Part 3
The tournament procession poured out into a great meadow, where a field
of color lined the entry to the waiting participants. Across the span vivid tents of orange, blue, scarlet and yellow
form small castles with flying pennants from their multitude of peaks.
The lords bore across the
fields with trumpet blasts. Prince
Quatre road past, he looked neither right nor left at the crowd surrounding the
honored spots. He was seated between
the duke and lady Dorothy in the center most pavilion.
The games began so
after. A bored and anxious crowd
watched the younger and smaller combatants.
There was a tension in the air as the spectators waited for the main
challenge to happen. Quatre suffered
though the other matches with barely concealed tolerance, he was anxious to see
this champion of his.
“I weary of these trials,”
Quatre said in an insipid and bored tone.
“These are good fighters, my
prince,” the duke said. “They have
practice long for today.”
A challenger walked onto the
field. The crowd suddenly became
quiet. He was lithe and strong. He wore the mask from before yet this time
he was shirtless. His chest was painted
white and aqua. He skin was hairless
and smooth yet very muscular. The stockings
he wore were also the prince’s colors.
Tied around his waist was the prince’s favor. Quatre found himself standing before he knew it.
The silence ended as the
duke’s fighter walked out onto the field.
A murmur rose from the crowd in favor of the duke’s man. Quatre sat as the two circled each
other. They fought with long
knives. Their arms crossed. The ring of steel echoed as the blades
clashed. Trowa danced away keeping
himself in a favorable position.
Again the again the two
cross long knives. Spark flew and they
collided. With a jerk Quatre’s acrobat
reached out and grabbed the other turning so that he flipped him over a
shoulder. The duke’s man flew though
the air. He landed with a loud thud the
knife flying from his hand.
The prince’s challenger
backed away to allow the other time to recover. The duke’s man retrieved his knife and with a growl flew at
Trowa. His blade whirred past Trowa’s
mid section suddenly dipping down and slicing open his hose from hip to thigh.
Trowa defended turning the
blunt end of the blade to his attacker.
He stuck the duke’s man sound across the helm. The man went down bleeding at the temple. The fight ended.
Quatre sat calmly between
the duke and his granddaughter as his challenger smashed the pretensions of
five more challengers. The acrobat was
handily trouncing all comers. Prince
Quatre sighed watching the next challenger get equal trounced. He knew that the duke was privately furious.
“Has he some magic or be
your men all weak as willows,” Quatre asked driving the hone blade in. Quatre felt the granddaughter stiffen of the
insult to their men.
“No magic just the strong
and viciousness inherent to all mercenaries,” the Lady Dorothy replied tightly.
Lady Dorothy played the part
of a meek maiden well. Yet Quatre was
not fooled the female was far from biddable.
If he was to marry the wench she and her grandfather was rule over him.
“A mercenary?”
“Your champion is said to be
a mercenary,” Lady Dorothy said snidely.
“In command of a small
mercenary group. He is highly desired
and has his choice of lords to chose from each year.”
“A mercenary, so he has no
lands nor lord?” Quatre asked turning to the duke.
“None that he claims till
now,” the duke said frowning slightly.
Quatre looked at him smiling
softly to himself. The crowd hissed and
jeered causing Quatre to look back onto the field. There were two combatants facing his challenger. That was unusually most fights were one to
one.
Quatre opened his mouth to
protest however, Trowa easily avoid the two fighters. He tossed one man onto the other. The two went down hard.
The crowd roared their approval.
“He comes every year for the
bout and then disappears,” the duke said quietly. “I believe it is to recruit new men.”
“Recruit new men, not the
prize money?” Quatre asked. The duke
shrugged and Quatre turned once again to face the field.
Painfully the men’s
companions hauled Trowa’s two challengers to their feet. The group turned facing Trowa. He stood amongst them alone unarmed with his
clothes torn and blood running down the side of his face. Two more challengers came forward.
“Enough,” Quatre shouted
rising up from the stands. “My favor,”
Quatre called out to the crowd. “Has
been earned today.”
He leaped onto the field and
sprinted over to the combatants. “This
bout does not honor your liege lord.”
Quatre turned to Trowa
gesturing for him to kneel. Trowa fell
to one knee at his side. The blood had
matted the hair on the side of his head.
His greens eyes were dull and full of pain.
Quatre caught Trowa under
the chin and lifted his head up. He
leaned down and in front of the every one kissed him firmly and soundly on the
mouth. The kiss was hard and bruising. Trowa’s eyes widen in shock before
fluttering closed.
