Fiction: Whipping Boy pt 2

[kethni]

Name: Whipping Boy part 2
Pairing: Matt/Mo
Rating: R
Warnings: Some violence, sexual content
Spoilers: None
Note: Totally, completely AU. Sorry!


The stream is clear and very cold. Matthew laughs at me when I leap right out, shrieking.

“You ought have warned me!” I charge, teeth chattering.

“I would not have ruined your highnesses pleasure,” he smiles.

I splash water at him and he merely laughs. When he turns to wave away a duck I see the mass of scars on his back. The faded, pale, stretched old ones; the recent fat bands turning purple in the cold, and the still healing whip stripes from this very week.

“Highness?” he asks, looking at me in concern.

“Hmm? Nothing.”

Matthew paddles through the shallow water over to me and looks me over. “Are you injured, highness? I don’t see... where is the pain?”

“I’m not injured,” I promise.

He bites his lower lip, not believing me, but nods. “As your highness says.”



When he dresses I notice the smear of blood on his sleeve; blood and no injury on his arm.

“We ought go to go to Strathmore,” I say. “Any members of the court will gather there.”

Matthew nods and damps out the fire. “If it pleases your highness; we can make our way to the edge of the wood, perhaps ten miles, and then wait for nightfall before riding.”

“Will you not be tired?” I ask as he helps me up onto the Arabian.

Matthew looks surprised and then shrugs. “No, highness.”



It’s rather soothing; the slow motion of the horse picking carefully through the trees. Matthew walks, leading the bay horse we rode in on.

“Why do you not ride?” I ask. “Tell me not that it would be inappropriate for a slave to ride in the presence of his master.”

“It would,” he says mildly. “Also, I fear we overloaded her. It seemed better to let her recover herself now and save her strength.”

“Where did this horse come from?” I ask gently.

Matthew gives me a look I have not seen from him in years. Not since... not since Lord McKay vanished. No tutor lays hands on his royal charge and no man lays hands that way on a boy. Matthew, always silent and calm, attacked him, dragged him screaming from the room. I was too ashamed to speak of it, to tell my father, but the following day Lord McKay was gone. He was gone and when I asked, Matthew looked at me this way.

“There are some things, your highness, that are better not to know.”

I play with the reigns in my hands. “When we are at Strathmore, what can I gift you?”

“Highness?” he asks.

I smile at him. “A reward, Matthew. My last attempt seemed remarkably ill received.”

He looks at me blankly. “I fear this miserable slave does not understand.”

“At the whorehouse; I think you would have gladly died rather than lay down,” I admit unhappily.

Matthew blows out his cheeks and looks away. “I did not understand the purpose at first.”

“I merely wanted to reward you,” I protest.

Matthew strokes and pets the horse he is leading. “Your highnesses kindness is appreciated but unnecessary.”

“For why? Why am I not to be kind to you?”

His shoulders hunch and he still will not look at me. “I am your highnesses slave, I ought not to get ideas above my station,” he says quietly.

I nudge the horse a little closer to him. “Matthew, please. I cannot remember a time you were not my first, best comrade. You have had ample time, reason, and opportunity to get ideas ‘above your station’ and to my knowledge you never have.”

If anything he seems even more discomforted.

“I did not mean to embarrass you,” I say quietly. “Assist me?”

He turns as I pull the horse up and helps me down.

“Thank you.”

Matthew smiles at me finally. “Your highness will certainly give his slave ideas above his station doing that.”



There are some caves here; surprisingly large caverns that the horses do not demure to enter. Matthew fetches bracken to form a makeshift barrier so that none passing by will spy anything. Although it is still light it has grown cold and we are neither of us dressed for it. Matthew builds a small fire inside the cave, beneath a natural outlet, and finally goes through the packs from the Arabian horse.

“There is mead,” Matthew says.

“You are not to let me drink mead, you promised,” I scowl at him.

He smiles and shrugs. “As your highness wishes.” He makes a seat for me with a small square of bracken on the floor and pads it with two folded blankets from the pack.

