Chapter 12
No more word arrived from Kydona. The dead of winter still gripped the eastern land’s heart, and travel there would be an ordeal at best—but none of the couriers sent on the Kydonian emissaries’ heels had returned. Over three months had passed.
Whatever had befallen the eastern holdings, there was little to be done. King Audric continued on with the campaign preparations as best he could, though the high lords were not helping his cause. They had predictably fallen short of their promises, supplying barely ten thousand men between them. Even that small number posed a problem: few of them possessed weapons or armor, and Audric, lacking the funds to equip them, had to take out loans from several banking houses to cover the cost.
Worse still, Lord Marshal Gerant’s predictions had come true: influenza had begun to spread through the army’s encampment. Without respite from the bitter cold, the men became susceptible to illness. When Audric conducted his weekly inspection, he returned to Ancellon claiming a blind man could find the camp from ten miles away, just from the coughing. Several scores of men died. Many times that number were bedridden.
At court, the Lady Astrid de Roux petitioned the Hearing Council for divorce from her lecherous husband. Lord Ernoult Devreney caused a scandal by naming his nephew heir to his holdings over the head of his own son. Both those events were tidbits compared to two-week old scene at the Atrium, where the son of a king and the son of a high lord had made their vendetta plain for all to see. There was talk that the young Lord Jaspar would challenge the crown prince to a duel. Others said King Audric and Lord Renold de Martine had forced their sons into a meeting to resolve their differences, but with no result.
The speculation was more or less accurate, for once. Marcus and Jaspar did meet, and Jaspar had made it plain that if the prince did not retract his insults, there would be blood to pay. But Marcus refused on the grounds that Jaspar had slandered him as well. In the end, all their fathers could do was forbid them to spill blood over the disagreement—and promise dire consequences if they disobeyed.
In truth, Marcus paid little attention to any of it. Kydona, the army’s illness, even Jaspar seemed minor issues compared to his latest mistake. After sending Jacquelyn away, he spent much of the ensuing fortnight moping in his chambers. He drank copiously. One night, he got drunk and angry enough that he punched a near-priceless painting on his wall, splitting both the canvas and his knuckles. The nurse tutted as she stitched him up; Gail complained that he could protect the prince from any foe, save himself; Vernon insisted he’d done right, the mountain in the painting looked loads better with a giant crater in the side.
As ever, Vernon was there to keep his best mate out of trouble. He brought plenty of rum, wine, and spare coin to Marcus’s chambers every evening. They diced and drank themselves into oblivion. Once there, they talked.
“You’re a fuc-fucking idiot, I ever tell you that?” Vernon hiccupped as they sat out on the balcony one night.
“Makes you say that?” retorted Marcus, though the wine took much of the bite out of the words.
“Shit on me, it’s cold out here… what did you say?” He swayed in his chair, hugging himself against cold that his body felt but his inebriated mind couldn’t acknowledge. “Oh, right. That girl, Jacquelyn… nice girl, mate… not sure what you’re about, if I’m honest.”
Marcus swigged a wineskin. He handed it over, though he had to check again to make sure Vernon had taken it, since he saw two of everything—and it was all spinning. “I had to do it. Had to. She wrote me this letter… said she loved me… wanted to be with me forever and all that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“No.” Marcus shook his head, then immediately regretted it. Clutching his eyes, he moaned, “I had to do it. It was now or later… had to do it now, understand? She wanted me to say I loved her. I don’t think I do.”
Vernon studied the glass of rum on the railing for a moment. “Fuck it.” He gave the glass a swat, sending it tumbling off into the night. “What’s not to love, eh? She was good-looking, nice body on her if I’m allowed to say so… pretty clever—maybe thought people are better than they really are, but still… nice, too, never met a friendlier girl in my life, mate… bet she swallowed, too…” His eyes sprang into focus. He pointed alertly at Marcus. “Did she?”
“What?” He had lost his friend’s yarn a long time ago.
“Swallow?”
“Did she…? Right. She did.”
“Fuuuck!” Vernon howled into the night. “You let that go? You stupid, stupid piece of God-damned rubbish! Who the hell are you? Do I know you?”
Marcus smiled wryly and took a very ill-advised swig of wine.
Vernon demanded, “Did she make you happy?”
Marcus lurched onto the railing and vomited. “Yes,” he panted, his drunk-wild eyes staring into the darkness below.
“Then you get her back!” Vernon blustered on, completely unaware of his friend’s predicament. “Who says the two of you weren’t right together? You love her; that makes it right. Fuck the court! That’s what you always say, isn’t it? So get back with the girl! If it’s love, you marry her, to hell with anyone who tells you not to! If it’s not love, deal with it some other time. Right now you’re in an awful kind of state…” He did a double take. “Wait a minute. What are you doing?”
“Puking,” Marcus heaved.
He deflated a little. “Right. Sorry. Carry on then.”
“No, you’re right,” Marcus mumbled. He spat, wiped his mouth, and sank back into his chair. “I’ll try tomorrow.” He leaned his head back, staring up at the stars. There were a lot of them out tonight—though that could have been because he was seeing double. Still, even in his drunken state, he knew what he had to do. Vernon was right. There was no point in being this miserable when he had a choice. “Tomorrow.”
“Brilliant! Let’s celebrate! Fancy another rum?”
The two of them proceeded to get drunk beyond all reason. Standing should have been impossibility at best, but years of drinking to excess had pounded their livers into weary submission, and neither of them was in much of a mood to pass out. They sent out for wine, and as an afterthought, some music. A yawning minstrel subsequently appeared in the chambers, and they made him strum out a merry tune on his lyre while they hurled random objects off the balcony. People surely noticed, but no one dared to stop them. Afterward, they sat spent on the now-cushionless couches, exchanging slurred, repetitive conversation while a semi-nude girl danced in the background. They emptied a bottle of wine and another decanter of rum in the process.
Marcus knew he would remember none of this tomorrow, but would regret all of it.
When Vernon started snoring mid-sentence, the two-man party died down rather abruptly. Marcus told the musician to go home but had the courtesan stay, just in case Vernon woke up and needed entertainment. Paying them both, he retired to his bedchamber.
