Prince of Fools

“My lady.” I held her gaze. Extraordinary eyes, green but giving back more light than they took in. “Prince Jalan Kendeth at your service.” I waved a hand at the table. “My man Snorri.” Her dress was a simple thing but made with a care and understated quality that said she came from money.

“Katherine ap Scorron.” She looked from me to Snorri, back again. Her accent confirmed Teuton origins. “My sister, Sareth, would like the pleasure of your company for a light lunch.”

A grin spread across my face. “I’d be delighted, Katherine.”

“Well and good, then.” She ran an eye over the length of me. “I wish you a good stay and safe travels onward then, prince.” And she turned with a swish of skirts, making for the corridor. Nothing in her tone or pale face had suggested she thought my company might be a pleasure for her sister. In fact, a redness around her eyes made me wonder if she had been crying.

I leaned down to Snorri. “I sense sisterly conflict! Big sister got to dine with the prince and little sister’s pretty nose is out of joint about it.” My instincts in these matters are seldom wrong. The dynamics of sisterly rivalry are well known to me. Snorri frowned—a touch of the green-eyed monster himself, no doubt. “Don’t wait up for me!” And I made to follow the girl.

A big hand caught at my wrist, snatched back at the sharp crackle between us. Enough to stop me, though. “I don’t think that was an invitation of that sort.”

“Nonsense. A highborn lady doesn’t deliver messages. She would have sent a page. There’s more than one message here!” I could forgive the barbarian for his ignorance of court subtleties.

Katherine reached the doorway. It’s true that her retreat lacked the swaying come-on one sees in places like the Falling Angel. I found it tempting even so. “Trust me. I know castle life. This is my game.” And I hurried after her.

“But her arm—” Snorri called after me. Something about an armband.

I had to smirk at the thought of a hut-born Norseman trying to instruct me in the ways of castle women. She’d come without chaperone or champion, bolder than brass, taking a good look at all the prince on offer.

“Katherine.” I caught her in the corridor, yards from the hall. “Don’t run away now.” Lowering my voice into a seductive growl. I took hold of her backside in my cupped hand through the layers of taffeta. Smooth and firm.

She turned more swiftly than I thought possible in such a garment and— Well, the next eternity or so I spent in a blind white place full of pain.

I’ve always felt that the placement of a man’s testicles is an eloquent argument against intelligent design. The fact that a slight young woman can with a well-placed knee reduce the hero of the Aral Pass to a helpless creature too full of agony to do anything but roll on the floor hoping to squeeze the occasional breath past his pain—well, that’s just poor planning on God’s part. Surely?

“Jal?” A shadow against the white agony. “Jal?”

“Go. Away.” Past clenched teeth. “And. Let. Me. Die.”

“It’s just, you’re blocking the corridor, Jal. I’d pick you up, but . . . you know. Stann, get a guardsman to help you haul the prince back to his room, will you?”

Some dim awareness of motion penetrated my misery. I knew my heels were dragging over stone floors, and somewhere behind them Snorri was trailing along, engaging in cheerful banter with the people towing me.

“A misunderstanding, I expect.” And he chuckled. Chuckled! It’s in the code—when one man is wounded so ignominiously, all men must wince and show sympathy, not chuckle. “They probably do things differently down south . . .”

“Losing my touch.” I managed to gasp the words.

“I think you probably touched too much, knowing you, Jal! Didn’t you see the black armband? The girl’s in mourning!” Another chuckle. “Might have given him a proper beating if she hadn’t been! She’s got spirit, that one. Saw it the moment she arrived. Norse blood probably.”

I just groaned and let them haul me to my chamber.

“Damned if I’m going to see the sister. She’ll be a monster.” They lifted me onto my bed.

“Gently, lads,” Snorri said. “Gently!” Though he still sounded far too good-humoured about the whole thing.

“Damnable Scorron bitch. Ahh!” Another wave of pain shut me off. “Countries have gone to war for less!”

“Technically you are at war, aren’t you?” The chair creaked as Snorri lowered himself into it. “I mean, those men you heroed over at this Aral Pass, they were Scorrons, weren’t they?”