“I was surprised, at the whorehouse,” I say, making myself comfortable.

Matthew looks at me warily. “Highness?”

“When the mistress brought out only men,” I push on. “Do you take no pleasure in women?”

It is a cruel thing to do I suppose; ask questions I know he does not care to answer. If left to his own choice, however, I am sure that Matthew would continue knowing all about me and have me know nothing about him.

But he looks thoughtful more than anything else. “I do not give the matter much consideration, highness. I have my duties, they fill my hours, and I am content.”

He frowns at me when I laugh. “Matthew, coupling is what it is. It is not to pass the time.”

“I meet few women, highness, on whom to develop affection,” he says with a shrug, seating himself at the fire.

“Coupling requires no affection.”

Matthew adds a small branch to the flickering flames. “I fear for me it must. I fear I must have affection for the object or someone passing closely enough to him.”

“Affection is wasted on the momentary pleasures of coupling,” I say more fiercely than I intend. “It is not pleasant enough to throw a kinship away on.”

“No,” Matthew says softly.


The cold is quite intense. Matthew wraps me in blankets and we shiver by the fire. If it is this cold here I cannot imagine how bad it is in the open air.

“Highness, I implore you,” Matthew says, holding out the mead. “It will warm you.”

“I do not like the way I behave when I drink it.”

Matthew smiles at me and shrugs. “There are no catamites and no gaming tables. I believe society to be quite safe.” He instead hands me a skin of wine and I drink deeply.

“How many times have you been whipped for me?” I ask quietly, looking at the fire.

“Highness?” he asks, sounding confused.

I stare at my hands as they redden over the flames. “How many times have you paid for my misdeeds, my stupidity, and my childishness?”

Matthew’s hands, warm and strong and rough, close over mine and pull them away from the fire. When I look up he is right by me; eyes dark and worried and gentle.

“Perhaps your highness will feel better in the morning.”

I sit drinking from the skin, my mind turning in unpleasant directions. I cannot remember a time when he was not carrying the scars of my... of the punishments meted out to him because of me. I see them now on the back of his hands; the barely visible pale lines of the canings he received as a child.

“What was the first of these for?” I ask, rubbing my finger over one of the scars on his hand.

Matthew flushes bright red. “Highness?”

“The first time you were punished on my behalf; do you remember what it was for?”

He licks his lips; pink tongue glistening across his full lower lip. “It was many years ago.”

“What was it for?” I insist. The wine is warming me now; I have too drunk much on a stomach barely filled with small fish hours ago.

Matthew smiles slightly. “Your highness was, I think, four years old. You were still being cared for in the women’s quarters. The King thought it time to visit and see how you were growing.”

“I don’t remember that,” I say quietly.

“Your highness was young,” he says with a shrug. “You did not much care for king,” Matthew says wryly. “Your caregivers petted, cosseted, and adored you. You were not used to... to the aristocratic coolness.”

“I did not strike him did I?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“No highness,” Matthew says with a smile. “You merely refused to interact with him.”

“For that you were caned?” I ask.

Matthew shakes his head. “No, not that. Your highness was ever an extremely affectionate child. The king would, I think, have forgiven you for merely demanding attention but your highness was not of that nature.” Matthew pats my hands and releases them. “You were generous rather than selfish in your affection; your nature was to lavish it upon those around you. The king did not think it appropriate for a prince of the realm to be so open and tender, let alone with concubines, nursemaids, and slaves.”

“Even then he thought me weak,” I snort.

“Your highness was but four years,” Matthew says mildly.

I flex my cold hands. “So you were... what, ten? Did you hate me?”

Matthew laughs lightly and shakes his head. “Hate, highness? Never that.”

“But you were constantly with me; seeing what I had that you did not, suffering for my errors. How could you not hate me?” I ask. “I should hate me, if I was you.”

He is already shaking his head. “No,” he says softly. “You would not.”

There is something in his tone I do not recognise; something tender and painful as a bruise.

“I woke this morning,” I say, “and when I remembered that my father is perhaps dead, it felt so strange.” I screw up a leaf and throw it on the fire. “At times I miss my mother though I have few memories of her.”