The room gyrated chaotically all around him. Everything was moving—or maybe that was him stumbling, he didn’t know anymore. But even as he collapsed onto the bed, sleep wouldn’t quite come. Thoughts of Jacquelyn kept penetrating the drunken haze. He wanted her so badly—but there was dread, too, and with his wits all but gone, he couldn’t imagine where it stemmed from. Did he want her back or not? The ‘yes’ he had given Vernon before seemed so distant all of a sudden. And now, all alone, he didn’t know anymore. He could barely have even said his own name.
His door came unlatched. He only heard it vaguely over the erratic pounding of his own heart. He rolled his eyes over with agonized slowness. “You came back,” he said, his voice strangely clear.
“You knew I would, sooner or later,” she said.
“You came at a bad time,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “How did you get in?”
“Kelly let me in. He’s always had a soft spot for me.” She eased down onto the bed beside his sprawled form, stroked his hair. “Oh, Marcus. What did you do?
”
The room was all but pitch dark. He couldn’t see her face, or much else of her. But the sympathy in her voice was clear. He didn’t understand what it was doing there. “Drank,” he said. “Too much. Why are you here?”
“I’m here for you,” the girl told him. Her fingers stretched out on his stomach, nails gently raking his skin. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “How drunk are you?”
Not drunk enough to miss a cue. His hand found hers, and squeezed. He felt her smiling as she kissed his ear, then his cheek, and his lips. A deft roll of her shoulders, and her dress slid to the floor. Between gaps in consciousness, he saw her pulling off his clothes, her lips working at each sliver of skin she exposed. She grasped his manhood—stiff, against all the odds—and her tongue caressed it. His heart beat quicker—fast enough to cull the wonderful toxins flowing through his veins. He got her by the waist, whirled her around, pinned her to the bed.
She ran the soles of her feet along his hips as he found his way between her knees. “You never did forget me, did you?”
His only reply: a gentle thrust. He wedged himself deep inside her, coaxing an enamored gasp from her lips. It was the first step of a baser kind of a dance. There were many more steps to go.
“Oh God, I didn’t,” she moaned as he rode her. She squeezed her thighs around him, nails raking up and down his spine.
In the back of his mind, he did realize it wasn’t Jacquelyn sharing his bed. But Kaelyn Beauvais had come to him at a time when he could not possibly have said no. He was lonely, distraught—though he would have admitted neither—and all that rum and wine had amplified both. He was past reason.
Perhaps it wasn’t so strange, then, that even as he fucked Kaelyn, he longed for Jacquelyn. But she was here, she was willing, and she was beautiful enough to make a fool of any man.
When it was over, Marcus was just sober enough to see the satisfaction smoldering in her eyes—and just sober enough to realize what he had just done.
He could only lay there, dumbfounded, as his guilt and shame began to stir. Kaelyn was already dressing. She pulled her dress on in one careless motion. Seeing how Marcus stared, she smiled—gloating right to his face. “Done,” she said, just as she had when she kissed him in front of Jacquelyn. With a wink, she turned to leave.
“Was it worth it?” Marcus asked hoarsely.
At the door, she looked back at him with a quirked eyebrow. “Worth it? It was a job. What I think doesn’t come into the equation.” She shut the door behind her. Just as his consciousness fled, he imagined that he had seen a glint of gold in Kaelyn’s palm.
†††
The next morning, Marcus startled awake. His mind raced. “No,” he whispered. He looked around, desperate for some evidence contrary to what he knew. But Kaelyn was everywhere. The sheets were ruffled. Strands of crimson hair clung to the pillowcase. Perfume scented the air.
A roar of disbelief rose and died in his throat. Groaning, he scrubbed furiously at his hair. He might have tugged out a fistful by the roots in aggravation—but then he realized something. He moved his hand in front of his face and stared in growing disbelief.
His family crest was gone.
A search of the room yielded nothing. Frantic, he burst into the entry chamber still naked. Fortunately, both Vernon and the dancing courtesan had already left, but he likely wouldn’t have paid them any mind if they hadn’t. He turned the room upside down, breaking a couple of empty glasses in the process. His ring was nowhere to be found.
Dejected, he collapsed onto his couch—then swore and rubbed his bare backside. The cushions had inexplicably vanished. It looked like him and Vernon had been throwing things off the balcony again.
“Brilliant,” he growled. He ran through his memories of last night; there were precious few of them. There was only one clear recollection—and that was the event he wished to remember least of all. But it also told him where his priceless family crest had gone.
And where it was going. Horror overtook him as that realization dawned. She wouldn’t, he thought desperately. Only she would. Kaelyn was no fool. She wouldn’t have stolen his ring and expected to get away with it. No, she was going to return it to him.
Marcus had a terrible feeling he knew how.
He threw on his clothes, trying to ignore the agony that lanced through his brain with each hard pulse. Knotting his sword belt, he made a final scan of the chambers, of course to no avail. Swearing oaths fit to insult a sailor, he flew out into the hallway.
Gail and Kelly sat on opposite ends of the hallway, both of them sullenly quiet. Seeing Marcus, Kelly looked away with a half-hidden smirk. Gail regarded him colorlessly.
“Too much of a good time last night?” He tried to make the inquiry sound polite, but the effect was akin to stuffing a pillow with gravel; the thought was benign but the effect hurt far more than it helped.
Marcus ignored him. He glared at Kelly instead. “Did you stand watch last night?”
“Aye, your highness.” The younger veteran traced the scar on his scalp with his middle finger, a nervous habit.
He gnawed his tongue until the urge to scream was gone. “You know not to let that girl into my chambers.”
Kelly made a valiant attempt at looking offended. “With respect to you, your highness, I never heard that command. I saw no problem letting her in.”
“You’re letting a lot of problems get past you these days, Kelly,” Marcus said. He wanted to hit him, but that wouldn’t have changed a thing. This was his own damned fault. He rubbed his eyes. “We’re going to Roslene’s salon.” He started off, one hand involuntarily gripping his sheathed sword.
Behind him, Kelly muttered, “Figures, is what that does.”
Marcus stopped, but Gail had already pulled the man face-to-face with him by the collar. “You keep your fucking opinions to yourself ‘til someone asks for ‘em, got that, chevalier?”
“Got it,” Kelly uttered with a deep scowl. Gail let him go.
