The King's Buccaneer

  Martin’s expression darkened. “Have Marcus pen a note for Lord Bellamy in Carse, asking if the boat turned back to Carse for some reason, then send it by pigeon.”

  Harry bowed and started to run off, but Martin stopped him by saying, “And, Squire…”

  Harry stopped and turned. “Your Grace?”

  “Next time you’re sent to the harbor on an errand, take a horse.”

  Harry grinned sheepishly and bowed. “Your Grace,” he said, and hurried off to do Martin’s bidding.

  Briana mounted without waiting for any unnecessary assistance and Nicholas handed her a bow, quiver, and knife. After Martin was mounted, Nicholas gave the remaining weapons to the Duke.

  Martin said, “We may be gone until tomorrow sunset, Squire.”

  Nicholas said, “Your Grace?”

  “Today is Sixthday, if it’s escaped your notice.” It had. “You may have the afternoon to yourself. See to Master Samuel for any further instructions until we return.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  As they rode out of the courtyard, Nicholas sighed. Sixthday: traditionally a half day of rest for the children of any castle or palace. Seventhday was a day of contemplation and worship, though Nicholas had noticed there were always plenty of servants to do his bidding back in Krondor on Seventhday. He and Harry had arrived on Seventhday the week before, so he had no idea what to expect with his first free time since coming off the ship.

  —

  THE SOUND OF boys shouting echoed across the side courtyard, near a small garden, which was called the Princess’s Garden. It had been the province of Nicholas’s aunt, the Princess Carline, when she had lived in Crydee, and the name had stuck.

  A rough game of football was under way, with one of the soldiers acting as referee. The teams were composed of the sons of the castle’s servants, a few pages, and two of the younger squires. An area of the approved size had been chalked out in the dirt, with a battered goal net erected at each end. It might not match the emerald-green grass field of the professional stadium at Krondor, but it was a ball field.

  Looking on were Margaret, Abigail, and Marcus, from a vantage point of seats on a low wall alongside the garden. Nakor and Ghuda were watching the game from the other side of the field, among a group of soldiers, and both waved at Nicholas. He waved back.

  Nicholas had been running errands all morning for the Housecarl, and had finally stolen into the kitchen to eat a quick lunch that Magya had prepared for the Squires, and then had left to see what he could do with his time off. He was thinking about returning to his room for a nap when the sounds of the game distracted him.

  Marcus nodded at him and the girls both smiled. He jumped up to sit on the wall, next to Margaret, and leaned forward to return Marcus’s greeting. He then looked at Abigail, who smiled warmly and said, “I’ve not seen you around much, Highness, save when you were running from one place to another.”

  Looking at Abigail caused Nicholas’s ears to burn. He said, “The Duke keeps me busy, my lady,” and turned his attention to the game. What it lacked in skill it more than made up for in enthusiasm.

  “You play football in Krondor, Squire?” asked Marcus, stressing the last word. As he spoke, he reached over and placed his hand upon Abigail’s. The possessive gesture was not lost on Nicholas.

  Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Nicholas said, “We have professional teams in Krondor, sponsored by the guilds, merchants, and some nobles.”

  “I mean do you play?”

  Nicholas said, “Not much.”

  Marcus glanced at Nicholas’s feet and nodded slightly. Marcus’s gesture did not earn him Nicholas’s thanks; Nicholas found himself irritated by his cousin’s manner.

  Margaret glanced from her brother to Nicholas, and her expression shifted slightly from neutral to dryly amused as Nicholas said, “But when I had time, I was considered good.”

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Even with your foot.”

  Nicholas felt his face flush and he was suddenly angry. “Yes, even with my foot!”

  Harry appeared, a bit of bread and cheese in his hand, and Marcus only glanced at him for a moment. The Duke’s son knew that Harry’s time was now his own until the next morning. Harry gave the assembled group a general wave and said, “How’s the game?”

  Nicholas jumped off the low wall and said, “We’re playing.”

  Harry shook his head. “I’m eating.”

  With a smile, Marcus said, “I’ll keep the sides even.”

