Fiction: Whipping Boy pt 1

[kethni]

Name: Whipping Boy
Pairing: Matt/Mo
Rating: R
Warnings: Some violence, sexual content
Spoilers: None
Note: Totally, completely AU. Sorry!

Urgh. That mead must have been fouled. Again. I swear I have the worst luck with the stuff for every time I drink it I end up feeling dreadful the day afterwards.

I keep my eyes closed but push the covers back. “Matthew?” I call. He knows what to do in these circumstances. “Matthew?” It isn’t like him to not answer at once.

There’s a polite tap at the door.

“Who is there?” I demand.

“Frederick, your highness, may I come in?”

“If you must.” They all look the same these guard slaves; square, solid, serious.

“Where is Matthew?”

“Being whipped, your highness.”

Oh by all that is holy, what am I being blamed for doing now?

I get out of bed, pull on my robe, and head for the door. This ‘Frederick’ creature stumbles to get the door open in time and then match his stride to mine. It really is too poor. Matthew is always holding my robe when I want it, has the door open when I want to leave, and matches his pace to mine.

The logic of punishing me when I’m not present, and without even telling me that I’m being punished, utterly escapes me. If I had not woken when I did, or asked where Matthew was, I would have never known, and then the thing is surely meaningless.

Father is having breakfast with his favourite, but currently rather sour faced, concubine and a very young pretty one I have not seen before.

“Ah, you have arisen and before midday. This is a fortunate omen.”

“I am not here to trade amusing comments with you, Father. This oaf tells me that I am being punished. What for?”

“Now, now, Mohinder, do not feign outrage. With all these things it is never what you have done and only what I found out about.”

“Yes, yes, yes Father, and what is that exactly?” Really, he has no talent for game play and I, at this moment, have no taste for it.

Father snaps his fingers at his favourite concubine and she reads aloud from a scroll.

“Overturning table at the gaming house, horsewhipping a man for lawfully chastising his slave, and deflowering a catamite of the temple of Atheni.”

My, I have been busy, have I not? “When was this supposed riot of amusements?”

“Last night.”

“Father! You are punishing me without seeking my side? That is most unfair.”

He shakes his head. “Do not pout Mohinder,” he warns. “What was the point, when there was witnesses and the matters entirely in keeping with you behaviour?”

“Well, I think it most unfair not to even tell me when I am being punished.”

“Do stop bleating about ‘fairness’, you have no concept of the word,” Father says irritably. “You would have been informed. Clearly making you watch achieves little or nothing.”

Not true. I will have no sleep tonight.

“I ought to at least be there. It’s only right and proper.”

Father rolls his eyes. “I would like to believe you had enough grasp of the proprieties to truly mean that. Very well, go and watch the wretched deed be done.”


Deflowered a catamite, really! How can they be called a catamite if unbroken?

I detest this, and twenty lashes seem so disproportionate. Matthew never cries out; as long as I can remember he’s been completely quiet when whipped. The blood trickles down the expanse of his broad back and drips to the floor. As always, I had no intention of behaving in a manner that required correction. It simply happens. Befouled mead.


Once Matthew is back in his proper place things resume their normal rhythm. I return to bed and he brings me breakfast.

“Did I deflower a catamite last night?”

“Yes, highness.”

“Oh.” I take a bite of my food. “But how can he be a catamite if chaste?”

“He was sworn to the calling, highness,” Matthew explains. “Once boys from the temple orphanages are of age many of them are anointed. The temple sells a good many of them. It is a blessing to be the first to take one.”

“I do not feel blessed,” I complain.

“Nor he,” Matthew says.

I wince. “Why, do you think he will be punished? I suppose they’ll send him back to the temple.”

“Yes, highness. I’m sure he’ll be one with the gods soon.”

“Hmm?” I ask.

“Nothing highness,” he says.

I flex my hand and it throbs. Matthew takes my hand and kneads it ably but it is some time before the pain recedes.

“Why does my hand hurt?”

