At His Majesty's Pleasure Ch. 02

Authors: Thank you so much for the warm feedback - it's really motivated us to continue! As before, we just want to note that this story focuses a lot on plot and character development, in case that's not your cup of tea. That's not to say there won't be a good deal of sexual tension before then, of course. ;) Enjoy!

*****

She came to in a daze at first, spots coloring her vision and head aching as though slammed through a brick wall. Sunlight sifted in from a slanted angle, through a latticed window, warming her cheeks. The intensity of it pained her at first, and she did not want to open her eyes. Her limbs were heavy, as though dragged down with cinder blocks. Her head felt as if it were composed solely of lead, its present position against the edge of the coach seat preferable to movement. But she couldn't lie still, not after the events of - when was it - came flooding all at once.

Her hand instinctively flew to her temple as she dragged herself to an upright position. It touched the side of her mask, a mask which felt different. Large and heavily garnished, with plumes of crimped feathers emerging from one side. She immediately threw it from her face and onto the ground as though it were toxic, her mind still sharp enough to suspect its purpose. Her hair, she could feel, was all out of sorts from its previously pristine bun. She shook it loose into a relaxed braid, which fell over her shoulder. But her dress and everything else seemed (mostly) unchanged; if she had no other comfort, there was that.

The sunlight carried with it that cool morning quality, suggesting it was still early. How long had it been? Her fingers wrapped tightly around her locket, only a chilling fear kept her from looking at it. How long? There were soldiers marching outside, and if she wound her focus tightly enough, even in her disorientation she thought she could make out the signs of whom they belonged...

Panic joined and immediately eclipsed her confusion.

The Duke. The "Duke" - what would an island duke possibly stand to gain from this? And why? Was he mad? Was she for being so easily tricked? She knew she couldn't have trusted him, no matter how affable or charismatic he had been with her. Especially because he had been so ostensibly engaging, but there she was all the same. Kidnapping a member of a royal family, much less wounding them with a knife, beyond the treacheries of wartime, was unforgivable. If he expected a ransom for his troubles, no matter how restrained the Vvarian king was renowned for being - this wasn't going to stand. It couldn't!

As memories of the preceding night flickered back into consciousness, she found herself drawing up her sleeve (cloth still cut), only to find that her arm had been bandaged and attended to. The distinct smell of medicinal herbs exuded from it, and the bandages, when she tested them, were firmly and carefully wrapped. Not that it didn't still hurt, sharp pangs shooting from her arm with each motion.

How had they escaped with her in tow, with all the sentries stationed at the garden's exit points? How had they managed to leave the palace? What was it he was saying before she had succumbed to that poison-dipped dagger of his? But the answer was staring her in the face, in the form of the gaudy mask that she had just flung away.

The minstrels! They were aligned in this in some way, weren't they? They would certainly serve as an adequate guise to exit the gardens and the palace proper. There were, evidently, already reasons circulating that could conveniently excuse an early departure - perhaps the Chamberlain had finally reached the end of his patience and had them summarily evicted from the premises. Perhaps they had felt insulted by the poor reception. One of their members would be carried, but had not a certain actress already shown signs of illness? And if memory served her correctly, the unfortunate Lady Anne had a very elaborate mask - that very same mask she had just now ripped from her face. With her luck, the guards wouldn't have looked twice at a dispirited band of failed minstrels.

The other Obsivian guests must have been left behind - she dimly remembered something said to this effect. They had to have been, or else Grandfather would have noticed a mass exodus. Was that the plan all along? But what was the point of it? What would become of her now?

She instantly sought for any discernible exit, hands finally landing upon the interior latch of the door. Push, pull, and shake as she might, the barrier wouldn't relent.

"Let me out - " she coughed out through the window, her mouth dry.

