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Chapter 23: Of Envy and Pride

The sun was setting behind them as the Duchess’s hunting party reemerged from Gilwren Forest. The Huntsman, Jasper, made his farewells and left while the Crown Prince, nobles, and knights headed in the direction of the expanded canopy tent by the pond in front of Gilwren Manor. Torch lights, music, and the scent of grilled pork and wine guided them toward the festivities that appeared to have already started.

The tables full of lords from Marquess Borghese’s and Earl Hawthorne’s hunting parties waited inside, accompanied by many finely dressed ladies. The nobles rose in an enthusiastic clamor to greet Nicholas as he strode into the tent, followed by his Prime Minister.

Carina stepped to the side just outside to have a quick word with Colonel Isaac before she led Hana and Ivy toward their waiting table. Purple wax candles adorned their centerpiece of pinecones, wax-made ivy, and carved bird nests.

Lord Bromwell and Lord Gladestone soon joined them while Nicholas, Beaumont, and Attwood took their seats at the host’s table with Viscount Gilwren. Carina noticed Sophya was not with them and glanced around the tent curiously.

“Who are you looking for?” Hana murmured as a servant moved over to pour wine into the hollowed-out horns that served as drinking cups for the evening.

“No one,” Carina deflected as she picked up the gray and white horn before her and ran her thumb along the engraved depiction of two stags battling each other with locked horns.

“Is her Highness not attending the banquet?” Ivy murmured curiously, drawing the Duchess’s attention to the empty seat beside Nicholas.

‘Strange. Eleanora’s cousin and Lord Acheron are also missing.’

“A toast, your Grace,” Gladestone called out as he lifted his drink towards the Duchess. “To fair weather, a steady breeze, and a lucky draw to steal our victory.”

“To a good hunt that will fill the bellies of the soldiers at our border this winter,” Walter cheered as he added his horn to the Viscounts.

Carina smiled and raised her horn. “To new acquaintances and a—”

“What a sorry sight this is!” The Duchess and her companions turned as an unfamiliar nobleman strode to the empty seat in front of Carina. He dragged the chair out, sat down, and promptly placed his muddy boots on her table. “Is it that his Highness inspires so little confidence and loyalty or that no decent nobleman with an ounce of pride would willingly join your party, half-blood?”

“Lord Stafford,” Gladestone responded in an unwelcome tone. “Proceed with care.”

“Gladestone!” The nobleman, whom Carina now recognized as Lady Meredith’s father, retorted with a sneer. “I’m shocked to find you here.”

“I go where my bow will do the most good,” Gladestone replied, though his gaze shifted in the direction of Lord Percy’s party seated behind them.

“I don’t recall her Grace giving you permission to sit there, Viscount Stafford,” Hana interjected as her turquoise-blue eyes narrowed in on the man with evident disgust.

Stafford smirked and recrossed his boots, which left a small pile of dried mud on the edge of the table.

“Was there something you needed, Lord Stafford?” Carina asked as she raised her hand casually in Colonel Isaac’s direction to stay the half-witch’s half-drawn blade. ‘First Viscount Norley and now Viscount Stafford. Is the Royal Faction testing me?’

“That would depend,” Stafford replied as his light-brown eyes settled back on the Duchess with smug satisfaction. “On how much you’d be willing to pay for my bow?”

Carina could practically feel the little man’s ego swelling with every passing second of silence. His confident demeanor crumpled into a look of annoyed confusion as the Duchess burst into helpless laughter that carried over the noisy din.

“What a poorly disguised joke,” Walter commented as the ice witch carefully set down her drink and accepted the handkerchief Hana offered to dry her tears. “Perhaps you ought to return to your original party, Lord Stafford.”

Stafford’s quivering lips pressed into a hard line as he dragged his feet down from the table and leaned towards the still giggling Duchess. “Laugh while you still can, half-blood. Soon enough, the nobles will tear you from your ill-gotten gains and toss you back into the street where you belong, just as my daughter did.”

Carina buried a muffled snort of laughter into Hana’s handkerchief and blinked back tears as she straightened and faced the Viscount head-on. “Your daughter did what, Lord Stafford?”

“She—”

“Helped fabricate evidence to see me unjustly arrested?”

Stafford started, then quickly snorted. “Your lies won’t fool me, half—”

“Colonel!” Carina cut in sharply. “If this fool addresses me as a half-blood to my face one more time, you will take his right hand. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Isaac replied with his own blend of smugness as he drew his sword and fixed his ice-blue eyes on the Viscount as the voices around them fell silent.

