The Rusted Sword (3 page)

Indeed, Moshe let out a light chuckle. "Once upon a time, you two were friends."

"I tolerated him."

Moshe cooed at him in a teasing tone. "Poor Frederick. He is so affectionate towards you, and all you do is snarl in return."

Raleigh cleared his throat unhappily at that. Without thinking, he tapped Moshe's bottom. "You were the one he treasured, you charmed him from the moment you walked into the main hall with that sullen look on your face."
Not to mention me as well,
Raleigh thought to himself.
Completely charmed and thoroughly screwed.

It took Moshe's stony silence for Raleigh to realize where his hand was. He jerked it away and held his arms chastely above the covers.

Another tense moment passed, and Raleigh knew he was about to make a fool of himself by saying something terse to cover his embarrassment., but then he heard Moshe sigh in a defeated way. "I don't suppose you'll at least act civilized towards Frederick?"

Relieved that he hadn't completely ruined what had been the longest and least vicious conversation he and Moshe had shared in what felt like months, Raleigh simply grunted. It earned him the laugh he was hoping for, as well as a little snuggle. As much as he missed the rough games, it was the lack of soft affection from Moshe that had made Raleigh feel miserably lonely all this time. Even though he knew it was his own fault.

"I suppose you would be a different man entirely if you greeted Frederick with open arms," Moshe said, his speech starting to sound a little dreamy. He had gone pliant in Raleigh's grip, the surest sign that he was drifting towards slumber. When he was snoring soundly, Raleigh ran the risk of pressing his face in Moshe's hair, breathing in his scent.

*~*~*

The duke greeted them outside, in the courtyard, which already had Raleigh's mood dark.

"Be polite," Moshe whispered to him as he pulled his riding gloves from his fingers.

"Our lord has no sense of propriety," Raleigh replied, lifting the saddlebags from Moshe's horse and handing them to a stable hand. Frederick was over by another, listing instructions. "A man who must retain respect from all those under him should conduct himself—"

"Raleigh," Moshe said, letting out a weary sigh. He stepped closer, looking up at Raleigh with his brilliant blue eyes. He was smiling, however. "He does not hold the same old-fashioned values that you do, o' lord of the manor."

They stared at each other. The air was still light with humor, and if Raleigh were to be honest, he would admit that his heart was close to racing with how close this comfortable banter was to how he and Moshe used to speak during the first half of their marriage. If this had been then, or even earlier, he would have turned Moshe over his knee, would have flustered him and swatted him until he admitted just how much he didn't mind Raleigh's
o' lord of the manor
disposition.

But …

"Perhaps he does," was all Raleigh said, his gaze averted. This time he knew the silence was coming, and instead of addressing it, he turned and went to the Frederick.

He was not someone Raleigh relished spending time with, although he had known him for most of his life. Duke Frederick was the same age as Raleigh, and they were cousins. Every winter month, for the games, Raleigh was made to travel all the way to Marvle-Dein to be a playmate to Frederick, which was fine enough for a time.

"Raleigh," Frederick said, holding his arms out wide. Raleigh smiled wanly and followed through with the embrace. He could just feel Moshe staring at them with amusement.

Yes, Raleigh had gotten on just fine with his cousin when they were small.

That was, until a boy from the north was brought to Marvle-Dein—the lovechild of a neighboring king ... and a convenient peacekeeping oath. The king would never wage war against them, and Frederick's father would keep the boy safely away from vicious courtiers.

His name was Moshe.

And he chose Frederick.

Raleigh felt Frederick shift away from him.

"What are you thinking of, cousin?" Frederick asked.

Shrugging, Raleigh kept his amusement inward. Even now, decades after meeting that rabid coyote of a boy, he still burned with indignation that he was never the one chosen to play castle with, never wanted for chess games or stealing hot cocoa from the kitchen. Through most of their childhood, Moshe had barely batted an eye at him.

Raleigh had been quite thorough and merciless in his revenge.

