A Royal Affair Read online

  Of course he did. He swam as he did everything else, with an exuberance of youthful spirits, recovered and sparking with vitality once more. We plunged naked into the waves, hollering at the awful sensation of the cold until numb to it, then ran shivering back up the beach and dived into the hut. It was not quite so sweet smelling now and seemed airless and too hot. We were done. I felt quite well and particularly hungry. We dressed quickly, mounted our horses, and returned to the castle.

  I DIDN’T know whether my disgrace in the hut would be revisited or ignored—or how I felt about this either way. I expected Aleksey to refer to my arousal in some way, as he gave me surreptitious, thoughtful glances during the rest of the afternoon. I expected him to say something, but not, “Do you like music?”

  I was busy eating, rather ravenously after the purging and starving of the day, so just nodded and shrugged to this apparent non sequitur. In truth, I was indifferent. He grinned and took this for enthusiastic assent to a plan he had been hatching, and he declared that he would take me out that evening to sample the cultural delights of the city. Deep joy, I thought. Actually, I was delighting in the anticipation of another night in Aleksey’s company and could put up with attendant music if I had to.

  I spent the afternoon checking on the king and making up a few potions to replenish my stocks. The king was not as well as when we had first returned to the palace, which dismayed me rather, but he was taking council and had been walking earlier, so he was not at death’s door either. Just before six o’clock, Aleksey knocked very pointedly on the door between our rooms. As he was already on my side of the open door, this was clearly done more to amuse than announce, but I let it go. I would have been completely unable to say or do anything else than what I did, which was stare at him.

  He had dressed in his usual choice of black leather breeches and long riding boots but had exchanged his usual white shirt for one of a deep emerald green that matched his eyes to perfection, and over this he wore a short military jacket of scarlet with a matching green silk lining. This coat was embellished with gold braid. The effect was brilliant, the colors clashing yet not, dandified yet also deeply masculine. I swallowed, donned my own plain coat, and nodded that I was ready.

  We rode through the town and took a road that led out to some of the wealthier houses. I kept checking behind me and eventually asked, “Where is your dog?”

  Aleksey didn’t rise to the baiting but answered cheerfully, “He disapproves of our destination and said he had less uplifting activities to pursue.” He snickered for some reason at his choice of words.

  Dismounting at a particularly fine establishment, we were welcomed as old friends. Everyone was now speaking the local language, as only the court spoke German and only Aleksey and some of his family English. I understood a few words here and there but was more than happy not to have to talk for once. We were led into a large drawing room full of splendidly dressed older men and young women. Everyone seemed very full of good spirits, literally and metaphorically as I came to discover. We were quickly plied with wine, which I refused after the previous night’s debauchery, and sat in a semicircle facing a splendid piano. This was indeed an impressive sight, for I had only seen one or two of these instruments in private houses before, and then only of the most wealthy of my aristocrat patients. The lady of this house must indeed have had good connections and be very rich.

  A young lady I took to be the daughter of the house sat at the keys and proceeded to play and accompany her playing with a very sweet, affecting voice. I was bored already and began to look around to find Aleksey. He was standing by the fireplace, leaning on the mantle. I smiled privately, knowing he knew how fine he looked standing up. He had deliberately not sat until he had been sufficiently admired. As my eye was doing just that, I heard someone sitting down next to me and turned to discover a pretty young woman spreading her skirts and smiling charmingly at me. I nodded politely and was surprised when she addressed me in English. I said as much, and she replied that she had spent some time in London in a house belonging to her mistress and that she had learned my language there. I think her use of my language was a little muddled, because this seemed rather odd to me. I asked her if she was the daughter of the house. She frowned, also confused. I think enlightenment only came to me when, a few minutes later, she put a hand on my thigh, and her fingers began a staccato dance to the beat of the music upon my flesh.

  I turned away and concentrated on the singer. Aleksey had brought us to a brothel. A very tasteful, elegant house no doubt, but a brothel all the same. I thought back over the events of the day: our close association, physical and emotional, my reaction to this—his observation of my erection. From all that, he had concluded I lacked female company. He had brought me to a brothel. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Neither seemed appropriate nor worth the effort. Instead, I leaned back slightly, closed my eyes, and concentrated on the feel of the hand upon me. Aleksey had laid his hand upon my thigh when we had ridden back from visiting Gregory. In my mind now, this hand was that hand. I allowed it to be, as I had not allowed my imaginings of Aleksey free rein before. He had brought me here; he must take the consequences. Now in the privacy of my own mind, his hand upon me, his thumb stroking the sensitive inside of my thigh through my breeches, I thought about our day together. For the first time, I allowed my mind to conjure his naked form and revel in it.

  Why was it that when men looked upon the female form, they lost themselves to desire? When I saw women, spilling pink and plump from their dresses, I saw mammary glands for the feeding of young and thought of milk. Whilst other men admired hips swaying toward them, I measured and calculated width for childbirth. But how would these same men react when they looked upon Aleksey? How could they not groan with need at the shape of his wide, strong shoulders? How could they not shiver with desire when allowing their eyes to travel down his torso to the ridges of his belly? Did the tips of their fingers not tingle with desire to touch and trace the vee of muscle that held all this in place and drew the eye farther—to that which made my mouth water to think of? I hardened then to the thought of Aleksey as I had seen him naked that day. In that place, with that hand upon me, was I not allowed at last to rise?

