Lamen stood before the Prince, their heads very close as they spoke softly. Charls saw Lamen tilt the Prince’s chin up.
Then, with the simple confidence of long familiarity, Lamen leaned in, and kissed the Prince on the mouth.
It was, in a sense, no surprise to Charls. On their ride last year through Mellos, Charls had watched them grow close. He had thought it was charming for the Prince to have found himself a young lover, and Lamen had shown an entirely appropriate level of devotion. Indeed, Lamen was a well-made young man glowing with good health—the easy-natured, virile type that might well attract royal attention.
Now, of course, things between them must be different. Everyone knew that Prince Laurent was the lover of the Akielon King, Damianos. The Prince’s love affair with Lamen would be relegated to its proper place, a dalliance between royalty and the object of its brief attention.
The Prince’s arms slid around Lamen’s neck, drawing him closer, and the kiss deepened, Lamen pulling their bodies together.
When the Prince drew back, smiling and murmuring something to Lamen, Lamen’s head dropped to the Prince’s neck. They were both speaking with obvious affection.
‘Charls, you called for me?’ said Lamen, entering Charls’s room the next morning.
Charls motioned Lamen over to the reclining couch, where they both sat, in the sunlight from the high window.
‘I am forty this year. It’s not so old, but it’s old enough to have seen my way around this world. I’ve seen the way you are with him.’
A small, rueful smile as Lamen turned his warm eyes on Charls. ‘Is it so obvious?’
‘You’ve chosen a difficult path. He is the Prince of Vere, tied in alliance to the Akielon King.’
‘Charls,’ said Lamen, ‘I’d work my whole life to be worthy of him.’
Looking into Lamen’s open, youthful face, Charls thought there were many things he might say to him. He might caution him about hanging his hopes on an affair with such a great difference in birth. He might advise him instead to turn away and learn a trade.
‘I am glad he’ll have you with him. He needs an unswerving companion. And . . . many great men in Vere stay loyal to their companions for a lifetime, when their feelings are true.’
‘In Akielos too,’ said Lamen.
‘Yes, think of the loyalty of Iphegenia. Or Theomedes, devoted to his mistress Hypermenestra, though she was too low in rank for him to marry.’
‘I’ll stay by Laurent for as long as he wants me,’ said Lamen.
Charls looked at Lamen, and felt glad that his Prince would have a man like this at his side. ‘If you ever find yourself in need of help or a trade, I hope you will come to me. I think you would make a fine merchant’s assistant.’ Charls held out his hand.
‘Thank you, Charls. That is a real compliment,’ said Lamen, clasping his arm in farewell.
‘Long live the King! Long live King Laurent of Vere!’
Charls sat happily on the rooftop of his wagon, while others climbed onto the wheels of his wagon, and the sideboards of his wagon, or just stood on the tips of their toes next to his wagon, and craned and jumped and waved. The streets were thronged; without a vantage, it was hard to see anything.
Guilliame sat beside him, legs dangling. They had a splendid view all the way up the main street, where the new King—Laurent, sixth of his name—was a golden figure the size of his thumb, his cloth gold and his crown gold, and his horse’s panoply gol
d. He rode at the head of the royal procession, with its silk-clad standard bearers and horses with jewelled saddlery and guards in blue and gold livery and heralds with starburst banners and young boys and girls strewing blue and yellow flower petals, making its way through the town towards the fort.
Marlas was overstuffed. But the Prince had insisted that his Ascension happen in Marlas and not at Arles, and so councillors and kyroi and nobility from Vere and Akielos and their households were crammed into the fort, and into every inn, and into every lodging the township could find. Charls himself had a room in the upper floor of a tailor’s house that he shared at an exorbitant price with a batch of minor nobles from Kesus.
Unlike the nobles, he had an invitation to attend the King on the third night of celebrations. His swelling of pride felt fit to burst every time he thought of this honour, and of the King’s kindness in remembering a humble cloth merchant on the occasion of his Ascension.
He wore his best jacket with straight sleeves of black velvet, rowed with seed pearls, and lined with Varennese satin. He made sure that it sat straight, and carefully placed his hat at the right angle and buffed his gold buckled shoes to a rich shine.
As he walked the length of the throne room, past great women and men from two countries, he realised it was the first time that both Vere and Akielos had joined together to witness an Ascension. A true union, he thought. And then he reached the figure that was waiting for him.
King Laurent was dressed in gold, his head crowned in gold, his clothes of ivory silk and gold, a young king resplendent, so bright that the eyes overbrimmed just to look at him.
‘Your Majesty,’ Charls said, bowing low.
‘Charls,’ said his King. ‘There is someone I want you to meet.’