The knights in direct view of the latticed window didn't seem to hear, or perhaps they were pretending not to. The nerve of them; the nerve of them - but it was her own damned fault for being such an idiot in the first place. She swallowed, breathed in, and hammered her palms against the sealed door of the rumbling carriage. The door shook at the tiresome, almost painful application of force, but it naturally wouldn't give. Locked, perhaps chained, from the outside, a bit like what they had for prisoners' transport? No, the wood was too luxuriant, the cushioned seating too soft. Her arms were as lithe as the rest of her, and what strength she usually had had been sapped in her languid and sore state. It was the swiftly coursing blood of adrenaline which kept her moving, banging as loudly as she did. Maybe if she kicked hard enough.

Hitting things did make her feel a little better, though just a little. "Let me out!"

Would no one react to her obvious noise? She persisted in her efforts, glaring at the inattentive soldiers, until -

"Good morning," intoned an all too familiar voice, pleasantly.

A big beast of a horse lumbered up next to her carriage, keeping pace side by side, and it was a foregone conclusion who rode atop it. Duke Adrien was still wearing the clothes he'd had on last night, but had since donned a layer of light, protective armor, as dark and nondescript as those of his men. His mask was gone, though - literally and figuratively, as if he had shed the facade of his benign self. His smile remained present, but there was a certain touch of calculating ruthlessness in his eyes that wasn't present before, and something of idle malice or self-indulgence seemed to linger in the way his lips were set. Without the mask, he also bared a particularly prominent scar, running jagged from temple to jaw.

The sight of him, now unmasked in broad daylight, was woefully remarkable enough to quiet her banging. His features carried a harder quality than before, she thought. Crueler in spite of that infuriating cheer, and just enough to have given her pause. How much of his cordiality had been feigned? They had genuinely seemed to get along so well that, despite all this, part of her was still in disbelief - but she caught herself off there, refusing to further taken in after he'd already duped her. Gods be good, if she managed to claw her way out of this alive, she would never hear the end of it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She could already grasp the picture of Radvar laughing for days after all this, a little imagined specter floating about her head, bubbling with mirth. If there was to be an after. Come to think of it, her brother in snide hysterics quite possibly belonged to the best outcome she could ever hope for. Such comfort.

Instead of looking least bit abashed or ashamed of his actions, the Duke appeared remarkably self-satisfied. "I do apologize for not finishing our game," he said, as if that were the most pressing faux-pas he'd committed, "if my plans hadn't gotten in the way, I assure you that I would have genuinely enjoyed playing to completion. We'll have to try again sometime."

He hadn't lost any of his apparent cordiality, and indeed, spoke as if there was no change in their situation and he was merely picking up on their last conversation.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he continued blithely, as she began raising her fists to the door again. "Your accommodations are quite secure, and you'll only tire yourself out. But I'm glad you've recovered your strength."

She didn't even address how unbelievably improper this all was; he probably had an idea. He'd never crossed her as an unintelligent - unless if this, too, was a ruse - if not a malicious bastard, she realized now. Her lips didn't even give way to any of the insults bubbling in her chest. And as for what he planned to do with her? It didn't matter. She expected to resent it in any case, and she highly doubted he would be forthright and/or honest if she asked him now.

Instead, she eyed him ruefully, the most unamused of stares burning through the crosshatched window. That the carriage itself did not spontaneously combust in her ire was a miracle of its own. "Whatever it is you think you're doing, I don't approve. Stop. Immediately." It was inconceivable that he would actually listen to her at this point, but now that she had rendered her stance on the matter indisputable...for the sake of it, if little else...

He laughed. "Oh, you don't approve? Had I but known."

Frustrated, she braced back against the interior of the carriage and stomped her heel at the door with renewed strength. Quite secure, he had said - well, she'd never know for certain if she didn't try. The thumping and banging resumed in full thrust, the wound on her arm burning with each jerk.

"Open - this - bloody - door! If you think I'm going to make this easy...!" Alais punctuated that thought with another resonating bang, screaming inside (soon to be outside, most like). She held no illusions for outrunning a beast of a horse like that, much less smashing her way out with the brute force she so laughably lacked. But if she had any say in this at all, she swore to make every moment of their transport as agonizing and regretful for them - for him - as every fibre of her being could possibly make.