They got to the stables without further incident, save the two men-at-arms glaring intensely at each other. Marcus was somewhat surprised they didn’t spontaneously combust. The grooms shortly had the horses saddled. Mounting up, the three men set off into the city with the clatter of hooves on stone.
Contrary to the charged mood, it was a fine day outside. The winter had been harsh but short, and spring was well on its way. The morning sun shone bright and strong, dulling the air’s briskness, playing across the rooftops, reflecting off the white walls so that Marcus was forced to squint. The snow had all but melted. Children caroused in the fresh mud puddles, shrieking with laughter. Vendors noticed Marcus’s wealth and redoubled their morning cries as he passed, only to fall silent as they realized who he was.
Every courtesan of note owned a salon—a euphemism for a brothel, though they masked that truth behind layers of refinery and taste. Roslene’s pleasure house was the most dazzling of them all. It was a miniature palace, a glimmering façade of tiered balconies, topped by a hexagonal dome decked in golden leaf. It sat on an edge of the bustling Royal Way, but a high wall and stacked gardens behind created the illusion of spaciousness.
A pair of ornamented guards stopped him at the gate. “Are you expected, esteemed sir?” one asked. Between his oiled voice and his smooth features, Marcus could well believe the rumors—that salon guards were the prostitutes’ bastards who had had the misfortune of being born the wrong sex, and so couldn’t practice their mothers’ vocation.
“I’m here on other business,” Marcus said without dismounting.
“That business being?”
“Kaelyn.”
“And you would be?”
The other guard hissed. “Forgive him, your highness, he did not recognize you. Please,” he twisted a large key in the lock and held the gate open, “wait in the courtyard, you and your men. You will be attended shortly.”
With a curt nod, Marcus guided his stallion inside. He found himself on a wide pathway tha
t cut through a garden—lush and green despite the season. There was a team of servants hard at work in one corner, replacing the cold-withered plants with fresh-grown ones. Ahead was an elaborate mahogany doorway, its surface carved into a strikingly-erotic mural. The door parted, and a young girl walked out. Her beauty marked her out as a courtesan-to-be—a bred creature, much like the guards outside, only with better luck. Or worse, depending on how you looked at it.
“How may I please you, my lord prince?” she asked, her youthful voice tainted by a sultry overtone.
Marcus pitied her—but not as much as he pitied himself, at this moment. “Kaelyn Beauvais,” he told her simply, climbing out of the saddle. Polished red tile greeted his boots.
“Of course, my lord prince.” She flitted off.
Another servant—a boy, this time—came along to take the horses. Marcus took one look at the lad’s powdered cheeks and knew precisely what his nightly occupation was. Sickened, he sent him away.
He waited uncomfortably for a little while before recognizing that Kaelyn was taking her time. More than likely, she would make loiter for another half hour before relaying that she was ill and couldn’t see him. He had no intention of allowing her the pleasure. “Hold him,” he told Kelly, passing over Breggo’s reins. Then he strode up to the front door and threw it open.
He remembered this place. There was a fountain in the center of the great foyer, encircled by purple velvet couches. Exotic plants and trees lined the chamber’s edges. Mosaics covered every inch of wall, depicting beautiful women in various states of undress and coupling. There was a grand staircase at the far side, its railings topped with golden statues of demure angels and cavorting succubi. On Marcus’s fifteenth birthday, courtesans had lined that railing, all done up in jewels and makeup and perfume—all smiling enticingly as Roslene offered him his pick.
Now, as they had then, his eyes roved up to the lower gallery—where Kaelyn stood watching him. I always knew it would come to a head between the two of you, one day, his father had ruefully told him. Truer words had never been spoken.
“Fond memories, my lord prince?” She wore a white gown and the sweetest of smiles, her deep red hair gleaming by the light of a vast gold-and-crystal chandelier plundered from Tsar Sidor’s palace.
“I suppose I’ve always tended toward whores,” he replied. His heart pounded—but whether from the hangover, the recollections, or Kaelyn, he couldn’t say.
Her laughter tinkled down the staircase before her. She descended it without taking her eyes off him. They gleamed with triumph—and with hateful longing. Still, she masked her conflict well. “Paige, wasn’t it?”
Marcus gnawed his cheek, despising this foreplay but knowing he had to tolerate it. “How is she, these days?”
“Oh, fine I’m sure. She’s in Montagge now. She tripped and broke her ankle—right on this spot, actually. There aren’t many sights as sad as a pretty girl with a limp.”
“That’s a pity, alright,” agreed Marcus, though he didn’t care much at all. It’d been a little embarrassing really, his first time. He hadn’t had a clue what he was about, and while the girl Paige straddled him and did what she’d been paid for, he had thought only of Kaelyn—watching him, stricken, from the top of the stairs as he picked out his first lover.
She reached the bottom of the stairs. There, she paused, nibbling her thumbnail. “So. What’s your business?”
“You know full God-damned well what my business is, Kaelyn,” he snapped.
“The ring, then. Yes.” She nibbled for a moment longer, looking thoughtful, though in truth she was just making him wait. At last, “You frown far too much, did I ever tell you that? It takes away from your looks.”
“The. Ring.”
“Oh fine, you’re no fun. I gave it to Jaspar.”
His jaw nearly dropped out of his head. “Jaspar?” he sputtered.
“Yes,” she said, sounding annoyed.
“He paid you to…?”
“Take the ring? Yes. Fuck you? That, too.” She cocked her head, smirking. “But that’s the last time you’ll have me for free, I promise you that much.”
“What the fuck do I care about that? Why Jaspar? What does he want with my ring?”
Kaelyn sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. But I’d wager he’s about to hand it over to your precious lover.” She traced her lower lip, musing. “That’s clever of him. I wish I’d done it. The look on her face…” Hers became a satisfied smile.
“You’re unbelievable,” he growled, twirling on his heel and making for the door. He kicked a plush couch out of his path as he went. He felt his toenail crunch. The pain seared, but he managed not to stagger, somehow.
“Hurry,” Kaelyn called after him with mirth in her voice. “If you and I know a thing about Jaspar de Martine, it’s that he isn’t satisfied easily!”
†††
Jacquelyn wasn’t at her townhouse. Her father was off on business somewhere and her mother had gone along, which left only a witless man-at-arms guarding the gate—and Molly.
“What business of yours is it, where she went?” the handmaiden asked, glowering at him through the gate’s bars. “She’s through with you.”
