‘No. You’ve had your chance to make apologies, or give reasonable excuses. You chose instead to show unrepentant arrogance. You do not yet have the right to spit in the face of kings. At your age, your brother was leading armies and bringing glory to his country. What have you achieved in the same time? When you shirked your responsibilities at court, I ignored it. When you refused to do your duty on the border at Delfeur, I let you have your way. But this time your disobedience has threatened an accord between nations. The Council and I have met and agreed we must take action.’
The Regent spoke in a voice of unquestioned power that was heard in every corner of the chamber.
‘Your lands of Varenne and Marche are forfeit, along with all troops and monies that accompany them. You retain only Acquitart. For the next ten months, you will find your income reduced, and your retinue diminished. You will petition to me directly for any expenses. Be grateful you retain Acquitart, and that we have not taken this decree further.’
Shock at the sanctions rippled across the assembly. There was outrage on some faces. But on many others there was something quietly satisfied, and the shock was less. In that moment, it was obvious which of the courtiers comprised the Regent’s faction, and which Laurent’s. And that Laurent’s was smaller.
‘Be grateful I retain Acquitart,’ said Laurent, ‘which by law you cannot take away and which besides has no accompanying troops and little strategic importance?’
‘Do you think it pleases me to discipline my own nephew? No uncle acts with a heavier heart. Shoulder your responsibilities—ride to Delfeur—show me you have even a drop of your brother’s blood and I will joyfully restore it all.’
‘I think there is an old caretaker at Acquitart. Shall I ride to the border with him? We could share armour.’
‘Don’t be facile. If you agreed to fulfil your duty you would not lack for men.’
‘Why would I waste my time on the border when, at Kastor’s whim, you roll over?’
For the first time, the Regent looked angry. ‘You claim this is a matter of national pride, but you are unwilling to lift a finger to serve your own country. The truth is that you acted out of petty malice, and now you’re smarting at discipline. This is on your own head. Embrace the slave in apology, and we are done.’
Embrace the slave?
Anticipation among the gathered courtiers winched tighter.
Damen was urged onto his feet by his handler. Expecting Laurent to baulk at his uncle’s order, Damen was startled when, after a lingering look at his uncle, Laurent approached, with soft, obedient grace. He hooked a finger in the chain that stretched across Damen’s chest, and drew him forward by it. Damen, feeling the sustained pull at twin points, came as he was bid. With cool detachment, Laurent’s fingers gathered rubies, inclining Damen’s head down far enough to kiss him on the cheek. The kiss was insubstantial: not a single mote of gold paint transferred itself to Laurent’s lips in the process.
‘You look like a whore.’ The soft words barely stirred the air by Damen’s ear, inaudible to anyone else. Laurent murmured: ‘Filthy painted slut. Did you spread for my uncle the way you did for Kastor?’
Damen recoiled violently, and gold paint smeared. He was staring at Laurent from two paces away, revolted.
Laurent lifted the back of his hand to his cheek, now streaked with gold, then turned back to the Regent with a wide-eyed expression of injured innocence. ‘Witness the slave’s behaviour for yourself. Uncle, you wrong me cruelly. The slave’s punishment on the cross was deserved: you can see for yourself how arrogant and rebellious he is. Why do you punish your own blood when the fault lies with Akielos?’
Move, and counter move. There was a danger in doing something like this publicly. And indeed, there was a slight shift of sympathy within the assembly.
‘You claim the slave was at fault, and deserved punishment. Very well. He has received it. Now you receive yours. Even you are subject to the rule of Regent and Council. Accept it gracefully.’
Laurent lowered his blue eyes, martyring himself. ‘Yes, uncle.’
He was diabolical. Perhaps this was the answer to how he won loyalty from the Prince’s Guard; he simply wrapped them around his finger. On the dais, the elderly Councillor Herode was frowning a little, and looking at Laurent for the first time with troubled sympathy.
The Regent ended proceedings, rose, and departed, perhaps for some awaiting entertainment. The councillors left with him. The symmetry of the chamber broke down as courtiers unlocked themselves from their positions on either side of the carpet and began to mingle more freely.
‘You may hand me the leash,’ said a pleasant voice, very close.
Damen looked up into a pair of pellucid blue eyes. Beside him, the handler hesitated.
‘Why do you delay?’ Laurent held out his hand and smiled. ‘The slave and I have embraced and are joyously reconciled.’
The handler passed him the leash. Laurent immediately drew the chain taut.
‘Come with me,’ Laurent said.
CHAPTER 5
IT WAS A little too ambitious of Laurent to think that he could extricate himself, easily and discreetly, from a court gathering of which his own censure had been the centrepiece.
Damen, held at the end of a leash, watched as Laurent’s progress was thwarted again and again by those who wished to commiserate. There was a press of silk and cambric and solicitude. For Damen, it was not a reprieve, just a delay. He felt at every moment Laurent’s hold on the leash, like a promise. Damen felt a tension that wasn’t fear. Under different circumstances, without guards or witnesses, he might relish the chance to be alone in a room with Laurent.
Laurent was indeed good at talking. He accepted sympathy gracefully. He put his position rationally. He stopped the flow of talk when it became dangerously critical of his uncle. He said nothing that could be taken as an open slight on the Regency. Yet no one who talked to him could have any doubt that his uncle was behaving at best misguidedly and at worst treasonously.