Matthew shifts position slightly. “I regret, highness, that I accidentally interrupted you when you were about to take Lady Julia. Unfortunately I then struck my face on your highnesses fist.”

Oh. Oh dear.

“Lady Julia? Lady Julia is married, is she not? To that dreadful oik with the caged slaves and live animals served at supper?”

“General Milton, your highness,” Matthew agrees. “Lady Julia was entirely willing.”

Lady Julia is ‘entirely willing’ for any man she meets. “Her husband would not have been! He would have called me out!”

“Really, highness?” Matthew asks, facetiously I believe.

“It is entirely too early in the morning for this. You know right well that he would have called me out and I should have been killed!”

“Highness, that would never have been allowed to happen,” Matthew says mildly.

No, I have no doubt.

“At least tell me the other two charges were untrue. Overturning gaming tables?”

“Your highness believed he was being cheated.”

“Was I?” I ask.

Matthew hesitates and my heart sinks. “Forgive me, highness. This miserable slave has a poor understanding of gaming.”

“So they were not cheating. Did I truly horsewhip someone?”

Matthew takes away the tray. “Yes, your highness.”

“For why?”

Matthew puts the tray away and returns to the room. “Your highness objected to his avowal to beat his slave to death for spilling a glass of beer.”

There at least I can have some moral high ground. “Beer? He was clearly a low order with no taste. I ought to have him beaten for that.”


I bathe after I’ve breakfasted. It is such a pleasant and elegant thing with a familiar and conscientious slave. At times I have been punished so severely that Matthew is unable to fulfil his duties, and I have had the misfortune to be pulled, grabbed, pushed, and pawed by ugly and clumsy slaves. Matthew has bathed me as long I can remember and I don’t recall him ever stumbling and struggling the way some of the other slaves have done.

The warmth and the water wake my member fully. Matthew finishes bathing me, disappears briefly to fetch one of the palace whores, and dries me as she does her work.


I enjoy riding a great deal although I dislike hunting. It is a rather lonely thing out in the countryside with only a small guard. They are loyal to my father, naturally, and share his attitudes to me. When I am king, of course, they will be loyal to me and believe as I do. It is pleasant to be here under the open sky. I ride through the woodlands listening to the bird calls and watching the animals in the distance. I cannot go too further or I will reach the village beyond and that would never do. I am told they are barely beyond animals in understanding and awareness; which surely cannot be true as I have known slaves and concubines with more understanding than some of the sons of the best families.


Matthew meets me in the stables and helps me down from my horse.

“I think I shall go to town, Matthew.”

His shoulders tense for a moment.

“You disapprove?” I ask.

“Your highness is kind enough to tease that I would pass judgement,” he says, kneeling to change my boots.

“You do disapprove,” I say. “Why so?”

He glances up at me and shakes his head. “I live to serve your highness in all ways.”

“Matthew, come now. Speak up. Why ought I not to be entertained?” I ask.

“Your highness has ample entertainments here,” he says squaring his shoulders.

A groom tending to my horse gasps at what he doubtless thinks flagrant impropriety.

“We shall continue this conversation in my quarters.”

“Of course, your highness,” Matthew says, smoothly opening the door for me.


You think, I suppose, this a shocking breach? If you do then you have little or no understanding. Loyalty, true loyalty, is a two edged sword. To be truly, genuinely loyal one must know the man inspiring it, not merely murmur blind promises to a title, a sceptre of authority or crown. Genuine loyalty is a rare flower and if the breeding of it requires some familiarity beyond the expected then that is a small price to pay.

Matthew has already laid out my clothes for the afternoon and begins undressing me from my riding clothes.

“Well? Speak, Matthew. What disturbs you?”

“I am undisturbed, highness. I merely am concerned that, should I be unable to fulfil my duties after another night of revelries, I do not know who will care for your highness.”

He does not look at me when he speaks. Of course, it is proper that he not, but I have never thought the rule prudent to enforce. If his words must, by circumstance, be fettered then his face must tell me the tale.