  Harry grinned openly as he jumped backward to sit in the space Nicholas had just vacated, next to Lady Margaret. “Give ’em hell, Nicky,” he said cheerfully.

  Nicholas stripped off his tunic, feeling the warm sun and cool ocean breeze upon his skin. He hardly knew any of the boys on the field—just two of the pages—but he knew the game. Feeling irritated by Marcus’s attitude, he needed to vent his anger.

  A moment later, the ball went out of bounds. Marcus reached over and picked it up, saying, “I’ll throw it in.”

  Nicholas ran out onto the field and glanced around. He waved over a kitchen boy and said, “What’s your name?”

  The boy said, “Robert, Highness.”

  Nicholas frowned and shook his head. “I’m the Duke’s Squire. Who’s our side?”

  Robert quickly pointed out the seven boys that made up the rest of the informal team and Nicholas said, “I’ll guard Marcus.”

  Robert grinned and nodded. “No one will dispute you that privilege, Squire.”

  Suddenly Nicholas was moving, cutting off a boy who was hurrying forward to take the toss in from Marcus. By throwing his body almost out of bounds, he managed to kick the ball to a startled boy on his own team. After a brief hesitation, the fray was on.

  Harry guffawed and said to the girls, “Nicholas is as good at stealing inbounds as anyone I’ve seen.”

  Margaret watched her cousin pick himself up off the hard ground and race to rejoin the game and said, “That must hurt.”

  “He’s tough enough,” answered Harry. Glancing at the two girls beside him, he said, “Any bets?”

  The two girls looked at each other. “Bets?”

  “On who will win,” said Harry as Marcus deftly made a sliding tackle on the ball, knocking it loose for one of his teammates to intercept.

  Abigail shook her head. “I don’t know who’s better.”

  Margaret gave an unladylike snort of contempt. “Neither is ‘better,’ but those two will kill each other trying to find out.”

  Abigail shook her head as Nicholas was slammed from behind by one of Marcus’s teammates, out of view of the referee, so that no penalty was called. The boy threw a forearm at the back of Nicholas’s head that had him seeing white lights for a moment. Marcus shook his head in sympathy as Nicholas pulled himself together and jumped to his feet. The boy who had leveled Nicholas was somewhere down the field. “Got to keep your wits about you,” shouted Marcus. “Not a lot of subtlety in this game.”

  Shaking his head to clear it, Nicholas said, “I’ve noticed.”

  Then both boys were off toward the ball.

  Harry said, “Damn, they look alike out there, don’t they?”

  Abigail said, “They could be brothers, certainly.”

  In the middle of the fray, Marcus and Nicholas both angled for the ball, attempting to kick it out of the mess, each leaning into the other, elbows slamming into ribs.

  Harry surveyed the two girls and said, “About the bet?”

  Margaret looked at Harry and her smile was wry. “The stakes?”

  “Easy,” said Harry, attempting an offhand manner. “There’s a festival in two weeks, I’ve been told. You’ll need an escort.”

  Margaret smiled and glanced at Abigail. “Both of us?”

  Harry guffawed. “Why not? It’ll drive them both crazy.”

  Margaret laughed aloud. “Some friend you are.”

  Harry shrugged. “I know Nicholas, and if I’m not mistaken, he and Marcus are
only beginning a long and possibly colorful rivalry.” Looking directly at Abigail, he said, “I think they’re both smitten, my lady.” Abigail had the courtesy to blush, but her expression looked as if the observation was not news to her.

  “And what are your ambitions, Squire?”

  Margaret’s frank question caught Harry off guard. “Why, none, I think,” he said in confusion.

  Margaret patted him in familiar fashion on the leg and Harry found he was now the one blushing. “Whatever you say, Squire,” said the Duke’s daughter.

  Harry felt his body stir and warm at her hand on his thigh, and suddenly wanted to be anywhere but sitting next to her. He had never had a problem talking to the younger women of the Prince’s staff in Krondor, either the serving women who were disadvantaged by their rank, or the daughters of the court nobles who were disadvantaged by their youth. But there was nothing of the shy, inexperienced girl in Margaret’s manner. There was something positively worldly about this girl, who was almost the same age as Harry and Nicholas.

