‘That is enough, Lord Leighton.’ Princess Aldreda barely raised her voice, but silence fell throughout the tent. ‘Prince Osian is the kings-sworn ruler of the Denelands, and the Marches fall under his command. His word is law. Let it go.’
For a terrible beat, no one moved.
Then Lord Leighton slammed down his cup and rose in a rush.
Crownsblood hands already at weapons tensed. Neither Prince Osian nor Princess Aldreda flinched.
Lord Leighton sniffed and bowed very formally. ‘Majesties. If you will excuse me.’ He marched from the tent, staggering slightly.
The tension did not abate.
Princess Aldreda emptied her cup and lifted it. ‘As you were, everyone. I feel we were in the middle of a particularly good song?’
The shrewd tent stumbled to comply. Kenelm Radnor huffed a laugh as though relieved and made a joke to Prince Wystan and the courtiers.
Meilyr’s body remembered it was allowed to breathe.
Beside him, strain emanated from Prince Osian. The arm around Meilyr’s waist was as firm as stone, and it was some time before Aldreda whispered something to the prince and he affirmed, all too quiet for Meilyr to hear.
Finally, too long later, the prince leaned in to twine a lock of Meilyr’s hair about his fingers. ‘Let us to bed, then.’
They went arm-in-arm, like lovers. Ser Pedr and Ser Siddel followed into the sharp freshness, across the open towards the prince’s tent. Laughter and talk bubbled from a small fire closer to the trees, and as Meilyr picked out familiar faces from both the prince’s and Aldreda’s knights, Ser Blythe waved them over.
‘You four joining us, Majesty?’
It was easy to like Ser Blythe. She was solid and uncomplicated, like a more outgoing Ser Pedr, and had warmed to Meilyr the most out of Prince Osian’s knights. ‘I’m just scaring the shit out of Garrick,’ she explained with a grin.
‘You are not,’ Ser Garrick defended, cleaning his daggers.
‘Which story is it tonight, Blythe?’ the prince asked, mirth easing some of his strain.
Ser Blythe dropped straight back into theatrics. ‘It’s a new one, Majesty. One that happened in the forests just west of here, on the borders of the Green Wastes. They say a poor Cyngaleg lass whose wife was deathly sick walked into the darkest, oldest depths of the woods, to call out and offer her blood and her soul to the otherfolk. Three days she walked and she bled, and finally they answered. But it was not enough.’
‘They took her eyes and her tongue too?’
‘Macsen,’ Ser Blythe groaned. ‘Don’t spoil it.’
‘My ma used to tell us that one,’ Ser Macsen explained. ‘It’s definitely nearly as terrifying as whatever you’re drinking.’
Meilyr had expected a more notable change in atmosphere with Prince Osian being present, especially considering the subject matter. But the knights seemed more than comfortable.
‘Goodnight, everyone,’ the prince said, gently leaving them to it.
The fireside was a chorus of ‘Goodnight!’ and ‘Goodnight, Majesty, Highness!’
Ser Pedr and Ser Siddel remained posted outside the prince’s tent. The inside was sizeable, with a small brazier for warmth not far from the entryway. A large nest of bedding and furs beyond constituted a bed, complete with a stitched throw of the White Dragon.
The thrum of tension returned as Prince Osian let him go. ‘Forgive me,’ the prince said, tired, and stepped away to ready for sleep.
Not looking at him, Meilyr began to unfasten his hunting belt. His fingers were stiff and shaky. This was a world away from the clamour of the feast tent, and yet another from the calm routine of the prince’s chambers.
They were about to share a bed.
Old fears stalked through the shadows. But the prince had given him no reason to fear him – no reason to fearthis, at least. What they acted out for the court had not bled into privacy.
‘I have something to attend to briefly,’ Prince Osian said. He was dressed down to soft breeches and a long cream under-robe, hanging open beneath his collarbones. He did not meet Meilyr’s gaze. ‘Try to sleep, we will be required with the dawn.’ He went to the fire, to some papers there, and sat down.
Meilyr stared at his back, hands stilled on the buckle at his own waist.