The Black Prince: Part I (47 page)

A
sher wished he were a peasant. Then he’d get to learn interesting things. Like how to join wood. And how to mate pigs. Not…
logic
.

“Did you memorize
any
of what I asked you to?”

Asher favored his tutor with a sullen glare. “No.”

The older man sighed. “Very well. Then we shall learn it again today.”

“But I don’t want to.” He wanted to be outside. In the practice yard. Or with his horse. Doing something that was actually useful. That would help him to become a knight. Whereas he was fairly certain that none of this stuff would. Unless he planned on winning wars by boring his enemies to death.

“Then I suggest you take that up with your father.”

His tutor was, as always, maddeningly calm. Pale-haired and thin, he had a habit of staring down his equally thin nose at his pupil. He knew perfectly well that Asher wouldn’t take it up with his father. Asher could just imagine the reaction he’d get if he informed the duke that he’d rather spend time with peasants. He’d do that, alright, having been assigned to the most odious task possible, and then he’d
still
have to learn logic.

“The Seven Liberal Arts,” his tutor began, for the thousandth time, “are the key to an ordered universe. The Trivium, or the first three roads—which you’d know, if you’d memorized your numbers like I’d asked—are the subjects of grammar, rhetoric, and logic. In these we find the structure of language, and the force to speak. The consummate knight is the master of these things.

“The Quadrivium, or the other four roads, are arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music.”

“But arithmetic is so boring.” Asher put his head down on the table.

“Why do educated men use Eastern-style numbering, rather than the system crafted by the church?”

“I don’t know.”

“We discussed this yesterday.”

“I wasn’t paying attention.” Asher’s tone was just the tiniest bit defensive.

“As is patently obvious.” There was a pause, during which Asher felt bathed in continued disapproval. “The church teaches that everything is created by the Gods. So since zero represents nothing, zero cannot exist.”

“Yes, yes, heresy, death, heresy, blah, blah, blah.”

“Some day you’ll rule, or help to rule, over members of this church.”

“By the time I’m that old, everyone won’t be so stupid.”

There was a sigh.

Asher really didn’t see the point. Let people believe what they wanted. If the idea of nothing was so terrifying, then let them ignore it. The average person didn’t need to figure, anyway. With the zero or without. And while his tutor might claim that
nothing
was an abstract concept, something that needed to be taught, Asher was fairly certain that anyone who’d gone without a meal understood it just fine.

“Chess, then.”

“Draughts,” Asher countered.

“Draughts is not chess.”

No kidding.

“Draughts is a game for children. Chess, meanwhile, should not be considered a game at all but a highly stylized and concentrated form of preparation.”

“For what? Sleep?”

“For war.”

Asher turned his head slightly, his ear pressed against the table.

“To capture the board, a man must see possibilities in his mind’s eye. To, as he considers each move, consider the possible repercussions of that move. Indeed, to the point where he anticipates the various possible strategies of his enemy simultaneously.

“He cannot overcome his enemy with raw emotion, or a simple show of strength. Beating his breast and howling, as it were, hoping to use terror in place of thought. He cannot win without calm, and peace, for these things hone the keystone of all victory: observation.”

“You make war sound so boring.”

“He who masters chess masters war.”

“What do you know about war? You’re missing an arm.” Although pointing out people’s disabilities wasn’t nice. Isla said so. Asher began to feel bad as soon as the words had left his lips, although he wouldn’t admit so. He hated the stupid old coot.

“How do you think I lost it?”

Asher’s eyes widened.

His tutor arched an eyebrow.

“But you never….”

“Gruesome stories are for good little boys who learn their numbers, and who pay attention when their tutors lecture them on logic.”

Asher felt more depressed than ever.

“But, as we’ve near reached the end of our time together, there is perhaps no harm in adjourning.”

“Really?”

“If you promise to study your numbers—truly, this time—before tomorrow.”

Asher leapt from his seat. “Absolutely!”

And then, before his tutor could change his mind, he ran.

Every morning, more of the same. Every single morning. He could see, he supposed, the argument for
some
mornings. Once in awhile. But six mornings out of seven? It was always the same: after breakfast he practiced his reading. Usually by reading aloud something awful. Then they discussed whatever he’d read, which was usually also not much fun. He didn’t have opinions on what anyone’s motivation was, or what a certain line of poetry might really mean. And then after that he got lectured on the movements of the planets. And then…numbers.

He liked music okay but he usually did that in the evenings before dinner, with Isla. She claimed that women liked men who could sing, and dance, and especially who could play the lute or the lyre. Isla herself was quite talented with the latter, although she disguised that fact and never played for company. Only for Tristan and Asher and, on the rare occasions these days when he was actually around, Hart.

He thought he might go and see what Isla was doing. He couldn’t go outside and play, because it was raining. Or rather he could, but there’d be no one good to play with. He’d just end up wet, and even more bored, but it’d be worse because he’d be wet.

John would be outside. John would want to play. At whatever Asher wanted to play at. Asher toyed, on occasion, with the idea of enticing John into doing something really awful. Like playing hide and seek at the bottom of the well. Or letting Asher dangle him head first from one of the parapets. But he knew how disappointed Isla would be.

And he didn’t even want to think about how his father would react.

Besides, knights were chivalrous. Or something. They didn’t take advantage of the weak-minded. And Asher was sort of maybe, just a little bit, coming to like John. John told funny stories, and really was willing to go along with almost anything.

But right now, Asher wanted quiet.

Maybe he could get Isla to read him a book. One of the good ones, with lots of intrigue. And battles.