“You were saying?” Carina fixed the stunned noble with her sweetest smile as she waited for Stafford to measure his bravery against her promised retribution

“I suppose I should not be shocked that one of your background would so easily resort to violence and threats!” Stafford spat out venomously.

The Duchess raised her brows as she trailed her fingers over the silver embroidery of her dress that bore the symbol of her Dukedom. “If I were a man, you would not be so surprised.”

“If you were a man, I would have thrown my glove at you the day you stole Meredith’s place in the selection!”

“Is that where your hostility comes from, Lord Stafford?” Carina tilted her head as her smile twitched with cynical amusement. “Would your injured pride be satisfied if I offered you that opportunity now?”

“W-what?” The Viscount’s eyes blinked, then widened in disbelief as Carina stood up, pulled one of the seal-blue gloves from her hunting belt, and threw it at his face.

“Your Grace!” Lord Rykard’s stunned voice boomed over the silent banquet. “Duels are forbidden!”

“Ahaha! So that is your game,” Stafford sneered as he plucked the glove from his lap and then tossed it over his shoulder with contempt. “A useless, empty threat. How unsurprising—”

“Duels are forbidden in Gilwren territory, Lord Stafford.” Percy’s quiet voice snapped the Viscount’s gaze to where the Earl approached at his left. “However, we are but a short ride from the king’s road.”

“Perhaps the Lord is afraid to accept in fear of being humiliated by a—young lady?” Carina taunted as she played with one of her braids that had come loose during the tour.

“I have nothing to fear from the likes of you!” Stafford sputtered as he slammed his fist against the table and rose to his feet.

“Then accept or yield and surrender,” Percy growled as he bent to pick up the Duchess’s discarded challenge and dangled it in front of the Viscount’s hesitant gaze. “Did I not just hear you boasting that you would drag the Duchess down from her position?”

Carina did not miss the look of fear that rippled across the Viscount’s pale face as the Earl whispered in his ear. ‘How disappointing. Lord Stafford appears to be more afraid of Percy than me.’Royal Road's content has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Your Grace! My Lords,” Rykard called out plaintively. “Please, save your anger and frustration for the forest—” The Viscount trailed off as Nicholas tapped the noble’s raised arm and shook his head.

“I believe his Majesty sees the justice of the Duchess’s demands for satisfaction after the Viscount’s tawdry insults,” Percy called out smugly.

“Nevertheless!” Stafford countered with forced bravado as he rose from his seat. “I will not fight a woman, least of all a good-for-nothing whore!”

In the time it took Carina to scoff in disbelief, the dwindling lighthearted atmosphere of the banquet vanished. Walter and Gladestone erupted from their seats just behind Colonel Isaac, who leapt over the table towards the foolish noble that now dangled from Percy’s right hand. The Earl's grip tightened around the spluttering Viscount's throat.

The sudden rush of violence came to a screeching halt as a metal gauntlet smacked against the side of Lord Stafford’s head with a distinct thunk. The heavy metal glove fell to the floor with a soft rattle that pulled the gaze of every noble toward the host’s table, where the Crown Prince’s bodyguard stood with one bare hand.

“Then fight me,” Beaumont growled as his violet eyes flashed dangerously.

A squeak of protest slid past Stafford’s lips as Percy lowered the noble back to his feet and smirked at the faint trail of blood that ran down from the trembling man’s temple. “There you have it, Lord Stafford. Now, what will you do?”

“Your Majesty, I must object,” Borghese called out stiffly as he rose to his feet. “Your man has no right to interfere.” The few weak protests that joined him fell silent as the Crown Prince raised his hand.

“Lord Stafford has already rejected the Duchess’s challenge. Therefore, he has no right to turn down Captain Beaumont. The duel stands, and I shall personally enforce its validity. The Viscount has until dawn to make his decision. He can either accept the duel or surrender and admit his wrongdoing in whatever manner shall satisfy the party he has offended.”

“Lord Stafford is as good as dead then,” one of the nobles from Borghese’s table grumbled loudly.

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Marchioness Serilda offered Percy a smile of consolation when he returned to his seat beside her. “You let the Captain beat you to it.”

“No matter,” Percy growled as he lifted his barely touched glass of wine. “The end result will be the same.”