Matthew catches my hands, now cold almost to numbness, and rubs them slowly. The world seems to be spinning.

“Do you wish you had known your parents?” I ask.

He looks at me in surprise. “I never think on it, highness. It is the way when we are born in slavery. We never meet our father and we are taken from our mother once weaned.” Matthew smiles slightly. “I have been told my parents were paired for their comeliness, I was meant to be a beauty,” he says deprecatingly.

“You are beautiful.”

I expect him to laugh or blush but he looks so very hurt, more than I think I have ever seen before. “It amuses your highness to tease his faithful slave,” he says, trying to smile. “I fear I am too tired to be properly appreciative. Might I sleep a while?”

“Matthew,” I say softly, reaching out to him as he moves away without waiting for an answer. “I was not teasing.”

“Jesting, then,” he says shortly, stretching out on his cloak.

“I meant what I said!” I protest.

He makes no more reply than his deepening breaths.



Oh, pray heaven remove the axe buried in my skull. I drag myself upright and peer around the cave. It is not like Matthew not to be near when I awake; especially when I have an inexplicable headache. If I were at home I would call for him but here... I do not know if it is safe.

I do not want to think of how Matthew would tut and pull his face if I were to blunder into danger. Wherever he is he has taken the sword with him. I edge out of the cave and shiver in the bitter cold.

I thought that woods would be quiet at night. Day is surely when all the life is lived? However, this? This a woodland is full of hooting, screeching, rustling, and screaming. In all romances I have read woodlands are full of cheerful roguish brigands, woodcutters, and small girls taking baked goods to grandma. I wonder how they can hear themselves think.

There is a different sound; an odd gurgle. Perhaps that is the stream? Matthew might be fishing. I creep blindly toward the sound and then am near blinded by an upheld torch.

Alongside the smearing orange afterimage I see Matthew’s face caught in surprise and fear. Dark shapes on the ground, one moving; white fingers clutching at a throat pouring blood.

“Highness...” Matthew’s voice but I’m backing away, turning and running blindly from the blood and the stink of death.



It’s so cold. I’m lost and it’s cold. Even if I had the fixings to light a fire the ground is wet and the trees too close together. I huddle on the ground with my cloak wrapped me. I have to stay awake. In the morning... in the morning...



Warmth. Warm and lying on something soft. Chicken cooking.

“Careful, highness,” Matthew’s voice says very gently as I’m eased up into a sitting position. “Have a little mead.”

“No.”

He sighs softly. “Highness, you near froze to death. Please have a little mead.”

I force my eyes open and look at him. “You killed those men.”

“Of course,” he says patiently. “They were brigands.”

“We don’t kill criminals without a trial!”

“They were a threat to your highness,” Matthew says, warming a skin lightly over the fire. “They would have killed you.”

I jerk my head at the grey Arabian. “The owner of that one also?”

“If he is dead, highness, it is not by my hand.” Matthew holds the skin out to me. “Please, highness, it will warm you.”

“Where came you by the horse,” I ask through gritted teeth.

“I commandeered her, highness. The owner was a merchant who had gone to sleep without even tethering her. Your need was greater and so I took her.”

“There was blood on your sleeve.”

He nods. “Aye, there were some men searching for us. But not to set you home safely. I did what had to be done.” He sits by me. “Will you please, take some mead?”

“I told you; I do not like the way I act when I drink it.”

“You were froze half to death!” he snaps. I shrink back. Matthew’s temper is very slow to kindle but burns like a forest fire when inflamed. “We are in the forest with scarce food and less fuel.” He stands in front of me. “We could die here. It is bad enough to have to waste time searching for you without you now childishly refusing to help yourself!”

“I did that,” I say, tentatively indicating the bruise on his cheek. “Did I not?”

“What?” he demands.

“I struck you,” I say, failing to keep my voice from wavering. “Is that not what happened? You were trying to protect me from my own poor choices and I hit you. Is that how I behave, do I strike you?”