“Tell me where she went, Molly. I never asked a thing of you but I’m asking now, and I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important. Where is she?”
The girl’s eyes flickered at the urgency of his tone. “Old Granite,” she mumbled. “A lad came over. He asked her along with him.” Her face hardened as she saw Marcus’s incensed look. “What, then? She’s been crying for a week and more, and now you care? Now that some other man wants her?”
“He doesn’t—!” He scratched his hair. “Is her man-at-arms with her?”
“No, he had plenty of his own—”
But Marcus was already on Breggo’s back. He kicked the stallion’s flanks and pelted off, with his two men doing their best to keep up.
The morning was quickly turning to noon, and the crowded city streets slowed Marcus’s pace. He came close to riding down more than one pedestrian. Shocked people hurled themselves out of his path, dropping baskets and vases, sullying their clothes in the gutters, splitting shins on the curbs. Curses trailed after him, but he rode on deafly.
They flew through the West Gate, then out into the countryside. Spring was well and truly on its way. The sun—rising higher every day—had dried the roads enough that Breggo could run at a full gallop. The fields were a bouncing blur from the saddle, but Marcus could see the snow had nearly melted. Soon the farmers would be coming out for the first tilling. It was somewhat warm out, but Breggo’s unrestrained speed sent a brisk wind washing over his face. Grimacing, he kept on, heedless to his men shouting behind him. Their horses were good and strong, but they couldn’t hope to match the prince’s stallion. The yards between them were widening.
The minutes it took to reach the ancient granite oak tree might have been eons—but finally, Old Granite’s canopy came into view over the gentle hills. Marcus furiously kicked Breggo up the nearest hillside, then reined him to a stop at the crest.
A group of figures stood clustered next to the enormous tree trunk. The leaves blocked the sun and threw them into shadow, but Marcus could just make out Jacquelyn’s slight form at the center, and Jaspar’s thick one facing her. As he watched, they both turned to face him. Even from this far away, he thought he could make out his worst enemy’s cocky grin.
He slid his sword an inch out of its sheath and rammed it back down, his lip tucked into a snarl. Kelly and Gail pulled up beside him, their horses quivering and struggling for breath even as Breggo stamped his hooves, yearning for more.
“If you’re looking for a fight, your highness, those there are some long odds.” Gail said pragmatically, counting the men below—five in all.
“Then stay here.” Marcus gave Breggo a nudge, and together, the plunged down the hill.
Jaspar’s front teeth gleamed through his rodent-like pout. He spread his arms mockin
gly. “Welcome, your highness,” he greeted. “You’re late.” His five minions—the sons of old nobility, scoundrels and cowards to a man—laughed along. And Jacquelyn stared coolly, as if daring him to address her, arms folded beneath her breasts. She had made a tight fist of her right hand.
“And what, precisely, am I late for?” Marcus’s tone was thick with menace. He slid off the saddle and dropped to the grassy ground. He already had one hand on his sword. He heard Kelly step up to his right side, Gail just beyond him, heard their swords grinding as they loosened them in their sheaths.
Jaspar scowled at him. “I’ll let the girl tell you.”
Right then, she did just that. Without warning, she dropped her arms and hurled something at him. His family ring blinked brightly in the dappled sunlight before bouncing off his chest and landing harmlessly in the grass. He looked back up just in time to see the girl crossing the space between them. Reaching him, her hand came up and dashed him across the face. Jaspar and his friends groaned with delight.
Marcus made no attempt to stop Jacquelyn. Blow by blow, she spent her anger—her palm stinging his right cheek, her knuckles bruising his left. Angry tears glazed her eyes.
Finally, the strikes tapered off. Jacquelyn clutched her reddened hand, glaring at him from the depths of her hatred. “I was wrong about you.” Each whispered syllable was a vial of deadly poison.
“I know,” he said somberly.
Her blazing eyes dimmed. She began to look like herself—only torn and betrayed, hurt beyond anything he had seen before.
But Jaspar had no intention of watching a tender moment. “That’s enough,” he said. “Lads, get to it.”
Metal rang out, and long blades appeared in the gang’s hands. Marcus grabbed Jacquelyn’s arm and hauled her behind him, tearing her dress, sending her sprawling to the ground at his heels. He went for his sword—but something crashed into his skull, something round and hard. His limbs failed him, and just before his vision blackened, he saw grass coming up to meet him.
Then he was awake again. He was dizzy, felt close to vomiting. Somehow he was on his feet. As he tried to move his arms, he understood why. Someone was holding them in a vice-grip behind him. Over to his right, he heard ragged, agonized breathing. It was Gail. The veteran was sprawled on the ground, an ugly gash splitting the leather across his ribs. Blood oozed out.
Standing over him was Kelly, his sword streaked with red. “You should have known, old man.” He gave his erstwhile comrade a kick in the side, provoking a pained cough. “How’s it feel, being put low for once?”
“Kelly?” Marcus couldn’t believe it, despite the evidence in front of his eyes. “No…”
The ginger-haired veteran glanced over disdainfully and turned away.
“Why?”
Jaspar answered for him. “He got tired of playing loyal to a self-righteous little prig like you, de Pilars. What, you didn’t see this coming?”
Marcus would have groaned in horror, had his voice not failed him.
Jaspar stood in front of him, thumbs tucked into his belt loops, his blade lodged in the earth by his feet. Behind him, a minion had Jacquelyn on her knees, holding her tight by the hair. It was de Mexvel, the weasel-faced lad Marcus had promised a scar. He was looking between Marcus and Jacquelyn with a foul grin.
This couldn’t be happening. This had to be a nightmare.
But Jaspar made the moment terribly real. He reared back his right fist and sent it crashing into Marcus’s jaw. His teeth rattled, his head snapped to the side and returned to its original place—only for Jaspar to grab a fistful of his bangs and lay another punch into his nose. Bone crunched. Warm blood trickled out of his nostrils and ran down his chin.
He licked his lips, tasting iron. “Is that all you have, de Martine?” The scorn in his voice was remarkably strong, considering how little he felt it.
The only reply was another punch. This time it split his eyebrow. If not for the two lads holding him, he would have toppled, but they pulled him upright, jeering with all the rest.