“I have no intention of being punished tomorrow,” I protest.

“No highness. Nor was it your intention last night.”

“You are too bold,” I say softly, and he kneels to kiss my shoes and plead forgiveness. I touch his shoulder and he stands, continuing to dress me.

“Thank you, highness, for your forgiveness.”

“It is well,” I admit. “Are you in pain?”

Matthew pauses for a brief moment. “No highness.”

“How much pain?” I ask.

“Only a very little, your highness,” he amends.

It is an old game this. One every slave surely plays with his master. Any master who says his slaves never lie and never soften the truth is a fool or a liar. But Matthew has never done either for any sake but mine.

“I will drink neither beer nor mead,” I say. “You know how I am cursed to drink bad mead. That is the root of all my ills. This afternoon I shall touch no alcohol I swear it.”

He smiles to himself when he thinks I cannot see him. “Yes highness.”

“You must stop me! If I am tricked into it I hold you to stop me,” I order him.

“As your highness decrees.”


Matthew is opening the door as soon as the carriage comes to a halt. He helps me down, shuts the door behind me, and shoos away the beggars and the scavenging dogs.

“It seems there is more of these every week,” I observe, as Matthew throws coins over the beggars heads. They turn to scrabble for the coins and we walk on.

“Dogs, highness?”

“Beggars, I think I saw a couple of children there. I do not believe I have seen children begging before. Have you seen it before?”

Matthew is looking around watchfully as always, hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist. The guards behind us do not pay as much attention to their surroundings as he does.

“It is more common than it was,” he admits.

“What ails you?” I ask

“Your highness?” he asks, glancing at me briefly.

“Come now, Matthew, speak up,” I say as we walk onwards. “I know well and good that you are anxious about something.”

His fingers flex on the hilt of the sword and he looks meaningfully at the guards. “Your highness, this miserable slave is unfamiliar with political matters.”

Political matters? Oh I despise political matters. I suppose I ought to somehow become more interested. One day I will be King and then I will have to deal with them, I imagine. I am sure I will do it remarkably ill. As it is I have to rely what crumbs I gather from my father, from the court, and from whatever sources are available.

The brothel is the best in the city. Such whores as we keep in the palace are to my father’s tastes; female, sweet faced, and rather placid. Fair enough for relief from time to time but in honesty rarely to my taste and, I suspect, not to Matthew’s either.

He looks at the building with distaste.

“You are thinking, I imagine that there are ample whores at the place,” I suggest.

“Your highness is too kind in considering the thoughts of a mere slave,” he says dryly.

“Stay here,” I order the guards and Matthew’s shoulders tense. “Matthew, with me.” He follows me into the brothel, looking back at the guard warily. “Tell me.”

“Not here, if it please your highness,” he murmurs.

“Really Matthew, you are unfair to the hardworking men and women of this establishment. You serve, they serve, only the nature of the service is different,” I tease.

His face contorts, without either the annoyance or amusement that I expect, and he steps away from me.

“Not here,” he repeats. “If it pleases your highness.”

It is a poor start to my treat and it bothers me more than it ought. Matthew is so mild-mannered and patient by nature; part of what makes him so good a slave. It is peculiarly unpleasant for him to be out of sorts.

The mistress of the house prostrates herself on the floor, forehead touching the ground.

“Please stand.”

“How might we please, your highness?” she asks, wringing her hands together. “We have all manner of pleasure slaves. Should I have a selection brought out for your highness to browse?”

“What is your pleasure, Matthew, boys or girls?” I ask, feeling myself smirking at his obvious discomfort.

“It pleases your highness to tease his unworthy slave,” he says, his jaw set.

“No, no, not so. Take you a whore, or whores, and amuse yourself,” I urge. “My father tells me I ought to have you mated to keep you calm. This is better. Perhaps they can tend to your wounds as well.”

“You highness is too kind,” he practically growls.