Appearing next to him, Moshe took his place at Raleigh's side. "Frederick," he said warmly.

"Dearest Moshe," Frederick replied, but—as Raleigh noted with approval—did not follow up with an embrace like the one he shared with Raleigh. At least he knew to keep a respectful distance, but he still had that yearning look in his eye that had always set Raleigh on edge. Raleigh dropped a heavy hand on Moshe's shoulder, clasping tight enough that he heard a quick intake of breath. Glancing down, he saw Moshe's eyes wide, and on him, cheeks flushed.

Whatever had compelled him, whatever strength … evaporated. With a swallow, he released his grip.

Moshe narrowed his eyes. Then he looked back at Frederick, who seemed suitably content to stand there with his hands behind his back and a slight smile on his face. "I have prepared the quarters closest to mine," he said, his eyes twinkling.

"Why?" Raleigh replied, his tone flat.

"I wish to spend as much time with my two favorite men on this good earth as possible," Frederick replied just as quickly, swinging around so that he was in between Moshe and Raleigh. He flung his arms over their shoulders, beckoning them forward towards the castle entrance. "You must sneak in! The middle of the night, we shall light a fire and tell ghost tales as we did as small ones."

Raleigh merely grunted. It seemed Frederick did not recall that Raleigh was never wanted for such times.

At that thought, Raleigh considered Moshe. It seemed he was in good humor, laughing along with whatever banal thing Frederick was prattling on about. It cheered Raleigh to see him happy, and yet it hurt that he could not be the one to put such a dazzling smile on Moshe's face.

"I swear," Frederick said, "it has been since your wedding that I have seen you two."

"It has not been so long," Raleigh replied gruffly. Moshe did not comment.

"Keeping my best friend locked away in that place," Frederick continued, seemingly unhindered by his crass rudeness. "You are too stern a lord, Raleigh. Let me see your darling husband at least once a year, yes?"

"You see him now, don't you?"

Frederick only let out an amused hum in response, which had Raleigh gritting his teeth. If he were to be honest in the face of God, he would admit that in his most jealous moments, he had entertained the fantasy of confining Moshe to only Chaylain and its lands, so that he would never be allowed to visit Frederick.

But then Raleigh looked down at his feet as he walked. Was it not that he had kept Moshe chained, anyway? When was the last time they ventured past his own lands?

"He could go to Marvle-Dein if that were his wish," Raleigh said, the words rushing out of his mouth as if he had to prove something to himself rather than Frederick.

He heard Moshe huff. And he felt a fool.

"I would not come without my lord and husband," Moshe said.

Raleigh's attention snapped to him. But Moshe was looking ahead as they walked up the steps into the castle.

Frederick was chuckling softly. "Well, Raleigh. Never will I question that you tamed our dearest Moshe."

When Frederick hissed with pain at Moshe's pinch, Raleigh almost felt vindicated, but he still heard
our our our our, our dearest Moshe.
Perhaps this is why he never entertained the thought of coming to Marvle-Dein unless he had to. He was always faced with Frederick's unwavering affections towards Moshe, and it made his gut clench with jealousy.

Raleigh
had won Moshe's devotion,
Raleigh
had been the one to finally trick and tease, embarrass and fluster, comfort and spoil, defeat and master,
love
Moshe into accepting Raleigh's ring on his finger.

And yet, Raleigh could count on one hand how many times Moshe had even brushed a glancing touch on him in the past six months. And yet—Moshe was allowing and inviting Frederick's arm around his shoulders. But twinned with these indigent thoughts came too the rush of self-recrimination. It was not as if Raleigh deserved Moshe's touch; he had done nothing for so long to earn a night with his beloved.

No sword fights, no races. They had not competed in any form for at least a year … or longer. When had Raleigh damaged his knee? Such weakness—

"Raleigh," came Moshe's level voice, breaking Raleigh from his spiral downward.

They were in the main hall, standing next to each other as Frederick walked off to talk to a servant. Raleigh cleared his throat, and his mind, and looked down at Moshe. "Yes?"