“You think you can do whatever the fuck you want?” Jaspar bellowed into his face. “You think you can insult my family? Insult me? Well here’s some news for you, cousin of mine: I’ve got a lot to repay you for.”
Another blow sank into Marcus’s gut, drawing out a muffled groan. He panted for a spell, then looked up and spat a gobbet of blood into Jaspar’s face. “Fuck you.”
Jaspar made him pay for that, too. He laid in a new round of pummeling blows—into his face, his eyes, his stomach and ribs. Pain shot through him. Blood ran freely. Between each strike, Jaspar put his hatred into words. “You’re shit, understand that? You walk the streets like you’re Ancel himself. You cut men off the gallows like you’re God in judgment. You belittle the authority of better men. And the commoners still adore you, dumb shits that they are.” His blue eyes were frenzied as he railed on, accentuating each new word with a hard punch, “You—are—nothing!”
With that, he let off for a moment, giving Marcus a precious few seconds to catch his breath. He retched, his stomach rebelling against the punishment it had taken. Blood dripped from the tip of his nose, staining his shirt.
He saw Jacquelyn sobbing. She shook her head, mouthing over and over again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Marcus raised his head to stare evenly at Jaspar—evenly as he could between his swelling eyelids, anyway. He spat again through his split lips, feeling his cracked jawbone shifting. “I never claimed,” he uttered, panting, “to be a better man. There’s only one difference between you and me: I tried. So do whatever you want to me, Jaspar. You aren’t getting any closer to being a good man, yourself.”
Jaspar’s expression was one of unadulterated loathing. His torso heaved as his lungs fought for breath, spent by minutes of letting out years of acrimony. But at last, his expression fell away—then became something else entirely. Something Marcus feared even more.
He had seen this look from Jaspar before. It was the same one he had turned on Estelle that night when he had destroyed her for spectacle.
And he turned that look on Jacquelyn.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m no better.” The girl’s eyes went round as he did away with the yards between them. Shoving de Mexvel off, Jaspar took her by the collar and hurled her onto her back. Her astonished cry quickly turned to a fit of coughing as she smashed into the ground, knocking the breath from her lungs.
“No!” Marcus roared. He struggled, but to no avail. Laughing, the pair of minions tightened their grips on his arms. “Leave her alone, de Martine! I’ll kill you, I swear!”
“You’re in no position to swear a thing,” Jaspar drawled. The coldness in his eyes was a dreadful thing. He had a foot on Jacquelyn’s sternum. He was undoing his belt.
She saw. “No,” she said, terror dawning as she began to comprehend what was about to happen to her. “Please don’t! Oh God…” Her legs kicked under her skirt, but her strength was no match for even half of Jaspar’s. Realizing that, she started to cry.
Marcus could only watch.
“I’m going to do it, de Pilars,” Jaspar catcalled. He knelt, clamped a hand over the girl’s throat, inhaled deep the scent of her hair. “This, it’s all mine. I’m going to take her right in front of you. I’m going to bend her over and fuck her like a dog. And you’re going to watch. De Mexvel, go over there and hold his eyes open.” His friend looked squeamish, but another glare from Jaspar got him moving.
Marcus’s mouth was hanging open, but his voice was gone. This was a dream, a terrible dream… Any moment, he would wake up, safe in his own bed with Jacquelyn beside him, telling him everything was alright, asking about breakfast…
But her wails, the sound of tearing fabric as Jaspar ripped open her skirt—that brought it home. Marcus watched Jaspar turn her around, shove her onto her hands and knees, kicking her legs apart—staring at him all the while. The girl was sobbing, pleading to him and God and anyone who would liste
n. She scrabbled, trying to escape, but he just tugged her back into place. Tears coursed down her face—and she turned her hazel eyes on him. They begged for help, even though she knew he had none to give.
And that was the worst of it. He was just as helpless as she was. That knowledge tore at him like nothing else could have.
“Jaspar.” The last of his pride evaporated. He couldn’t watch this. Nothing was worth punishment like this. “Don’t do it. For the love of God.”
Jaspar’s eyes glowed with frenzy—and triumph. He knelt there behind Jacquelyn, her skirt hanging in tatters, her head bowed in defeat, her breath coming in piteous sobs. Together, Jaspar and Marcus had opened her eyes to the cruel truth of the world. They had defiled the innocence that Marcus had always loved about her, even if he could never acknowledge it—not even to himself.
“Go on,” prodded Jaspar, his lips pulled back into a feral snarl—like the animal he was. “Beg me not to.”
He had never begged for a thing in his life. “Please leave her alone. I’m begging you. She doesn’t deserve this. Look at her, Jaspar.”
He did, his eyes swirling with madness.
“Look at her!”
“I am,” he panted. “You know what I see? Meat.”
Marcus sank, crestfallen. The only sounds were Jaspar’s wild breathing, and the cries of the girl he was about to rape. The evil wretch drew up behind her, made himself ready to do his foul work.
A strangled roar from Kelly pierced the silence. The soldier was suddenly writhing on the ground, face contorted in agony. He clutched his heel with scarlet-stained hands, trying fruitlessly to stem the pain and blood flowing from his split Achilles tendon. Gail hauled himself on top of the traitor, knife in hand, grimacing with red teeth. With a growl, he plunged the knife down. It pierced Kelly’s ribs with a revolting crack. Gail gave the knife a wrench, twisting it, sending blood spurting—and with a wet gurgle, Kelly died.
With a furious cry, one of Jaspar’s mates charged, sword raised—but Gail rolled onto his back, the dead traitor’s crossbow tucked into his armpit. The lad’s face had just an instant to register shock before a bolt split it in half. Now a corpse, he tumbled to the ground all at once, like a puppet with its strings cut. The old veteran lurched to his feet, sword in hand, clutching his rent ribs.
In their amazement, the brutes let their grips on Marcus’s arms go slack—just for an instant. But that was more than enough time for the prince to seize his chance. He tore his right arm free and with a mad strength borne of fury, threw a wicked elbow back into someone’s mouth. The lad staggered, spitting out his front teeth. Marcus whirled left and brought his arm around in a right hook, his knuckles connecting with the other lad’s eye. Yowling, he staggered back, clutching at the ruined socket. Then he looked down—just in time to notice his sword was missing. His wide eyes found Marcus—
—too late. A panicked scream escaped his throat—and then, with a spray of blood and the crunch of vertebrae, Marcus’s blade met the trunk of his neck.