Oh dear. He is rarely in this mood; which is fortunate because it is near impossible to shift him from it.

“Which will it be, boys or girls?” I ask.

He grinds his teeth and will not look at me. “As it pleases your highness.”

I ought to surrender it as a failed enterprise but it would be unseemly to back down in front of the mistress of the brothel. It would be unseemly and the news of it all over the city in moments. Yes, yes, backing down to a slave is a fool’s errand in any event but it would not be the first time and I dare say it would not be the last. Any man of sense will admit, to himself if no-one else, that he sometimes makes an error of judgement.

“Your kind are gifted at knowing what a man wants. Bring a selection that you think would serve my slave,” I say to the mistress. “That is the only criteria; that what you believe will please him.”

She scrutinises Matthew, who flushes red, and smiles to herself. The she rushes off, no doubt pausing to send out runners to crow to her fellows about the Crown Prince choosing her house to frequent.

“This is no punishment,” I say to Matthew. “I’m sure they will have someone to take good care of you.”

He gives me an odd look and sighs. “Your highnesses kindness is...”

“Kind?” I suggest.

“Inappropriate,” he says, flinching as he says it.

I find myself pacing the room. “Father has taken me to task for not having you mated. He says it is unhealthy.”

Matthew sighs and shakes his head. “Highness...”

“It will do you good.”

“I am content,” he says mildly. “I have my duties.”

I laugh aloud and he gives me a sour look. “Matthew, duties are work and you fulfil them admirably.” I slap his arm.
“Coupling is for pleasure. I would be a terrible master never to reward your service. Oh, would you rather be bred? I’ve never understood the drive to reproduce but if you would rather that can be arranged.”

He actually recoils from me. I don’t think I remember him ever doing that before. “Your highness is too kind,” he stammers.

I take a step forward to put my hand on his arm and he cringes. “Matthew, what do you think I am suggesting you do? You have seen me coupling, does it appear so terrifying?”

“No, highness,” he says.

“Well then. Come now, be brave!” I say encouragingly. “What pleases you more, a boy or a girl?”

“I... I know not.”

I sigh and step back. “Matthew, you are very difficult to be kind to.”

“I beg your pardon, highness,” he says, sounding slightly more his normal self.

The door opens and the mistress walks in and clears her throat. “If your highness pleases, I have a selection prepared.”

She leads the way to a larger room with tinkling fountains, white marble floors, and satin covered beds. There are four men gathered. All of my age or a little younger; all slender and shorter than Matthew, and colouring from blue eyed with alabaster skin to black eyed and midnight skin.

Hmm, I would be lying if I had expected that, though I cannot honestly say what I did expect. Matthew scarcely seems displeased though. For once he’s paying me little or no mind at all. He’s looking at one of the men and chewing his lower lip. I can’t see the appeal. His tawny brown skin is nothing much out of the norm and his features though very fine and delicate are surely too regular to be truly attractive. The tangle of curls is scarcely very masculine.

“Is this your best?” I ask, rather more sharply than I intend.

She looks startled and spreads her hands out. “Your highness asked for pleasure slaves to appeal to his slave.”

Matthew is looking at me now.

“You may have a different selection if you wish,” I say.

“I am quite content,” he says mildly. “I would choose this one,” he says almost shyly, gesturing at the man he has been staring at.

“Fine, if you wish, provided that you do not merely promise him to be paid if he pretends that you had your way with him,” I say sharply.

Matthew reddens somewhat, sure proof at being caught out.

“Your highness, we would never allow such a thing,” the mistress promises. She gestures at the selected whore and he smiles, takes Matthew’s hand, and leads him away. “If your highness wishes...” she says cautiously. “If your highness is concerned that the act will not take place... you could observe.”

I feel myself growing warm. “I do not think that would be conducive to Matthew.”

“Oh he would not know. Allow me to show you then you may decide.”


She takes me out, through maze-like corridors, and into a small room. There is a curtain on the wall and a sort of grill below it.