  Abigail watched the game with obvious divided loyalties, but Margaret showed little interest. She glanced around and saw Anthony standing behind them in the garden and waved for him to join them.

  The young magician came to where they sat and bowed awkwardly. Margaret smiled at him. “Anthony, how are you?”

  “Fine, my lady,” he said softly. “I thought I’d get some air and sun and watch a bit of the game.”

  “Sit there next to Abigail,” ordered Margaret with humor. “She needs support. Two fools are shedding blood in her honor.”

  Abigail blushed furiously, and her tone was cold. “That isn’t funny, Margaret.” They had never been particularly close; Margaret had spent most of her childhood playing with her brother and his rough friends. The few town girls—daughters of the richer merchants—who had been selected as her companions had been as appalled as Margaret’s tutors when the Duke’s daughter had shown indifference to the training reserved for young ladies of rank. Her mother had lived her early life as a warrior and had seen no benefit in much of what they attempted to teach Margaret, save reading and writing, and often spared her daughter punishment when she abandoned her needlework to go riding or hunting.

  Abigail was just the most recent of a long line of companions for the Duke’s rugged daughter, no better matched to Margaret than the others, save she got on her nerves less than most. Abigail usually had a good sense of humor, which was being sorely tested by her friend as, with a cheery air, Margaret said, “I think it is.”

  Harry smiled, glad the attention was off him for the moment. As the Duke’s daughter watched the game, he studied her profile. At first glance, she was not a terribly pretty young woman, but there was something almost regal in the way she held herself, erect and proud: not the posturing of a vain court woman, but rather the same upright bearing her mother showed, that of a woman who had no doubt of her own ability or her place in the world. Suddenly Harry felt deeply inadequate.

  The game moved up and down the field, and Harry observed that at some time in the last five minutes Nicholas had acquired a bloody nose. Scanning the field for Marcus, he noticed that the Duke’s son was not too far from Nicholas, and that his left eye was puffing.

  Harry caught Nakor’s attention across the field, and the little man rolled his eyes heavenward and made a motion with his finger to his head indicating someone was crazy. Harry made a sign asking which one, and Ghuda, who had followed the exchange, motioned that both were. Harry laughed.

  Margaret said, “What?”

  “They play rough here, don’t they?”

  Margaret laughed a very unladylike laugh, slightly more delicate than a honk, and said, “Only when they think they have something to prove, Harry.”

  Harry had never seen Nicholas play so aggressively. The boy had always used his head and his natural quickness in whatever sport he undertook, but he was hurling himself around the field with abandon, his play reaching previously unmatched heights of madness.

  Marcus pushed himself away from Nicholas, and made a running interception of a pass, breaking toward the goal set up at the far end of the field. Nicholas was hot after him, and those looking on cheered loudly at the spectacle.

  Margaret laughed and Abigail sat with her hands clenched in her lap, an expression of open concern on her face. Harry started to cheer, but the sound died in his throat. Nicholas was limping and Harry knew that he couldn’t overtake Marcus. Nicholas strained and forced himself, but there was something wrong in the way he moved.

  Harry jumped from the low wall, and Margaret asked, “What?”

  Ignoring her, he raced toward the far end of the field as Nicholas fell to the ground, ignored by the other players as Marcus deftly scored the winning goal. The referee shouted time and the match was over. As the winners gathered around Marcus, Harry reached Nicholas’s side.

  Kneeling next to his friend, he said, “Nicholas! What is it?”

  The Prince’s face was contorted and drained of color, while tears ran down his face. He gripped his left leg and could barely speak as he gasped, “Help me up.”

  “No, damn it, you’re hurt.”

  Nicholas grabbed Harry’s tunic and said, “Help me to my feet.” His voice was an angry whisper, thick with pain. Harry gripped Nicholas’s arm and helped him to his feet.

  Marcus and the other boys approached, with Nakor and Ghuda crossing from the other side of the field. The Duke’s son said, “Are you all right?”

  Nicholas forced a smile and said, “I twisted my ankle, that’s all.” His voice was nearly unrecognizable to Harry, and the Squire looked at his friend to see his face was chalky. “Harry will help me back to my room. I’ll be all right.”

