Captive Prince: Volume Two Read online

  ‘From the stables,’ said Damen. He stared at Jord in disbelief.

  ‘Better you than me,’ said Jord. ‘Look for him down the back. Oh, and when you’re done, report to the keep.’

  It was a long walk across two courtyards from the barracks to the stables. Damen hoped that Govart would be finished by the time he arrived, but of course he wasn’t. The stables contained all the quiet sounds of horses at night, but even so Damen heard it before he saw it: the soft rhythmic sounds coming, as Jord had accurately predicted, from the back.

  Damen weighed Govart’s reaction to an interruption against Laurent’s to being kept waiting. He pushed open the stall door.

  Inside, Govart was unambiguously fucking the stableboy against the far wall. The boy’s pants were in a crumpled heap on the straw not far from Damen’s feet. His bare legs were splayed wide and his shirt was open and pushed up onto his back. His face was pressed to the rough wooden panelling and held in place by Govart’s fist in his hair. Govart was dressed. He had unlaced his own pants only enough to take out his cock.

  Govart stopped long enough to glance sideways and say, ‘What?’ before, deliberately, continuing. The stableboy, seeing Damen, reacted differently, squirming.

  ‘Stop,’ said the stableboy. ‘Stop. Not with someone watching—’

  ‘Calm down. It’s just the Prince’s pet.’

  Govart jerked the stableboy’s head back for emphasis.

  Damen said, ‘The Prince wants you.’

  ‘He can wait,’ said Govart.

  ‘No. He can’t.’

  ‘He wants me to pull out on his order? Go visit him with a hard prick?’ Govart bared his teeth in a grin. ‘You think that too-stuck-up-to-fuck stuff is just an act, and he’s really just a tease who wants cock?’

  Damen felt anger settle inside him, a tangible weight. He recognised an echo of the impotence Aimeric must have experienced in the armoury, except that he was not a green nineteen year old who had never seen a fight. His eyes passed impassively over the half-unclothed body of the stableboy. He realised that in a moment he was going to return to Govart in this small, dusty stall all that was owed for the rape of Erasmus.

  He said, ‘Your Prince gave you an order.’

  Govart forestalled him, pushing the stableboy away in annoyance. ‘Fuck, I can’t get off with all this—’ Tucking himself back in. The stableboy stumbled a few steps, sucking in air.

  ‘The barracks,’ said Damen, and weathered the impact of Govart’s shoulder against his own as Govart strode out.

  The stableboy stared at Damen, breathing hard. He was braced against the wall with one hand; the other was between his legs in furious modesty. Wordlessly, Damen picked up the boy’s pants and tossed them at him.

  ‘He was supposed to pay me a copper sol,’ said the stableboy, sullenly.

  Damen said, ‘I’ll take it up with the Prince.’

  * * *

  And then it was time to report to the castellan, who led him up steps and all the way into the bedchamber.

  It was not as ornate as the palace chambers in Arles. The walls were thick hewn stone. The windows were frosted glass, criss-crossed with lattice. With the darkness outside, they did not offer a view, but instead reflected the shadows of the room. A frieze of twining vine leaves ran around the room. There was a carved mantle and a banked fire; and lamps, and wall hangings, and the cushions and silks of a separate slave pallet, he noticed, with a feeling of relief. Dominating the room was the heavy opulence of the bed.

  The walls around the bed were panelled in dark, carved wood, depicting a hunting scene in which a boar was held at the end of a spear, pierced through the neck. There was no sign of the blue and gold starburst. The draperies were blood red.

  Damen said, ‘These are the Regent’s chambers.’ There was something uneasily transgressive about the idea of sleeping in the place meant for Laurent’s uncle. ‘The Prince stays here often?’

  The castellan mistook him to mean the keep, not the rooms. ‘Not often. He and his uncle came here a great deal together, in the year or two after Marlas. As he grew older, the Prince lost his taste for the runs here. He now comes only rarely to Chastillon.’

