Pet

  ‘Berenger, you dark horse, you’ve got the best pet in the room,’ Lord Droet said.

  ‘Well?’ said Ancel, giddy with pleasure as they entered their rooms. Berenger was smiling, and in the next moment he was at a low side table, picking something up, some sort of bundle of pale cream silk that he tossed to Ancel.

  ‘Here,’ said Berenger, as Ancel caught the small silk pouch that was startlingly heavy. Ancel pulled the ties open and gasped at what lay inside, a long string of emeralds. ‘You’ve more than earned a gift,’ said Berenger.

  They were beautiful, a clear, deep green cut in smooth geometric patterns, each angle gleaming, and he’d seen pets today in their jewels, and knew this was as rich a gift as any of them.

  ‘I love them.’ Ancel was overflowing with happiness, and it felt infectious, spilling out into his words, and into Berenger’s new smile watching him. ‘I love them,’ said Ancel. ‘I’d sleep with you right now. I might even enjoy it for once.’

  He stopped.

  ‘High praise,’ said Berenger, dryly.

  ‘Of course, with you, I’d—’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Berenger.

  In the mornings, Ancel attended Berenger, his petly duty. It took perhaps half an hour to dress Lord Berenger fully, arranging fabric and tucking in laces, plus extra time to see to his hair. Ancel would have liked to have added some small flourish here or there, but Berenger resisted all his attempts to add jewellery, or ornamentation, or colour to his clothing. Another day, another brown jacket.

  ‘In blue or red, you could look quite handsome.’ It was something Ancel had noticed on the third morning, in the early light from the window. Berenger had a strong profile, good bone structure, and warm eyes. His waist, where Ancel was lacing, was trim, his body fit from riding. ‘Let me pick your jacket.’

  Berenger sounded amused. ‘You don’t like my jacket?’

  ‘I like my taste better than yours, obviously,’ said Ancel.

  ‘Obviously,’ said Berenger.

  He didn’t let Ancel pick his jacket. They attended dinners together. They had a good system in which Ancel filched the delicious confectionaries and special sweets and left Berenger all the plain stuff he preferred.

  After dinner, Berenger had a series of boring serious conversations with other lords, or disappeared off into meetings, while Ancel liked to watch the pet performances, or stroll the halls or gardens with one of his growing number of admirers.

  Once or twice, he picked up gossip that he knew Berenger would like and passed it back to him, and on one of his turns around the garden, he made a discovery that had him tugging on Berenger’s hand a few hours later, and dragging him deep into the coupling gardens.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve never visited the coupling gardens. Do you feel no desires at all? Come on.’

  ‘Ancel, I don’t think that—’

  ‘Look, it’s those flowers from that boring poem that you like,’ Ancel announced proudly. He stood in front of the spray of white flowers.

  Berenger had stopped. The flowers were night blooming, filling the air with a delicate scent. His eyes took in the sight, then after a moment, he moved forward to touch one of them, gently.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Berenger. ‘They’re very beautiful. And rare. In the poem, the lover is given only a single flower.’

  ‘What a terrible gift. I’d much rather have jewellery,’ said Ancel, wrinkling his nose. ‘Or clothes. Even the horse was better.’

  Berenger’s mouth quirked, his eyes shifting from the flowers, amused and warm. ‘Yes, you’re a little more expensive.’

  Since Berenger preferred serious conversation, Ancel organised a few small evening gatherings for their rooms, with only a few of Berenger’s closer acquaintances as guests, commissioning restrained performances of music and recitation. Of course, Ancel aspired to a truly great contract, but he was enjoying life on Berenger’s arm. He told himself that he would begin pursuing suitors of his own soon.

  Spying Berenger on the balcony of their rooms one night, Ancel went out to stand beside him, leaning on the balustrade and looking out into dark gardens twinkling with lamps.

