‘A whole night with the Regent?’ Ancel twirled the stick. ‘Aren’t you jealous?’
‘I’m not jealous,’ said Nicaise. ‘You’re old.’
To Ancel’s disbelief, Prince Torveld liked the slave.
The night started well. Every pair of eyes in the hall was on him, admiring, even before he tipped the sticks into the fire and they burst into flame.
Ancel knew from the first toss of the sticks that the performance was a triumph, the fire like liquid light in his hands. He felt like he was part of the fire, beautiful and strong and full of dangerous heat. It was like holding power in his hands, his body supple and responsive, tossing the sticks higher and higher, spinning them, bright and hot.
Riotous cheers broke out as he finished, panting slightly, feeling the triumph of the moment pumping in his blood. And then the blond slave was brought in by a handler.
Nicaise was right. Ancel didn’t have to do very much, just approach with the sticks, twirling them lightly. Just the heat made th
e slave baulk, pulling against his chain like a horse pulling on its lead rope. He had to be dragged forward, which made him choke, the chain pulling at the collar around his neck. He looked terrified.
It made Ancel angry. This mewling creature who had been brought to court and lavished with every opportunity that Ancel had worked for, was doing nothing to advance his own career, even now.
But in the next moment Prince Torveld was calling the slave over, and—rather than booting him out of the hall—was fussing over him, talking to him, stroking his tousled blond head.
Ancel gaped. Prince Torveld was taking the slave into his household? For what? For being too weak to survive at court? The unfairness was terrible. If Ancel had wanly lain down and waited for a rescuer, he would have died in the street.
He put the sticks out, the smoke thick and acrid, and returned to his own table.
Berenger was looking at him with sickened eyes. ‘What you did was—’
‘Not your business,’ said Ancel. ‘I’m nothing to do with you after tonight.’
As he spoke, a liveried servant approaching their table said, ‘Ancel, the Regent of Vere requests your company.’
He stood. The insipid blond slave wasn’t the only one who had won himself royal attention. Ancel walked right up to the dais that led to the Regent’s chair, kneeling and then rising at the Regent’s gesture, looking up past the robes edged in ermine to the face of the most powerful man at court.
He was older than Berenger, by perhaps ten years. Not older than Louans—Ancel had certainly entertained older men than this. It was difficult to think of other men when standing before the Regent, whose power gave him an authority others lacked.
Tonight, he was dressed in red, the rich royal colour flattering his looks, wide powerful shoulders and dark hair still mostly untouched by silver. The Regent had a trimmed beard, different to the clean-shaven look his nephew preferred. He had heavy jewelled rings on his fingers, and a thick gold-and-ruby chain of office around his neck.
He gestured for Ancel to step forward.
‘Come. Sit.’
There was nowhere to sit. Ancel stepped up and simply straddled the Regent’s lap, twining arms around the man’s neck. He heard the murmurs as he did it, and lifted his chin, brazenly. He met the Regent’s gaze, his body language like a claim, like ownership.
‘You are exotic, aren’t you,’ said the Regent, and touched his hair. Red, like the regency.
‘I’m one of a kind, Your Highness,’ said Ancel. The other title was on his lips. Your Majesty. The Regent felt like a king. The Regent’s other arm settled about his waist.
‘Tell me about your master,’ the Regent said. ‘Lord Berenger.’
‘He’s boring,’ said Ancel. ‘Serious. Loyal.’
‘Loyal to my nephew,’ said the Regent. He spoke pleasantly, tweaking Ancel’s hair as he did so. The sharp tug hurt.
‘Loyal to the throne.’ Ancel’s heart had started beating faster.
‘I’ve heard he’s met with my nephew, several times. What was discussed?’
‘I couldn’t say. I wasn’t there for the meetings.’ He kept his tone light.
‘So there were meetings.’