The castellan had called for him some hours later. Damen had taken the chance to snatch some sleep, determinedly retiring to his pallet and closing his eyes. The next time he had seen Laurent had been in the courtyard, changed and armoured and coolly ready to ride. If Laurent had slept at all, he hadn’t done so in the Regent’s bed.
There were fewer delays than Damen expected. Laurent’s pre-dawn arrival and whatever cold bitchy remarks he had made—sharpened by a night without sleep—had been enough to eject the Regent’s men out of their beds and into a semblance of lines.
They rode out.
* * *
There was no immediate disaster.
They rode through long green meadows scented with white and yellow flowers, Govart crude and commanding on a warhorse at their head, and beside him—young, elegant and golden—the Prince. Laurent looked like a figurehead, eye-catching and useless. Govart had not been disciplined at all for his stableboy-induced tardiness, nor had anything happened to the Regent’s men for shirking their duty last night.
There were in total two hundred men, followed by servants and wagons and supplies and additional horses. There was no livestock, as there would be following a larger army on campaign. This was a small troop with the luxury of several supply stops on the way to their destination. There were no camp followers.
But they stretched out for almost a quarter mile, because of stragglers. Govart sent riders from the front streaming down to the end of the column to shout them into action, which caused a minor ruckus among the horses, but no noticeable improvement in forward motion. Laurent watched all of this, but did nothing about it.
Setting up camp took several hours, which was too long. Time wasted was time robbed from rest when the Prince’s men had already been up half the preceding night. Govart gave basic commands but did not care much for fine work or detail. Among the Prince’s men, Jord shouldered most of the responsibilities of Captain, as he had done last night, and Damen took his orders from him.
There were those among the Regent’s men who simply worked hard because work needed to be done, but it was an impulse that came out of their own natures rather than through any external discipline or commands. There was little order among them, and no hierarchy, so that one man might shirk as he pleased with no repercussions except the growing resentment of the others around him.
There was going to be a fortnight of this, with a fight at the end of it. Damen set his jaw, kept his head down and got on with the work he had been assigned. He saw to his horse and his armour. He pitched the Prince’s tent. He moved supplies and hauled water and wood. He washed with the men. Ate. The food was good. Some things were done well. The sentries were posted promptly, and so were the outriders, taking up position with the same professionalism as the guards who had watched him in the palace. The site of the camp was well chosen.
He was making his way through the camp to Paschal when he heard from the other side of a canvas:
‘You should tell me who did it, so we can take care of it,’ said Orlant.
‘It doesn’t matter who did it. It was my fault. I told you.’ Aimeric’s stubborn voice was unmistakable.
‘Rochert saw three of the Regent’s men coming out of the armoury. He said one of them was Lazar.’
‘It was my fault. I provoked the attack. Lazar was insulting the Prince—’
Damen sighed, turned and went to find Jord.
‘You might want to go see Orlant.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I’ve seen you talk him down from a fight before.’
The man Jord had been speaking to gave Damen an unpleasant look after Jord left. ‘I heard you were good at carrying tales. And what will you be doing while Jord stops that fight?’
‘Getting massaged,’ said Damen, succinctly.
He reported, ludicrously, to Paschal. And from thence to Laurent.
The tent was very large. It was large enough for Damen, who was tall, to walk freely inside without having to glance nervously upwards to avoid obstructions. The canvas walls were covered in draperies of rich blue and cream, shot through with gold thread, and high above his head the ceiling hung suspended in scalloped folds of twilled silk.
Laurent was seated in the entrance area, which was arranged for visitors with chairs and a receiving table, much like a warfield tent. He was talking to one of the scruffier-looking servants about armaments. Except that he wasn’t talking, he was mostly listening. He waved Damen inside to wait.
The tent was warmed with braziers, and further lit by candles. In the foreground, Laurent continued speaking to the servant. Screened away at the back of the tent was the sleeping area, a tumble of cushions, silks and swathed bedding. And, emphatically separate, his own slave pallet.
The servant was dismissed, and Laurent rose. Damen turned his eyes from the bedding to the Prince, and found a silence stretching out in which Laurent’s cool blue gaze was on him.
‘Well? Attend me,’ said Laurent.
‘Attend,’ said Damen.
The word sank into him. He felt as he had in the training arena when he had been unwilling to go near the cross.