  ‘You really enjoy it here, don’t you,’ said Berenger. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s—everything,’ said Ancel. ‘All the most elegant fashions, the most powerful people. Here you’re important. It’s not like a small village where you can never affect the world. I like feeling—’

  Like part of it. Like the master of it. Like he had power over the men, like if they wanted him they had to pay a fortune for it. Like he was more valuable than the wine goblet Berenger held, or the silver pitcher a servant had poured from. Like he mattered.

  ‘Perhaps I ought to think of it more like that.’

  ‘How do you think of it?’

  ‘I think,’ said Berenger, ‘that the only person in this place who shows me their real face is you.’

  Ancel could be useful to Berenger in other ways, that was a pet’s role too. When Councillor Herode entered the crowded great hall a few nights later, Ancel saw Berenger’s eyes follow him, before Berenger looked up at the dais where the Regent sat and frowned slightly.

  ‘What is it?’ said Ancel.

  He said it quietly, his hand on Berenger’s arm, drawing him away from the scattering of courtiers and pets. Ancel had just filched a sweetmeat from Lord Droet, saying, ‘Your pet is too slow!’ to the delight of Lord Droet and the anger of the pet he had with him, a storm cloud in blue silk.

  After a moment, Berenger answered him in a low voice, ‘I would like to speak privately to the Councillor. I wish I could arrange it.’

  Berenger’s eyes were still on the grey-haired man across the hall. Eventually, he looked back at Ancel.

  ‘I can arrange it,’ said Ancel.

  He raised his brows when Berenger gave him a sceptical look.

  ‘I can make everyone look at me.’

  There was the familiar frown, like an old friend. ‘Ancel, I told you I don’t want—’

  Ancel was already moving to pick up one of short banner poles that decorated the hall. Unhooking the banner, he twirled the stick in his hand.

  ‘Oh, do you do tricks as well?’ said Lord Droet.

  ‘Would you like to see one?’ said Ancel. He threw the stick to Lord Droet, who caught it adeptly.

  A few heads began to turn towards him. ‘I think every man here wants to see what you can do,’ said Lord Droet.

  ‘Take off your jacket,’ said Ancel.

  More heads turned. He saw Berenger nod once, briefly, then melt into the crowd. Lord Droet was laughing, but he was also gesturing to his own pet to come and unlace his jacket. Ancel could feel the attention, like bright sunlight on his skin.

  ‘You don’t need it back do you?’ said Ancel.

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Ancel tore the jacket right down the middle. There were a few gasps, and laughter again from Lord Droet, who said, ‘I hope there’s more to this trick.’

  ‘Throw me back the stick,’ said Ancel.

  By now, a small crowd had gathered. Ancel caught the stick one-handed. Deftly, he wrapped the torn fabric of Lord Droet’s jacket around each end. He stepped back, tipping a lamp and soaking the wads of Lord Droet’s jacket with lamp oil. Then he touched each end to the fire.

  Gasps as they burst into flame, and Ancel tossed the stick high, a spinning wheel of dangerous light.

  He saw: faces lit up with flame, shock and delight at his audacity, childlike pleasure at the spectacle. He saw: Berenger moving across to the far side of the hall, Councillor Herode leaning in to murmur to him. He knew how he looked: red and red and red.

  It was not so different to a planned performance, the ends of the sticks alight with fire. He caught his first toss, compensating for the different weight of the jacket. He knew what happened
when sticks dropped in performance: the omnipresent danger of the fire, the fuel-soaked wicks, the flammable silks he wore, the long fall of his hair.

  That was part of the thrill, sensuality and danger. He had everyone’s attention now. He tossed and twirled, and it was easy, all of it coming back to him, his childhood days before his profession had changed, before the escalating series of favours, until the moment he had finally agreed to it. You have to pay me extra. It’s my first time.

  But the improvised fire stick quickly sputtered and went out. Ancel caught it between its blackened, smoking ends and tossed a challenging look at Lord Droet.

  ‘Your jacket’s burned out,’ said Ancel. ‘Shall we try your pants next?’