Matthew rolls his eyes. “Highness, you were sodden with drink and I laid hands on you. You did not know where you were or who I was. You scarcely knew who you were.”

“Is that how I normally behave?” I insist.

“No,” he says flatly. “Your highness is not violent by nature. You thought you were being attacked.”

I carefully take the skin he is still holding and take a sip. “Have you done it before?”

“It, highness?”

“Murdered,” I have to force the word out.

“I do not murder highness, I protect my master, that is and has always been my purpose,” he sneers.

“Whether he wants you to or not?” I demand.

“Yes!”

“Why! Why, when I have never asked you to? When I am weak and thoughtless cruel why do you protect me, care for me, tolerate me?”

I am on my feet, almost screaming in his face.

“I shall forever be your slave whether you wish it or not,” Matthew says very quietly. “We are what we are made, and what we have made each other. They put you in my charge and told me to take care of you. I plead let me, let me do my duty. Let me do what I must.”

“I do not deserve it,” I admit. “I am spoiled, weak, and childish and I know you are far more acquainted with those facts than I.”

Matthew sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. “Your highness is overwrought.”

“Damn it, Matthew! Can we not have one honest and true conversation? I have known you all my life and nobody will ever know us the way we know each other. I do not know why you stand me, how can you stand me?” I ask.

“Might I speak candidly?”

I square my shoulders. “Yes, I will try to take in the spirit it is intended.”

“I know, highness,” he says with a nod. “The king is likely dead and your highness in the direst straits. There has been fear, hunger, despair, and pain. Nothing said now, nothing felt now, is true. When back in safety and comfort you will feel different. I think it best it we might allow this incident to pass from our minds.”

“Your back is raw, your hands are striped, and your face is bruised. For me, because of me. Those things will not cease to be true because I am warm again and fed,” I say firmly.

“You will forget. When you are comfortable once more you will have other things, more appropriate things, to dwell on. Do not let me imagine myself above my station, I beg you. Let me be your devoted slave.”

“Is that what you think of me?” I ask. “That I am so fickle I will forget the services you have done me?”

“I think you will have far greater issues to deal with,” Matthew says mildly. “I serve, your highness, I am supposed to be invisible. There is no shame in treating a slave as a slave.”

“Are we not more to each other than that?” I ask sadly. “You are more to me than that.”

Matthew will not look at me. “Highness, please.”

“Please, what?” I ask, touching his hand.

“That turn of conversation makes me uncomfortable,” he says, setting his shoulders back.

I rub his hand with my fingers. “I have no desire to make you uncomfortable.”

He glances away. “There is some food; from the bandits. If your highness will sit down I will serve.”



We huddle around the fire while eating our chicken. Normally I care little for it but now it seems the most succulent of dishes.

“Have some wine, it will warm you.”

Matthew rolls his eyes at me. “It pleases your highness to tease.”

“It would please me if you would drink some wine.” I jiggle the wine skin at him. “Nobody will know.”

“I have no tolerance for wine,” he admits.

“Would you become drunk?” I laugh. “I should like to see you drunk.”

Matthew snorts a breath. “I am quite sure your highness should not.”

“When have you been drunk before? Why did I not know it?”

Matthew takes a mouthful of chicken and chews slowly. “On the night of your highnesses coming of age,” he says when he has swallowed his chicken.

“I have little memory of that,” I admit sheepishly. “I cannot even remember the face of the whore who marked my transition. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” he says flatly, too deliberately disinterested to be true.

I lower my voice. “You did not want her, did you? You only had to say.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No, highness, I did not want her.”

“Why do you laugh at me?” I ask lightly, nudging him with my shoulder. “You might have. I might have taken your cherished love and not known it.” I take a sip of wine. “I should be sad if that were true.”

Matthew sighs and gently pulls the wine from me. He takes a draught before handing it back. “Your highness thinks my love might be a whore?” he asks, some odd note of bitterness in his voice.

“Whores are slaves,” I say uncomfortably. “They have no more choice in what they do than you do. I think it most unfair to talk or treat them as lesser because they do what they are tasked.”

