“Really, darling, your behavior is quite unacceptable. People have been saying you’re doing all sorts of things; visiting the city at night, missing lessons, messing about with chambermaids, a new mistress every week, and all sorts of distasteful rumors.”
Caden sighed as his mother seated herself across from him at the spindle-legged table. A plump woman, much given to gossip, she looked so much like a cream puff it was almost funny—white and beige dress, honey-colored blonde hair piled in elaborate swirls on her head. It made it even harder to be patient with her, ridiculous woman, when she looked like that, when she acted like that, and his patience was rapidly running out. As she continued babbling, he saw no reason not to make himself comfortable. He kicked his feet up onto the table, shiny black boots and all.
“I just can’t understand! Where is your sense of duty, of responsibility? As prince, it is your duty to set a good example for the little common people—you know how they get strange ideas the moment the monarchy gives an inch and—,” she broke off, mid-tirade. “What are your feet doing on the table?”
Caden rolled his eyes. She was one of those women who stressed at least one word in every sentence. And she was such a featherbrain. Always twittering and squawking about one thing or another. And her apartments were sickening. All frills and lace and bows. Every surface was sugar-coated with a painting or an elaborate carving or a wall hanging or something. It was too much…stuff. He moved his feet back to the floor, in as purposefully an impertinent a manner as possible. Even the thump they made on the expensive carpet was insolent. She looked confused, as she usually did when she tried to think. Her nose twitched, and she sneezed.
“Oh, achoo! Oh, excuse me, darling. Dear me, what a mess.” A be-ringed hand flourished an embroidered handkerchief. She picked up a mirror and looked perplexedly at the state of her make-up, which had been disturbed by both sneeze and handkerchief. She continued twittering as she applied pencil and brush to her face. Caden started to tap his foot impatiently. It was so irritating to have to sit here and watch his mother tend to her toilette.
“Would you mind handing me that pot there, the one with the silver lid…no, not that one, the other one. Oh dear, I’m going to have to rush. Some ladies are coming for tea this afternoon, and one is a countess, you know. Now, what was I saying a moment ago?”
“Something about setting a good example,” he said, uninterestedly. What did it matter? Let her ramble on and think she told him something worthwhile, and then he could return to ultimately more interesting pursuits without fear of interruption. She was quite annoying, really. She could barely stay on a single subject for more than five minutes. He supposed that came from all the gossiping that filled her days, the intrigues and scandals of a royal court. What did he care about some countess and a tea party? Tea parties were a stupid excuse for a social engagement anyway. He examined his fingernails as she resumed her lecture. There was a bit of dirt under a few, and it looked like they needed to be trimmed again.
“Oh, yes, that was it,” she said, brightening as her memory sparked a bit. “Now, Caden, you need to straighten yourself out. I want to hear no more of this twaddle about affairs with the maids and jaunts through the town. You have responsibilities, like setting an example of good behavior to all the peasants; they get strange ideas into their little heads when they think the monarchy is no different from them. They get to thinking they don’t need a king, don’t want a king, and could get along just fine without a king or any other leader.”
Caden was mildly impressed. She’d actually said something intelligent, and it appeared she had come up with it all by herself, too. Who would have thought that enough went on in her head to create a coherent idea? It didn’t make any difference. The people were perfectly happy under his father’s rule, and so there was no reason to alter his behavior. Like anything he did could seriously affect the populace. What a joke.
“And as for Lady Giselle of Gwindon,” she continued, still applying color to her face. “Her family is very possessive of her—I had her mother over for tea just the other day, you know, and did I mention I am entertaining again today? Oh yes, well,—and they’re saying as how she’s been well settled in an advantageous betrothal with some Baron or other. Branhurst, I think. I know you’ve been having some sort of affair with Giselle, even if her mother doesn’t, and it must stop. Really, all that carrying on is just disgraceful. People are talking. And you know quite well that your father hopes to cement alliances with all our neighboring kingdoms; he’s worked at gaining and maintaining those alliances all these 15 years past, and while your brother is most certainly going to be settled first, that’s no reason you shouldn’t also make an advantageous marriage. There’s any number of well-accomplished princesses, any one of which be a good match for you.”
