A Draw

The practice yards were teeming with men engaged in every event imaginable, but William ignored them as he made his way through. He found the armory sheltered under a white pavilion off to one side of the yards. It was presided over by a pot-bellied man with auburn hair sticking from under a greasy cap.

"Are you Peter?" William asked.

The man nodded. "I am. What can I do for ya?” he offered, wiping his hands on his blacksmith’s apron.

“I want to spar. Landon said you could…”

“Landon sent ya?” Peter interrupted. William nodded.

“Looks like yer under doctor’s orders,” Peter joked, winking at him. He ambled over to a rack of swords, all lined up in neat rows. He perused them carefully, mumbling under his breath before selecting a long, slender blade. “Try that on fer size,” he said, presenting it to William hilt-first. William took it and looked it over with a practiced eye. It was slimmer than a broadsword, but still felt comfortably heavy in his hand. The hilt was black and had an eagle’s head stamped on it in brass. He made a few passes and nodded. It was well-made.

“It’s me own design,” Peter said proudly. “Easier to handle than a broadsword, but not as flimsy as a rapier. The prince favors this style.” Peter led William over to the fencing grounds and went back to his weapons.

William stripped off his shirt and began his warm-up exercises. He built up an intensity fueled by anger and was soon dripping sweat.

“Care for a real opponent?” a voice called out. William spun around and met the prince’s gaze, blocking his sword with his own. The prince drew back and assumed a ready stance, the light of combat in his eyes. William attacked and the dance began.

They fought with neither having the advantage, their weight and skill too evenly matched for an obvious winner. William felt all of the emotion of the last few days build up inside him, his blows becoming harder and more savage. Finally, in a wave of rage, William lunged and missed, allowing the prince to knock him to the ground. William instinctively kicked, knocking the prince’s legs from under him and sending him to the ground as well. Both men lay in the dust, struggling for air.

“Shall we call it a draw?” Mason gasped. William sat up, wincing slightly. “Draw,” he agreed, his adrenaline slowing. He helped the prince up and the spectators applauded before dispersing.

“How’s your friend, the pretty girl?” Mason asked, retrieving his sword from the dirt.

“She’s…” William felt a lump in his throat. “She’s fine.” He noticed a dark liquid dripping into the dust and stopped. “Uh, your Majesty? I think you’re hurt.”

Mason stumbled and William quickly caught him, wrapping the prince’s arm around his neck. He looked over and saw an ominous red spot growing on his back. “You must have cut your back when you fell,” he realized. He tossed his sword away and took the prince’s full weight. “Let’s get you to the healing ward.” More blood began dripping down the prince’s arm and he groaned deeply. “That’s really starting to sting,” he mumbled.

“I need some help!” William called as the prince lost consciousness. William braced himself on one knee as men came running from the yards. They helped William lift the prince and together they carried him into the palace, leaving a trail of spattered blood behind them.

  

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Luciana woke for the second time that day. She cracked one eye open, then sat up when she didn’t see Landon. A man lay in the bed across from her, groaning quietly. “Water,” he muttered repeatedly. Luciana got up and hobbled over to him. She recognized the prince and wondered what had befallen him. She lifted a cup to his lips and he drank greedily. His eyes fluttered open and he looked at her dazedly. “Pretty girl?” he asked, confused.

“Luciana,” she corrected, taking the cup away.

“What happened?” the prince asked her groggily.

“I don’t know,” Luciana confessed. She saw that his torso was tightly wrapped with white bandages. A basket filled with bloody rags by the bed made her shudder. “It looks like you were hurt,” she whispered, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. She heard the door open and glanced over her shoulder at Landon.

“Is he awake already?” he asked concernedly.

“What happened to him?” Luciana asked. Landon sat down on the other side of the bed. “There was some kind of accident down at the practice yards,” he replied, checking Mason’s bandages. “William was the one who brought him here.”

Luciana turned back to the prince. “Is it serious?”

Landon didn’t look up. “As long as the bleeding doesn’t start again and there’s no infection, no, it’s not serious.”

“I’m thrilled to hear it,” Mason murmured into his pillow.

“The wound is shallow and clean-cut,” Landon continued. “He’ll be better in a day or two.” He pulled the blanket over the prince’s body and left the room as quietly as he came in. Mason drifted off again and Luciana returned to her bed, giving the prince one last glance.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Mason slept for several hours and was awakened by the sound of water trickling. His eyes flickered open aimlessly, slowly adjusting to the dimness. The braziers cast pools of orange light on the floor, and Mason could soon make out Luciana’s kneeling form across the aisle. She was pouring water into a bowl, her back to him. He saw long welts on her exposed skin and gasped. Luciana whipped around and Mason froze, too late to feign sleep. The pain on her face cut Mason’s heart and with a mighty effort he got up and stumbled over to her, bracing himself on the bedpost. Luciana recoiled automatically, upsetting the bowl. Water raced across the floor, running through the cracks in the stone. Mason held up a placating hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said softly.

Luciana took a shaky breath. “You need to get back to bed before you reopen your wound,” she said, using a towel to sop up the puddle on the floor.

Mason slowly sat down on the edge of her bed. “I’m not the only one with a wounded back,” he whispered gently. “Who did that to you?”

Luciana tossed the dripping towel into the empty bowl. “Being a prince doesn’t make everything your business,” she snapped, setting the bowl aside.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Mason agreed. “But you shouldn’t feel ashamed. The shame lies with whoever did this to you.”

Luciana scoffed bitterly. “Have you ever read an indenture contract?” she demanded.

Mason shook his head.

“My father signed one when he gave me over to Lord Samuel. It stated that everything I am, everything that I do or become, belongs to him until I’ve worked off my father’s debt. The law suddenly becomes murky when the treatment of such servants is mentioned. I don’t feel shame, your Highness. I feel hate.”

Mason felt anger wash over him, anger at the flawed system, Luciana’s abuser, even his predecessors for allowing such laws to be put in place.

“I’ll speak with my father,” he promised. “This will not stand.” He stood and went back to his bed, swaying a little on his feet. He lay on his side carefully, his mind churning madly.