“Open the curtain to see and the grill to hear. They cannot see or hear you.”

She leaves me alone and, I confess, that curiosity or something like it, spurs me to open the curtain. The room beyond is plush; thick carpets, rich furnishings, a large and silk covered bed.

Matthew looks as nervous as before. The slave is saying something and his movements are submissive, clearly attempting to entice Matthew into the bed.

Matthew says something, spreads out his hands in explanation. The slave listens and nods, then his movements change; no longer meek but bold. He pushes Matthew to sit on the bed and straddles his lap. He kisses Matthew with passion – I thought that whores would not kiss – and his fingers grasp in Matthew’s hair.

Hmm. I have eaten something that does not agree with me. I feel unwell. I shut the curtain and go in search of a privy.



Matthew arrives in the reception room bathed and scented. He is deferent and unpleasantly quick to express gratitude to first myself and the whorehouse mistress. He will not meet my eyes and looks away when he sees me regarding him.

I count out the coins into her hand and sweep out with Matthew behind me.


When we return to the palace I am oddly out of sorts. I can barely stand for Matthew’s touch when he attempts to help me down from the carriage. Instead, as a fool, I push him away and then fall. He catches me before I land, as if I were a child, and sets me down. Embarrassment makes me snarl at him and I march away.

I almost wish that he would fall behind or fail to know I am going, something. Instead he does as always, reaching for each door before I arrive, knowing where and how I go.

We reach my chambers and I am propelled to pace even as he lays out my clothes and attempts to change me out of those I am wearing.

“Leave me,” I hear myself say.

I expect him to protest that my clothes are soiled, or even to ask what is ailing me. Yes, yes, it would be inappropriate but not the first time and not entirely unwelcome. He does neither though but looks at me and nods.

“As your highness wishes,” he murmurs and leaves the room.

It is an odd sensation to be alone for any length of time when awake; unpleasant and abnormal not to know that Matthew is close by. I sleep with him by the bed and when I wake he is already woken and preparing for the day.

The door is thrown open and my heart lurches. My father walks in gesturing at all but his personal slaves to stay behind.

“Father, when do you ever visit me?”

“Why is Matthew skulking around outside like an inconvenienced bandit?” he demands.

I stop pacing. “He is only outside?”

“Where did you think he was?” father snorts.

“I told him to leave me,” I admit.

Father rolls his eyes. “Fool, how will he serve you out there?”

“What is your pleasure father?” I ask tiredly.

“I am sending you to the country.”

I blink at him. “For why? Tell me not diplomacy, I have no gift for it.”

Father snorts again and shakes his head. “That is true enough. No, for safety.”

I rub my forehead with my palm. “For safety? Are we endangered?”

“Have Matthew prepare your things for a stay of at least six months,” father orders, turning and walking away.

“Father!” I call.

He turns and scowls at me. “Make your peace with Matthew; you will take only a small retinue with you and you will be relying on him.”

As if that was news to anyone.



“Matthew!” I call. I don’t look when he walks into the room. “My father is sending me to the country.”

“Yes highness.”

I force myself to look at him. “He says it is for safety but he will not say why it is necessary.”

Matthew looks thoughtful and nods. “I will have luggage prepared.”

I slump down onto the bed and Matthew busies himself laying out fresh clothing.

“Why do I need to leave for the country, Matthew?” I ask quietly. “Is this politics?”

Matthew kneels at my feet to remove my boots. “In a manner of speaking, highness.”

“Tell me?”

“The people are starving, highness,” he says, looking up at me. “Starving people become desperate.”

I blink at him. “So the more beggars, as we saw?”

“Yes highness.”

“I don’t understand. How did this happen? Why do we not buy food from another country and feed them? What are we eating?” I ask.

Matthew sighs and shrugs. “There is enough food at the palace, highness. The king has decreed that those starving must see to themselves. There has been rioting, highness. It will likely continue until either they are fed, or crushed, or... or they attack the palace.”