His mother was talking nonsense. How she had found out about Giselle, he didn’t know, but then, they hadn’t exactly been hiding their relationship. Giselle was beautiful, and…exciting, with just the right combination of delicacy and spark. She was like a cat, self-satisfied but languidly energetic. There would be no inconvenient issues, either. Giselle knew of ways to keep a child from complicating things. A very convenient beauty, indeed. She was easily read, of course, and it was easy to help her come to just the right conclusions. She thought he was under her thumb, enthralled by her charms, but he was the one really in control. She had something he wanted, and he knew how to get it, simple as that. It helped that the majority of her intelligence was concentrated on having fun, mostly scandalous fun. She was quite amusing to watch. Her moods were entertaining, and she was available. No dour, washed-out princess was half so desirable, and he’d seen them all, waxen figures, the lot of them.
Still, she was starting to become slightly irritating, always fussing about shawls and rings, pouting over supposed slights, jealous of his attentions. She couldn’t really expect him to spend all day escorting her around—while she was certainly entertaining, he had no desire to spend his days chaperoning shopping trips and gossip sessions. In that way, Giselle wasn’t much different from his mother. And her conversation left something to be desired, focusing as it did on excitement, baubles, and beauty. Who wanted to talk, anyway, when there were so many better things to do with your time? But even their occasional tussles were no longer as exciting as they had been. He had yet to meet a woman who was truly beautiful and intelligent. He knew they existed, of course, but in his experience, the beautiful ones spent all their time on their beauty, or their brains were as empty as egg-shells, usually both, and the ugly ones usually spent their time on the only thing about themselves they could try to improve: their minds. And the bookish ones were no fun, prudish, and always forming scientific or philosophical theories or some such nonsense. Women should stick to what they were good at: domestic chores and social engagements. His mother was a prattling fool, and Giselle a shallow minx, but at least they were predictable.
The Queen was still babbling on about Lady Giselle and the social season. It was about all he could stand. He was not willing to give up any more of his day, and so he decided to abandon the façade of attentiveness. His mother was really starting to wear on his nerves, and he intended to stop wasting time and get back to living his life.
He rather rudely broke into his mother’s babble about duty, setting the cup of tea on the saucer of fine china with a determined clink.
“Yes, well, mother, it’s time I was going. Brock wants to have a little fencing bout, and I said I’d meet him,” he said.
“I’m not finished! And besides, you haven’t even tasted your tea,” she said, the make-up brush stilling and her pert mouth puckering into a pout.
“I do not want any tea, and neither do I care if you are finished or not. I’m leaving.” His patience was gone, and he did not care to make any effort to be polite.
Her blue eyes widened, and then began to fill with tears, her lip trembling. He sighed. How pathetic she was, fussing over him like a child, and offering him sweets. As if that was any compensation. She behaved more like a child than he did. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again, before sound finally came out.
“How could you, Caden? When you know how I’ve been looking forward to seeing you! You always used to come and visit me. You used to like to visit me. You never used to be so cruel, not until after what happened to the Earl of Penvellyn’s boy,—what was his name, your friend?—well, anyway, since he died—,” she pouted.
Caden stood very suddenly, his chair scraping back and falling over as he bowed curtly and turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He was satisfied to hear a surprised “Oh!” from his mother and the sound of some of the fine china shattering.
In the corridor, he stood for a moment, anger simmering beneath his outwardly still form. He wanted to hit something, break it, smash it. He began walking very quickly down the hall, shoulders tense, the sinews in his neck rigid lines, scarcely noticing the tapestries or windows looking out on well-tended gardens. His boots clicked on the smooth stone. His heart beat like a drum in his ears. Soon, the rising emotion and turmoil in his mind could not be controlled by the walk. He broke into a jog, and then a sprint.
He raced down the corridor past staring servants, down some stairs, and through another corridor before he could stop. He knew it was strange to break into a run in the middle of the castle for no apparent reason, but the outburst had gone some way toward dulling the edge of his anger. He glanced around, heart beating the anger out, his lungs a bellows, pushing the fog of pain off his skin. He was well out of the royal wing, and somewhere between there and the guest quarters. He bent over briefly to catch his breath, staring at the ivory marble beneath his feet. Then he straightened, pushing the anger and pain to the back of his mind. The woman was shallow and of questionable intelligence. As a gentleman, he should forgive her and make allowances for her, especially as she was both his mother and the Queen, but at the moment he was not at all in a forgiving mood. Still, like Brock said: Put everything behind you and focus on the present.
