A Royal Affair (18 page)

That seemed a very reasonable conclusion.

Aleksey wanted my focus back on the march and had ordered Johan to speak to me about it.

I was still puzzled by the boot throwing, though.

M
Y
CONFUSION
over many things on that road to war, including Aleksey’s mood, was deepened by an odd incident the following day. I was still thinking back over that nighttime conversation with Aleksey, going over it, pretending I had said this and he had said that and perhaps other things more pleasant than a boot being flung in my face had occurred, when I rounded the end of a line of tents and saw Jules and Johan deep in conversation, heads lowered. As I have said, Jules was a particular friend of Johan’s. They regularly sat together in the evenings, playing chess, so it was not that unusual to see them together now. I was about to join them, therefore, when I heard Jules say, “No, I suppose you are right. He is not.”

I cannot say why the immediate suspicion that they were talking about me came into my mind, but it did.

It was ungentlemanly, beneath me, but I hung back behind the tent and listened.

Their voices carried very easily, and I heard Jules add, “I thought he was one of those ferocious German mercenaries when he first strode into His Majesty’s bedchamber.”

Johan snorted. “Aye, as did I when we first met. Told the little fool so too, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Never does. All he can see is the damn man’s face—and other parts, I’d warrant.”

“Well, he is exceptionally handsome, Johan. Even you have to admit the beauty of his countenance
is
rather distracting. Have you seen how the soldiery watch him?”

“I have
not
, and the devil I’d admit any such thing if I had. I have to listen to the idiot’s foolishness all bloody day: how his hair shines like ripen wheat in the sun, how he moves like a dancer, how his skin is like brown silk—God’s breath, my head reels from the womanish nonsense I am subjected to! What I want to know from a
sensible
man is can this man be trusted?”

“Ah. Yes, I see. Trusted with—”

“
Yes, damn you
. I know he is privileged and entitled, superior in every way, but he is also very young, inexperienced, and
scared
. He will not act for
himself
. He seems entirely in awe of the savage, afraid that if he speaks it will—I don’t know! Give me bloody horses any day. So, your opinion, Doctor.”

I was about to leave, my confusion so great I could hardly breathe, when Jules murmured, “He is the warrior angel, sir—or that is what the men call him.”

“The men say that?”

“They do.”

“I have rarely known soldiers be poor judges of the officers set above them.”

“Nor I. I take it as an indication of their extreme approbation.”

I heard them approach the spot where I was concealed and stepped out as if I had just arrived. They both looked taken aback, and I was incoherent in my stumbled greeting.

We passed the moment off and conversed on neutral subjects, but I could not remember later what we had actually said. My mind was very far from that place of tents and mud.

I could have no doubt who had been the subject of their conversation. I was not committing the sin of vanity in this acknowledgment—quite the contrary in fact. I had spent the last few years constructing a façade in order to divert men’s thoughts from my countenance and bearing and onto my erudition, my skills as a doctor. I presented myself to the world as a learned man of science to hide my true nature—that of a man who loves other men and has the power to win them with features so perfectly aligned that few had resisted when I exploited their innermost desires and bent their desperation to my will.

I was that man no longer.

So it was not with glee or vanity that I heard these words.

It was with a deep sense of horror that I was being discussed so, that I was the subject of some kind of weighing in the balance.

Could I be trusted?

I could not tell them. That was a question I had yet to answer for myself.

T
HE
FACT
that my carefully constructed façade was now the subject of open discussion between men I had thought fooled entirely almost paralyzed me with indecision. Aleksey continued his exhausting contrariness toward me, one minute haughty and dismissive and the next hesitant and confiding, and I walked around as if reanimated—moving, talking, but terrified that by one slip I might reveal the answer to the question they were asking. Could I be trusted? We must have been a pretty pair, rarely speaking, writhing in tense silences when we shared the tent at night, and avoiding each other as much as possible during the day.

However, there were one or two moments on that long march when we almost crossed that divide that separates desire from action. One, midway through our second month, sticks in my mind particularly. In all this time we had only touched each other once: that one time when I had ministered to his minor abrasions and we had been interrupted by my near arrest for witchcraft. Our chance to touch again came about, once more, through my role as doctor and his need to be my patient.

All armies suffer from lack of information. Generals cannot make plans when they do not know what is happening around them. Aleksey had tried to bring in an effective method of passing information by using his little flock of boys as runners. They carried messages back from the front of the line to the wagons in the rear, from Aleksey to his captains, and from them to the sergeants, and so on. Even though information in Aleksey’s army flowed freely, it was not always accurate. The little idiots often embellished the information they carried to bolster their own importance. They mixed it up in their minds so some people got some of the message, some the rest, but no one the whole story. Even though I
knew
this, I did not remember it when I began to hear hysterical cries from all around me one day. “
The prince is dead! The prince is dead!
”

We only had one prince with us, so
I
heard, “
Aleksey is dead
.”

I was riding at the back of the line at the time, speaking with some of the veterans who were jogging along in a wagon. I was trying to discover what their role was, as Johan had been completely unable to explain why Aleksey insisted these old or wounded soldiers should still be paid and still accompany the army. They were hardly more forthcoming. According to them, they provided vital intelligence to the general, but they could not actually tell me what this information was.

So I heard the cry and I believed it. The blood rushed from my head. The sensation was frightening for its suddenness. All went gray around me, and I slumped to one side in the saddle. One of the veterans pulled me back to the moment, snapping gruffly, “Get up there, man. Check the body. These fools wouldn’t know signs of life if stuffed up their arses where the light don’t shine.” I didn’t even try to untangle this. I spurred Xavier to life, and we galloped wide of the column to flat, clear land and flew like the wind. Lying low over his broad back, one with him, I have never ridden anywhere so fast. The frosty ground chipped up behind his hooves, wind streamed my eyes, and I could hardly see the head of the column four miles in the front.