Quatre looked down into his
face—from the persistent tickle of recollection, memory sprang fully into his
mind. Once, long ago for a whim he had
delivered a young lord from the greed of another. At the time he saw the game Lord Dekim was playing on the young
man. He watched as the young man was
slowly being stripped of his inheritance.
He remembered him. He remembered
the agony on his face when Lord Dekim had pressured him to place himself in his
care—to give up his home. He remembered
when and where, an image stirred by the shock and embarrassed continence on his
face. Just so he had looked when he had
accused him of being depraved.
He hesitated; shocked that
he was about to do the same to him as Lord Dekim had planned. “Fool, you have not learned,” he whispered
in his face.
“A splendid fight,” Quatre
said facing the crowd one hand upraised the other planted firmly on Trowa’s
head. “As of today, you art vassal unto
me. Him and all his possessions my love
I give. I shall love and value thee as
no other lord ever could.”
As he declared the ritual
words, old as the legends of King Arthur the throng burst into a frenzy. The duke and his granddaughter blanched at
the chosen phrase. With that snare set
he help Trowa to his feet then turned leaving Trowa alone in the field.
* *
*
A fiend, he was.
Trowa stood beside one of
the duke’s family bust outside his private chambers. He felt robbed. He felt
utterly pillaged. Where was his
lord? Where was the unblemished angel
he had fashioned himself after. He had
never believed him to be perfect—yet he always thought that it was he who had
been shameful—he was perverse, with his yearnings and unwholesome desires. Even as he strived for virtue he had dreamed
about him in his bed or on the cold ground.
No, he had never thought he was worthy even when he denied himself
release, he could not meet his measure.
He turned his head and
rested his bandaged temple against the statue.
The cut burned as it pressed against the bindings.
The reality of Prince Quatre
had been like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown in his face. He was angry with himself but reserved his
deepest fury and disgust for him—the fiend—he had probably ensorcelled
him. How else could he have managed to
forget what he was?
An Archfiend that is what he
was, curling like a silken tiger on a bed with his devil’s get caressing
him. He could not even image the fair
beauty he had once envisioned. All he
saw clearly were aqua eyes and a white flash of skin; all he felt plainly were
wrath and anguish and the degrading burn of his body’s appetite in spite of
everything.
A fool he had called
him. He could hear it still, like an
echo in the cold air of the hall. He
had taken his lands, his men, his every possession without a second thought. He had called him a fool.
Earlier on the field he
heard the men whispering, many thinking he had secured himself a rich patron
that his gambled had paid off. The
prince’s holdings were never targeted by the petty fights other border lords tended
to have. None would dare rile the king
by openly attacking one of his beloved children. While some frowned on such ambitions many mercenaries understood
the need to secured a wealthy patron with few battles so one could live to
enjoy ones wealth.
The door to the duke’s
office opened. A page stepped out
indicting that he should proceed in.
Trowa did not know what to expect.
He was amazed that he was still alive.
After the bout the duke had acknowledged him to the crowd. The applause was reserved at best. Normally he would be here to pick up his
winnings or secure an assignment, if he was lucky he would be outcast if he was
unlucky he didn’t want to think about that.
Death could be better than torture.
The office was warm too warm
as compared to the hall. The dark
furnishings shone with rich mahogany highlights. Duke Dermay was not alone in the office he had his councilors,
his clerks, and the captain of his guard.
Trowa bowed respectfully.
“Face us,” said the duke in
a tired voice.
Trowa peeked a look at the
men surrounding him. Their graves faces
were easy to read so was the hostility emanating from them. The duke was watching him soberly.
“As always it was a good
fight,” the duke said.
Trowa bit down on the need
to explain himself. “For the honor of
the prince.” He replied simply.
The duke barked out a sharp
laugh at that. He eyes focus sharply on
Trowa. “He has made fools of us all,
has he not? That cunning sodomite.”
“My lord’s grace,” a
councilor cautioned.
“Ah, but my sentiment will
not leave this chamber, if this fellow hopes to avoid my most grievous
displeasure.”
“My life is at my lord’s
pleasure,” Trowa answered quietly.
“See that you do not forget
it,” the duke warned. “Some here has
counseled me that you are a spy. That
you have come with the intent of inflaming disloyalty and rebellion with this
spectacle and that you conspired with the prince to weaken us to a border
threat.”
“Nay my lord,” Trowa
defended softly.