  Before Marcus could say anything, Nakor fixed him with a narrow stare. “You broke something?”

  Nicholas said, “No, I’m fine.”

  Ghuda said, “I’ve seen finer-looking corpses, son. Better let me help you back to your room.”

  Before the old mercenary could move, Anthony took Nicholas’s other arm, saying, “I’ll help him.”

  The girls had come up beside Marcus, and Margaret regarded her cousin, all sarcasm forgotten. “Are you all right?”

  Nicholas forced a smile. “Yes.”

  Abigail stood silently beside the Duke’s daughter, but her eyes showed her concern as Nicholas was helped away, supported on Harry’s and Anthony’s shoulders.

  He hobbled between them until they rounded the perimeter of the garden, when he promptly fainted.

  —

  NICHOLAS REVIVED AS they reached his room. Anthony and Harry eased him down upon his pallet and Harry said, “What happened to you?”

  Nicholas said, “Someone stomped on my bad foot and I felt something break.” His face was still drawn, and sweat streamed off it.

  Anthony said, “The boot will have to come off.”

  Nicholas nodded and gritted his teeth as they removed the boot. His head swam from the pain but he remained conscious.

  Anthony examined the deformed foot and said, “I don’t think there are bones broken, but something’s dislocated. Look at this.” Nicholas levered himself up on his elbows and saw what Anthony was pointing at: a nasty-looking purple bruise that covered fully half of the top of the foot. Anthony pushed his thumb firmly into the bruise, and Nicholas exclaimed in pain. The magician kept pushing. An audible popping sound was accompanied by a grunt of surprise from Nicholas. Then he moved his foot, wiggling his vestigial toes. Anthony set the foot gently down and Nicholas fell back with a great sigh.

  Anthony said, “I’ll send one of the servants down to the harbor for a bucket of salt water. Soak in it for a half hour, then keep the foot elevated and warm for the rest of the evening. You’re going to be sore, but I think you’ll be able to get around. I’ll ask the Duke to excuse you from work tomorrow, and take things easy for a while. You’re going to have a nasty limp for a few days, my friend.” The young magician stood up and said, “I??
?ll take a look in on you tomorrow, first thing.”

  Harry said, “Are you the Duke’s healer, as well as adviser?”

  Anthony nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  Harry said, “I thought healers were priests.”

  Anthony smiled. “Mostly, but some magicians are skilled at healing. I’ll see you tomorrow, Nicholas.”

  As the magician moved toward the door, Nicholas said, “Anthony.”

  The magician paused and looked down at Nicholas. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  For a moment Anthony paused, then he smiled, looking no older than either Nicholas or Harry. “I understand.”

  After he left, Harry turned to his friend and said, “He understands what?” He pulled over the little stool and sat. From somewhere in his tunic he produced an apple, which he broke in half, giving a piece to Nicholas.

  Lying back as he chewed on the apple, Nicholas said, “He understands that Marcus and I are going to be knocking heads and thumping on each other for a while.”

  “That wasn’t a game out there, Nicky. That was war. You took more blows in one half today than I’ve seen you take in all last season, and that was thirteen matches. And I’ve never seen you throw as many elbows and shoulders either. You two weren’t playing ball, you were trying to kill each other.”

  Nicholas sighed. “How did I get to this point?”

  “You had the bad manners to want the same girl as Marcus, and while you’re playing at Squire, he knows you’re a Royal Prince of the Kingdom and he’s only a Duke’s son.”

  “Only a Duke’s son?”

  Harry shook his head. “You can be thick at times, my friend.” Waving his hand, he said, “If Marcus came sailing into any city but Krondor or Rillanon, the local girls would be falling all over him for attention. Here on the Far Coast, he’s the most eligible bachelor, related to the King and everything. But you, my bashful boy, are the most eligible lad north of the Empire of Kesh, now that your brothers are married, and you’re the brother of our next King.

  “The lovely Lady Abigail could be head over heels about Marcus, but the moment you walk in, she’s got to stop and take a long look.” With a shrug, he added, “It’s the sort of thing people do.”