He walked the rest of the way to the training grounds. The castle was perched on a rocky outcrop rising above the rest of the city, but the training grounds lay in a natural sheltered depression down a flight of stairs on one side of the outcrop. The stairs were hewn from the rock itself, and left open to the elements, which made them bloody slippery when covered in snow or rain, and d*mned uncomfortable, too. The afternoon sun was beaming brightly down, and a cool breeze whispered a reminder of winter’s relaxing grip. The only sound was a bird some distance off whistling a mysterious song. Caden did his best to hurry to the bottom as quickly as possible. Such open silent places left one entirely too much space for thinking, and the last thing he wanted was to give his mind the opportunity to dig up something unwelcome.
Brock was waiting for him when he reached the bottom. All around, archery, fencing, and other skills for war were being practiced, but while his surroundings were a whirl of action, Brock stood, a bundle of potential energy, contained and alone in the center of a fencing circle, waiting. The Training Field was a circular courtyard-like structure, fencing circles, archery ranges, and other practice implements were evenly spaced throughout, everything surrounded by a dirt track which every soldier became very familiar with after running around and around it for an hour every day. In the lee of the cliff, barracks and a storage shed housed the officers, men, and spare equipment, respectively.
Caden strode over and took the proffered leather tunic and slipped the duster over his own fine clothes, nodding curtly to Brock in greeting.
“You’ve been running,” the fencing master observed.
“Yes.” He felt disinclined to offer further explanation. He had dealt with his feelings, at least somewhat, and saw no reason to discuss it further, even with Brock.
With the wisdom of an aged soldier, Brock abandoned what was obviously a forbidden topic and turned to the task at hand. He drew his sword with the ease of habit and assumed the ready position facing Caden, who mirrored him. Caden and Brock regularly exercised their skill together. Caden didn’t really require instruction, but as Brock said, “Can’t afford to let you get out of practice, now can we?”
In years past, Caden would once have matched many different opponents, but since his skill had exceeded all but the Fencing Master’s own, Brock had thought that for the sake of his education, Caden should fence with a less polished swordsman only for the purpose of self-defense or demonstration, particularly when unfamiliar swordsmen came to visit the royal court and could test Caden with unfamiliar styles and strengths. Brock was the best swordsman the king could find for the post of fencing master, and each time Caden sparred with Brock, each was equally likely to win, so evenly were they matched.
Brock was a tall man, with hair that was once black, but now was somewhere between black and gray. He had worked for the king as Fencing Master for the past 25 years, and had seen his share of battles. A business-like man, he carried the air of someone who at any moment can explode into frenzied activity, but he also had a keen mind of a strategist behind the inscrutable brown eyes. Caden always came away with the impression that the man knew pretty much everything which went on around the palace, and if he didn’t yet, he soon would.
Brock had known Caden for most of the prince’s life, nurturing him in his own way through the years with a strange blend of discipline and martial arts training. Even so, he was more of a father to Caden than the king was. Bits of taciturn wisdom were available from Brock at the most unpredictable times. Swordplay was the last skill Caden had learned from him, and he had learned it well.
Caden stood ready, balancing on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight, judging his balance. He knew Brock well, had learned the art of swordplay from this man, and so could recognize the signs when Brock tensed to strike.
Brock leaped forward, but Caden was already there to block him. The match had begun.
The bout was long and ferocious, as they often were when Caden sparred with Brock, who despite his age had lost none of his physique. And, as usual, a crowd gathered to watch the two finest swordsmen born this side of the century do battle. Caden loved this sport. It required enough concentration that he couldn’t dwell on the past, and it was a time when he could banish dark memories from his mind. Between blocks and thrusts, steps forward, back, and to the side, Caden could become the free spirit he once was. Because of the reprieve from brooding it granted him, Caden had spent a great deal of time and effort in the training ring the last few years, sweating out the stress, effectively making him a master swordsman in less than half the time it took most people to gain any level of mere proficiency.
In the beginning, Caden and Brock only made small stabs and jabs at each other, testing the waters, both for their own benefit and that of their audience’s. Quickly though, the match became more intense, the pace quickening even as the intensity of the opponents did. Twisting, side-stepping, now thrust, now parry, Caden and Brock exhibited their art form with all the grace and style of the masters they were.
Exhausted and sweating three quarters of an hour later, the match ended with a slim win by Caden, when Brock stumbled over a small dip in the ground, and Caden’s sword point tapped Brock’s chest . Caden straightened and went to clasp Brock’s arm. The older man was just as worn by the exercise as Caden, though it didn’t show as plainly. He smiled at his protégé, and clasped his arm firmly in return.
