Prince to Queen

"Don't be scared, my lor... my lady," the slave girl realised her mistake as soon as she said it and quickly lapsed into silence as one of the guards on the door sniggered and said something to his fellow, who laughed.

Tristan de Hont went red, if he'd been a real man he'd have grabbed a sword from his sheath or even just a stool and taught the curs a lesson. But then if he had been a real man he wouldn't have been sitting on a cushion on a room as a slave girl powdered his face and another delicately painted his nails a pale blue. He had always been a coward though; it wasn't that he had just been uninterested in jousting and arms training, but they scared him. He didn't like being hurt, it terrified him and so he did all he could to avoid it even if it meant he'd get hurt some more.

Like when the old Master-at-Arms had first tried to teach him to fight with the other young boys of the castle. The others had taken to it, like they should, taking their thumps and their bruises and their cuts and scrapes and sometimes giving them out. Tristan had just tried to dodge the blows and then hid under his shield as the Master-of-Arms grunted and surreptitiously cursed as he hammered down his blunted sword, trying everything he could to make Tristan stand up. But he never did. He cried and he sniffled and even the other boy's laughter wouldn't make him stand and trade blows with the Master-at-Arms.

They had all teased him, called him a coward and a little girl, told him he was soft and a wimp, threatening to beat him and batter him if he ever faced them in the tourney ground. None of them ever had the chance though. The tough cursing old Master-of-Arms might have thrown Tristan in and watched him getting beaten bloody, hoping it would make a man of him. The King, however, had other ideas, Tristan might only be the second son, the spare, but he was still a Prince of the Realm, even it was a very small realm, with a couple of small castles, some villages and a city that was barely more than a town. It would do no good for the common folk to see Tristan kneeling and sobbing and begging not to be hit.

There had never been an actual decision made, it was just accepted that Tristan wouldn't go out in the morning with his older brother and the other boys. Whilst he was fitted for armour, burnished steel with delicate engravings on the front, it was all for show. Instead he would spend the morning in the library reading books, or sitting in front of the mirror preening himself and brushing his long shoulder length blonde hair until it shone. Or, as he got older and reached manhood, he would go to the room where his older sister and her companions were doing embroidery and chat and joke with them, flattering the pretty ones with a flick of his long lashes or a slight up curl of his sensuous lips. It was much better than getting bruised and sweaty in the mud, the young women appreciating his cultured looks and wry witticisms more than they did the stunted teenage conversation of the brutes knocking the five Gods out of each other outside.

The eighteen year old Prince thought it was made. His father might have ignored him and his brother despise him, but they still recognised him as a Prince with all the benefits of a soft bed and nice food and a chance to feel up the giggling serving girls. The King wouldn't marry him off to anyone important, but in the fullness of time the Queen had suggested that an ambitious merchant, who wasn't too picky that his future son in law was a wimp might provide a suitable daughter; Tristan was in no hurry. There were plenty of other young women in the keep who didn't hold to the view that a Prince should end every day bruised and beaten and were happy to while away some time with a pretty looking young dandy.

What he hadn't reckoned on was a violent mercenary with ambition.

*

"A thousand groats, we agreed," said the King. "And a thousand it will be."

Tristan picked an imaginary piece of fluff from out of his long nails. He didn't want to be here, certainly not wearing this most uncomfortable armour, which made it virtually impossible both to sit or stand. If the King hadn't insisted that he'd be here with his brother, and at least try to look marital, he would have been washing his hair or modelling the new gold embroidered coat he had just bought from a travelling merchant. But the King wanted both his sons, he seemed to think it showed he meant business; Tristan didn't think it showed anything.

"And I said that was before we realised we'd have to take the damned castle" said Tom Bonnett.

Tristan looked at the speaker, the mercenary captain was in his early forties with closed cropped hair, a scar ran from one eye half-way down his cheek, another one under his mouth made it look like he had third lip. Stubble grew around them, dark and grizzled, like his voice, like the man. Unlike the King he wasn't wearing armour, just leather boots, trousers and a shirt, the sleeves half rolled up his arm. It made more of impression than plate, through the open front of the shirt you could see the edge of his pecs, hard like iron, not soft like Tristan's. His bare wrists had more scars and a tattoo, a dagger stabbed into a skull, and as he moved his arms you could see the muscles rippling. He was a grim looking man in a grim job.