I gape at him. “They are his people! What is the purpose of a king if not the protection of his people?”

Matthew smiles at me; not a cruel or a cold smile but not pleasant; a smile that says he is talking to a child, a well meaning fool.

“I do not speculate, highness.”

“I would not let my people starve,” I say quietly.

“No highness,” he agrees, patting my booted leg.

He finishes dressing me in silence and then stands.

“Where do you go?” I ask, feeling my earlier irritability weighing heavy on me.

“I meant to fetch your highness a cold collation and a goblet of ale,” Matthew says mildly.

“I’m not...” but I am hungry, I hadn’t realised.

“Would your highness prefer meat or fish?” he asks.

I have never been hungry for more than a few minutes. Matthew always makes sure of that.

“I ought to have given food, not coin,” I say.

Matthew looks at me for a long moment. “To the beggars, your highness?” he checks.

I nod and rub my face. “A man cannot eat money.”

“But he may buy scraps,” Matthew says gently, “such as can be found still. Better that then nothing.”

And that is Matthew; always seeking to protect me even from myself.

“When we go to the country, will you provision us... properly?” I ask.

He looks at the ground and smiles, and I know that I am completely understood. “I will provision very properly, your highness.”

“Thank you. Fish, please. Fetch something for yourself also.”



Matthew sits at my feet to eat morsels of mutton and maslin bread. It is dark and heavy bread made of rye and wheat that they give only to slaves and servants.

“Ale?” I ask, tapping his shoulder with the goblet.

He looks up at me and I see I have at last managed to surprise him.

“I... your highness is too kind,” he says, but he doesn’t take the goblet.

“It will be our secret,” I tempt him.

Matthew smiles oddly, as if in pain. “I am forgiven, then?”

I take a sip of the ale myself. “When have you ever done anything that required forgiveness?”

Matthew struggles with a fragment of mutton before shrugging. “Your highness was angry with his unworthy slave.”

“No,” I say softly. “Not angry I... I was out of sorts merely. You did nothing wrong. You were merely there.”

Matthew chews his lower lip. “As your highness, says.”

I touch his shoulder and he looks up at me. “Am I forgiven?”

He raises his eyebrows. “It pleases your highness to tease. Might I fetch your highness something else; honey sticks, a baked apple perhaps?”

“No, sit, rest a while. We ought pack tomorrow and set off to the country the day after. My father will only complain if I leave it longer.”



I dine in the great hall with father, a small selection of his concubines, and some of the court. The table is spread with meats, fish, fowl and all manner of vegetation. Every inch of the table spread with more food than can possibly be eaten.

Matthew leans over me to pour some wine and I see an edge of the whip stripe just above his collar.

“No mead, though,” I say quietly. “Hmm?”

“As you say, highness,” he agrees. “Some pigeon pie?”

“I would rather sturgeon.”

Matthew nods easily. “Certainly, highness, perhaps this one will not upset his highnesses stomach so much.”

Oh. I had forgotten that. Sometimes his memory is quite infuriating.

“Pigeon pie,” I amend sheepishly.



Matthew removes the warmer from bed and dresses me in my night attire. I climb under the covers as he extinguishes the candles.

“Good night, Matthew,” I say sleepily.

He pulls the covers around me and extinguishes the candle above the bed.

“Good night, highness.”

I listen to him curl on the floor in front of the door. His breathing is soft and quiet in the dark.



I wake from a nightmare of screaming and burning to find someone holding me down, gagging me with a hand, and whispering, “Highness, please.”

There is screaming, crashing, and the distant flickering of fires showing through the windows.

Matthew lifts me off the bed, as easily as though I was a child, and pulls me out of my bedroom. I don’t fight, don’t struggle, don’t attempt to speak. The screaming is louder, the yells of rage and anger so close, and the smoke thickening the air.

There is a blur of motion; corridors, rooms, panic and confusion and then we are out in a courtyard. I can see them now; the crowds of people hammering at the gates and attacking the guards.