Marcus had never killed a man before. Had he been in a right state of mind, he might have been surprised at how easy it was—taking a life. But he was not right, not in the slightest.
The sword jarred satisfyingly in his grip as it sliced through skin, muscle, tendons and bone, chopping halfway through the young man’s neck before lodging in his spine. Marcus planted a foot on his chest and wrenched the blade free with a shower of gore. The body fell in a heap, half-beheaded, rasping hideously as it instinctively tried to draw breath through its severed windpipe.
The other one gagged—an instinct that cost him dearly. Before he could correct his stance, Marcus took a step forward and drove his sword straight through his belly.
He gave the blade a hard twist, felt hot blood pump all over his hand, then yanked the sword out all at once. Moaning, the young man sank to his knees, clutching the ragged hole in his stomach.
That left two. De Mexvel stared between him, Gail, and the four bloody forms on the hillside. A dark stain spread down his crotch, knees quivering. Then he ran for it.
Jaspar glanced over his slain friends with no small measure of bewilderment. Not a minute ago, he’d had the upper hand. Now all he had was Jacquelyn, who he had pressed against him like a shield, his blade at her neck.
“Stay the fuck back!” he shouted, his gaze alternating between Gail and Marcus as they approached.
But Gail was visibly swaying. Marcus glanced over at him. “This one is mine, Gail,” he said, his voice icy calm.
The man-at-arms looked over at him. He stopped in his tracks. Then he sank to the ground, hunched over, and shut his eyes, relieved of his duty at last. Dead—perhaps. There was little to be done for him now.
With the odds evened, some of Jaspar’s courage returned. He tightened the blade against Jacquelyn’s artery. “What now, de Pilars?” His voice was a mite too strained for his bravado to seem convincing. “You’ve murdered noble sons today. The court won’t just be whispering about you now, they’ll be calling for your life.”
Marcus took a step forward. “They can have it. Long as I take one more with me.”
Jaspar’s clenched his jaw. “I’ll kill the girl. Just one slice and I’ll open her throat up.”
Jacquelyn only stared, dull-faced. Her mind had long-since fled to some far-off sanctuary.
“You kill her,” Marcus intoned, “and your mates’ ends will seem a kindness compared to what I do to you. Let her go. We’ll settle this here, you and me. Just the way you’ve always wanted.”
For one precious moment, Jaspar looked ready to listen. But then that grim determination came back to his features. His fingers flexed on the sword grip.
Marcus lunged forward, lightning-quick, the tip of his blade aimed right at his hated enemy’s face. Jaspar could have done it, just as he had promised. With one movement, he could have slit Jacquelyn’s throat. Perhaps some last measure of decency provoked him, or perhaps fear of Marcus’s retribution if he survived the fight, or some other reason entirely. No matter what the motive, he threw the girl aside, sending her sprawling on the grass.
With a wide swipe, he deflected Marcus’s thrust, but left himself open to another. Marcus threw a reverse slash, narrowly missing Jaspar’s thighs, then jabbed, keeping his enemy on the defensive. His face was contorted with unspeakable rage—but his form was flawless, his balance perfect, his advance irresistible. Jaspar may have been a fine swordsman, but he had few advantages here. He had lost the initiative. He was dancing to his opponent’s beat, and the moment he mis-stepped, he would die. By the sweat beading on his brow, he knew it.
Marcus read his every intention. He left a false opening, let him launch a counterattack, steadily fell back step-by-step. He parried a low cut, knocked aside a stab, then caught a downward cut on his handguard. Growling, he twirled his blade, throwing Jaspar’s wide. Then he was on the attack once again. This time he was relentless. Step by step, blow by blow, he whittled away Jaspar’s defense. He stepped over a mewling form, staring into his enemy’s desperate eyes.
After another minute of staccato clanging, Jaspar was tiring. His movements were losing their deftness, and his attacks grew more and more sporadic. He wanted to shout for mercy, Marcus could see it, but his pride wouldn’t let him.
Good.
He let his next outside cut go wide, but Jaspar didn’t take the feint. Rather, the lad made a cut of his own—straight for his neck. Marcus had planned for that, too. He ducked beneath the swing. Before he even came up, he lashed out—a low blow that caught Jaspar under the kneecap.
Howling, his enemy collapsed onto the wounded leg. They both knew the end of a fight when they saw one. “I yield!” Jaspar shouted, his free hand held up beseechingly.
A hero of legend would have had something suitably epic to say at that moment. As it was, though, Marcus did not hear the entreaty in his frenzy. He was already chopping downward with all his might, a wordless roar on his lips. Jaspar tried to get his swor
d up, but he wasn’t in time.
His scream echoed across the hills.
He clutched his mangled right hand, sword forgotten by his side. His fingers were gone—all but the index, which only hung by a thread of skin. Blood spurted out of the stumps, tracing ugly crimson lines across his fine tunic. He moaned, rocking back and forth as if that would ease the pain.
Marcus stared down at him grimly for a moment, his chest rising and falling with fatigue that he was only now feeling. Teeth bared, he hefted his sword for the killing blow.
But before he could finish what he had started, Jacquelyn was beside him. Her hand found his, clenched white-knuckled around the dented sword grip. “Stop!” Her voice quavered. “Please stop.”
He looked into her moist hazel eyes. They darted, unable to hold his gaze. He must have looked quite a sight—all doused in blood, eyes swollen, nose broken. Maybe it wasn’t that, though. Maybe it was the look in his eyes that Jacquelyn couldn’t bear.
The eyes of a killer.
He let her guide his arm down.
“It’s alright,” the girl whispered, even though it wasn’t. She was crying again.
The rage left him as he looked over her—stained with grass and dirt, skirt torn, her beautiful face salted with tears. She collapsed against him, weeping as if the world had just ended all around her, heedless to Jaspar’s sobs of pain, of Gail’s shallow breathing, of the new corpses marring the once-fair hillside.
There they stood: a young woman, her innocence stolen; and a young man, his own freely given.
†††
“I demand justice, King Audric, I demand it!” Roberte de Martine had always taken care with his composure, but now the façade had fled. His grey eyes were popping halfway out of his head, teeth bared, foot tapping and fists balled.