  At the order of the castellan, servants brought him bread and meat and he ate. They cleared away the plates, and brought in a beautifully shaped pitcher and goblets, and left, perhaps by accident, the knife. Damen looked at the knife and thought about how much he would have given for an oversight like that when he was trussed up in Arles: a knife that he might take and use to prise his way out of the palace.

  He sat himself down to wait.

  On the table before him was a detailed map of Vere and Akielos, each hill and crest, each town and keep meticulously recorded. The river Seraine snaked its way south, but he already knew they were not following the river. He put his fingertip on Chastillon and traced one possible path to Delpha, south through Vere until he reached the line that marked the edge of his own country, all the place names written jarringly in Veretian: Achelos, Delfeur.

  In Arles, the Regent had sent assassins to kill his nephew. It had been death at the bottom of a poisoned cup, at the end of a drawn sword. That was not what was happening here. Throw together two feuding companies, put them under a partisan, intolerant captain, and hand the result to a green commander-prince. This group was going to tear itself apart.

  And likely there was nothing Damen could do to stop it happening. This was going to be a ride of disintegrating morale; the ambush that surely awaited them at the border would devastate a company already in disarray, ruined by in-fighting and negligent leadership. Laurent was the only counterweight against the Regent, and Damen would do all he had promised to keep him alive, but the stark truth of this ride to the border was that it felt like the last play in a game that was already over.

  Whatever business Laurent had with Govart kept him deep into the night. The sounds from the keep grew quiet; the fluttering of the flames grew audible in the hearth.

  Damen sat and waited, his hands loosely clasped. The feelings that freedom—the illusion of freedom—stirred in him were strange. He thought of Jord and Aimeric and all Laurent’s men working through the night to prepare for an early departure. There were house servants in the keep, and he was not eager for Laurent’s return. But as he waited in the empty rooms, the fire flickering in the hearth, his eyes passing over the careful lines of the map, he was conscious, as he had seldom been during his captivity, of being alone.

  Laurent entered, and Damen rose from his seat. Orlant could be glimpsed in the doorway behind him.

  ‘You can go. I don’t need a guard on the door,’ said Laurent.

  Orlant nodded. The door closed.

  Laurent said, ‘I have saved you till last.’

  Damen said, ‘You owe the stableboy a copper sol.’

  ‘The stableboy should learn to demand payment before he bends over.’

  Laurent calmly helped himself to goblet and pitcher, pouring himself a drink. Damen couldn’t help glancing at the goblet, remembering the last time they had been alone together in Laurent’s rooms.

  Pale brows arched a fraction. ‘Your virtue’s safe. It’s just water. Probably.’ Laurent took a sip, then lowered the goblet, holding it in refined fingers. He glanced at the chair, as a host might offering a seat, and said, as though the words amused him, ‘Make yourself comfortable. You are going to stay the night.’

  ‘No restraints?’ said Damen. ‘You don’t think I’ll try to leave, pausing only to kill you on the way out?’

  ‘Not until we get closer to the border,’ said Laurent.

  He returned Damen’s gaze evenly. There was no sound but the crack and pop of the banked fire.

  ‘You really do have ice in your veins, don’t you,’ said Damen.

  Laurent placed the goblet carefully back on the table, and picked up the knife.


  It was a sharp knife, made for cutting meat. Damen felt his pulse quicken as Laurent came forward. Only a handful of nights ago, he had watched Laurent slit a man’s throat, spilling blood as red as the silk that covered this room’s bed. He felt shock as Laurent’s fingers touched his, pressing the hilt of the knife into his hand. Laurent took hold of Damen’s wrist below the gold cuff, firmed his grip, and drew the knife forward so that it was angled towards his own stomach. The tip of the blade pressed slightly into the dark blue of his prince’s garment.

  ‘You heard me tell Orlant to leave,’ said Laurent.

  Damen felt Laurent’s grip slide down his wrist to his fingers, and tighten.

  Laurent said, ‘I am not going to waste time on posturing and threats. Why don’t we clear up any uncertainty about your intentions?’

