Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  “Not too formal.” Ah. That was why he’d been surprised. “Sharing, if that’s agreeable.”

  “Yeah, why not? If we end up fighting to the death over the last crispy pork ball, then at least we’ll know we tried.” Sam laughed, and Bran was vividly reminded of Craig sitting there in that very seat, joking that he’d stab Bran in the heart with a chopstick because of something or other. Probably a development in the Constantine Bay dispute that seemed likely to swing things Bran’s way.

  This was a terrible idea. And there was literally nothing to be done but go through with it now. “Do you have any particular likes and dislikes?”

  Sam shrugged. “I’m not fussy. Mum and three older sisters, remember? I ate what I was given as a kid, or I went to bed hungry. But as you’re asking, I prefer meat to fish, noodles to rice, and all of them to tofu. And I’ll do anything for a decent prawn dumpling.”

  “Perhaps I should lay in a supply,” Bran muttered, perusing the menu, although he knew it well enough by now. He suggested a few dishes, Sam agreed to most and made polite counter-suggestions for one or two others, and they had an order ready for the waitress when she came to their table. Sam appeared happy to accept Bran’s recommendation of a German Riesling he’d drunk here before.

  If only all things could be decided between them with so little stress.

  There was an awkward silence after the waitress departed. “I understand you know Jory from university?” Bran said at last.

  Sam’s face fell. Did he think Bran was about to interrogate him on his CV? “Uh, yes.”

  “You were undergraduates together?” Bran persisted. Perhaps he would interrogate Sam on his CV.

  “No. Postgrads.” In Edinburgh, then. Sam’s shoulders hunched. “Look, no offence, but . . . I’d rather not talk about that time. Bad breakup.”

  Bran, who’d been taking a sip of water, all but choked. He avoided a coughing fit by sheer force of will. “You and Jory?” he asked when he was able.

  “What? No!”

  Thank God. Bran managed not to say it aloud, and was ashamed of the heady rush of relief that swept over him. A bad breakup with Jory would have been a problem only if Bran intended a relationship with Sam himself. Which he most certainly didn’t.

  Sam’s gaze darted around the room, then returned to rest on Bran. “We were never— It was someone else. Bloke, though,” he added, his eyes piercing Bran’s soul.

  There was a challenge in his gaze: Judge me if you dare. Or was it a version of I can tell you’re queer because I’m queer too? Bran’s stomach flipped at the thought of being so transparent to Sam, of all people. He’d managed, in the days since their last argument, to half convince himself he’d misinterpreted what Sam had said about being in the closet.

  Or did Sam hope Bran might start to treat him as a comrade simply because they had this one thing in common? Although . . . that wasn’t all they had in common, was it? There was Edward of Woodstock.

  Perhaps Sam was thinking the same thing, as his next question was, “What got you so interested in the Black Prince? I mean, I know there’s the local connection, what with the castle, but most people wouldn’t spend a fortune setting up an exhibition just because of that. Especially with half the tourist bumf getting him confused with King Arthur’s Black Knight.”

  Thank God for an impersonal topic. Particularly as the waitress had just returned with the wine. Bran went through the ritual of tasting it, then took a larger swallow after she’d filled their glasses and left. “Edward of Woodstock has always been a favourite historical figure of mine. There are so many romantic stories about him—I don’t mean that in the modern sense, although his marriage to Joan of Kent appears to have been a true love match. No, the tales of his valour in battle, his respect for chivalry—take his adoption of a former enemy’s symbol for his own, as a salute to the man’s honour and bravery.”

  Jean of Luxembourg, the King of Bohemia, had been ageing and almost blind, yet had insisted upon being led out to fight in one last battle, his horse roped to one of his knights’. His ostrich feather emblem, taken from his body on the battlefield by Edward of Woodstock, was used by the Prince of Wales to this day, more than six hundred years later. The fading king could not have hoped for a greater tribute to his courage.

  And perhaps Bran had been a little self-deceiving in calling the topic impersonal.