Given the circumstances, everyone was remarkably calm—which is to say, they were either verging on hysteria or were already there. There was only handful of people gathered at the foot of the king’s throne, but the enormous Sanctum might’ve been a closet, for all the unbearable tension crowding the air. Audric sat on the throne, rubbing his beard with one trembling hand, the other clamped tight onto the armrest. As ever, Roslene stood at his side, and even she looked anxious. Marcus couldn’t blame either of them for their worry. He might’ve blanched too, with four aggrieved fathers calling on them to deliver blood.
His blood. Strangely, that fact didn’t bother him at the moment.
But it certainly bothered everyone else. At the other end of the chamber, the thick doors rumbled and shook with the tumult on the other side. The whole court was in an uproar. A swarm of highborn men and ladies had descended on the palace, all bellowing the same news at the tops of their lungs.
“Murder!” One could almost hear the refrain amid the cacophony of voices outside.
But it was nothing compared to the noise inside the Sanctum.
“My son has been murdered!” cried Lord de Fremault, his watery eyes fixed on the statue-still king. He aimed one crooked finger at Marcus. “Why is this—this beast not in chains?”
“Murdered! My son is dead!” added Lord de Gonse, his voice thick with dramatized grief.
“And mine! Shot through the eye, like game in the woods!”
Roberte shouted, “Their sons are dead, and mine is maimed, King Audric, maimed! Look!” He held up a blood-spattered sleeve. “His lifeblood, shot from his wrist while the chirurgeon took what was left of his hand! I held him down while he screamed! How can you not act?”
The other three lords added their voices to his. The effect was akin to a gaggle of hens squawking over vanished eggs.
Audric seemed to gaze straight through them while they railed. Then Roslene’s fingers closed over his shoulder, and he jerked, as if he’d been awoken from a dream. He fixed a morose look on Marcus, who stood motionless at the base of his throne, before turning it on the assembled lords. “What crime am I to act on?” The question came out as a near-whisper. “My son did not strike without cause.”
The four gave protest, but Roberte’s came out strongest. “There is no cause worth the price we’ve paid! Your son has done murder today, against his own peers, and upon sacred ground! He must be made to pay!”
The king shot to his feet. “He defended himself! He protected a woman’s honor! I would have done the same in his position, and if you’ve any honor yourself, so would you!”
“He did no such thing!” roared Clyde de Mexvel. “My son has given his testimony, you heard it yourself. It was meant to be a duel, nothing more. But your son went mad. Mad! He refused to yield when Roberte’s son asked it, a criminal act in itself! And when the rest tried to intervene, your son and his guards began killing. This is nothing less than cold murder! It’s a miracle my son escaped at all!”
“Look at his face!” Audric cried. It was true, Marcus’s looks had left him completely. He could barely see through his puffed eyelids. His broken nose whistled with each breath. Not that he cared much, despite the dull pain born of bruised skin and shifting bones. “Am I to believe,” his father was saying, “that my son sustained injuries such as this with a sword in his hand?”
“Are you calling my son a liar?”
“If I could, believe me, I would, Lord de Mexvel. But I cannot, because I could barely understand his testimony with the way he sobbed.”
Lord de Mexvel gaped at the insult, but Jaspar’s father had quicker wit. “Pathetic a sight as it was,” he sneered, “de Mexvel’s son’s testimony is the only viable one we have. This young woman you refer to, this Duchesne girl, hasn’t even presented herself to us. What’s more, she is known at court as a harlot and a liar, and we cannot in good faith—”
“That is a lie!” Save his loud breathing, it was the first sign of life Marcus had given in half an hour. He could only imagine what his scowl looked like, but the lords’ appalled expressions were a good indication.
“Then why,” inquired Lord de Martine, his grey eyes narrowed to slits, “is she not here?”
“Because your son, the one whose hand I took, was about to rape her.”
Jaspar’s father waved his hand in what would have been a dismissive gesture, if not for the red flush in his cheeks. “Hearsay,” he scoffed. “How convenient, that she does not see fit to come to your defense after you so gallantly came to hers.”
Marcus could have told the truth: that when he had ridden through the city gates with Jaspar’s sorry ass wedged onto a horse in tow, he had ordered a set of guards to take Jacquelyn home, and keep her there. Gail, he had left in a chirurgeon’s care, unconscious and pallid with blood loss. But the bastard was tough; he had survived worse. It was Jacquelyn that concerned Marcus most. She had been through enough already, without having to defend a man who didn’t deserve her aid.
Instead, he shut his mouth and returned his gaze to the floor.
“Nothing to say, I notice,” Roberte taunted.
“That is quite enough, Lord de Martine,” barked the king.
“It is not!” shouted Roberte, a sentiment his fellow lords echoed. “I—we demand justice! Even if your son tells the truth, even if he acted in self-defense, the measures he took were far in excess of reason. Three of our own lie dead. My son has lost his hand. We… demand… justice!”
“Justice,” Audric said, “has already been done.”
Roberte’s face drained of color. He exchanged an outraged look with his fellows. “What is this you say?”
“I say I will do nothing!” asserted the king.
“You will!” screamed Jaspar’s father. “You will censure your son, as we have petitioned you since you returned from your failed campaign! You will publicly withdraw his right to your crown! You will confiscate his lands and his wealth, you will turn it over to us as compensation for his misdeeds, and all of this will be a mere shadow of what you owe us, King Audric!”
“I will not!” Audric bellowed right back, purple-faced. “I am the king! What I say is law! You have no hold
over me, and how dare you insist otherwise!”
It was fortunate for Roberte that he was unarmed, because otherwise, he likely would have drawn at that instant. Of course, the dreadnaughts would have descended on him at once and added his body to the count—but matters seldom lend themselves to convenience.
Rather, Lord de Martine contorted his face into a look that ought to have killed on its own. He hissed, “I do not insist, I know otherwise. As do you.”
King Audric turned white.
The air was intensely still. Marcus looked between the two men, perplexed. There had been something in Roberte’s words, something beyond mere denial. He had uttered a threat, though what that was, Marcus couldn’t begin to guess at. The other lords couldn’t either, judging from their confused stares.
“I have a proposal.” Every eye in the room snapped onto Roslene. She left her lover’s side and stood between him and Roberte, her face grim.