“But the one to walk away with the Duchess’s gratitude will not be you.”

“I didn’t even hear him move.” The Earl scowled as he watched Lady Kirsi retrieve the knight captain’s glove and return it to her champion.

Serilda watched her cousin with a fond but bittersweet smile as the banquet resumed its awkward celebration. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Knowing Kirsi’s personality, she might be annoyed that someone else will be forcing the Viscount to his knees.”

The Earl grunted and focused on his wine.

“Still, Captain Beaumont is an impressive specimen,” Serilda continued in a lightly teasing tone. “The capital used to be flooded with rumors of his skill on the battlefield. They say that the sword he carries once killed a hundred men with a single blow. No wonder the poor Viscount looks ready to vomit.”

“A likely exaggeration.”

The Marchioness tilted her head and turned her moss-agate green eyes towards the Crown Prince and his giant. “Perhaps not.”

Her conflicted tone finally engaged the Earl’s curiosity as Percy turned towards her with a furrowed brow.

“It's the origins of his sword that interest me,” Serilda whispered as she leaned toward his ear. “Nicholas told me this in confidence. He said the blade was forged from a dragon’s tooth and is the only one of its likeness.”

“Dragon steel?” Percy lowered his horn as he studied the knight captain with a newfound, wary interest. “Something that valuable—how did a mortal come to possess it?”

“Perhaps he’s not a mortal.” The Marchioness smiled as she gently wrapped one of the Earl’s mahogany-brown curls around her finger. “Perhaps he is the descendant of a dragon.”

Percy brushed her hand away with a dismissive scoff. “No dragon or their descendant would serve a mortal so obediently.”

Serilda laughed as she watched him scowl silently at the knight captain. His jealousy burned her with the same intensity as his cold rebuff. ‘Percy is as ignorant of my affections as Kirsi is of his.’ With a sigh, she resumed her conversation with the nobles around them and smiled as Lord Eustice Winifred squeezed into the space beside her with a freshly filled horn of delectable wine.

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The fragrance of burning incense and wine mingled with the scent of sweat as Eleanora leaned against Marco’s chest and wiped tears of laughter from her cheek.

“I’m telling you. Nicholas doesn’t look half bad in a dress,” Acheron said with mocking enthusiasm as he continued his tale of a bet the Crown Prince had lost.

“I am surprised he let you walk away with your head intact,” Marco commented in his low, smooth voice that had matured since the last time Eleanora had visited him in Ventrayna. The Crown Princess smiled as he wiped away the wine she had spilled on his right knee.

“Your accent is fantastic, my Lord,” Acheron replied with an admiring grin. “The court ladies will lift their skirts the moment you address them.”

“You will have to let me know which field to plow first and which to avoid, as I assume you have crossed those meadows already.”

“Stop! You’re both disgusting,” Eleanora snapped playfully as she scowled at them imperiously. “Acheron, send for more wine. The bottle is already empty.”

“It’s food that you need, your Highness,” Marco rebuked gently as he slipped the horn from her fingers and finished its contents. “You have a prince to impress tomorrow.”

Eleanora scoffed while Acheron rolled drunkenly to his feet to fetch a fresh bottle from the servants waiting outside the foreign Viscount’s tent. “The more I try to appease Nicholas, the colder he becomes.”

“Is that why you’re hiding away here with me, Elly?”

“Not hiding. I’m simply trying to enjoy myself,” Eleanora corrected as she grabbed Marco’s free hand and measured her fingers against it. “Something that’s impossible while I’m being stared at like a caged tiger.”

“Then break the bars and rip them all to pieces,” Marco growled as he tilted her head towards him and kissed her licorice-black hair. “That is what a prince would do.”

“Two bottles, your Highness!” Acheron declared as he strode through the tent, nearly tripping over a pile of satin gold pillows. “Saint’s Mercy. You certainly know how to drink in style, Lord Marco.”

“And you are not accustomed to our famous Desert Wine.”

“Perhaps you should switch to that weak Lafearian juice you nobles like so much,” Eleanora added with a smirk as she leaned forward to claim one of the bottles.

“My tongue and eyes have already been opened to the glorious taste of the desert,” Acheron regaled in a solemn tone. “I fear there is no turning back.”

“I like him,” Marco commented with a faint smile as the Crown Princess refilled her horn.

“And I bow to your superior taste, Lord Marco.”