“You did well,” he said, which was eloquent praise, coming from him. And, as he had said with slight smile of humor after every one of their matches over the past years, whether Caden won or lost, “We might make a swordsman of you yet.”
Caden smiled slightly. Brock was a good man, and a good friend. They were evenly matched, and the outcome of the bout could have been very different, had Brock not lost his footing. He sheathed his sword and unlaced the duster, handing it to a page watching with an admiration akin to awe nearby. The boy bowed and scurried off with his burden to put it neatly away.
Caden nodded once again at his teacher, who returned the salute with his customary equanimity. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned and started to cross the field, grim mood returning, unwanted, with each step. The match had gone a long way towards cooling his anger, but it still simmered beneath his roiling thoughts. Someone always had to bring Arthur Penvellyn into the conversation, just when he thought he had finally put him out of his mind. Someone always had to dig up what was best left where it was: in the past.
He climbed the stairs up to the castle entrance and stepped into the shadowed corridor, his mind running in circles along these lines, when he heard a sound from behind a column. He turned. There she was, the exquisite Giselle. She was a fine-boned, delicate sort of girl, with a pointed “delicate” face, long blonde hair, and bright blue eyes. These eyes were dancing with mischievous light, and her face was sporting a coy smile.
Caden looked quickly around to see if anyone was coming before he reached for her. As he roughly pulled her in, he saw the excitement in her eyes. He knew she liked it this way, knew it excited her. Her smell enveloped him as he drank the oblivion of her kisses, a heady smell that made one think of warm darkness and secrets. Her fingers traced warm fire as they found their way under his tunic to stroke his chest and back.
“I haven’t seen you in soooo long. My mother has kept me caged up all week, but I managed to give them all the slip today. I haven’t had a bit of fun in days,” she whispered while he kissed her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder. She giggled, and said, “You’re all sweaty!”
He grinned at her. “Of course. What do you expect after nearly an hour of fencing?”
She laughed and pressed herself closer, wrinkling her nose in mock dismay at his smell. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll have to find you later then.” She turned as if she was going to saunter away. Caden’s grin widened. So she wanted to play that game, eh? Well, they had time enough before dinner. He reached out and pulled her in, and she struggled halfheartedly, allowing one sleeve to slip from her shoulder. He spun her around and found her mouth, letting her know what he wanted, pressing his advantage, overpowering her.
She went limp, wiggled under his hands, and surrendered. “Fine. But not here. Let’s hurry and find somewhere more…private.”
He looked at her, at her wild-cat eyes, sparking with excitement, and his grin turned wolfish. He released her, and said, “All right, if you can find one before I catch you.”
She squealed and ran off down the corridor, snorting with giggles, he followed laughing, letting her stay just ahead of him.
He finally caught her in the small garden reserved for visiting princesses. There, behind a flowering magnolia tree, Caden found another way to forget the past.
?
What neither of them noticed, occupied as they were, was the maid who had unfortunately been employed by Giselle’s mother to keep an eye on her daughter. She saw them disappearing into the garden, and then behind the magnolia. She sighed. This was not good.
This maid had spent the better part of the day locked in a dressing room, and, after finally getting out, finding her charge. She wished she hadn’t. Now it would be she who delivered the unfortunate news to the Lady of Gwindon. She grumbled to herself as she lumbered down the corridor. No doubt she would be blamed as well, for not preventing this. This was precisely why the Lady had locked her daughter up. Her Ladyship had suspected some sort of affair. Still, although the match with the Baron would end in scandal, it was still a tie to the royal family. And besides, what the Baron of Branhurst had never had, he wouldn’t miss. Perhaps her ladyship wouldn’t be too angry. Perhaps she wouldn’t blame her. After all, how could she have known she would be locked in that closet? “Oh please, won’t you fetch my shawl, the black one with the red embroidery?” the tart had asked, oh-so-innocent. Then it was, Slam! Click! and all was darkness and clothing presses and make-up jars. Well. That brat would get what was coming to her. A beating, possibly. Restrictions, probably. A fast marriage most certainly. She should enjoy her illicit freedom while she could, because soon she wouldn’t be enjoying it any longer.
She hurried off to find the Lady of Gwindon, steeling herself for the lot often given to the bearer of bad news. She sighed again. She would tell it like it was, plain and simple, the way she always had. If that merited a beating, so be it. She would recover. It was unlikely the two lovers would be as lucky.