The King didn't seem intimidated. He shook his head frowning, "I contracted you to help me take back some land which King Harald had unlawfully taken. I told you what the land was and where, I even supplied maps. There was always a castle there it didn't suddenly magic in; it was your lack of intelligence..." Tom frowned angrily, but the King continued, "...which meant you thought that there would be no garrison."

"From what you said it was to be some burnings of some farms, some militia at best and that the fat old fool would fuck off when we showed our steel. I'd given you our price on idea we'd be doing some looting and some raping, we'd cover our expenses that a way. No one said nowt about a castle assault."

"From what I heard your men managed plenty of raping when you took the castle," the King said snippily.

Tom shrugged, "We lost some men, the bloods up, I ain't going to stop them."

He leant back in his chair and his eyes slowly scanned the room, moving from the King's eldest to the King and finally onto Tristan. The eighteen year old prince shivered as the man's pale blue eyes fixed on him. The captain licked his lips and Tristan shivered more, 'Just give him the money' he wanted to say, 'Give him the money and tell him to leave'. But he didn't because he was scared of what his father would say.

The four men sat in silence for a few moments until Tom spoke again, "I lost some good men. Contract says I got to make payments to their widows and orphans, it means I'm going to be at a loss."

"That's hardly my fault," snapped the King, "One thousand I said and one thousand it is. If you make a bad bargain I'm not to hold for it."

"That your final word," Tom pressed his fingers together and leant forward, gazing at the King.

To give the man his due, where Tristan would have run screaming from the room in a panic, the King just stared back, "It is. One thousand or nothing."

Tom nodded, "I'll guess I'll have to take that then." He stood up and gave a small bow, "Until we meet again." Without a further word he turned and strode from the room.

Tristan had a terrible feeling his father had just made a bad enemy. He wanted to say it, to warn his father, but the King had turned from him and was jesting with his oldest son, laughing about what a bad businessman the captain was and wondering how his men will take it. "I shan't be surprised, if before they leave they'll be voting in a new captain."

Tristan's brother laughed, "Well I hope they're in no hurry, the way those scum are drinking and whoring and loosing at cards the Kingdom will have the thousand groats back by the end of the week."

Tristan stood up, excusing himself, not that the other two really noticed, he needed to get out of the armour it was hot and uncomfortable.

*

The bell rang outside. Tristan ignored it, instead looking in the mirror at his new jacket with the gold trimming; it was exquisite, the stitches so tiny they were almost unnoticeable making it look like the patterned lines were a natural part of the material. The bell rang again; it was the main gate bell. Tristan was vaguely aware that they hardly ever rang that bell, sometimes at night when a visitor important to be let in when the gates were closed arrived, never during the day when the gates were open for easy passage. He frowned as the bell rang a third time, he could hear shouting and the sound of running past his room, the strike of steel and what sounded like a scream.

He hurried over to his window and looked out into the courtyard.

Men clad in leather and chain and bits of plate mail were surging through the gate, hacking at his father's guards. Even as he watched one of them fell, his legs swept from under him by a stave; a man jumped on the guard, raising a short sword and stabbing downwards. Tristan stood still, petrified; more and more men were running into the courtyard. He recognised one of them as a sergeant from the mercenaries, then another and then another. And then in came Captain Tom Bonnett, a black coat fluttering behind him and sword in his hand. He shouted some directions and some of the invaders ran towards a door in the tower.

From another door Tristan could see his brother and the Master-of-Arms come, followed by the young men who Tristan would have trained with. They moved towards the mercenaries and the mercenaries moved towards them and then they were intermixed, a bloody, shrieking tumult of metal and blood. Tristan wasn't a soldier, but even to his eyes it was obvious the mercenaries were having the best of it. Dimly he could hear a woman screaming as other mercenaries smashed their way through doors and scrambled through windows, breaking into the keep and other buildings. Tristan turned and fled from his room.