He was upset that Hart was gone, although he understood in general terms that his uncle was on an errand for the king. Fighting men didn’t sit around in one place, doing nothing; they traveled, and had adventures. Asher wished he’d been old enough to go. Hart had cool weapons and armor and people had to do what he said.

He wasn’t exactly sure what Hart was doing. He’d overheard only that he was on some kind of quest. To rescue some princess from a castle. Or the castle from the princess. Both sounded equally exciting. Maybe he’d marry the princess, just like in the stories.
That
would be exciting. Except Hart hadn’t seemed too thrilled about the idea.

Asher knew that he’d be very thrilled. Unless, of course, the princess was ugly. Maybe that’s what his uncle was worried about.

He was walking down the hall, alone, considering all of this when he heard a noise. He wasn’t in his family’s private wing, yet, but walking through the guest quarters adjacent to them. He’d been meeting with his tutor in the map room off of the second of the keep’s two libraries. He liked the libraries. Both of them. He liked how mysterious they felt, like chambers of secrets. And if he’d stayed in the library, searching for books he wasn’t allowed to read, as he’d also considered doing, he wouldn’t have heard that noise. Or seen what he then saw.

He stopped.

There it was again.

A giggle.

He could hear the falseness in it. A faint undercurrent, like the pull at his feet when he walked too far out into the lake. He was pretty sure, though, that the person the voice was with couldn’t hear it. Because the answering chuckle, while quiet, sounded genuine.

The door on the left was ajar.

Asher took a step forward. Then another. He placed each foot down toe first, as he’d been taught. A hunter’s silent walk, and one that he continually forgot to practice. But some long-buried instinct told him that silence was important now. That his life might depend on it. Still, he couldn’t run. Couldn’t retreat to the safety of the library, where he knew his tutor still was. Could only step forward, and forward.

He had to know.

He stopped. Leaned forward. Peered through the slit.

Rowena.

And a man he didn’t recognize. Which wasn’t so strange, in and of itself. There were men, and women, in and out of the castle daily. Local worthies, petitioning for various kinds of relief, or to have disputes settled. Representatives from various guilds, both at home and abroad. Visiting dignitaries. What made this strange was the fact that this man was sprawled in a large and finely carved chair like he owned it. And Rowena was on his lap.

The chair was at an angle, their heads turned from him. He could see the man’s profile, and Rowena’s back. And see, too, that the man’s shirt was open to his waist and Rowena’s dress pulled down past her shoulders. The man reached up to fondle an exposed breast. Rowena giggled again.

Asher stood rooted in place, wondering what to do.

“You’re beautiful. A body like yours is made for a man’s pleasure.”

“Tell that to my husband.”

“These nipples. So firm and responsive.” Another low chuckle, from that strange man. A distinctly unpleasant and mirthless sound. “Makes me wonder whether the rest of you is just as responsive.” He slid a hand up the side of her thigh, pushing up her skirts.

“But you promise you’ll help me.”

“Aye, I’ll help you come.” He leaned forward, presumably to take one of those nipples in his mouth.

She stiffened. Suddenly, her voice was harsh. The same voice she used on Asher, and on Isla. “No. Not until we have an agreement.”

He leaned his head back on the chair. “Yes, yes. We have an agreement.”

This time, she let him do as he would.

Asher had never seen people have sex before, but he knew what it was. His parents had sex; they shared a bed and that was what parents did. Even if no one ever wanted to think about it. And John talked about sex all the time, although the only sex
he’d
ever witnessed was between horses. He claimed to have spied on the grooms when they met with their various girlfriends in the stables’ large network of hay lofts, but Asher knew that was a lie. John was too coward and besides, the positions he described were impossible.

But all of that, even so…was different.

Asher couldn’t explain why, even to himself, but a cold fear had gripped the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t wrong, the way spying on the grooms was wrong. It was…the word that came to mind was one he’d heard Hart use. And his father. Treason.

Except…why? Maybe he was overreacting, he told himself. Maybe the help she needed was innocent. It didn’t
have
to be anything bad. In his heart of hearts, Asher knew that he was still a child and knew, too, that he didn’t always understand things as he should. The adults in his life all seemed to lack the confusion that had lately come to dominate his own thinking. Rather, they seemed confident. Assured. His father, for one, always knew what to do. And Isla, too.

If Rowena was up to something bad, wouldn’t they know?

Moreover, Rowena was his aunt. If he said anything bad about her, he might get in trouble. He knew his father didn’t like her much, and Isla didn’t like her much, but she was still a fellow adult and adults seemed to band together. Maeve had always favored those in her inner circle over Asher, punishing him if he complained that someone had been mean to him. Or worse.

He didn’t think Isla was like that but who knew? Maybe that was just how all adults were, regardless of whether they were nice or not. After all, it wasn’t like any of them exactly included him in their counsels. They told him to go off and play, or study, or basically be anywhere but with them, while they talked amongst themselves.

The man was gripping Rowena’s bottom now, lifting her up and down while she in turn gripped his shoulders. It didn’t look very comfortable. And Rowena, he could have sworn, looked bored.

That spike of fear again.

He should tell someone. If she needed help, why hadn’t she asked his father? But then Asher remembered how, the week before, he’d overheard one of the pastry chefs tell her assistant that men like Hart—who could, in her words, really raise a tent—fulfilled needs that a woman’s husband couldn’t. Whatever that meant. And when he’d asked, after the wedding, why Rudolph and Rowena had gotten married if they hated each other so much he’d been told only that he’d understand when he was older.

So maybe this was that kind of help?