  It was well placed, just below the rib cage. All you would have to do was push in, then angle up.

  He was so infuriatingly sure of himself, proving a point. Damen felt desire come hard upon him: not wholly a desire for violence, but a desire to drive the knife into Laurent’s composure, to force him to show something other than cool indifference.

  He said: ‘I’m sure there are house servants still awake. How do I know you won’t scream?’

  ‘Do I seem like the type to scream?’

  ‘I’m not going to use the knife,’ said Damen, ‘but if you’re willing to put it in my hand, you underestimate how much I want to.’

  ‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘I know exactly what it is to want to kill a man, and to wait.’

  Damen stepped back and lowered the knife. His knuckles remained tight around it. They gazed at one another.

  Laurent said, ‘When this campaign is over, I think—if you are a man and not a worm—you will attempt to gain retribution for what has happened to you. I expect it. On that day, we roll the dice and see how they fall. Until then, you serve me. Let me therefore make one thing above all clear to you: I expect your obedience. You are under my command. If you object to what you are told to do I will hear reasoned arguments in private, but if you disobey an order once it is made, I will send you back to the flogging post.’

  ‘Have I disobeyed an order?’ said Damen.

  Laurent gave him another of those long, oddly searching looks. ‘No,’ said Laurent. ‘You have dragged Govart out of the stables to do his duty, and rescued Aimeric from a fight.’

  Damen said, ‘You have every other man working until dawn to prepare for tomorrow’s departure. What am I doing here?’

  Another pause, and then Laurent indicated once again to the chair. This time Damen followed his prompt and sat. Laurent took the chair opposite. Between them, unfurled on the table, was all the intricate detail of the map.

  ‘You said you knew the territory,’ Laurent said.

  CHAPTER 2

  Long before they rode out the next morning, it was obvious that the Regent had chosen the worst standard of men he could find to send out with his nephew. Also obvious was the fact that they had been stationed at Chastillon to conceal their poor quality from the court. They were not even trained soldiers, they were mercenaries, second- and third-rate fighters, most of them.

  With a rabble like this, Laurent’s pretty face wasn’t doing him any favours. Damen must have heard a dozen slurs and sly insinuations before he’d even saddled his horse. No wonder Aimeric had been furious: even Damen, who had frankly no objection to men slandering Laurent, was finding himself annoyed. It was disrespectful to speak that way of any commander. He’d loosen up for the right cock, he heard. He pulled too sharply on the girth strap of his horse.

  He was out of sorts, perhaps. Last night had been strange, sitting across a map from Laurent, answering questions.

  The fire had burned low in the hearth, warm-embered. You said you knew the territory, Laurent had said, and Damen had found himself confronted with an evening spent dispensing tactical information to an enemy he might expect to face one day, country against country, King against King.

  And that was the best possible outcome: it assumed that Laurent would beat his uncle, and that Damen would return to Akielos, claiming his throne.

  ‘You have some objection?’ Laurent had said.

  Damen had drawn in a deep breath. A strong Laurent meant a weakened Regent, and if Vere was distracted by a familial squabble over the succession, that only benefitted Akielos. Let Laurent and his uncle duke it out.

  Slowly, carefully, he had started talking.

  They had talked about the terrain on the border and about the route they would travel to get there. They would not be riding in a straight line south. Instead, it was to be a two-week journey southwest through the Veretian provinces of Varenne and Alier, their route hugging the Vaskian mountain border. It was a change from the direct route that had been planned by the Regent, and Laurent had already sent out riders to inform the keeps. Laurent, Damen thought, was buying himself time, extending the journey as much as was plausibly possible.

  They had talked about the merits of Ravenel’s defences when compared to Fortaine. Laurent hadn’t seemed to show any inclination to sleep. He had never once glanced at the bed.