He wasn't sure where, he just knew he had to get away, let braver men fight, let him just escape. He ran down the corridor towards the stairs and then turned as he heard the sounds of fighting down them, the crash of metal against metal, grunts and pants, a scream. He sprinted the other way, so terrified he could hardly think. He saw his older sister and her companions at an open door, open mouth, weeping and wailing. They would get raped he knew, but he wasn't going to stay and defend them. It was every person for themselves. He came to the tower at the opposite end of the corridor and started to go down them, but he had barely gone half a dozen steps when below he could hear more fighting, someone screaming in a high-pitched yell, cut short. He turned and fled back. He glanced down the corridor towards his room, at the other end a bloodstain man with an axe was roaring something in a language Tristan didn't understand. He didn't stop to ask him to translate but continued running up the tower.

There was a small bedroom half-way up, if the tower was in use the off-duty guard would use it to sleep, but it would be empty now. Hoping it was unlocked Tristan bolted for it. It's door opened easily and he staggered in, realising he was crying with fear as he shut the door, there was no bolt and he had no idea where the key was. He looked around for something to put against it to wedge itself, the room was empty apart from a double bed. The young man tried to drag it over, perhaps his brother might have succeeded or the Master-at-arms, they were stronger than he was; they also wouldn't have barricaded themselves in an empty room. Outside he could hear more screams and shrieking, and a lot less metal on metal. Sobbing in terror he got on the ground and crawled under the bed.

How long he lay there he wasn't sure. Long enough for the sounds of fighting to die down, but not the sounds of killing and raping, nor for the light outside to dim or darken.

There was the sound of the door being kicked open and he saw two pairs of scuffed leather boots coming into the room. A gobbet of spit landed on the floor, "Fuck, thought there'd be more in here than a bed," said a voice.

"Shit, yeah, hardly worth the climb," the second voice walked over to the window, looked out silently for a moment, "I'm going back, see if One-eye and the Joz have finished with that little plump redhead."

'Thank the five' thought Tristan. He felt proud that he wasn't whimpering and bawling, but remaining quiet and still.

"Yeah, but before we go let's see if there's anything under the bed," said the first man.

He tipped the bed over easily leaving Tristan exposed. He whimpered as the first man reached down, "So there is."

"Gut him then?" said the second man casually drawing his knife.

"No please," Tristan begged, tears running down his face, "Please let me live." It seemed so unfair that after hiding away he was going to die after all, "I can tell you where we keep the money."

"Know that already," said the first man. He shoved Tristan down on the floor and drew his sword. He turned to his friend, "Reckon I can take of his head in one?"

Tristan got onto his knees, begging and praying, looking up at the man beseechingly, "Have mercy, please." The man looked at him with contempt, there was no mercy there.

"That the King's brat?" there was a new voice in the door.

"Dunno sarge," said the second man with a shrug.

Tristan wasn't sure whether saying he was the Prince would help, but he knew it wouldn't do any harm. "Yes, I am. I'm Prince Tristan." He threw himself at the sergeant's feet, a beefy balding man, with a hook nose and a missing eye. The sergeant spat at him, Tristan didn't care, just continuing to prostrate himself clutching the man's stained boots and sobbing and pleading.

"Fucking thought he might have more balls for a Prince," said the First man.

"The Captain said this one was a shittin' girl, only good for flower arranging and looking pretty, ain't that right Princess, you a fucking girl?"

"Yes, yes," said Tristan sobbing.

"Up on your feet then my pretty Princess," the sergeant grabbed Tristan's arm and jerked him up, "Let's see what the captain wants with you."

He dragged the teenage prince down the stairs and into the corridor he had 'escaped' from. The first thing Tristan saw was his sister, the real princess, lying face up on the floor, a quarrel through her heart. The sergeant stepped over her without a word, pulling Tristan along, the young man scarcely managing to avoid stepping in his sister's blood. He gave her a brief looked and sobbed, he had liked his sister, but that wasn't why he cried, it was more fear that he'd be joining her. The sergeant ignored him and carried on dragging him, past his sister's room where a queue of men were lining up to rape his sister's companions and past his own room, where his clothes and belongs had been strewn with casual violence; down the steps and into the main hall.

