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.”

 

 

 

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