Caden sighed as his mother seated herself across from him at the spindle-legged table. A plump woman, much given to gossip, she looked so much like a cream puff it was almost funny—white and beige dress, honey-colored blonde hair piled in elaborate swirls on her head. It made it even harder to be patient with her, ridiculous woman, when she looked like that, when she acted like that, and his patience was rapidly running out. As she continued babbling, he saw no reason not to make himself comfortable. He kicked his feet up onto the table, shiny black boots and all.
“I just can’t understand! Where is your sense of duty, of responsibility? As prince, it is your duty to set a good example for the little common people—you know how they get strange ideas the moment the monarchy gives an inch and—,” she broke off, mid-tirade. “What are your feet doing on the table?”
Caden rolled his eyes. She was one of those women who stressed at least one word in every sentence. And she was such a featherbrain. Always twittering and squawking about one thing or another. And her apartments were sickening. All frills and lace and bows. Every surface was sugar-coated with a painting or an elaborate carving or a wall hanging or something. It was too much…stuff. He moved his feet back to the floor, in as purposefully an impertinent a manner as possible. Even the thump they made on the expensive carpet was insolent. She looked confused, as she usually did when she tried to think. Her nose twitched, and she sneezed.
“Oh, achoo! Oh, excuse me, darling. Dear me, what a mess.” A be-ringed hand flourished an embroidered handkerchief. She picked up a mirror and looked perplexedly at the state of her make-up, which had been disturbed by both sneeze and handkerchief. She continued twittering as she applied pencil and brush to her face. Caden started to tap his foot impatiently. It was so irritating to have to sit here and watch his mother tend to her toilette.
“Would you mind handing me that pot there, the one with the silver lid…no, not that one, the other one. Oh dear, I’m going to have to rush. Some ladies are coming for tea this afternoon, and one is a countess, you know. Now, what was I saying a moment ago?”
“Something about setting a good example,” he said, uninterestedly. What did it matter? Let her ramble on and think she told him something worthwhile, and then he could return to ultimately more interesting pursuits without fear of interruption. She was quite annoying, really. She could barely stay on a single subject for more than five minutes. He supposed that came from all the gossiping that filled her days, the intrigues and scandals of a royal court. What did he care about some countess and a tea party? Tea parties were a stupid excuse for a social engagement anyway. He examined his fingernails as she resumed her lecture. There was a bit of dirt under a few, and it looked like they needed to be trimmed again.
“Oh, yes, that was it,” she said, brightening as her memory sparked a bit. “Now, Caden, you need to straighten yourself out. I want to hear no more of this twaddle about affairs with the maids and jaunts through the town. You have responsibilities, like setting an example of good behavior to all the peasants; they get strange ideas into their little heads when they think the monarchy is no different from them. They get to thinking they don’t need a king, don’t want a king, and could get along just fine without a king or any other leader.”
Caden was mildly impressed. She’d actually said something intelligent, and it appeared she had come up with it all by herself, too. Who would have thought that enough went on in her head to create a coherent idea? It didn’t make any difference. The people were perfectly happy under his father’s rule, and so there was no reason to alter his behavior. Like anything he did could seriously affect the populace. What a joke.
“And as for Lady Giselle of Gwindon,” she continued, still applying color to her face. “Her family is very possessive of her—I had her mother over for tea just the other day, you know, and did I mention I am entertaining again today? Oh yes, well,—and they’re saying as how she’s been well settled in an advantageous betrothal with some Baron or other. Branhurst, I think. I know you’ve been having some sort of affair with Giselle, even if her mother doesn’t, and it must stop. Really, all that carrying on is just disgraceful. People are talking. And you know quite well that your father hopes to cement alliances with all our neighboring kingdoms; he’s worked at gaining and maintaining those alliances all these 15 years past, and while your brother is most certainly going to be settled first, that’s no reason you shouldn’t also make an advantageous marriage. There’s any number of well-accomplished princesses, any one of which be a good match for you.”
