The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (25 page)

Agamemnon seemed eager for the excursion, too. Her fool husband was probably intending to join the hunt, regardless.
Serve him right if he gets pelted by a stray arrow.

“A brilliant suggestion, Wife.” Agamemnon leapt to his feet. “But keep the list small. Some of those sycophants are more apt to scare game away than chase it out.”

Nestra smirked. Restricting the invitation had the added benefit of making the ones left behind fret over why they were left out. “As you wish, Husband.”

“And let’s keep this information about the prince to ourselves.” Agamemnon decided with a wicked grin. “Why bother Menelaus with little details?”

Nestra rolled her eyes. The games those brothers tormented each other with were beyond her. She often wondered what was the source of their mutual hatred.

“May I take my leave, Your Grace?” Helen asked.

Nestra had thought Helen would be more relieved at her suggestion, but her twin was as twitchy as a flea-ridden mongrel. She could hardly stand still. Something odd was happening with her sister, and Clytemnestra did not like it.

Agamemnon waved her off, and Clytemnestra followed after her. Helen was not going to escape their conversation that easily. But the second Nestra exited into the megaron, a dozen courtiers surrounded her. Helen was already disappearing out the portico.

“Your Grace?”

Nestra turned to Astyanassa’s sultry voice.

“A moment of your time?”

Clytemnestra balked. Helen would have to wait. It was disturbing that her sister would try to lie to her, but she decided it was more important to root out the source of that betrayal, and that meant uncovering every dark detail about this foreign prince.

And if the Trojan hurt her precious sister in any way, Nestra would hold nothing back.

Chapter 15

The Hunt

THE ANNOUNCEMENT that the court was joining the hunt reached Paris shortly after his brief meeting with Menelaus. Since the gathering was so early, the dinner meal was cancelled. The kitchen staff brought trays to their rooms, which meant he had to suffer through dinner with no one but Glaucus for company.

The captain had gone hoarse preaching caution. Paris murmured the occasional “of course” and “certainly” during the diatribe, but Glaucus’ dire warnings fell on deaf ears. Paris hungered for this opportunity. Men like Menelaus had pushed him around from his infancy. They attacked him with impunity knowing the temple approved of their measures, and that the crown would not defend him. But not here, not now. All of Paris’ hopeless desires for Helen channeled itself into a single, overwhelming urge to prove his worth to Agamemnon, to Menelaus, to the world itself.

He woke the next morning bristling with energy, and was down to the stables before the rest of the house had awakened. Haemon greeted him at the barn doors, his limp more pronounced in the frigid pre-dawn air.

“We weren’t expecting you for another hour, Your Grace.”

Paris took the proffered torch, craning his neck to get a good look at the stock. “I don’t like to ride out on an animal I haven’t acquainted myself with,” he told Haemon while inspecting the horseflesh from stall to stall.

The majority of the animals were stocky, bred for charging. Paris passed them by. They were too much like their Greek masters, muscular and inflexible. He wanted an animal that could respond quickly and adapt to a changing terrain. “Is this the entire royal stock?”

“Half the mares are thick with foal.” Haemon answered with a nod of apology. “But the best bloodlines are here.”

Paris was about to give up hope when a loud braying erupted from a dark corner of the stables. He lifted his torch high banishing the shadows to the rafters, and a magnificent red-gold stallion reared from the flame.

He was young, barely over a two-year. The horse whinnied like a bellows, trumpeting his frustration at being imprisoned. Paris approached the animal, his hand outstretched to allow his scent to precede him. “Why is this one separated from the others?”

“What, Kronos?” Haemon spat in the hay. “He has a temper as foul as his breeding. He’s a runt, Your Grace.”

Kronos reared again, shaking his black mane with fury. Paris reached out and pulled his snout down, forcing the stallion to meet him eye to eye. “He’s perfect. Bring out some tackle.”

Haemon shuffled off, grumbling to himself, “
Don’t listen to me, I’m just the Horse Master...”

“
He doesn’t think much of you.
” Paris told the horse in Phrygian. Kronos’ ears perked up at the foreign tongue. The Phrygians boasted they were the first to tame an equine, that they shared a kinship with the noble creatures. It was moments like this that Paris almost believed it true. “
Would you like to prove him wrong?
”

Kronos watched the horse master hobble away and brayed again. Once the outburst was finished, he turned to Paris, an inquisitive look behind his wide liquid eyes. Paris fished an apple out of his tunic and took a bite. The horse nudged closer, his nostrils flared until Paris handed over the morsel.

“You know, tough guys don’t beg for treats.” He rustled the stallion’s mane, keeping his hand close to Kronos’ muzzle. Paris could tell the beast was calming; his tail stopped swishing and his ears relaxed.

“That runt’s not broken, Trojan.” Menelaus shouted from across the stable. “My brother won’t be pleased when the beast throws you and you break that pretty neck.” The Mycenaean crossed into the stall of the largest stallion in the barn, tossing a padded saddlecloth over the giant’s back.

Kronos brayed nervously, shuffling back into his stall and away from Greek prince. Paris stepped protectively in front of him. If Menelaus’ voice could create that panic, Paris wondered what other abuse the horse had received.

“I doubt you have an animal here that could unseat me.” Paris shot back. It wasn’t a boast. He and Hector had been placed in a saddle as soon as they could walk. But Menelaus eyed him doubtfully, a lifetime of false truths making him overconfident. Size did not make a man harder to toss. It only made them land harder when they fell.

