hart’s companion observed.

  “That,” Hart replied dryly, “is what I hope.”

  “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  Arvid had returned from taking his piss and was now leading a group of men in song at the bar.

  “Would you like companionship, in your bed?”

  Hart considered her for a long moment. He knew he thought her beautiful, but knew just as well that he wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a crowd three days hence. Nor remember if her hair had been blonde, or auburn. If her eyes had been blue, or green, or gray. If she’d been tall or short. Or even what she’d felt like, in his arms, if he took her. He’d enjoy her for the moment, but a moment was all it would be.

  “Tell me. What led you here?”

  Her smile deepened. Became something private. “The thought of a man wanting to be with me, so much that he sacrifices what is, to him—to most men—the most precious thing of all.” She meant money. She sighed. “It’s arousing.” Her eyes focused, once again, on his. “Does that make me jaded?”

  “To think that all a man cares about is his purse?” Hart’s own smile was slight. “There’s an argument to be made.”

  “Who would you beggar yourself for?”

  He wouldn’t speak her name. Not aloud. Not here.

  “It’s a game for men, too,” he said instead. “Thinking that they’re tricking women into selling something important. Something that shouldn’t be sold. And too cheaply.”

  While some men, of course, were simply lonely. Or bored. He’d known men, over the years, who visited whores simply so someone would listen to them. Without interruption. As though their words mattered. As though they mattered. When their wives wouldn’t, and their children wouldn’t.

  And then there were those whose wives had died. They missed touching, holding, simply looking at a woman. They wanted, not passion but an end to an entirely different kind of loneliness.
/>   “You have to have it straightened out in your head,” she agreed, surprising him. “A lot of girls, they claim they want one thing but really they don’t. And there’s no price high enough to compensate for that. You know?”

  He did.

  “If they want love, they should get married. If they want power….” After a moment, she shrugged. “They shouldn’t.”

  “Women are powerless in marriage?” His words were low. Sanguine. He didn’t really care about her answer. But the general concept of power interested him.

  “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  He supposed he was, at that.

  “So what’s the going rate?”

  “A copper for mouth, three for the other, and a half silver for around the world.”

  She was a woman with no God, and no master. He thought he approved. Which made him a hypocrite, of course. He didn’t relish the idea of Lissa so much as sharing the street with other men, and only understood that such compromises were necessities of life in the most academic sense. She’d better understand that he was her master.

  Nor had he ever considered his sisters living such a life. He’d hoped, not that Isla would direct her own course without assistance, but that she’d find a man who cared for her enough to make her goals his own. Happiness, for a woman, he’d always thought, was a happy marriage. A woman on her own, unless she lived in one of the few places where a woman was allowed to practice a trade, had no choice but to practice the oldest trade.

  That, to him, seemed like true powerlessness.

  But if she believed herself happy, or at least content, who was he to educate her into believing otherwise? He, who’d leave the next morning? And might be dead by the next full moon?

  “Then,” he said, “I accept.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  There was a prayer, spoken by women of the North, where a woman’s magic was still held sacred. We will meet, all of us women of every tribe. We will meet in the center where our hearts lie and we will make a circle. And in that circle we will weave a web to entangle the powers, which bury our children.