His mother was talking nonsense. How she had found out about Giselle, he didn’t know, but then, they hadn’t exactly been hiding their relationship. Giselle was beautiful, and…exciting, with just the right combination of delicacy and spark. She was like a cat, self-satisfied but languidly energetic. There would be no inconvenient issues, either. Giselle knew of ways to keep a child from complicating things. A very convenient beauty, indeed. She was easily read, of course, and it was easy to help her come to just the right conclusions. She thought he was under her thumb, enthralled by her charms, but he was the one really in control. She had something he wanted, and he knew how to get it, simple as that. It helped that the majority of her intelligence was concentrated on having fun, mostly scandalous fun. She was quite amusing to watch. Her moods were entertaining, and she was available. No dour, washed-out princess was half so desirable, and he’d seen them all, waxen figures, the lot of them.
Still, she was starting to become slightly irritating, always fussing about shawls and rings, pouting over supposed slights, jealous of his attentions. She couldn’t really expect him to spend all day escorting her around—while she was certainly entertaining, he had no desire to spend his days chaperoning shopping trips and gossip sessions. In that way, Giselle wasn’t much different from his mother. And her conversation left something to be desired, focusing as it did on excitement, baubles, and beauty. Who wanted to talk, anyway, when there were so many better things to do with your time? But even their occasional tussles were no longer as exciting as they had been. He had yet to meet a woman who was truly beautiful and intelligent. He knew they existed, of course, but in his experience, the beautiful ones spent all their time on their beauty, or their brains were as empty as egg-shells, usually both, and the ugly ones usually spent their time on the only thing about themselves they could try to improve: their minds. And the bookish ones were no fun, prudish, and always forming scientific or philosophical theories or some such nonsense. Women should stick to what they were good at: domestic chores and social engagements. His mother was a prattling fool, and Giselle a shallow minx, but at least they were predictable.
The Queen was still babbling on about Lady Giselle and the social season. It was about all he could stand. He was not willing to give up any more of his day, and so he decided to abandon the façade of attentiveness. His mother was really starting to wear on his nerves, and he intended to stop wasting time and get back to living his life.
He rather rudely broke into his mother’s babble about duty, setting the cup of tea on the saucer of fine china with a determined clink.
“Yes, well, mother, it’s time I was going. Brock wants to have a little fencing bout, and I said I’d meet him,” he said.
“I’m not finished! And besides, you haven’t even tasted your tea,” she said, the make-up brush stilling and her pert mouth puckering into a pout.
“I do not want any tea, and neither do I care if you are finished or not. I’m leaving.” His patience was gone, and he did not care to make any effort to be polite.
Her blue eyes widened, and then began to fill with tears, her lip trembling. He sighed. How pathetic she was, fussing over him like a child, and offering him sweets. As if that was any compensation. She behaved more like a child than he did. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again, before sound finally came out.
“How could you, Caden? When you know how I’ve been looking forward to seeing you! You always used to come and visit me. You used to like to visit me. You never used to be so cruel, not until after what happened to the Earl of Penvellyn’s boy,—what was his name, your friend?—well, anyway, since he died—,” she pouted.
Caden stood very suddenly, his chair scraping back and falling over as he bowed curtly and turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He was satisfied to hear a surprised “Oh!” from his mother and the sound of some of the fine china shattering.
In the corridor, he stood for a moment, anger simmering beneath his outwardly still form. He wanted to hit something, break it, smash it. He began walking very quickly down the hall, shoulders tense, the sinews in his neck rigid lines, scarcely noticing the tapestries or windows looking out on well-tended gardens. His boots clicked on the smooth stone. His heart beat like a drum in his ears. Soon, the rising emotion and turmoil in his mind could not be controlled by the walk. He broke into a jog, and then a sprint.
He raced down the corridor past staring servants, down some stairs, and through another corridor before he could stop. He knew it was strange to break into a run in the middle of the castle for no apparent reason, but the outburst had gone some way toward dulling the edge of his anger. He glanced around, heart beating the anger out, his lungs a bellows, pushing the fog of pain off his skin. He was well out of the royal wing, and somewhere between there and the guest quarters. He bent over briefly to catch his breath, staring at the ivory marble beneath his feet. Then he straightened, pushing the anger and pain to the back of his mind. The woman was shallow and of questionable intelligence. As a gentleman, he should forgive her and make allowances for her, especially as she was both his mother and the Queen, but at the moment he was not at all in a forgiving mood. Still, like Brock said: Put everything behind you and focus on the present.