Matthew shoves me onto a horse and looks around but there is no other. He starts to step away and I grab his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Highness...”

“Would you abandon me now when I need you most?” I demand.

He shakes his head silently and climbs up on the horse behind me. He takes the reins from me and spurs the horse on.



We trot to a halt in the dark and silent woods.

“Highness, we can go no further tonight,” Matthew says, climbing down. “It will be dawn soon.”

“Are times so bad we cannot be seen in daylight?” I ask.

“Until we know if there is real revolution or simply rioting gone amok it would not be safe,” he says quietly. He helps me down from the horse and tethers it to a tree. He takes off the thin cloak he’s wearing and lays it on the ground. “If your highness would sleep I will stand guard.”

“When will you sleep?” I ask.

“When it is safe, highness,” he says stiffly.

“You have the only weapon,” I say, pointing at the sword he grabbed in our haste to escape. “Surely it would be more dangerous during the day. You sleep now and I will sleep during the day.”

It’s difficult to make his out expression in the dim light but his shoulders set.

“Highness, allow me to protect you, please,” he says softly.

“During the day, when it is more dangerous,” I promise. “Not even you can go without sleep. Please Matthew, for once in my life let me be useful.”

Even without seeing his face I know that he does not like it. His strong hands flex and fidget uncomfortably.

“As your highness orders,” he says eventually. He unbuckles the sword belt and weighs it in his hand.

“Matthew, I am well aware that you half sleeping would still outmatch me fully woken,” I say dryly. “Keep your weapon by you. I will shout for you before I try to tackle any villains.”

His head ducks in embarrassment. “I will not banter with your highness.”

“If anyone has earned the right it is you,” I say, sitting down and leaning back against the bole of a tree. “Sleep well.”



I have to be very quiet when I stand and stretch. My back aches and my limbs are sore. I should not have sat here so long but Matthew is sleeping so lightly I fear waking him.

Odd to think that I have never seen him sleep before. I sleep ‘fore he does and wake after. Once, as a child, he was taken very ill. I defied my tutor to creep into the little room they had sequestered Matthew in. He was feverish; pale, sweating, thrashing in the bed.

Now his face is calm, relaxed, and open. His lips are slightly parted, his eyelashes dark against his pale skin, and his beard already growing in. I must confess I do not understand the measure of beauty that the slave mongers use. Why are the pretty and feminine worth a high price, worth selling as whores of all mark, while the handsome and masculine are deemed only useful for labour or general service?



Sunshine glimmers through the trees bathing Matthew in an odd glow. He shifts, as if trying to escape the light.

“Matthew?” I say quietly.

His eyes open at once and he starts to sit up before the sleep even clears his face.

“Hold, no rush,” I promise.

He shakes his head and stands up. He looks up at the sky and sighs. “I should not have slept so long.”

Matthew looks at me and then moves behind me. He pushes aside my robe and attends his hands to my back, easing the soreness and discomfort.

“That feels most pleasant,” I say quietly.

“This living out of doors is a hard life, highness.”

“Do you think my father survives?” I ask.

His hands pause for a moment. “I do not know.”

I look over my shoulder at him. “But you think not.”

Matthew smiles at sadly. “No highness, I think not. If he did, there would be men and dogs scouring the countryside for you. There clearly are neither.”

“Or perhaps my father is merely hoping to lose me,” I laugh.

“If your highness would lie down I could do this better,” he suggests.

I turn around and pat his hands. “I think I best sleep now.”

Matthew nods and looks around the woodlands. “Sleep well highness.”



I wake to the alluring scent of cooking fish. When I open my eyes I see the sun lazily overhead.

Matthew is sat about ten feet away cooking a handful of small fish over a fire.

“That smells good.”

“I regret your highness will find it rather basic,” Matthew says.

“My stomach seems not to mind,” I say, sitting up. There is a finely woven blanket over me. “Where did this come from?”