We reached a scene of chaos, with men standing around shouting. One of them was Aleksey. I circled the group, calming myself. Aleksey must have seen something in my expression. He broke off his argument, giving me a quizzical look. I managed to say, “The word down the line is that you are dead.”

He cursed roundly and declared to his captains that he needed to ride the line and show himself. He had to be helped onto his horse. He waved them all away and nodded for me to ride alongside him. After a moment, when we were out of hearing of anyone, he said in a gentle tone, “I am not dead, Niko. You can breathe again.”

I tried to laugh, but it was a very weak attempt. “What happened?”

“We were playing—”

“Playing!
Playing
! Playing? Is that what you spend your time doing at the front of the line? I had—”

“We were
playing
,” he repeated, with a patience that belied his irritation at my outburst, “a new game called pulu. It’s really good. We all ride around hitting this little ball between us. It’s very good training for my officers.”

“It is hardly new, Aleksey; the Powponi trained
babies
on horseback with such games.”

“Oh, I’m sure the damn
Powponi
do everything better than me. Do you want to hear my story? Or are you going to stay cross with me all day because
you
misheard a simple—”

“I did not
mishear
. Your—”

“So anyway, I was playing pulu, this
new
game, and I fell off my horse. How princely and exciting is that?”

“Then why were you shouting?”

“Oh, well, yes, then I got run over by someone, and their horse stepped on me. I thought it was a bit unsporting.”

“Good God. Let me see.”

“Not here!” He chuckled. “I think you have taken my story of the naked army too much to heart. I cannot ride down my lines without my uniform. It would be… cold—if nothing else. Tonight.”

I felt a shiver run through me, as though he had said that for another reason. That I had asked him desperately
when can I see you
, and he had replied
tonight
. I’d take what I could get of Aleksey, though. Being his doctor was also something to be greatly anticipated.

He arrived back in camp earlier than was his usual habit. He always did the rounds of the various encampments before returning to ours: checking the men, speaking with some, showing himself to all. But tonight he returned straight to the officers’ camp and dismounted outside our tent, passing his reins to one of the boys. He came in and said immediately, “Help me, Niko.” I went to him and took his arm. He leaned gratefully against me and smiled, chastened. “I should have taken your advice and returned with you after the fall. I think I am dying.”

I was now over my initial fear and able to treat this theatrical way of speaking with the scorn it deserved, but I was concerned. It wasn’t like him to look quite so pale or to admit he was in pain. I eased him down onto his bunk, squatted in front of him, and unbuttoned his jacket. His eyes followed my fingers. My hands began to tremble slightly at the thought of how this scene might play out in another time, another world, and if we were not both men.

I laughed it off. “I’m cold.”

He nodded, distracted. I eased the jacket off his shoulders and laid it on the bed. His shirt pulled easily from the waistband, but when I tried to pull it off his head, he winced. “I cannot lift my arm.”

I swallowed anxiously and resumed squatting, staring at him. “What have you done, you little fool?” I slid my knife from my boot. He seemed surprised that I kept one there and followed its movement as I sliced through his shirt from hem to tie and eased the halves off his shoulders.

I was not too surprised at what I saw. He was black, blue, yellow, and green, the bruise vast and extensive and centered on one side of his torso. “I think you have broken a rib.” I glanced up. “You have carried on riding all day like this? Why?”

He pouted. “Because I’m stupid?”

I could not be angry with him. He had suffered enough. He needed something other than anger and remonstration. I eased him back so he lay on the cot, then took the coverings from my bed and put them behind his back, lifting him and arranging him until he was comfortable. I sat down alongside him, considering his pale face. I touched my cool fingertips to his bruise. He closed his eyes. I reached up and stroked the hair off his forehead, then let my fingers run farther, tugging the dark strands as a father might to a wayward son. He caught my hand, held it for a moment, then pushed it down to his bruise where it disappeared beneath the leather of his breeches. “It hurts here.” I felt the place gently, knowing I was being manipulated. He still had hold of my wrist.

If he had pushed my hand farther down, all would have been clear between us, all sorted and decided, but he did not. He hissed, and I did not know if it was from pain or something else, but I rose and went to my medical box. I brought out a little bottle, poured a cup of wine, and added a few drops from the vial. I returned to the bed. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“What I am telling you to drink. That is what it is.”

He gave me a sulky look but drank it down, wincing at the bitterness. The laudanum took effect quickly. Unused to it, he had no resistance, and very soon he was quite cheerful. I laughed and shook my head at him, and he slurred softly, “What? Am I amusing you?”

Nodding, I brushed a finger over his eye. “Tiny pinpricks. You would not pass muster. Your eyes betray you. It is an effect of the laudanum; don’t worry.” He insisted I sit with him, and he did seem to find some relief from my gentle application of ointment upon his bruised side. I was very happy to smooth my hands over his warm skin, so we were both very content for a while. But a starving man finds it hard to control himself when given access to the feast. Aleksey was sleepy, malleable, needy. I wanted to supply what he needed. He was blinking slowly, watching me through lowered lids as I stroked him. “You should sleep now.” He nodded but caught my hand before I could rise.

“Kiss me good night, Niko.”

I tried to keep it light and not give away too much of my desire. “That is not a doctor’s role.”

He pouted. “Then kiss me as a friend.” I sighed and leaned forward, my lips brushing his forehead. He cupped me around the neck, so as I lifted my lips away, he pulled me to his. His lips were soft. They opened. They went slack. He was asleep.

The laudanum had worked through his system, taking him to a place where there was no pain. I smiled into his unresponsive lips, kissed him once more as a father to a child, and tucked the blankets warmly around his battered body.