Matthew reddens and nods. “As you say.”

I take a gulp of wine and ask what I both want, and do not want, to ask, what I know right well I should not. “You do have a love, then?”

“Do not ask me.” He stares into the fire, jaw clenched.

“If it is another slave it would be an easy thing for me to get them for you,” I say. “At your word I would gladly.”

“Why do you do this?” he asks quietly. I blink at his sad, confused expression. “Why pretend what I do, or do not, feel is of issue?”

“You know I am not pretending,” I protest.

“Then that is worse,” he says quietly. “I am a slave; my life is meaningless. It does not matter who I do, or do not, love.”

“It matters to me,” I say softly.

Matthew stares at me then closes his eyes and shakes his head. “This kindness is cruelty, highness. I beg you desist.”

“I meant no malice. Forgive me?”

“Always, highness.”


I wake shivering. The fire has gone out. I cannot understand why Matthew would let that happen until I lean over his slumbering form and see the way he shakes and shivers.

What to do, what to do? Wait, fire first and panic later. That is it. Rekindle the fire, that it what I must do. I lean down low and see a spark or two glowing softly. I blow gently and add shreds of a leaf. A spark catches and I add more leaves until they are smouldering. Happily Matthew had already collected wood so I do not have to risk leaving him while I fetch more.

He is still cold to the touch even when the fire is high and the cave is warm. His skin is damp to the touch, which cannot be good. I unbundle him from the blankets and hang them up to dry for they are soaked through. I rifle through the packs, abandoning the food, jewels, and money across the floor, to find some dry clothes from him to wear.

When I put my hand on his back he writhes as if in agony. When I pull back my hand it is covered in blood and pus. Infection, the wounds must be infected. I roll him onto his front as I take off his clothes, and dry off the perspiration as best I can.

Dear god, I can scarce see the wounds for the infection. The flesh is puffed and angry red; leaking blood and green-yellow pus. How I could not have seen this earlier? I saw his back but I am sure that there was no sign of this. He must have been in agony surely?

I take a cloth, unwrap it from around some rubies, and try to wipe the worst from his back without hurting him too much. Honey, I saw some honey in the pack. Honey and wine, these are what are used for these things are they not?

I rip a linen cloth in long thin strips and wrap a piece over the mouth of the wine skin so as to filter any sediment. I pour the wine over Matthew’s back and he hisses and shivers.

“Hush, hush Matthew,” I plead. “Try to be still so I can see to your wounds.”

I do not think he is awake or aware but the sound of my voice seems to soothe him slightly. I dry him off and smear the honey over strips of linen before carefully wrapping them over his injuries. The honey is thick and sticky and from somewhere comes the not unpleasant image of more pleasurable combinations of Matthew undressed and a jar of honey.

Oh. Oh. Surely... surely I cannot have just thought that about Matthew? Not about Matthew whom I must know far too well.

I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to concentrate. I use another linen sheet and wrap it around his back and chest to ensure the honey soaked bandages stay fixed. With some effort I move Matthew onto his side and wrap him in my blankets, which are thankfully dry.

His eyes are open but his gaze unfocussed. I shut them carefully and go to find the stream and fetch more water.



He wakes twice in the night. Once begging for water, easily done, and now; incoherent and babbling. It is a singularly distressing thing to see the pain, confusion, and suffering on his face and contorted form.

“I don’t know what you want,” I plead. “Tell me, tell me what to do to?”

He catches my hand and squeezes so hard I am sure he will crush the bones. The words make no sense but the tone is beseeching and his eyes are desperate.

“Matthew... Matthew please,” I beg, wiping tears away with my free hand. “I want to help you. I do not know what to do. Do you want water? Food? Is it too cold, too warm? I don’t know what to do!”

He starts to weep; great wrenching sobs. I lie down next to him and he grabs me close, arms painfully tight around me, and his face pressed into my neck.

He passes out after a while and his grip relaxes. His breath is hot and moist against my neck as he sleeps.