  “Jean of Luxembourg’s last hurrah, yeah.” Sam paused, and Bran silently dared him to either contest the legend or comment unfavourably on its sentiments. But Sam’s tone was warm as he said, “I’ve always thought the Black Prince showed a lot of maturity for a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Absolutely. His was a baptism of fire, and he came through it with honour. He was very much his father’s son—witness them going into battle in unmarked armour a few years later, disguised as ordinary knights, to keep Calais from being recaptured by the French.”

  “Yeah, but Edward III didn’t hesitate to drop the disguise when shit got real, did he?”

  Bran frowned. “He was the king. There are limits. Edward of Woodstock kept his head, his incognito, and rescued his father.” He took a large sip of wine. “And it’s a scandal the way he’s been slandered through history.”

  “Rooting for the underdog, then?” Sam half smiled, which Bran counted as a win. “Yeah, I can see that. I had a mate in uni who was totally into Richard III, and you did not want to be caught in the crossfire when she got into it with someone over the murder of the Princes in the Tower. She had a real hate-on for Shakespeare. So yeah, a bit like the Black Prince there. Uh, my bad again. We really weren’t supposed to be talking about that sort of thing tonight, were we?”

  “No.”

  There was silence for several minutes, as Bran tried and failed to think of a single conversational topic that didn’t have to do with Edward of Woodstock. Well, that or the men in Sam’s past.

  Perhaps Sam was doing something similar, as he eventually coughed and asked, “Did you ever think of becoming a historian?”

  “I read history at university. But it was always intended that I’d come home to manage the family properties.”

  Sam frowned. “Intended by you? Or the family?”

  “Both. I’ve always been quite aware of my responsibilities.”

  “But didn’t you ever want to say to hell with it, and do your own thing?”

  Bran gave him a steady gaze. “I wasn’t forced into anything, I can assure you. And I’m now in the fortunate position of being able to indulge my interest in history. Although make no mistake, the exhibition centre is an investment and I expect a return.”

  “So do you do anything that isn’t business related?”

  An image of Craig flashed into Bran’s head. He angrily dismissed it. “I don’t spend my every waking hour on work. I go to the gym; I read; I play the occasional round of golf.” Although to be honest, the latter was almost entirely work related too these days. “And I spend time with my nephew,” he added, feeling on firmer ground here.

  Sam smiled. “Yeah, Gawen seems pretty keen on his uncle Bran. He’s your heir, right? You seem a bit young to be giving up on the idea of ever having kids of your own. Or do you prefer being able to give them back at the end of the day?”

  “I’ve never imagined being in a position where I’d be able to have a child.”

  “Why not? There’s plenty of gay dads—”

  Bran froze. “I’ll thank you not to make any assumptions about my private life,” he said stiffly. “And if you must make them, keep them to yourself.”

  Sam drew back, both eyebrows raised. “You know they decriminalised it before either of us was born, right? I don’t get why you’re so—”

  “You know nothing about me,” Bran snapped, louder than he meant to. Was there a lull in the conversation around them? He glared at his water glass, unwilling to look up and find all eyes upon him.

  “You’re right,” Sam said softly. “Which is why we’re here, isn’t it? Sorry. I
shouldn’t have got so personal.”

  Their food arrived, fortuitously, at that point. As they ate, politeness reigned. Bran talked of other restaurants in the area Sam might encounter—some excellent, some appalling. Sam told a few wryly amusing stories from the time he’d worked at an Indian restaurant in Luton. He didn’t mention when that had been. Presumably around the time he’d been a university undergraduate.

  Bran found himself warming to the man’s self-deprecating humour, and envying his ease in laughing at himself. Bran had always been too worried about giving away his weaknesses. And yet he found himself doing so anyway, telling Sam all about his woeful run-ins with the local council’s planning department.

  “Someone with a grudge against you there?”

  “Apparently they took exception to a letter I wrote to the local paper demanding the council take action on street lighting. In certain areas of town, it’s in such a poor state as to be unsafe for residents.” Bran frowned. Something about what he’d just said had given him the oddest sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t Sally Peters mentioned something like that too?

