He saw Jord being led by the hand by an intent-looking Aimeric. Jord had the same slight awkwardness about billeting in an aristocrat’s chambers that Aimeric had when he attempted swearing.
‘That’s because you’ve never slept in a royal keep’s residences before,’ said Aimeric. ‘I promise it’s much more comfortable than a tent roll or a lumpy inn mattress. And besides—’ He dropped his voice, shifting closer to Jord but the words were still audible. ‘I really want you to fuck me in a bed.’
Jord said, ‘Come here, then.’
And kissed him, a long, slow kiss with his hand cupping Aimeric’s head. Aimeric went attractively pliant, giving himself to the kiss, his arms winding around Jord’s neck; his antagonistic nature was apparently not one he exercised between the sheets. Jord, it seemed, brought out the best in him.
They were occupied, like the servants, like the soldiers in the barracks. Everyone in Acquitart was occupied.
Damen slipped past, and made his way to the stables.
* * *
It was more discreet and better planned than the last time they had left camp together, that lesson having been learned the hard way. It still made Damen uncomfortable to separate from the troop, but there was little he could do about it. He arrived in the quiet of the stables; amid muted whickers and shifting of straw he found that Laurent, while he was waiting, had saddled the horses. They rode east.
The sound of cicadas droned around them; it was a warm night. They left the sounds of Acquitart behind them, and the light, and rode under the night sky. As at Nesson, Laurent knew where he was going, even in the dark.
Now, he stopped. They were backed by mountains, surrounded by chasms of stone.
‘You see? There’s actually a place in worse repair than Acquitart,’ Laurent said.
It looked like a t
owering fortress, but moonlight shone clean through its arches, and its walls were of inconsistent heights, and trailed away in places, crumbling to nothing. It was a ruin, a once-great building that was now nothing but stones and the occasional arched wall. Everything that remained was vine- and moss-covered. It was older than Acquitart, so very old, built by some potentate long before Laurent’s dynasty, or his own. The ground was covered in a night-blooming flower, five-petalled and white, just opening to release its scent.
Laurent swung down from the saddle, then led his horse to one of the ancient protruding stone pieces, tethering it there. Damen did the same, then followed Laurent through one of the stone arches.
This place was making him uneasy, a reminder of how easily a kingdom could be lost.
‘What are we doing here?’
Laurent had walked a few steps from the archway, crushing flowers underfoot. Now he leaned his back against one of the broken-down stones.
‘I used to come here when I was younger,’ Laurent said, ‘with my brother.’
Damen went still, turning cold, but in the next moment the sound of hoofbeats had him turning, his sword singing from its sheath.
‘No. I’m expecting them,’ said Laurent.
* * *
It was women.
A few men, too. The Vaskian dialect was harder to penetrate when it was more than one voice at a time, speaking quickly.
Damen’s sword was taken from him, and the knife at his belt was taken too. He didn’t like it. At all. Laurent was allowed to keep his own weapons, perhaps in respect of his status as a prince. When Damen looked around, only the women were armed.
And then Laurent said something he liked even less: ‘It is not permitted to see the approach to their camp. We will be taken there under blindfold.’
Blindfold. He barely had time to absorb the idea before Laurent acquiesced to the nearest woman. Damen saw the blindfold being slipped over Laurent’s eyes and tied. Damen was a little stunned by the image. The blindfold covered Laurent’s eyes and emphasised his other features, the clean line of his jaw, the fall of his pale hair. It was impossible not to look at his mouth.
A moment later, he felt a blindfold slipped over his own eyes and tied with a hard tug. His vision was extinguished.
They were taken on foot. It was not an elaborate, serpentine deception of a path, such as he had walked under blindfold through the palace in Arles. They simply travelled to their destination. They walked for about half an hour, before they heard the sound of drums, low and constant, growing louder. The blindfold felt more like a requirement of submission than a precaution, because it seemed very possible to trace their steps, both for a man like himself with soldier training, and probably also for Laurent’s mathematical mind.
The camp, when the blindfold lifted, comprised of long tents of cured leather, picketed horses and two lit campfires. There were figures moving around the campfires, and they saw the drummers, the drumming echoing out into the night. It looked animated, a little wild.
Damen turned to Laurent. ‘This is where we’re spending the night?’