Matthew sleeps peacefully most of the day. It is tempting to sit and watch but we need more wood and water, and I must let the horses graze. It is fortunate we still have some fish along with the food from the bandits. I feel wretchedly soiled and I know I must be malodorous but I cannot risk leaving him alone longer than I absolutely must.

He wakes as the last of the sunlight glimmers through the bracken. Wakes and looks about with more awareness than I dared hope for.

“Highness?” he croaks.

I kneel down and press the water skin to his lips and tip it up. He sucks it down greedily until I am sure he is going to become nauseated.

“Thank you,” he mutters, sounding exhausted.

“What do you need?” I ask, touching his face. “Are you hungry?”

He shakes his head. “I should... I should arise and...”

“Be still! You are very sick,” I scold.

Matthew blinks at me surprised but says nothing.

“Are you comfortable? Too warm, too cool? Tell me.”

“A little warm, highness,” he says sheepishly.

I loosen the blankets wrapped him and then press a wetted cloth to his face. His pupils are huge and he keeps wetting his lips.

“Is that better?”

“Yes highness,” he says quietly. He moves his hands pulling the blankets away so that he can peer at the linen wrapped around him. “What is this, please?”

I feel myself redden at the thought of realising that I have done entirely the wrong thing.

“I applied wine and honey,” I say meekly. “Firstly washed your wounds with wine and then soaked bandages with honey and bound them.”

Matthew’s eyebrows are raised. I look away and plough on with my confession.

“I wanted to ensure the bandages did not slip so I wrapped that around you and fixed it off.”

“Your highness is a physician now?” he asks gently.

“Did I do wrongly?” I ask.

His hand finds mine and he pats it. “That is entirely as I would have done.”

“That is a considerable relief,” I say honestly. “I think you better than you were.”

Matthew looks concerned. “I have no recall.”

“You had chills and babbled. There was a good deal of pain, how do you feel now?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “What did I babble, highness?”

I brush his hair from his forehead. “I could not make it out.”

Matthew relaxes and smiles at me. “Nonsense, I am quite sure.”

“How can I make you more comfortable?” I ask.

He’s torn between his discomfort and his belief it would be wrong to ask me for help.

“I want to help,” I promise. “I’m sure it would not be inappropriate.”

“I would like to lie on my other side,” he says eventually.

I nod and help him roll onto his front and then onto his other side.

“I ought to have thought,” I say, moving to rub his side.

“Highness, please,” he asks, going very red.

I snort at him. “Matthew, I am going to say this once and I trust you will remember it and act accordingly; we have ever been friends and if you overstep the mark I will tell you. Until then I will not have you whining and complaining at every kindness, do you understand?”

“Yes, highness,” he says smartly, happy to receive a clear order. I almost groan at it, all I have achieved is tell him to avoid having any kind of conversation of depth with me.

Not one of my most unqualified successes.



He brightens later and is well enough that he can sit up, though it pains him.

“Am I undressed?” he asks, looking down at himself.

“You had chills and sweats,” I explain. “Your clothing was damp.”

“Your highness undressed me?” Matthew asks, as if not quite believing what he’s hearing.

“Yes, it is a good deal difficult than you make it appear,” I complain.

“Your highness is normally conscious,” Matthew says sipping more water. He is drinking a good deal of water but eating little. I have a dim memory of doing similar when a fencing wound in my leg became infected. Matthew was an assiduous nurse, far more competent in my treatment then the physician.

“Not always,” I admit. “You have put me to bed in a drunken stupor often enough.”

“Aye, well,” he says with a smile. “Your highness is young. Young men must have their wild pleasures while they may.”

His hand is on his knee, shivering slightly. I put my hand over his, it is cool to the touch. “What about your ‘wild pleasures’ then?”

“Your highness is too kind,” he says gently. “I am not a young man.”

“Rubbish! You are only six years older than I. When I was a child the difference seemed more but now we are adults it is scarce worth mentioning.” I wipe his brow with a cloth. “Besides, when did you have time for that, always nurse maid to the child prince, what time do you have for any pleasures?”

Matthew catches my free hand in his. “My life is good, highness, I have no complaints.”