  I glanced cautiously with lowered lids around the room. Little clusters of two had formed everywhere. The evening was heating up. We were by no means the only couple engrossed in other than the music. My companion, clearly pleased by my reaction, had sidled closer. Her head was on my shoulder, and the positioning of her hand could not now be said to be an unconscious response to the intensity of the music: it was inside my breeches. She smiled in what I must assume to be a seductive way. I turned away at the sight of lip paint upon her teeth. As I turned, I saw Aleksey. He was leaving the saloon in the company of two young women.

  I am not a man given to anger easily, or if I am, I can mask it behind schooled indifference. But that night, my fury rose hot and hard. I stood up, brushing the woman’s hand off my groin. I refused to be embarrassed about my state, given I was not the guilty party here with inappropriate reactions. I was their puppet, and I had danced to their strings. I was torn now, though. Half of me wanted to leave, and half of me wanted to find Aleksey and ruin his evening as he’d ruined mine. But to do this, I would have to admit the cause of my anguish, and that I could not do. Of course, I had now admitted it to myself well enough; I could hardly keep up that level of pretense. I understood very well why seeing him leave with two women upset me: I was jealous. I was sick with jealousy. I wanted to kill him. I’d rather he were dead than in there with th—without me. It was not a revelation likely to improve my mood.

  I brushed off the young woman’s anxious inquiries about my health and sudden indisposition. She said these words, but of course she was only thinking about her payment for the evening and that she had wasted the better part of the night on me for nothing. I did not know the etiquette of these places, never having been in one before, but I assumed that I could not thrust s
ome coins at her in public. I mumbled some apology, which I could see really made things better, and decided not to waste my time further. I left. I rode back to the castle alone. I lay for a very long time listening for sounds from the other side of the wall that did not come.

  The next morning, despite being heartsick (and also genuinely sick, for my anger and jealousy had rendered me shivery and hot on waking), I strode along the corridors to the king’s apartment a determined man. I demanded entry. As a regular visitor to the king’s rooms, I was admitted. I was met by the unctuous priest, whose name I had forgotten. He told me the king was at prayer and was not to be disturbed. The devil take that. I pushed him rudely to one side.

  Following the direction of his eyes, I swept aside a rich scarlet hanging and found a door. The door led to a flight of steps that descended into a small round chamber. My first reaction was to recoil in horror. This was before I had even seen the king lying panting for breath upon the damp stone flags. To my sickened senses, stepping down into the room was like plunging into a vat of sour apple mash: it was all green and yellow. As I reeled, though, I realized I was sicker than I’d thought, for in reality, the chapel was merely decorated in rich wall hangings of brilliant, verdant greens. I fell to my knees alongside the king and shouted for assistance but to no avail—either the priest could not hear me or he’d already left to fetch guards.

  I shouldered the old man with difficulty, swaying, steadying myself against the wall, face-to-face with green. How inappropriate for a place of prayer! Who would want to pray in a green room? That was when it hit me, the memory slipping and sliding away from me. I staggered up the steps with the king upon my shoulder to be met with confusion and dismay in the bedchamber. After dumping the king unceremoniously upon the bed, I turned to face the guards and courtiers roused by the priest. I also faced Aleksey. What I wanted to say to that young man was immaterial; this was imperative. “It’s the room, Your Highness, the papers upon the wall and the hangings. They are green, and they have been poisoning your father.” I then turned to save, yet again, my poor patient.

  Fortunately for the king’s life, distraction over affairs of state had given him less time to pray since his return from the cleansing. That morning he had risen later than his usual time and had only been in the chapel for a scant half hour. Even that much time in his weakened state had caused him to collapse once more, his throat swollen and his breathing labored. I was able to revive him with some fresh air and calm breathing and, I confess, some wine. It relaxed him quickly, and I thought it would not harm him just this once to be inebriated in the morning. Besides, I had my own selfish reasons for wanting him amenable. I had gone to his rooms to tell him I was leaving that day, and nothing since had persuaded me to change my plan. Now that I was certain of the cause of his condition and had effectively discovered the poisoner, so to speak, I was even more determined to leave that very day. If I made haste, I could outrun the snow, for I would be traveling south before turning west. Even if caught, I would rather wait out the winter in the most squalid inn Hesse-Davia could offer than stay longer in rooms adjoining Aleksey’s.

  I had come to get the king’s permission to leave, but first I had to explain myself. Why was his newly decorated (at great expense, with the finest paper from London) chapel being stripped? What the devil (his expression, not mine) did I mean by it? I could hardly explain it myself. It was a rumor amongst those of us who specialized in the treatment of poison. It was whispered thoughts about children dying in green bedrooms, of ladies who died wearing green dresses, of gentlemen dying in their smoking rooms and lying still and cold upon green baize. None of us could articulate our fears, but nevertheless we shared them. It could not be spoken of, for were we not already suspected of dealing in the dark arts? How can a color kill you? It was ridiculous, and we would have been laughed out of our patients’ rooms.