  “Something the matter?”

  Bran shook his head. The connection had failed to complete, and perhaps he’d only been imagining it in any case. He took a sip of his wine. “I’m fine. More chicken?”

  The food was as good as ever, and Bran relaxed under its influence and that of the Riesling. He ordered a second bottle, as it seemed ridiculous to stint. Sam’s face was warmer-toned than ever in the dim lighting, his eyes darker than Bran would have believed possible. He was a remarkably attractive young man, and although it wasn’t a date, Bran felt proud to be with him, nonetheless.

  Such a shame it couldn’t lead to anything more.

  “Did you ever feel the urge to move out of Porthkennack?” Sam asked after a while. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great place, but a lot of people I know from small towns, once they went away to uni they never looked back.”

  Bran shook his head. “I always knew Porthkennack was my home.”

  “Family tradition, huh?”

  “Roscarrocks have been tied to the land here for centuries.”

  Sam gave a wry smile. “Even Jory came back in the end, right?”

  “Never underestimate the power of family.” Bran took another sip of wine. Should he clarify? He’d meant that to refer to Gawen, but it could equally be taken as him boasting about his influence over his brother.

  But Sam was already speaking. “Tell me about it. Half my family’s over in Goa, and I only see them once a year if that, but it’s never stopped them banging on about what I ought to be doing with my life.” There was a twist to his mouth that suggested their advice hadn’t always been welcome.

  “Is it just your immediate family who are in Britain?”

  “Oh, no. Uncles, aunts, cousins . . . My dad’s parents came over a few years after the Second World War ended, and my mum’s family a couple of years after that. They ended up going to Mass at the same Roman Catholic church in Luton, and that’s how my parents got together. It turned out their families had lived only a few streets apart in Vasco da Gama, but hadn’t known each other. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”

  “It is, indeed. My parents grew up together too—in fact, they were almost like brother and sister as children, from what I’ve heard. Father spent more time at her family’s house than in his own.” Bran didn’t feel the need to expand on Father’s likely motives. Bran had never known his paternal grandmother, but his grandfather had been an aloof man with a swift temper who’d terrified him as a child.

  “Must be nice, that. Knowing your partner so well.” There was a touch of bitterness in Sam’s voice.

  Bran wondered what it meant. “They were very close. More wine?” Their glasses weren’t that low, but it would serve as a way of moving on from a subject that was clearly sensitive for both of them.

  “Cheers, yeah.” Sam picked up his recharged glass, and raised it with a wry smile. “We should have a toast. Here’s to the Black Prince.”

  “Edward of Woodstock,” Bran said, and drank.

  There was still food on the table, but Bran couldn’t have managed another mouthful. He was content to watch Sam eat, which he did with enthusiasm, leading to thoughts of other activities he might be equally enthusiastic about.

  Despite such distracting thoughts, which he did his best to silence, things appeared to be going ridiculously well. Bran wasn’t sure if it was the wine, the ambience, or simply the change of scenery, but Sam seemed a different person here. Bran could talk to him. He found himself sharing stories from his childhood, and Sam reciprocated, both of them marvelling that two so very different backgrounds could nevertheless have led to them working together. Proof, if any were needed, that Father’s views on race and class had been wrong to the point of absurdity.

  But Bran didn’t want to think of Father again tonight.

  They were interrupted by their waitress, who’d come to clear their plates. “Would you like dessert?”

  “Not for me,” Bran said quickly. “But you go ahead.”

  Sam leaned back with a smile. “Oh no. I’m stuffed. That was seriously good food.”

  The waitress smiled. “Coffee, then? Any more drinks?”

  Bran raised an eyebrow at Sam. “Coffee and a brandy? We can take it in the bar.”

  “Sounds good.” They took the last of the wine with them to the pub proper, where they found a table in the corner—again—leaving Bran unsure if he was the paranoid one, needing his back to the wall, or Sam was.

  Conversation was easy for a while—and then they somehow got back onto the subject of the Black Prince again.