  Laughter. Applause. Delight. ‘Hand them over, Lord Droet!’ someone called. More laughter.

  ‘You’re full of talents, aren’t you,’ said a boy’s voice, and Ancel turned.

  The boy was very lovely and very young, with huge blue eyes and a tumble of brown curls. Ancel knew him. Everyone knew him: the most famous pet in the court. Nicaise had never spoken to him before, and didn’t look pleased to be speaking to him now.

  Ancel lifted his eyes and saw that on the far side of the hall, the Regent was watching them.

  ‘The Patran Embassy arrives next week,’ said Nicaise. ‘A fire dance is the perfect entertainment. The Regent likes your skills and hopes you’ll perform. That’s my message.’

  ‘It would be my honour,’ said Ancel.

  ‘Since you like to play with fire,’ said Nicaise.

  Ancel’s pulse hadn’t settled when Berenger returned, his blood beating with success. He threw his arms around Berenger’s neck and said, ‘Did you see? I’m a triumph!’ Berenger took the opportunity provided by physical closeness to say in a low voice, ‘You have helped me a great deal tonight.’

  ‘I told you I could make everyone look at me,’ said Ancel.

  Even the Regent.

  The rumours started right away.

  The swirling interest around Ancel now had a malicious edge—Ancel was an upstart, a cheap brothel prostitute. Ancel was mercenary, he’d do anything for a contract. Ancel was dangerous, with a dark past.

  Ancel liked it, a sign of success. He knew the pets at court disliked that a newcomer had been singled out for royal attention.

  In the relaxed, wine-loosened atmosphere after meals, courtiers liked to indulge. Men and women dallied with their pets, the atmosphere disinhibited and carnal. And they talked, tittering, needling, speculating, the pets in particular raking the hall with their eyes looking for any new subject of dissection. Ancel liked being the centre of attention. But thanks to Berenger, there was a line of attack that had never been there before.

  ‘I’ve heard that Berenger likes women, and that he disappears sometimes from court, so that he can—’

  Ancel flushed. He left the main hall and made straight for Berenger, who was sitting in an adjoining antechamber, on one of the long reclining couches, amid a handful of acquaintances, talking in small relaxed groups.

  ‘Kiss me,’ said Ancel as he settled, one knee on the couch on either side of Berenger’s thighs, his hands linked behind Berenger’s neck.

  ‘What?’ said Berenger.

  ‘On the mouth,’ said Ancel.

  ‘What are people saying?’ Berenger said after a long moment.

  Ancel’s flush deepened, he was unable to keep the reaction from his face. He didn’t answer. Berenger continued to look at him searchingly.

  Then Berenger turned his head in a brief glance at the small knot of people standing near them, and gave a little grimace. He leaned in and kissed Ancel a moment later.

  Ancel felt the kiss against his lips, with Berenger’s hand on his waist. It lasted a second or two, before Berenger drew back. Ancel could see people watching, overly conscious of the glances, the whispered words, the oily rumours that would begin to surface, like those swirling around the Prince.

  ‘Everyone’s watching. Do it like you mean it,’ said Ancel.

  Berenger was beginning to frown. Ancel thought, with a burst of irritation, I know you don’t want to, but can’t you just pretend? How hard was it? Ancel pretended all the time. Berenger had a reputation to maintain. But if Ancel said that, Berenger would probably reply with something idiotic like his own reputation didn’t matter to him.

  Ancel said, ‘My value goes down if people think I’m not holding your attention.’

  For a moment they just looked at each other. Then Berenger tightened his grip on Ancel’s waist, and kissed him.

  It was a shock to feel Berenger’s tongue in his mouth. He wasn’t expecting a real kiss, even though he had asked for it, and it surprised and unbalanced him. Berenger was usually so reserved. Or perhaps it had simply been a long time since Ancel had kissed anyone. He was no longer used to it. It didn’t feel impersonal. He was instead extremely conscious that it was Berenger that he was kissing.

