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Civil’s hands clenched and unclenched as he glared across the crowded hall at the man who had ruined his life.
It was all that man’s fault. It had all gone wrong when Lord Golden and his man, Tom Badgerlock, had arrived at Galekeep. Bad enough that he’d flirted outrageously with Sydel, making Civil appear backwards and childish in comparison to his extravagant Jamaillian ways. Bad enough that he’d come to Civil’s own home, dressed in his fine silks with his courtly manners, his quips and his compliments, looking like a cockerel among a flock of peahens. Bad enough that he’d been beguilingly handsome, with his warm golden skin and honey colored hair, his eyes as good as his name, his body long and lean.
Any one of these things would have been enough to make him resent the man, but then Lord Golden had propositioned him.
Oh, certainly he’d been sodden enough with drink that Civil was sure he might have propositioned anyone, at least that was what he told himself. But the way those golden eyes had caught upon his, the way his tongue had kissed Civil’s palm, sending an inadvertent shiver through Civil’s body. Disgust, he’d told himself later, that’s what it was. Lord Golden was unnatural, and whatever the customs were in Jamaillia, these were the Six Duchies and in the Six Duchies, men did not go with other men. At least Civil was reasonably certain they did not.
No, Lord Golden was a freak and an aberration, that’s all there was to it, and if the memory of the man’s lips upon his palms made his cheeks heat, it was shame that he felt, a righteous shame.
Now he was here, in Buckkeep, with a swarm of men and women vying for his attention, fluttering around him like multicolored butterflies trying to perch upon a single flower. And there was his man, Tom Badgerlock, solid at his back, one proprietary hand upon the back of Lord Golden’s chair. He had no doubt what those two got up to, manservant indeed.
Even worse, he had caught Prince Dutiful exchanging glances with the man at arms, as if they were acquainted somehow. He would have to warn Dutiful, perhaps even suggest that Lord Golden’s stay be cut short, if he could convince Dutiful to send the man away. But not before Civil confronted him. He determined that he would do it, he would confront him, and then send him from Buckkeep in disgrace. Civil stalked from the hall, earning himself a confused glance from Dutiful which he forced himself to ignore.
Confronting Lord Golden turned out to be harder than Civil had imagined it.
For one, Lord Golden was always surrounded by a flock of lords and ladies who were, Civil had no doubt, trying to find some advantage in making the acquaintance of one so wealthy, just as his own mother had, just as Sydel’s parents had, permitting his outrageous flirting far past what was proper. His heart panged to think of Sydel, who had become distant from him. He had written her, but had received no reply.
If Lord Golden wasn’t surrounded with the pettiest, most insufferable of Duchies nobility, he was accompanied by Tom Badgerlock. Civil told himself he was not a coward to avoid physical confrontation with Lord Golden’s bodyguard, it was only prudent. Badgerlock was more than twice his age and clearly a hardened warrior, with his scars and the dead look in his eye. Except when he looked at Lord Golden. Or Dutiful.
This afternoon Civil had sought out Dutiful in one of the fashionable rooms where the younger set often played games of cards and recently a strange little game called stones that Dutiful had introduced to court, although he would not say where he had learned it. Dutiful was not present, but Lord Golden was, resplendent as always, today dressed in a shade of blue slightly brighter than Buck Blue that set off the golden tones in his hair and his skin. His bright laughter traveled across the room, setting Civil on edge.
He felt awkward and gangly of a sudden, unsure where to sit or who to talk to. He wasn’t truly comfortable at court, having no close companions besides Dutiful and his cat. These days it was worse than ever because, although he had no evidence to prove it, he felt like rumors swirled about him and Sydel, Sydel and Lord Golden, himself and Lord Golden. The last brought a rush of blood to his cheeks. He quested out for Pard, but the cat was napping and rebuffed him, making Civil feel even more the chastened child. Hastily, he found a window seat and tried to look as though he were lost in thought, contemplating the sea beyond the window.
Civil thought to huff angrily but it came out more of a sigh. It simply wasn’t fair. Lord Golden had already stolen Sydel’s heart, and now he would steal away Dutiful as well. How could Dutiful, his only true companion, the Witted prince who was the hope of the Old Blood, be the kind of man who would be tempted by another man? No, that wasn’t even the worst of it, the worst was that he was tempted by Lord Golden’s man of all people. If Dutiful enjoyed the company of men, why had he never cast those glances Civil’s way?
Or had he? Civil thought back to the times he and Dutiful had spent together, hunting with their cats, those exhilarating evenings. Had Dutiful not once, when the cats had caught a scent, grabbed Civil's hand in the excitement of the moment? Civil told himself it had meant nothing of that sort, but had that touch not lingered a moment more than was strictly proper? Had Dutiful not looked at him, moonlight dancing in his eyes, and smiled softly before leaping to his feet at Cat's command?
Well, those hunts were no more. Civil had no cat, no bond animal at all, and that was partly Civil's fault. If he turned to Badgerlock or Lord Golden for companionship, could he blame anyone but himself?
It wasn’t jealousy though, Civil told himself, not like that, it was only that he missed his friend, and these two had done nothing to earn the trust of the prince. It hardly seemed fair. Hoping he was not too conspicuous, he cast his glance in Lord Golden’s direction.