In a single move, Paris grabbed Kronos’ mane and leaped up onto the stallion bareback. Once up, Menelaus could no longer sneer down on him. He grinned at the Mycenaean, kicking Kronos into motion. “But I am touched by your concern, Your Highness.”

“I hope you brought your sword this time, Trojan.” Menelaus’ bitter laugh followed him out of the stable. “That sweet tongue of yours won’t save you in the king’s Wood.”

The stockyard was filling with huntsmen and courtiers when Helen arrived in the pre-dawn darkness. The hounds raced underfoot, feeding off the energy of their human counterparts. Blood would be shed this day, and both hunter and hound lived for that opportunity.

Wrapping her furs around her tightly, Helen took a seat on a hay bale and waited for the others to gather. A maid scurried between the courtiers offering steaming cups of hot tea. Helen took a cup, holding the warm crockery with both hands. The bitter brew helped to clear the fog from her weary mind.

The past twelve hours had been the most difficult of her life. She couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She had fallen in love with Paris, as impossible and unlikely as that was. She barely knew the Trojan, but five minutes in his presence and she knew she belonged with him. And when he kissed her... she was transported somewhere between this world and the next.

But she had made her vows to Menelaus, before Gods and Men. She was bound to Mycenae. She had made an awful, terrible mistake in that choice, and now the Gods were tormenting her. They dangled happiness before her eyes, showing her what she could never have.

Nestra entered the yard looking every inch the queen. Her hair was wrapped up into a severe bun with a delicate golden diadem woven through it. The thick cloak around her shoulders was cut from a wolf’s hide, its grey black fur nestled tightly against her neck. She spotted Helen readily and took a seat beside her.

“Helen,” Nestra kissed her on both cheeks, “will you ride with me today?” She seemed overtly pleased with herself, like a cat left alone with the cream.

Helen eyed her suspiciously. “Have you been in the spirits?” Nestra’s chipper attitude was beyond what Helen would expect for irritating a few courtiers.

Nestra was not offended, if anything, her grin grew an inch. “Can’t I be pleased without you thinking I’m soaked in spirits?” she pouted in play. “A day outside the palace walls, the
Mounichia
festival and feast tomorrow... there are ample reasons to be excited.”

Helen sighed, releasing the tension in her shoulders. She was jumping at shadows while her sister smiled gaily. It was as though she and Nestra had switched bodies. She massaged her aching temples. Ever since Paris arrived she had lost her usual patience, sensitive to any slight. It was exhausting.

But Nestra’s gay smile twisted maliciously as the Trojan hunters entered the yard. A spike of alarm rushed through Helen’s cold blood. Her sister was up to something. “Are you—“

But she lost the words as Paris led his horse into the yard. The courtiers’ loud conversations died off into hushed whispers as he passed. Tales of his heroic rescue had only grown overnight, and every noble, both man and woman alike, was fascinated by her mysterious prince.

He did not openly look in her direction, but she was sure Paris was aware she was near. It was in his bearing, the turn of his shoulders and shift of his stance that kept her in his peripheral line of sight.

Helen’s heart leapt up into her throat, fluttering as madly as a hummingbird’s wings. Even half a court away his presence magnetized her. Wearing tan leathers suitable for riding and defense, and standing amongst his elite soldiers, Paris looked so much like a man from Sparta. Her heart ached with that sweet pain.

“He is handsome, isn’t he?” A girlish giggle pulled Helen back to herself. Iphigenia stood beside them. The princess, a blossoming girl of eleven, was a perfect mixture of Nestra and Agamemnon. Her flowing hair was a mousy shade of brown with honeyed highlights. Her round eyes were brown as well. She was surrounded by a coterie of friends, all between the ages of eight and thirteen, every one of them sighing like sops over the prince.

“What makes you think him so special?” Nestra snapped at her daughter. “What battle has he won? What city has he ruled?”

Iphigenia blushed. Helen felt sorry for the poor girl. She was a sweet thing and normally would back down to her imperial mother, but she was surrounded by her peers and at the tender age where the opinions of others mattered as much as proper manners.

“He saved Aunt Helen.” A small voice called out from behind the princess.While Iphigenia was a mixture of the king and queen, Nestra’s youngest daughter was the spitting image of her father.Electra’s raven-colored hair was pulled back into a tight braid, and she planted her arms on her hips, glaring at her mother with eight-year-old superiority.

Iphigenia, pulling courage from her sister, stuck her delicate chin out and responded to their regal mother, a slight wobble the only indicator that her conviction wavered. “He faced a mighty taurus with nothing but his bare hands. That makes him brave!” Her friends tittered their agreement behind her.

“
Or it makes him stupid.
” Nestra grumbled.

Helen groaned, and the unfortunate sound drew her niece’s attention to her, despite Helen’s best intentions to stay out of the matter. Iphigenia immediately latched on to a source of aid.

“Aunt Helen? What was it like, him saving you?” Her eyes lit up with hope.

“I bet it was very romantic.” One of Iphigenia’s maids cooed.

They were only girls, but the idiotic chatter combined with her sleepless night had caught up to Helen. She put a staying hand on her sister—Nestra’s cross expression a forewarning of an imminent rebuke—and addressed the girls herself.

“Oh, yes. It was very romantic. Lying there in the dirt, knowing death was staring me in the face, and worse, that the man who was forced to save me was just as certainly dead. I near
swooned
from the romance.” She rolled her eyes as the droll words dripped off her tongue.