"Oh, I do expect you to make this easy. I assume this is the first time you've had the honor of being kidnapped, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and lay out your options." Still, that mocking pleasantness persisted. "It's to your advantage not to irritate the person who has complete and utter control over your well-being. You are traveling in relative comfort right now, but only because I'm quite fond of you. If you give me reason, that can easily be rearranged."

She felt his gaze focus on her, more intrusive and assessing than before - it bore a vague resemblance to how one might look while examining goods at a market. Any feigned modesty had also withered away overnight; there was a haughty set to his smile, and his general demeanor communicated a sense of superiority. To be so confident, for a purported duke, was certainly inappropriate, and she might have expected to see his arrogance paired with foolishness or pompous ignorance. But if anything, he seemed oddly level at the same time, and his eyes bore a hard, flinty quality.

"If you make it necessary," he continued, "I've no qualms draping you in chains - or deciding that your voice is unnecessary for the rest of our journey." His smile hadn't quite disappeared, but it took on a look that was suddenly vicious enough to substantiate the threat. Why did it have a way of making her feel so uneasy? "It's of no consequence to me, either way. Which is why I leave the choice entirely up to you."

Her hands fell slowly, begrudgingly, from the carriage walls, and she eased back into a brooding sitting posture without another word, eyes burning into the front.

******

They traveled on - always at a swift speed, and through all hours of the night. Twice they stopped to rest, but only for a few hours. Three horses collapsed from exhaustion, and once, the wheel of the her carriage/prison had to be mended (bent as it was from repeatedly crashing into unpaved roads at a breakneck pace). Evidently, the Duke was willing to pay a high price to elude her countrymen, and to such an extent that it was almost flattering.

Alais's silence persisted. All the banging and the commotion and the raving at first was purely composed of hot air, she allowed. And she was afraid. Her throat would have tightened with sticky emotion at any moment, frustrated and loathsome tears threatening to blur her vision. She kept it all at bay, however, in favor of adopting a mien of icy indifference. The mobile prison with all its relative comforts wasn't about to give no matter how desperately she willed it, and screaming where there was no one to hear would have been a waste of breath. She had but to sit still and mentally dissociate herself from this nightmare, staring straight forward whenever she couldn't muster the will to glance at her surroundings.

Her hand gripped the locket on her neck, counting the ticks vibrating against her palm for steadfast distraction. No... it wasn't worth risking the chains or... losing her voice for nothing. Once or twice she toyed with napping it all away, but the bumpy jaggedness of the ride quickly dragged her out of that fancy. During her especially insane moments of superficial wonder, she fantasized just how much it would agitate His Grace's plans if she ended up killing herself. It was theoretically possible; she had all the tools she needed.

Amusingly enough, she eventually did manage to fall into a bored out of her mind, half-conscious daze, rocked by the movement of the carriage, and it was the stopping which had roused her. But why now? Why this time? A few sneaking glances suggested they weren't far from a river crossing, and she shifted to peer out as much as the latticed windows would allow. Dusk glowed faintly beyond the horizon, making silhouettes of the trees. As she heard voices, she pressed her ear to the windows, just making out the quiet discussion the Duke was having with a scout.

"It's not clear."

"How many?"

"Just one," the scout reported. "A knight, from the looks of it."

"We could take a single knight," said one of the Duke's men, nearby, who was idly sharpening his knife. She had heard him addressed as Ser Lionel.

"No," responded Adrien. "It won't take long for him to pass. We wait."

She had a suspicion that this was motivated not by mercy but by pragmatism. A disappeared knight would raise questions, and though they could likely outrun those questions - as they had for the palace guards - it would be a needless risk. On other hand, she was all for bogging down her captors. A knight...it was worth a try. She swallowed thickly, readied herself, and took in a deep breath.

And Alais began screaming at the top of her lungs.

******

Brave Ser Emile of Toussaint (the Bold), sworn to his Lady the Duchess of Toussaint, was journeying his way back to the vineyards of Toussaint on horseback. On his honour, Brave Ser Emile had sworn to slay exactly one hundred wolves roaming the outskirts of his lady's vineyards. No more, no less - and, upon completion of this oath, he was to report to his Duchess to begin a new task of great virtue and merit.