  “He was the celebrity of his day,” Bran said, leaning forward. “The teenage heartthrob, the rock star—have you seen A Knight’s Tale?”

  “That’s the film with Rufus Sewell and all the jousting? Yeah, I’ve seen it.” Sam leaned in so that their heads were almost touching, his elbows on the table. He’d rolled up his sleeves, and Bran couldn’t help admiring his lean, muscular forearms.

  “Heath Ledger was the star,” Bran pointed out.

  Sam ran a hand through his hair. “So I’ve always had a thing for the dark-and-handsome look. And I was at an impressionable age when I saw it on the telly.”

  “You must have enjoyed the male nudity, then.”

  Sam laughed, leaning back a little. Despite himself, Bran missed the closeness. “You kidding me? My sisters were in the room. I didn’t know where to look! I take it you liked the film too?”

  “It was completely, wilfully anachronistic, of course, but it captured the spirit of the times. Knights were celebrated, adored even, for their valour in battle. Boys would dream of winning their spurs and finding fame and fortune.” Bran tapped the table to emphasise his point. A few strands of hair fell over his eyes. He pushed them back impatiently, then looked up to find Sam gazing intently at him.

  “And it had a positive portrayal of the Black Prince, so it’d obviously score points with you there,” Sam said softly, then gave a wry smile. “So we won’t burst your bubble by mentioning infected wounds, battlefield dysentery and coming home to find your family had all died of starvation or the plague.”

  “But that was the thing—that was why.” Bran shook his head, aware he wasn’t expressing himself well. “Even kings weren’t spared the Black Death. Edward of Woodstock lost three sisters to it, and countless friends and companions. Everyone knew they could die tomorrow, so they lived life to the fullest while they could.”

  “Blitz spirit, and wartime romances,” Sam said, nodding. “Like the Black Prince, with Joan of Kent. Seize the day, and go for all the glory you can get.”

  “Exactly. Exactly. I’ve always thought it sad that Edward of Woodstock never got to be king,” Bran mused, swirling the brandy in his glass and enjoying the heady fumes. “It was the job he was raised for, after all. He never quite fulfilled his potential. And he was only forty-five when he died.”


  “Yeah, once you pass thirty, that starts to look a bit too close for comfort.”

  Bran snorted. “Wait until you pass forty.”

  “Hey, you don’t look it.” Sam leaned towards Bran once more, across the corner of the table, and his soft brown eyes crinkled at the edges in a smile that threatened Bran’s composure. “I’d have put you at late thirties, tops. Hope I look as good when I’m your age.” He laughed suddenly. “Can’t believe you’re single, you know? You are single, aren’t you?”

  “I— Yes.”

  “Me too.” Sam looked down at his brandy for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet Bran’s head-on at point-blank range. “Maybe we ought to do something about that? You know, together?”

  Mesmerised by that warm smile, those merry eyes, and the heat from Sam’s oh-so-close body, Bran took a while to process Sam’s words. Then he froze. Oh God. This couldn’t happen. He’d always been so careful to keep any liaisons far from Porthkennack. “No. That’s absurd. I’m not— It’s a ridiculous idea.”

  Sam drew back, all trace of a smile gone. “Are you going all no homo on me? Seriously? Even now?”

  “I told you—”

  “You told me a load of bollocks. I just don’t get you. What’s the big deal?”

  “That’s my busi—”

  “Funny how you’re so keen on a prince who was known for his bravery, when you’re too much of a coward to even come out to another gay guy.”

  “That’s not—”

  “And while we’re talking about the Black Prince—you idolise this guy for his skill at military strategy, his chivalry and his heroism in battle, but you never even think about where all those bloody manly virtues came from, do you?” Sam’s voice had risen.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “All this emphasis on fighting. The Black Prince was brought up macho as hell because his dad was so bloody desperate to distance himself from his dad, Edward II. The gay one, remember? Who everyone hated for falling in love with Hugh Despenser and Piers Gaveston. For Christ’s sake, even Edward II’s death was a bloody hate crime—they sodomised him with a hot poker.”