The high lord curled his lip. “You have no stake here, good lady. Perhaps it is best you do not speak at all.”
Roslene’s eyes flashed. “On the contrary, it is best that I do speak, and for precisely the reason you have just named: I have the smallest stake in this affair. Therefore, my opinion is the closest to objective. If anyone is to pass judgment here, it should be me.” She alternated her challenging gaze between Roberte and Audric, brows arched. “Is that not so?”
Roberte flexed his jaw and looked away.
“Speak then, Roslene,” said Audric.
She nodded. “Send Marcus east with the army.”
“March him to war?” demanded Roberte. “Reward him with glory? I think not!”
“Men of the line win little glory,” said Roslene, which sent the man into a thoughtful silence. She explained, “He will not ride to war as a commander, or even a junior officer. Instead, he will march through the dust and mud as a common soldier.”
“To what end?” a lord squeaked.
The woman answered smoothly. “To all ends desired here, Lord de Gonse. You all demand that the prince be censured—that the king deny him his birthright. But consider the broader consequences: Marcus is Audric’s only son. Censure him, and we bring the accession into contest. The court is volatile enough as our affairs stand. Too many families have too much to gain to simply stand by and let some distant relative take Marcus’s place. They will do whatever they see necessary to advance their positions. Family alliances generations old will break. Money will be spent, blood will certainly be spilled, that much I can guarantee. Eventually some victor will emerge, and the entire balance of power will shift.”
Roslene turned her pointed gaze on each lord in turn. “You have striven for years to bring your families to greatness. You hold in your hands more wealth and more land than ever before. One false move, and all you have achieved will crumble away. Censure Marcus, and you risk everything. You know it to be true.”
Silence reigned as the noble fathers considered Roslene’s words. Then one spat, “And I will ruin myself gladly, if it sees this scum laid low!” The room erupted in a chorus of agreement, each man vying to make his loathing Marcus plainest.
“Censure him!”
“A dog is more fit to rule!”
“Then reform him!” the woman shouted. The lords quieted, glowering sulkily. “You want him humbled, do you not? Each time you have demanded his censure, you cite his willfulness, his arrogance. But the prince is still young. His character may mature yet. I say there is a fine way to do this, and that is Ancel’s Way. Send him to war. As an ordinary soldier, he will learn to follow rather than lead. He will learn the humility and patience he so sorely lacks. He will spend years away on campaign. In that time, you will be free of him. Then, once he returns, I assure you that you will find him a fit match for his father’s throne.”
She looked aside to consider Marcus. He stared back levelly, but in his mind, he cried, Do it. Send me away. Anywhere, anywhere but here.
Roslene returned to her audience. “You accuse him of murder. Perhaps he is guilty. But perhaps not. We lack proper testimony in the matter, and it is clear that no amount of information will cool the heads in this room. We have been reduced to heckling. So let God decide the matter. If the prince is guilty, he will fall in battle redeemed. If innocent, he will return to us worthy of his birthright. It is as fine a compromise as has ever been suggested. Consider it, my lords.”
They mulled it over as Roslene stepped back to Audric’s side. Marcus could already see the wordless thanks in the way he gripped her hand. But his father wouldn’t look at him.
Meanwhile, the lords glanced at each other—or the three minor ones did, at least, their expressions uncertain. They were waiting on their leader’s cue—just as their sons had with Jaspar. Even in their anger, they were was spineless as ever.
After several long minutes, Roberte spoke up—and in a bare whisper at that. “The first battle line.”
Audric seemed about to reject the demand, but Roslene squeezed his hand. They exchanged a mute conversation. Once their eyes broke apart, the king gave a single, tired nod. “Agreed.”
“Then our business is finished,” Roberte said. Face twitching, he twirled on one heel and swept off with his cape flowing behind him. As he passed Marcus’s shoulder, he took the time to give him one last stare—a look of intense, terrible loathing, one that wished agonizing death a thousand times over. Marcus returned it, despising the man to his very core just as he always had. This was the father who had raised Jaspar into the pig he was.
Roberte de Martine passed, and the moment with him. The other lords trailed in his wake, only they didn’t deign to notice Marcus. The door shut, and they were gone.
Marcus found himself alone with Roslene and his father. He thought the tension would have left with his accusers, but now the air was thicker than ever.
Audric looked at him at last. His face was somber, even mournful. “I did warn you, son, did I not?”
“About what?” Marcus said bitterly. “Leaving the girl be?”
“Yes, to protect the both of you! Arrogant as you are, you ignored me, and this is the price you both pay!”
“Jaspar tried to rape her!” he cried, voice breaking at the memory. He rubbed his eyes to blot out the vision, but it did no good. He could still hear Jacquelyn sobbing. “What was I to do?”
“You could have started by turning my daughter away.” Roslene’s voice was phlegmatic, but it might as well have been a whip’s lash.
Marcus couldn’t have met her gaze if he tried. That childish part of him wanted to make excuses—tell them he had been drunk, that she had known it and taken advantage. But he would have been ignoring the simple truth: that he had slept with her because he wanted to. “I know,” he whispered to the floor.
Audric looked between them with some bewilderment. “Kaelyn was involved in this?”
Roslene nodded. “She was… though she only saw fit to inform me when I received your summons today.” She heaved a sad sigh. “It was a lover’s game turned to spite. With anyone else, that would have been all. But here…”
“She could have told us herself!” groaned Audric. “She could have helped us!”
“What my daughter did has no bearing on what Marcus’s actions today,” the consort said firmly. “If her testimony would have had any impact, I would have called her in. But Audric, you know those men were here for blood. We’re fortunate they agreed to anything less.”
Audric sank back in his chair. “I know, love. But that gives me no comfort. The first battle line!” he put a quivering hand over his eyes. “Ancel guard him.”
Roslene eased up behind him and spread her fingers over his collarbones. She murmured in his ear, “He will, my love. He will.” But she wasn’t looking down at her lover. Her blue-green eyes were fixed on Marcus, narrowed with satisfaction—and all too late, he recognized that she hadn’t been negotiating a compromise at all. A new set of bargaining chips had fallen into her palm—whether by accident or desig
n, he could only guess—and she had played them beautifully. But there was one fact he knew for certain.
Kydona was precisely where Roslene Beauvais wanted him.