Upon hearing the residual trails of the young woman screaming, Ser Emile stilled, then proceeded to immediately canter his mount toward the source. Visibility was still less than ideal, but he hailed the party nonetheless. "Ho there! I am Emile of Toussaint! On my honor, those are the cries of a maiden in distress. Identify yourselves!" Such atrocities were unacceptable within the realm of fair Toussaint, a smear on the Duchess herself, and as a knight of Toussaint, it was on his honor to apprehend them!

The instant realization dawned on her would-be savior was not only a solitary knight, but a knight of Toussaint, Alais dragged her gaze from the window, slowly sat back against her carriage seat, and wanted to die - or melt into the cushions. Whichever came first. The only thing more ridiculous than the Duchess of Toussaint were the knights of Toussaint, who were widely renowned for placing chivalry over sense. She had hoped he would ride away, would seek aid against this obviously imbalanced confrontation - but no. If he was of Toussaint, then he wouldn't be caught fleeing if his life depended on it (which it did).

The Duke's men were well-trained. Instantly, ten of the nearest archers had trained their bows on him, and two knights had drawn their swords.

She could see the Duke staring in her direction, a seething quality to his glare - his fury almost palpable. But at the knight's words, he looked back, appearing to suppress his anger for the time being in favor of control.

"On your honor?" said he. He had adopted a skeptical tone. "What honor is this? Are you a knight?" Of course he was. The question was likely meant to elicit indignant information.

The Duke glanced over to Ser Lionel, who obligingly spoke up, with some skepticism of his own. "Doesn't look like a knight to me. A true knight of Toussaint would be protecting his Duchess, not wandering the woods at his leisure."

Ser Emile puffed his chest, looking visibly offended by the observation. "You Sers with no concept of our traditions, mind your words!" To his credit, he was quick to move past his disgruntlement, shifting his snow-white (and admittedly aesthetically stunning) mare to more directly face the one on the monster of a mount. "Are you the commander of this party? I ask again: state your purpose!"

"Just go," came a small yet still audible voice from the carriage. Her hand waved dismissively away at the scene. Alais was already resigned. Unless Ser Emile had a full battalion behind him - which, knowing Toussaint, he very likely didn't - this wasn't going to work. It had to be a knight-errant, of all the potential bystanders, it just had to.

"...Your Highness! What has befallen you here!" gasped the knight-errant, his memory inexplicably immaculate for having identified her just by the glimpse of her somewhat obscured profile. She didn't even know him. Perhaps he had seen her at a tourney or race of some sort, where while a princess would have been very visible, one knight out of hundreds not so much. Mildly curious, but it didn't matter. If he listened, he might have had a chance - ridden away from the range of arrows, by some miracle. But now that he'd unsheathed his sword in alarm, no amount of miracle would save him... Or perhaps her kidnappers would let him go. Ridicule him like all the rest, but let him live?

Emile took her resulting silence as an opportunity to act on his own. His closed his visor before his eyes and brandished the tip of his blade at the offenders. Like a lance, of some sort. "You fiends! Release Her Highness this instant!" Such dishonor! Such disgrace! Also, it hadn't gone entirely forgotten that the successful recovery of an abducted princess often lead to very lucrative ends indeed. But, honor always first, and death before dishonor.

Gods be good, he would have made for a very keen detective were he not so loud.

The Duke sighed and nodded to his soldiers, his expression that of mild annoyance, like this murder was a chore that was beneath him. A dozen arrows hissed through the air, most finding their mark at this close range, and the glorious spectacle of Ser Emile's charge - shining armor and nobly flourished sword - took a decidedly tragic turn. The defeat was anticlimactic, after the knight's trumpeted dignity, and was accomplished with such mundane arts as to be almost profane.

Alais was no longer watching and instead had elected to scoot towards the opposite end of her seat. She still heard the Duke speaking, however. "We are, unfortunately, pressed for time, so this will have to be simple," he was saying, his regret sounding sincere. There was a beat of silence. "Tie each of his hands to a horse," he ordered, and this was followed by the scurrying sounds of his soldiers' compliance. "And his legs as well."