The sergeant shoved Tristan forward and the teen fell onto his knees. "Fucking move your arse," said the man and kicked the Prince's posterior. Tristan crawled forward, slipping and stumbling as the mercenaries boot prodded and pushed at his buttocks, never quiet managing to stand, sobbing and crying. He got to the foot of the throne and stopped. Sitting on the floor, gazing at him through sightless eyes, his father's head, just that, no body – a pool of blood congealing around it and soaked into the carpet. Tristan looked up terrified. His mother, Queen Jessica, was sitting on the steps beside the throne, trying to cover her naked tits with her torn dress. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears and a bruise was slowly turning purple on her cheek, there was a clump of what looked like cum in her hair and more of it staining her ripped clothing. She looked at her son and tried to smile encouragingly, but failed.

"Prince Tristan," came a grim voice from above.

The Prince looked up. Tom Bonnett was sitting on one of the thrones, one leg draped over an arm rest, his cloak flowing over the other, his trousers were undone and his cock was out. Tristan stared at it with horrified fascination; it was big even when flaccid and it was glistening with cum. He wondered if that was where the semen staining his mother had come from, but he didn't ask.

"Or should I say the King," the captain smiled, but there was no humour in it. "Looks like you're the man now."

It took a moment or two for Tristan to realise what was being said, that his father was dead, his brother was dead and that meant he was the next in line for the throne. He had never felt so miserable in his life; he hadn't cared for either the King or his elder son, but at least he had been safe. He looked at the grim captain, "Take it all. I don't want it. Take what you want."

The captain smiled grimly and pushed the King's head with his boot, "Reckon I already have."

*

Tristan had never known how cold and damp the dungeons were; and there were rats, horrible, ugly scrawny things that would sniff at him and try to burrow into his straw, making him scream and try to push them away. The guards had soon heard his squeals and they took great delight in picking up a rat, one of the beady eyed ones, with a ragged coat and an ugly looking face and throwing it at him, laughing as he squeaked and tried to escape, ignoring the fact that the rat was often as scared as him.

He wasn't sure how long they kept him there. A few days perhaps, enough that the hard bread and water began to taste good and his new coat began to smell and fray from the lying on the hard stone with only a thin matting of straw. Each time the door opened Tristan flinched, sure that they were going to drag him out and finish him, but they never did, sometimes they fed him, sometimes they threw a rat at him, sometimes they emptied his chamberpot, but their swords remained sheathed. Until the door opened and they dragged him out, Tristan wailed pitifully, begging for mercy as they dragged him up the stairs and out of the dungeon and into a small room. Inside it was a small wooden bath, the water steaming. Tristan fell to his knees grabbing at the nearest guard, "Please, please, don't drown me."

"You smell. Bath," said the guard, which as he was a Urguath from the North, was the pot calling the kettle stinky.

Aware that they weren't going to kill him. Tristan reluctantly stood up. "Get clothes off," ordered the Urguath, "Get in bath."

Tristan undressed, dropping his ruined clothes onto the floor. The Urguath kicked them outside and waited as Tristan got into the bath. Then he snorted, "Skinny. No man." He was right, Tristan preferred to think himself slender, but he knew he was no muscle man; sitting in a bath alive and whole he didn't care. The Urguath snorted again, "Wait here. I outside." He stalked out and slammed the door.

Tristan relaxed, feeling the heat suffuse his body and rejuvenate him. If it didn't give him courage at least it reminded him he was alive. After a while the door opened and the Urguath showed in a plump girl in a translucent dress; it was one of his sister's companions, Masie. She looked scared and mousy with a metal collar round her neck, not the boisterous bundle of laughs he remembered, but then the last time he'd seen her half a dozen mercenaries had been queuing to rape her. Tristan guessed many woman might loose some zest after that. She put down a towel and a dressing gown. "For you," she said and left without another word.

The Urguath looked in for a moment and gave a grunt of what might have been derision or just a bad chest cold, then he slammed the door shut again. Tristan lay in the bath; she hadn't said he needed to get out yet so he intended to luxuriate. It didn't seem there was any rush for him to get dressed as no-one came in or shouted at him to get out of the bath and so the Prince lay there until the water began to cool. Only then did he get out and reach for the towel. He frowned at the dressing gown as he dried himself; it was a woman's one, his sister's or one of her companions, he guessed that this was all that Masie could find, though he wished she'd looked in his room. With nothing else in the room he put it on and went to sit down at a bench in the side of the room.