  When Berenger pulled back, Ancel was straddling Berenger’s lap, looking down at him. He was still struggling to process his over-awareness of Berenger, the staid, serious man who preferred reading to talking. His lips were tingling from kissing Berenger, and that didn’t seem to make sense.

  ‘Ancel—’ said Berenger.

  ‘Like you mean it,’ said Ancel, and kissed him again.

  Ancel was good at kissing. He knew how to make it feel good, and how to make it look good. He kissed with expertise, subtly coaxing for more, even as he positioned his body to look its best to anyone who was watching.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, and he sounded turned on, which was how he was supposed to sound. ‘Berenger.’

  The kiss deepened. Ancel closed his eyes. He could imagine exactly what Berenger liked, lovemaking in the dark with a young man in a plain shirt. If they ever—Ancel would have to feign at least a degree of innocence, physically experienced but emotionally unprepared, looking up at Berenger and saying it’s never been like this before.

  He imagined that: imagined Berenger kissing him in private. A strange shaky feeling grew in him. Berenger would kiss with the same seriousness as he was now, he probably fucked like that too, strong and steady.

  Berenger’s voice in his ear, roughened. ‘You’re so good at faking it.’

  ‘I know,’ Ancel said. ‘I know I’m good.’

  He slid his own hand lower, to the lacings over Berenger’s crotch, and in the next moment Berenger was pulling him up and towards one of the private bowers in the coupling gardens. Ancel stumbled after him.

  Leafy vines and branches sheltered them, the small space dim and secluded. Berenger pushed him in. Ancel half expected Berenger to crowd him against the ironwork. He could smell the crushed leaves and the heady scents from the flowers. He felt hot and confused, and there was something drumming in his head that had never been there before.

  He looked back at Berenger, opened his mouth to say—he didn’t know what—but before he could—

  ‘How long do we have to stay here?’ Berenger said.

  ‘What?’ said Ancel.

  ‘How long do you normally take?’ said Berenger.

  It took a moment before he understood the words, and their meaning. But the way Berenger was standing off from him, like a man who has had his evening interrupted for a charade in which he has little interest, made everything clear.

  Ancel pushed down the feelings in his chest, closing his eyes briefly. ‘At least half an hour. I have a reputation to maintain.’

  ‘All right,’ said Berenger, and stood there, awkwardly.

  Ancel heard himself say, ‘Unless, do you want—’

  Me.

  Do you want me.

  He thought, he could make Berenger like it. Ancel knew how to please men. It would be the least he could do, and wouldn’t it be better than standing about awkwardly for half an hour? They could go back
to kissing, and more than kissing, and Ancel could go to his knees and pleasure Berenger in the way he knew best.

  ‘I think we both know this isn’t working,’ Berenger said in a low voice.

  ‘This,’ said Ancel.

  Berenger wasn’t looking at him. ‘I’ll pay out your time in full. We can separate after you perform for the Patran delegation. You can tell people your contract simply came to the end of its time.’

  ‘You’re ending our contract,’ said Ancel.

  He heard Berenger’s voice as if from a distance, the cool evening air of the gardens against his hot skin. The sound of the breeze in the leaves seemed loud, and he was too conscious of the rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘Everyone will want you after your performance. You won’t have trouble finding men to bid for you—’

  ‘I know,’ said Ancel. ‘I’m the best pet at this court.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He didn’t know why, but the next day when Ancel saw Berenger talking in a low voice to Lord Droet’s pet, it made him angry, and he stalked out of the stuffy, overlit rooms, into the cool shade of the gardens.

  Inside, people were thronging and gossiping wildly at the latest outrage from the Prince. Here there were only pleasing lamps, not the blazing bright of a thousand candles, and Ancel could think.

  There were plenty of lords at court wealthier and higher in status than Berenger. Ancel could get any one of them. But that wasn’t a triumph. He had come here to rise to the top.

  He heard footsteps behind him. Berenger. He turned.