“Who stands behind the
prince, spy?” shouted the captain.
“None,” Trowa
explained. “I’m no spy. His man told me to that he wished me to
issue a challenge for his favor.”
“Against the duke?” One of
the councilors asked. “And you took him
up?”
“My lord, I meant no insult
to you and your granddaughter. I was to
challenge all comers. I am sworn to him,
years ago—and far from here. I never
thought to see him again. I was not
even aware of his name until yesterday.”
Trowa paused. “I can’t explain
it. I was very young.”
The duke watched him his
eyes full of speculation. “Tell me what
is it you hoped to gain?”
Trowa just shook his head
quietly.
“A position, wealth, lands,”
the duke asked his voice rising with each word. “A fine marriage for your whore’s toll?”
“No,” Trowa said his face
lowered in shame.
“No I don’t believe you
would want such,” the duke spat. “Take
your prince I want no more your presence in my lands. Leave by morn tomorrow—everyone shall see you both alive and well
as you depart.”
* *
*
Quatre and his small
entourage waited right before the city gate.
He had brought three male servants, seven of his private guard, Duo and
the ever-present Heero. Behind him lay
the distant fires and tents from the journeyers who had no lodging. Out of the twilight came half a score of
men, with Trowa in the front. As per
the duke’s instructions they were ready to depart at sunrise.
Prince Quatre was reclined
in a horse drawn leather covered litter.
The vehicle was large and cumbersome so even with four strong packhorses
they would be lucky if they managed to clear the duke’s land by nightfall. The rest of his group was mounted except for
his lover who lay beside him eating sweets.
The duke and a small
assembly waited on top the post gates.
As they rode though the duke raised his hand in a formal bid of
farewell. His granddaughter was not
present. Quatre did not turn to
acknowledge the man. He didn’t need to
he out ranked him.
They did manage to reach the
end of the duke’s land by nightfall.
Trowa despaired that they would spend hour waiting on his prince’s
convenience, as he did not seem the sort to bestir himself with undue exertion
but Prince Quatre’s attendants outshone even his men-at-arms in their
unpacking.
The prince’s area was quiet
there was no scurrying about to fetch a pillow or what not. No one slipped away to linger or tend to any
personal needs. A lone guard stood on
the entrance of the prince’s tent.
The men he had were new to
his command. Trowa had hoped to work
them out with a new lord before deciding which ones he would keep. They were bedded down across from the small
leather pavilion. They ate a cold meal
and settled for the night.
In the deepening night Trowa
reached over and plucked his flute from his saddlebags. He began to play a sweet, mournful song on
wars and lost love. It seemed to fit
his mood his presence of mind.
Across from him the leather
curtain flicked back. Trowa’s note
faltered for a bare instant. He lowered
his eyes and kept on playing. It was
his lapdog, Duo. To Trowa’s surprise
Duo walked over to him and plopped himself down. He sat an arms length away giving him his profile.
“A love song, is it not?” he
asked.
Trowa ignored him enclosing
himself in his melody. Duo sat a moment
more. “Have you ever been in love?” he
asked next. He didn’t seem bothered by
Trowa’s lack of response.
Trowa continued to ignore
him.
“Of course, a strapping man
as yourself knows much about such things.”
Duo leaned back finally facing Trowa fully. He smiled his pretty face charming effortlessly.
“He has magic. He can read into one’s heart, my prince can. He is Aphrodite’s son.”
Trowa lift a brow in
disbelief, his only indication that he was listening.
Duo laughed. “Ah, you are too astute for me. You don’t believe it.” With an abrupt intensity he leaned nearer. “Think you to take him from me?”
Trowa’s music wavered and
fell silent.
Duo closed his eyes
tightly. “You have not the skill,” he
whispered. “At ten and one I was train
in such an art. My previous lord spared
no account in my lessons. You can not
compete.”
It took a few seconds before
Trowa completely understood his meaning.
He was shocked at such blatant speaking. Such was a world beyond his experience. He glanced at the solitary form of Heero Yuy standing in front of
the prince’s tent.
“I love him!”
Trowa eyes flew back to
Duo’s face, such devotion, although he had no choice in the matter. Amid his shock Trowa felt disconcerted. Whatever sacrifices he’d made they were his
own to make. He had not been force to
bend to the will of another.
He lifted his lute to
continue playing when Duo’s hand shot out and forestalled him. “Oh, I forgot. I was to order you to cease that dirge and play something more
pleasant.”