Eleanora snorted and secured her bottle between a pile of pillows. “Tell me why you were so desperate to lead our hunting party, Lord Acheron?” Her amber eyes watched as the Lafearian noble half-choked on his sip of wine and hastily wiped his chin.

“Ah—your Highness. Can I not keep that to myself?” Acheron murmured as he shook out his dampened sleeve.

“You should stick to being honest if you want us to trust you,” Marco replied firmly as he pinned the uncomfortable rogue beneath a warning glare.

“Fair enough, my Lord,” Acheron replied with a dry chuckle. “My reason for competing for the royal favor—is to seek his Majesty’s forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” Eleanora echoed uncertainly. “You’re Nicholas’s closest friend. Surely there is nothing so serious—why not simply speak to him?”

“It is because I am his Majesty’s friend that my crime is all the more heinous.” The rogue rubbed his jaw and neck tiredly as he stared into his horn. “This may be the only chance to save my neck.”

“Why not simply run away then?” Marco retorted before squeezing out from behind Eleanora to fetch his smoking pipe. “You are the son of a Prime Minister. You could start over anywhere.”

“My father would disown me the moment he found out,” Acheron replied with a defeated smile. “Forgive me. I do not wish to speak on this any further. It will dampen all our spirits.”

“It seems to be a serious matter,” Eleanora replied as she settled back against the pillows. “I shall pray to Kritanta to bless our hunt and aid in your success.”

“And I shall pray to the Saints,” Acheron replied with a condescending smile. “Though they have yet to answer me.”

“You are far too grim and sober for an engaged man,” Marco commented as he touched a matchstick to one of the burning lanterns and then lit his pipe.

“Unwillingly engaged,” Acheron corrected with a dry laugh.

“You are in good company then,” Eleanora retorted with an empty chuckle. “These days, my husband only shows interest in women who are not me. He has stopped seeing his old mistress and replaced her with the Duchess.”

The rogue gagged, then pressed a hand to his mouth as he forced down a painful mouthful of wine. “Your Highness—” he wheezed as giddy laughter trembled up his throat, “—Your Highness is mistaken.”

“Am I? The Duchess has visited Nicholas on more than one occasion after curfew,” Eleanora replied bitterly.

“There is nothing between Nicholas and Lady Kirsi, your Highness,” Acheron persisted as he wiped tears from the corner of his eyes. “It is my cousin, Captain Beaumont, who is romantically interested in the Duchess. Nicholas is only trying to help the poor fool win her favor.”

“Captain Beaumont?” Marco repeated with a frown of confusion.

“Very tall, blonde hair, violet eyes—the giant shadow that follows his Majesty's every footstep?"

“Ah.”

“But—the Captain is a bastard,” Eleanora protested.

“Her Grace’s origins are not so dissimilar,” Acheron pointed out patiently. “And it is one thing for his Majesty to have a commoner as a Mistress. It would be another matter entirely if it were a half-blood Duchess.”

“Why?”

The rogue blinked, clearly confused by the question. “Because her origins—her father’s bloodline is unknown.”

Eleanora sighed and took a sip of wine as she mused over the nobleman’s claims. ‘I had forgotten how much emphasis they place on bloodlines in Lafearian marriages.'

“Now, if Lady Kirsi and my cousin did get married, that would present a different variety of political issues,” Acheron mused as he returned to his drink.

“What do you mean?”

The rogue looked up from his horn and shrugged. “He’s my cousin. One of two recognized bastards that belong to Duke Stryker.”

“You mean to say that the Duke has no legitimate heirs?” Marco queried as he exhaled a long puff of red smoke.

“None.”

“But you are his nephew. Surely you would be the more natural choice.”

“Ah—I have—accumulated a less than stellar reputation,” Acheron deflected with a wry grimace. “And am already engaged, as you mentioned earlier.”

“Surely Lady Evelynn is not a poor choice,” Eleanora pointed out coldly as she watched the rogue squirm.

“Yes, but her family is not from the right party.”

“All this talk of families, bloodlines, and politics is making my head spin,” Marco complained as he filled the tent with another puff of shimmering smoke. “Our troubles will still be with us tomorrow. So, let us drink and enjoy these few hours of blissful peace.”

“I am only too happy to agree to that, my friends,” Acheron replied as he saluted the sprawled-out Viscount.

Eleanora raised her horn in silent agreement while her mind returned to its persistent focus on a certain Viscountess that remained glued to Duchess Kirsi’s side.