He walked the rest of the way to the training grounds. The castle was perched on a rocky outcrop rising above the rest of the city, but the training grounds lay in a natural sheltered depression down a flight of stairs on one side of the outcrop. The stairs were hewn from the rock itself, and left open to the elements, which made them bloody slippery when covered in snow or rain, and d*mned uncomfortable, too. The afternoon sun was beaming brightly down, and a cool breeze whispered a reminder of winter’s relaxing grip. The only sound was a bird some distance off whistling a mysterious song. Caden did his best to hurry to the bottom as quickly as possible. Such open silent places left one entirely too much space for thinking, and the last thing he wanted was to give his mind the opportunity to dig up something unwelcome.
Brock was waiting for him when he reached the bottom. All around, archery, fencing, and other skills for war were being practiced, but while his surroundings were a whirl of action, Brock stood, a bundle of potential energy, contained and alone in the center of a fencing circle, waiting. The Training Field was a circular courtyard-like structure, fencing circles, archery ranges, and other practice implements were evenly spaced throughout, everything surrounded by a dirt track which every soldier became very familiar with after running around and around it for an hour every day. In the lee of the cliff, barracks and a storage shed housed the officers, men, and spare equipment, respectively.
Caden strode over and took the proffered leather tunic and slipped the duster over his own fine clothes, nodding curtly to Brock in greeting.
“You’ve been running,” the fencing master observed.
“Yes.” He felt disinclined to offer further explanation. He had dealt with his feelings, at least somewhat, and saw no reason to discuss it further, even with Brock.
With the wisdom of an aged soldier, Brock abandoned what was obviously a forbidden topic and turned to the task at hand. He drew his sword with the ease of habit and assumed the ready position facing Caden, who mirrored him. Caden and Brock regularly exercised their skill together. Caden didn’t really require instruction, but as Brock said, “Can’t afford to let you get out of practice, now can we?”
In years past, Caden would once have matched many different opponents, but since his skill had exceeded all but the Fencing Master’s own, Brock had thought that for the sake of his education, Caden should fence with a less polished swordsman only for the purpose of self-defense or demonstration, particularly when unfamiliar swordsmen came to visit the royal court and could test Caden with unfamiliar styles and strengths. Brock was the best swordsman the king could find for the post of fencing master, and each time Caden sparred with Brock, each was equally likely to win, so evenly were they matched.
Brock was a tall man, with hair that was once black, but now was somewhere between black and gray. He had worked for the king as Fencing Master for the past 25 years, and had seen his share of battles. A business-like man, he carried the air of someone who at any moment can explode into frenzied activity, but he also had a keen mind of a strategist behind the inscrutable brown eyes. Caden always came away with the impression that the man knew pretty much everything which went on around the palace, and if he didn’t yet, he soon would.
Brock had known Caden for most of the prince’s life, nurturing him in his own way through the years with a strange blend of discipline and martial arts training. Even so, he was more of a father to Caden than the king was. Bits of taciturn wisdom were available from Brock at the most unpredictable times. Swordplay was the last skill Caden had learned from him, and he had learned it well.
Caden stood ready, balancing on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight, judging his balance. He knew Brock well, had learned the art of swordplay from this man, and so could recognize the signs when Brock tensed to strike.
Brock leaped forward, but Caden was already there to block him. The match had begun.
The bout was long and ferocious, as they often were when Caden sparred with Brock, who despite his age had lost none of his physique. And, as usual, a crowd gathered to watch the two finest swordsmen born this side of the century do battle. Caden loved this sport. It required enough concentration that he couldn’t dwell on the past, and it was a time when he could banish dark memories from his mind. Between blocks and thrusts, steps forward, back, and to the side, Caden could become the free spirit he once was. Because of the reprieve from brooding it granted him, Caden had spent a great deal of time and effort in the training ring the last few years, sweating out the stress, effectively making him a master swordsman in less than half the time it took most people to gain any level of mere proficiency.
In the beginning, Caden and Brock only made small stabs and jabs at each other, testing the waters, both for their own benefit and that of their audience’s. Quickly though, the match became more intense, the pace quickening even as the intensity of the opponents did. Twisting, side-stepping, now thrust, now parry, Caden and Brock exhibited their art form with all the grace and style of the masters they were.
Exhausted and sweating three quarters of an hour later, the match ended with a slim win by Caden, when Brock stumbled over a small dip in the ground, and Caden’s sword point tapped Brock’s chest . Caden straightened and went to clasp Brock’s arm. The older man was just as worn by the exercise as Caden, though it didn’t show as plainly. He smiled at his protégé, and clasped his arm firmly in return.