“A stray horse, highness,” Matthew says, lies. He is no better at lying to me than I am at lying to him. He nods past me. “A fine beast.”

He has tethered the ‘stray’ horse next to our liberated animal. It is a gorgeous looking creature, a well fed and cared for grey Arabian. There are numerous saddlebags which appear to have been very hastily packed. Clothing and jewels are half hanging out of several them. No, if Matthew has searched any of them it is the one at the front which is straight and neat.

“Where is this from?”

“I know not, it wandered into the clearing,” he lies.

Yes, yes, it is impertinent if not downright flagrantly disobedient and wrong. But consider; this is Matthew, and if he chooses to lie to me then I am confident there is good cause.

He leaves the fish cooking and comes over to me as I stand up. He folds up the blanket and puts it onto the new horse, then makes a seat for me out of his folded cloak. I sit down and warm myself by the fire he has made. I should have done that but I did not think. Well, I did not think and if I had I would not know how to do it.

“How does one make a fire?”

Matthew shrugs. “Mark a boundary with stones, so the fire does not rage out of control, fill with dry leaves and moss, then ignite with a tinder box. Or if there not one then rub two sticks together in this manner, highness.”

“I did not realise there was a stream nearby,” I admit. “I did not wander much.”

“Good,” he says, surprising me with the playfulness of his tone. “I fear my hearing too poor to track your highness should he have fallen in the stream and been carried away.”

“I should have died of old age while waiting for you to save me from drowning,” I reply.

Matthew smiles and sits down. He hands me a fish skewered on a sharpened branch and warms his hands over the fire.

“Matthew, eat, please.”

“There is a skin of wine but no utensils,” he says, taking a neat bite of fish. “Should you wish some with your fish?”

“Perhaps later,” I say, wolfing down my food. I had not realised how hungry I was. Matthew silently hands me another skewer. “These fish are from the stream?”

“Yes, highness.”

“Why do those starving not fish?” I ask, feeling like a fool at what will doubtless be some simple reason I should have known. But Matthew is always good enough to let me pretend otherwise.

“This wood is royal property and, in law, only the King’s table may be fed from it. Poaching is punishable by the loss of a hand,” he explains.

‘In law’, how would I get by without Matthew’s small hints?

“Better to risk the loss of a hand than starve to death,” I suggest.

He nods and helps himself to another fish. “In truth, it is my understanding that the near villagers fish downstream where there is more cover. I have not seen deer, though I have seen signs of them.”

I hold up the small fish and scrutinise it. “My father despises fish and I have certainly never seen these at table.”

“They are unfished by the royal pantry,” Matthew agrees.

I sigh and tuck into my fish. “A river of fish that my father does not eat and starving people who are not allow to make use of them. I am naive am I not?”

“Highness?” Matthew asks gently.

“It seems the more I hear of my father’s response to this famine the more I wonder why there has been no revolt before now.” I put my finished skewer aside and rub my fingers together.

Matthew moves across and kneels in front of me. He uncorks a skin and pours water over my hands. “It is no new decision, highness, and the crop failure was not expected.”

“But he ought to have permitted use of the royal grounds, distributed food from our stores, purchased from one of our neighbours if needed,” I say hotly.

Matthew gently rubs and squeezes my hands and says nothing.

“Do you think I would be a poor king?” I ask.

Matthew looks up at me. “No, highness.”

“No? I thought you would decline to answer,” I admit.

Matthew dries my hands on his tunic. “I shall be more politic if your highness wishes.”

“Oh no!” I laugh. “I beg you be as impolitic as you may. Who else would me tell the realness of things?”

“Your highness is too kind,” he says standing up.

“What kind of king would I be?” I ask quietly.

Matthew looks thoughtful. “Too kind,” he says again. “Too trusting. But a good king; wishing to care for his people.”

“My father would call that weak. He would say that I would be deposed within a week,” I say wryly.

“Those who love you would protect you, highness,” he says quietly. 

 
Part 2, Part 3