  So we made up other reasons for the green sickness, but ones that still enabled us to separate our patients from the green in their lives. I had not even thought that the king’s chapel might be lined with a deadly color. I could see I was not being wholly believed, but it was imperative that he follow my instructions and remove the lethal color. In the end, swallowing my pride, I offered an explanation that one of my colleagues had invented and often used when persuading his most reluctant clients: God’s will. I told the king that green was God’s color—the color that he had used to dress our world—and as the Christian Bible says, he is a jealous God. I told the king that he had offended God by mimicking his glorious works: stick to blue and red. I saw a wise nodding now from his counselors. I sighed. I wondered if it was time to change profession.

  I was gratified and flattered, at first, that the king refused to hear of my departure and said that I must stay. He liked me. He owed me his life, and, as with any tenuous lifeline, he was very reluctant to let go. But let go he did. I reasoned with him, and eventually I had my letters of dismissal, excellent royal references, and a purse very satisfactorily stuffed with coin.

  I was in a much better mood when I returned to my rooms to give Stephen orders about the packing up and shipping of my personal belongings. When the boy (who was moping and sulking for some reason) told me that my boxes could go that week, as there was a ship from London in harbor, I stilled my hand. Could I overcome my reluctance to a sea crossing? It would mean no fear of winter trapping me in the mountains…. I could be home before the Christmas season…. I mulled it over as I packed and decided that I would go down to the harbor and view the ship before I made my decision. I had not gone a mile before I heard the pounding of hooves, and Aleksey reined in beside me, his great beast loping ahead, as if he knew my destination. Aleksey did not greet me, so I said nothing as well. Eventually, though, he inquired in a sulky voice, “Did he pay you well?”

  It was a particularly rude question. Doctors do not like to discuss the fact that they get paid for their services, preferring to imply they act for charity’s sake. I nodded and left it at that. “Why are we going this way?”

  We, I thought, had not been going anywhere, but I refrained from pointing this out and replied evenly, “I have heard there is a ship in from London. I want to see it.”

  “All ships look the same.”

  “I am leaving. If the ship is suitable, I might book a passage upon it.”

  He was silent again for a while. I decided I preferred him talking. I wanted to hear his lies. I wanted a great deal more than that. I wanted to pull him from his horse and beat him until he cried for my mercy, which I might or might not give him. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

  He cast me a quick glance. “I suppose so. What are you going to do when you return to England?”

  I had hoped my question would annoy him, force him to talk about what had happened behind closed doors—without me. I thought of something else that might annoy him more. “I hadn’t thought about it. Why? I may travel for a while. I may go home.”

  He frowned. “Home?”

  “Hmm. To the Americas. My people.”

  I could almost hear his thoughts, hear him making the connections. Very satisfactorily, as I wanted him to, he asked in a roundabout way, “That’s… that is the place you spoke of? Where… unchristian practices are common?”

  I nodded gravely, then twisted the knife. “Men there love openly with other men as easily as we love women in our world. It is quite something to behold. I think, freed as they are from any form of religion, other than the worship of their perfect bodies, they do not find men joining with other men at all strange.”

  Most of this was a complete fabrication, of course. The Powponi had a very well-formed spiritual life, and they certainly did not encourage their young warriors to waste their seed inside the bodies of their brothers. Rather, it was valued and celebrated as a means of increasing the numbers and strength of the tribe. Nevertheless, if two men wished to be intimate, they could, and nothing was said or done to stop them. It suited my purposes that morning, however, to
annoy and upset His Royal Highness Prince Christian Aleksey, and that is what I was doing. I wondered what his next question would be. I could sense one coming. I put my money on the perfect bodies comment. I was right.

  “They are very dark skinned, these people? Like Margaret?”

  “Not at all. They are light brown. The same color I was when I first arrived. Here….” I held out my arm, still browner than it would be when winter came upon us. “About this shade.” I trailed my fingers lightly up and down, rather in the same way the young woman had run hers on my leg. Aleksey swallowed, his eyes watching the display. “Their hair is your shade but very straight and worn long with braids and decorations, small skulls and feathers. They are the most beautiful people on earth, I believe. Especially their young men, who live on a diet that encourages muscle growth. They are tall, and as they live naked, their muscles are always on display.”

  “They live naked! What! All the time?”

  Of course they did not, stupid boy. This was more fun than I had anticipated when I began. “It is a very favorable climate: warm most of the year, so there’s no requirement for covering. They sometimes use paint to enhance certain… obvious features. When erect, for example—but other than that, they are naked.”

  I turned my face away toward the ocean to hide my expression. I wondered how he was picturing the decoration—and the erections, come to that. “And you? Surely you, as a white man and a Christian, did not follow this custom?”

  “I am not a Christian. I was not then, and I am not now.”

  He put a hand on my reins to stop our progress. “What do you mean?”

  “I was taken captive when I was very young. I grew up without knowledge of your Bible or your God.”

  He frowned deeply. “But God is everywhere. It is not possible to be without knowledge of him.”

  I shrugged and let him work a bit harder for himself.