Lord Golden was having tea, and for once Tom Badgerlock was not attending him. Civil's window seat was at an angle from the lord that allowed him to watch the man unnoticed. Several of Lord Golden’s companions left him, and seemed to bid an invitation for him to follow along, but Lord Golden waived them off. He flagged down a serving girl and gestured for a fresh pot of tea, and Civil rolled his eyes at Lord Golden's expression. He seemed almost grateful, almost kind, but Civil knew it for an act.
Civil watched for a moment, making sure no one else approached, but everyone else in the room was engaged in a game or a conversation and for one blessed moment, Lord Golden was completely alone. He'd long waited for just such an opportunity, now that the moment had come, he hesitated, struck by the way Lord Golden closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to ward off a headache. Then his shoulders slumped forward a little and his face seemed to relax in a way that, perplexingly, made him seem like someone else entirely, not a Jamaillian lord at all, but someone more fragile and more vulnerble. He didn’t know Civil was watching, of that much he was certain. This unexpected glimpse of some other Lord Golden made him uncomfortable, but he could not look away. Lord Golden scrubbed his hand across his face and leaned back in his chair.
Whatever brief sympathy Civil might have felt for the lord, he squashed it down. This man did not deserve his sympathy, and if he was weary or his head ached, well it only served him right for the way he carried on, drinking his weight in brandy each night and feasting extravagantly. The serving woman arrived with Lord Golden’s tea, and when she left, Civil stood up and stalked towards the table where the lord sat.
“My Lord Bresinga,” said Lord Golden. There was something uncertain in his eyes, and he frowned, just slightly. “Join me for a cup of tea?”
Civil shook his head. “I’d not disgrace myself by being seen in your company.”
“It seems you’re in my company now,” Lord Golden said mildly.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Civil tried to still his hands, which had started shaking in anger. He hadn’t planned this out well enough. He’d imagined confronting Lord Golden ever since he’d arrived at Buckkeep, but now that his chance had come, he didn’t know what to say. He wanted Lord Golden to stand up, to fight, to defend himself, but all the man wanted to do was finish his tea.
“I’m not sure I catch your meaning, Civil. I’ve apologized for how I behaved at Galekeep. How else might I demonstrate to you my sincere contrition?”
“You could fight me, honorably, man to man. In front of the stones,” Civil said. A foolish impulse seized him and he declared hotly, “If you win, you may have Sydel's hand. I will yield her to you. If you lose, you will leave Buckkeep forever.” It was a stupid, foolhardy challenge, and one he had no right to issue, for he knew Sydel's hand was not his to promise. Civil was glad no one else was around to hear him issue it, especially when Lord Golden sighed and shook his head.
“I cannot do that. Not that Sydel isn’t lovely, but she is too young for me, and her heart belongs to another.” He looked met Civil’s eyes, looking surprisingly sincere. “You will have to take my word for it, along with my apology. I decline your challenge.”
“You can’t,” Civil said, even as he knew he should be relieved. His grip on the situation was slipping. “This isn’t how it’s done.”
Lord Golden sipped his tea. “Isn’t it?” The Lord’s eyes focused across the room. “And here is my man, Badgerlock. Perhaps you can repeat your challenge in his presence? For I am sure it is no coincidence that you have waited until we were all but alone before saying such a thing.”
As Tom Badgerlock appeared at Lord Golden’s side, Civil became aware of how the last words, out of context, might have been taken. He wanted to scream, to slap the man, to dash his teacup on the floor. He had never hated anyone as much as he hated Lord Golden.
“My Lord, all is well?” said Tom Badgerlock, glancing between Lord Golden and Civil.
“Yes Badgerlock, quite,” said Lord Golden. “Young Lord Bresinga was just sending us his mother’s regards, isn’t that right, Civil?”
Civil blinked, not quite knowing how to respond. He had not been sending his mother’s regards, he’d not been doing anything of the sort, and the way Lord Golden spoke to him, as if he were a mere child, oh how it rankled. Yet— here was Badgerlock, who would fight Lord Golden’s fights for him, and Civil knew he was not up to the task of taking on this man. He glanced at Tom Badgerlock, who raised his eyebrows as if to ask: well?
“Stay away from Dutiful,” Civil blurted out, looking not at Lord Golden, but at Badgerlock. “He’s not like you.” He hadn't meant to say that, and inwardly he chided himself for being so direct. It wouldn't do to have rumors spreading about Dutiful, not when many would already object to a Witted king. He had no choice but to leave off this confrontation. He was not giving up, he told himself, just making a temporary retreat. He looked back to Lord Golden, who sipped his tea once more. “Good day, sir,” he spat, and then he turned his heel to leave.
Behind him, he heard Tom Badgerlock say, “what was that all about?”
Civil rolled his eyes, but the next words, softly spoken, so that had Civil not been Witted, he might not have heard them at all, were what gave him pause. “Ah Fitz,” said Lord Golden, in an accent that was decidedly not Jamaillian, “I’ve mucked it all up.” Then, perhaps realizing his lapse, he said, more loudly, and in his normal voice, “I’ve got a dreadful headache. Lend me your arm, Tom, and help me back to my rooms. I’d like to rest awhile.”
None of it made any sort of sense to Civil, except that it was more proof of Lord Golden’s deceptions. Civil was certain of one thing: being wealthy, handsome, and charming didn’t make a man good, and Lord Golden, indeed, was the worst.