"You had gone off somewhere."

From a fair maiden, or perhaps a sentimental lad, those words would have sounded gentle, but from Moshe, they were just matter-of-fact.

Raleigh took comfort in Moshe’s consistency. Sighing, he merely shook his head. "Marvle-Dein is a sight to behold, as always," he said.

Moshe only looked irritated at the change in subject for a moment, and then he too glanced around the great hall, taking in the long tables with servants buzzing around them preparing a setting for every guest, the fire roaring in the monstrous, arched fireplace, and the banner that held Frederick's family crest hanging above it all. "Yes," he said, "it is much larger than Chaylain."

"Chaylain has no need to be this large," Raleigh replied, his voice low.

"That is not what I was implying," Moshe said just as quietly, but with an edge.

Raleigh snorted. "There is no need for pretense, dear husband. I know your feelings for my ancestral home."

"Raleigh," Moshe growled, stepping towards him. "How many times have I told you—"

As if on some long-dead instinct, Raleigh stared straight into Moshe's eyes. "
Watch
your tone."

Moshe pulled up short, expression gone slack. Very slowly, a red tint bloomed across his cheeks. His gaze darted away from Raleigh, and he lowered his head, completely mute. Raleigh observed him, hands now clenched, heart racing. He
knew
that blush, he knew that bowed, yielding stance, and he knew what came next. "Moshe," he whispered, reaching to slide a hand down to the small of Moshe's back, to pull him in towards Raleigh.

"Gentlemen," Frederick said, walking towards him.

Raleigh nearly jolted, and he expected Moshe to shy away, but instead he pressed closer still, ducking against Raleigh's chest. This god forsaken southerner would be Raleigh's undoing, forever and always.

But Moshe's act of docility had stoked a prideful fire in Raleigh's chest. With a smug grin, he caught Frederick's eye. "My beloved is tired from our journey."

The shiver that trembled through Moshe shot a spark straight through Raleigh's veins.

Frederick had a thoughtful smile on his face. He looked down at Moshe, but Raleigh had him tightly cradled, so there was no matching gaze. "Tired?" Frederick said. "Have you gone soft, Moshe?"

"No," Moshe replied drolly, and that was all he spoke.

Raleigh had to suppress a smirk. Frederick of all people ought to know that no matter how docile Moshe acted with Raleigh, he could still act like a cold beast to anyone else.

"Shall we retire?" Moshe said, the words carrying a teasing promise. He must have noticed Raleigh's amusement.

"Yes, I think so." To Frederick, Raleigh said, "If our lord does not mind?"

"No, of course not," Frederick replied with an expansive wave of his hand. He was still smiling, but this time the expression was wry and clearly stated he had admitted defeat.

*~*~*

"You smell rank," Moshe growled at Raleigh, shoving him backwards into their chambers. Following closely behind, Moshe's eyes were narrowed, lip curled. Grasping the door, he turned to swing it shut, and then returned his hard stare to Raleigh. "Did I not tell you to wash with me when we stopped at the inn?"

Raleigh felt a smile worm its way across his face as well as he considered him. "You dare speak to me in such a way …" he said softly.

Snorting, Moshe crossed his arms. "As it is my duty to please you, at the very least, you could not smell like pig shit."

A barking laugh escaped Raleigh. With only a bit of a limp, he moved forward, bracing his palm flat against Moshe's chest, and none too gently shoved him back against the door. Raleigh saw the grimace that followed Moshe knocking his head against it, but those brilliant green eyes opened, and they were flashing. "Disgusting," Moshe spat, his hand curling around Raleigh's wrist. "Do not touch me."

"You said it yourself," Raleigh replied, smirking, "it is your duty. You owe a marital debt to me."

Even as he spoke, he curled his other hand over the back of Moshe's head, unable to quell the slight clench of worry. When he did, Moshe's expression of disdain only broke for a moment, his gaze warming, and he looked close to dropping the whole farce, but then his countenance hardened again.