“You did well,” he said, which was eloquent praise, coming from him. And, as he had said with slight smile of humor after every one of their matches over the past years, whether Caden won or lost, “We might make a swordsman of you yet.”
Caden smiled slightly. Brock was a good man, and a good friend. They were evenly matched, and the outcome of the bout could have been very different, had Brock not lost his footing. He sheathed his sword and unlaced the duster, handing it to a page watching with an admiration akin to awe nearby. The boy bowed and scurried off with his burden to put it neatly away.
Caden nodded once again at his teacher, who returned the salute with his customary equanimity. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned and started to cross the field, grim mood returning, unwanted, with each step. The match had gone a long way towards cooling his anger, but it still simmered beneath his roiling thoughts. Someone always had to bring Arthur Penvellyn into the conversation, just when he thought he had finally put him out of his mind. Someone always had to dig up what was best left where it was: in the past.
He climbed the stairs up to the castle entrance and stepped into the shadowed corridor, his mind running in circles along these lines, when he heard a sound from behind a column. He turned. There she was, the exquisite Giselle. She was a fine-boned, delicate sort of girl, with a pointed “delicate” face, long blonde hair, and bright blue eyes. These eyes were dancing with mischievous light, and her face was sporting a coy smile.
Caden looked quickly around to see if anyone was coming before he reached for her. As he roughly pulled her in, he saw the excitement in her eyes. He knew she liked it this way, knew it excited her. Her smell enveloped him as he drank the oblivion of her kisses, a heady smell that made one think of warm darkness and secrets. Her fingers traced warm fire as they found their way under his tunic to stroke his chest and back.
“I haven’t seen you in soooo long. My mother has kept me caged up all week, but I managed to give them all the slip today. I haven’t had a bit of fun in days,” she whispered while he kissed her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder. She giggled, and said, “You’re all sweaty!”
He grinned at her. “Of course. What do you expect after nearly an hour of fencing?”
She laughed and pressed herself closer, wrinkling her nose in mock dismay at his smell. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll have to find you later then.” She turned as if she was going to saunter away. Caden’s grin widened. So she wanted to play that game, eh? Well, they had time enough before dinner. He reached out and pulled her in, and she struggled halfheartedly, allowing one sleeve to slip from her shoulder. He spun her around and found her mouth, letting her know what he wanted, pressing his advantage, overpowering her.
She went limp, wiggled under his hands, and surrendered. “Fine. But not here. Let’s hurry and find somewhere more…private.”
He looked at her, at her wild-cat eyes, sparking with excitement, and his grin turned wolfish. He released her, and said, “All right, if you can find one before I catch you.”
She squealed and ran off down the corridor, snorting with giggles, he followed laughing, letting her stay just ahead of him.
He finally caught her in the small garden reserved for visiting princesses. There, behind a flowering magnolia tree, Caden found another way to forget the past.
?
What neither of them noticed, occupied as they were, was the maid who had unfortunately been employed by Giselle’s mother to keep an eye on her daughter. She saw them disappearing into the garden, and then behind the magnolia. She sighed. This was not good.
This maid had spent the better part of the day locked in a dressing room, and, after finally getting out, finding her charge. She wished she hadn’t. Now it would be she who delivered the unfortunate news to the Lady of Gwindon. She grumbled to herself as she lumbered down the corridor. No doubt she would be blamed as well, for not preventing this. This was precisely why the Lady had locked her daughter up. Her Ladyship had suspected some sort of affair. Still, although the match with the Baron would end in scandal, it was still a tie to the royal family. And besides, what the Baron of Branhurst had never had, he wouldn’t miss. Perhaps her ladyship wouldn’t be too angry. Perhaps she wouldn’t blame her. After all, how could she have known she would be locked in that closet? “Oh please, won’t you fetch my shawl, the black one with the red embroidery?” the tart had asked, oh-so-innocent. Then it was, Slam! Click! and all was darkness and clothing presses and make-up jars. Well. That brat would get what was coming to her. A beating, possibly. Restrictions, probably. A fast marriage most certainly. She should enjoy her illicit freedom while she could, because soon she wouldn’t be enjoying it any longer.
She hurried off to find the Lady of Gwindon, steeling herself for the lot often given to the bearer of bad news. She sighed again. She would tell it like it was, plain and simple, the way she always had. If that merited a beating, so be it. She would recover. It was unlikely the two lovers would be as lucky.
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