He really means it. By all that is holy, how can he think his life good?

“Highness,” he says before I can speak, “I am fed, I am clothed, I am kept warm. If I become sick or injured I am tended to. My master...” he smiles at me, “my master is not cruel or unkind and does not mistreat me.”

“You are not free,” I say quietly.

Matthew shrugs. “Free to what, highness, to starve? Free to spend my days in backbreaking labour toiling in a field or down a mine? My duties are varied and full, certainly, but not arduous or entirely unpleasant.”

“You are at another’s whim,” I protest.

“When you are king everyone will be at your whim, a heady power,” he says mildly. “Perhaps, if I am bold, I might suggest that your highness will deal with that better for having already had one person at his whim.”

“I didn’t mean me,” I stammer. “I meant merely... merely as a slave you are at another’s whim. Whoever that might be.”

Matthew touches my hand. “Highness, there is no shame in it. We are all at the whim of others to some degree. A slave is more directly vulnerable certainly. It is to your highnesses credit you have never lashed out in anger or otherwise misused me.”

“I struck you.”

“It was an accident,” Matthew says calmly.

“You would not tell me if it were not,” I charge hotly.

Matthew regards me evenly. “Indeed I would, highness, or how could I plead for forgiveness?”

“If I beat you in temper why should you plead forgiveness?” I demand. “If, intoxicated, I lash out the fault is mine alone.”

“If your highness beat me, intoxicated or not, the fault would be mine,” he argues mildly. “Your highnesses nature would mean I must have done something to deserve it.”

“You are arguing in circles; being punished does not prove the existence of a crime.”

“In this case it does. Alcohol is not some magic potion to turn a truly gentle minded man into a monster,” Matthew says calmly. “From my observations mead or ale or other do nothing more than grant the bravery or foolhardiness to do what was secretly wished already. Men violent under drink merely lack the courage to do so when sober; men foolish under it merely lack the foolhardiness to overcome their sense. Your highness is not violent with drink anymore than he is violent when sober.”

I shake my head. “I horsewhipped a man, did I not? Why did you not stop me unless you were afraid for yourself?”

Matthew laughs. “I did not stop your highness because I would not have stopped you for all the jewels in the treasury. The five lashes it added to my tally were well worth it.”

“Why? Who was this man?” I ask curiously.

“A merchant,” Matthew says with a shrug. “But the child was barely ten years old.”

I feel so disoriented that I am beginning to wonder which of us is ill. “Child? What child?”

Matthew smiles at me. “The slave who was so unfortunate as to spill her master’s beer,” he explains, “was but ten years old. When your highness heard him vow to beat her to death, and saw him raise his cudgel to do so, you flew into a rage. One I have not seen from your highness ever before. Yet you were not uncontrolled. You did horsewhip him it is true, but a mere five lashes. Then you threw a handful of gold at him, told him you were taking the girl, and marched out with your head held high.”

I can feel myself gaping at him. “I did?”

“Indeed, highness. You handed her to the mistress of the women’s chambers to work as a maid.”

“Why, why did you not tell me this before?” I ask. If this merchant has other slaves they are surely being mistreated. Even a slave should not be tormented for no reason.

Matthew purses his lips. “I feared your highness would insist on tracking down the merchant and relieving him of any other slaves. For a prince of the blood to display such care for slaves would be unseemly. The king would have been infuriated.”

“Oh.” I pull myself together. “My point remains, however.”

“What was that, highness?” he asks in what seems like a meek manner.

“That the life of slaves cannot be ‘good’ as they are so subject to the whims and caprices of their masters,” I say firmly.

“I do not claim to speak for anyone but myself, highness,” Matthew says in the same tone of voice. “I will not argue with you.”

“But you think I am wrong,” I ask coolly.

“I think my life content and my needs met, yes highness,” he says, taking another sip of water. “Not all free men can say that in good faith.”

I lean forward and he mimics me, we are barely inches apart. “You are a better man than most free men I know.”

“Then I am in the right place for me, by your highnesses side,” he says calmly. 



 
Part  1, Part 3