  As the night wore on, Laurent had abandoned his deliberate comportment for a relaxed, youthful pose, drawing one knee up to his chest and slinging an arm around it. Damen had found his gaze drawn to the easy arrangement of Laurent’s limbs, the balance of wrist on knee, the long, finely articulated bones. He had been aware of a diffuse but growing tension, a sensation almost like he was waiting . . . waiting for something, unsure what it was. It was like being alone in a pit with a snake: the snake could relax, you could not.

  About an hour before dawn, Laurent had risen. ‘We’re done for tonight,’ he had said briefly. And then, to Damen’s surprise, he had left to begin preparations for the morning. Damen had been brusquely informed that he would be summoned when he was needed.

  The castellan had called for him some hours later. Damen had taken the chance to snatch some sleep, determinedly retiring to his pallet and closing his eyes. The next time he had seen Laurent had been in the courtyard, changed and armoured and coolly ready to ride. If Laurent had slept at all, he hadn’t done so in the Regent’s bed.

  There were fewer delays than Damen expected. Laurent’s pre-dawn arrival and whatever cold bitchy remarks he had made—sharpened by a night without sleep—had been enough to eject the Regent’s men out of their beds and into a semblance of lines.

  They rode out.

  * * *

  There was no immediate disaster.

  They rode through long green meadows scented with white and yellow flowers, Govart crude and commanding on a warhorse at their head, and beside him—young, elegant and golden—the Prince. Laurent looked like a figurehead, eye-catching and useless. Govart had not been disciplined at all for his stableboy-induced tardiness, nor had anything happened to the Regent’s men for shirking their duty last night.

  There were in total two hundred men, followed by servants and wagons and supplies and additional horses. There was no livestock, as there would be following a larger army on campaign. This was a small troop with the luxury of several supply stops on the way to their destination. There were no camp followers.

  But they stretched out for almost a quarter mile, because of stragglers. Govart sent riders from the front streaming down to the end of the column to shout them into action, which caused a minor ruckus among the horses, but no noticeable improvement in forward motion. Laurent watched all of this, but did nothing about it.

  Setting up camp took several hours, which was too long. Time wasted was time robbed from rest when the Prince’s men had already been up half the preceding night. Govart gave basic commands but did not care much for fine work or detail. Among the Prince’s men, Jord shouldered most of the responsibilities of Captain, as he had done last night, and Damen took his orders from him.

 
There were those among the Regent’s men who simply worked hard because work needed to be done, but it was an impulse that came out of their own natures rather than through any external discipline or commands. There was little order among them, and no hierarchy, so that one man might shirk as he pleased with no repercussions except the growing resentment of the others around him.

  There was going to be a fortnight of this, with a fight at the end of it. Damen set his jaw, kept his head down and got on with the work he had been assigned. He saw to his horse and his armour. He pitched the Prince’s tent. He moved supplies and hauled water and wood. He washed with the men. Ate. The food was good. Some things were done well. The sentries were posted promptly, and so were the outriders, taking up position with the same professionalism as the guards who had watched him in the palace. The site of the camp was well chosen.

  He was making his way through the camp to Paschal when he heard from the other side of a canvas:

  ‘You should tell me who did it, so we can take care of it,’ said Orlant.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who did it. It was my fault. I told you.’ Aimeric’s stubborn voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Rochert saw three of the Regent’s men coming out of the armoury. He said one of them was Lazar.’

  ‘It was my fault. I provoked the attack. Lazar was insulting the Prince—’

  Damen sighed, turned and went to find Jord.

  ‘You might want to go see Orlant.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’ve seen you talk him down from a fight before.’

  The man Jord had been speaking to gave Damen an unpleasant look after Jord left. ‘I heard you were good at carrying tales. And what will you be doing while Jord stops that fight?’

  ‘Getting massaged,’ said Damen, succinctly.

  He reported, ludicrously, to Paschal. And from thence to Laurent.

  The tent was very large. It was large enough for Damen, who was tall, to walk freely inside without having to glance nervously upwards to avoid obstructions. The canvas walls were covered in draperies of rich blue and cream, shot through with gold thread, and high above his head the ceiling hung suspended in scalloped folds of twilled silk.