Anno Regni Gloriana Regina Aureae I

First Night

Bellarmée

She saw the boy before he did; a matter of viewpoint, not lack of vigilance on his part. He was on her off side and a pace behind, and the boy on her near side and ahead. When she slowed her horse and stopped, Bellarmée rode up ahead of her to see why, and to guard, if need be.

“Your Majesty?” he asked, and then saw what she was looking at. The young Queen raised her hand, silencing him.

“Boy?” she called, her voice gentle and coaxing. “Come out, let me see you.”

The boy was fairly well hidden, just wanting to see the Queen’s Progress through his village, like all the others, but shy, almost feral. But his matted black curls showed strongly against the stained stucco of the building, and the brush where he had concealed himself was dry and dead. Had it been in leaf, he would have been well hidden indeed.

At the Queen’s call, the boy shrank back against the building, but after a moment he moved, eeling forward through the brush to stand shyly staring up at her, wide-eyed.

At first, Bellarmée thought the boy about five or six, but seeing him out in the open he revised his idea upwards. A scrawny boy, maybe seven, but small for his age, likely due to scant fare and neglect. Wiry and agile, thin but not emaciated. And in dire need of a bath; neglect, indeed. Tendrilled hair black as night, save where it was gray with dust, and tangled as a bird’s nest. But those awe-struck eyes were a blue pale as water; clear and innocent, no matter how besmirched their setting.

“My name is Gloriane,” the Queen said. “What is your name?” But at the question those eyes flickered away; down and aside, as if shamed. But the boy couldn’t help it; his gaze came shyly back up to hers, though his face had gone solemn, as if afraid he might have earned a blow. A slow anger kindled in Bellarmée, that a child should fear like that.

Queen Gloriane leaned down further in the saddle, her head tilted. “Come, boy,” she said. “What do they call you?”

The boy looked aside again, then up at her from under his brows. “Damn-ye,” he answered softly, with a hesitant hunch of one shoulder, as if wondering when the blow was coming. Because he knew it always would. Bellarmée’s anger rose higher, and his fingers twitched on the reins. When his horse stepped out in response, the boy’s eyes flicked to his for the barest instant, then back to the Queen’s.

Gloriane’s head twitched back, and Bellarmée could see her smile dim for a moment, but then it shone out brighter than before. “Damien,” she said, twisting the epithet into a name. “A good strong name for a sturdy lad.” Then she kneed her horse closer to him, and took a ring off her finger. She leaned down further, and handed the ring down to him. He hesitated, and then seemed to realize she really meant to give it to him. Bellarmée thought for a moment he might snatch it and run, like a grubby street urchin, but he took it as if it were a gift more precious than its actual worth. And his eyes went even wider, if that were possible…

Then the Queen nodded to the boy, lifted the reins, and rode on. But Bellarmée reined back and watched the boy as the other riders passed. Watched as he stared after the Golden Queen with worship in his eyes. And though Bellarmée rode on with the others, he looked back and saw the boy running after them. And was still running each time he cast a glance that way, though falling further behind.

When they made camp that night, Bellarmée pitched his tent at the edge of the fire ring, furthest back along the road, and he served himself a second helping of stew that night. He took a few bites, then as if he’d decided it was too much he set the plate down and rose to take his bed.

The plate was clean in the morning.

* * *

The next morning they broke camp and rode on, and when Bellarmée looked back, there was the boy, running for all he was worth. Bellarmée rode up next to his Queen.

“The boy is following us again.”

She looked aside at him. “Boy?” she asked. “What boy?”

Bellarmée smiled crookedly. “The one from the last village. The one you gave the ring to.”

Gloriane smiled at the memory, then frowned. “Why is he following us?”

Again the crooked smile. “I believe he is enamored of you, your Majesty.”

“What? No!” She turned in the saddle to look back, and then shifted to look at him straight on. “What should we do? Should we chase him away?”

Now it was Bellarmée’s turn to frown, and darkly. “No, I wouldn’t.” He looked across at her. “You must have seen the signs of neglect. You may not have recognized the signs of abuse.” And he answered as she looked the question. “He flinched when you asked his name.” When she shook her head, he went on. “He may not even have one.”

“Not…?”

“Those curls. He may be half Brekken. If his mother was raped, they may have cast her out when they realized she was pregnant. No father, no name, no protector…” he shook his head, angry. “And what they called him cinches it. ‘Damn-ye.’” He spat in disgust. “Some of these border villages are quite… backward. His mother may not even be alive. He’ll have had no protector. The villagers may have used him if they needed hard labor, or used him for—well,” He broke it off.

“Use him for?” she asked, then went white, appalled, as he just looked back at her. “No,” she said, furious. “We must do something!”

Bellarmée nodded, looking back but not seeing the boy at the moment. “He may have given up and gone back. It is all he has known, and he may choose that. But—somehow, I doubt he will.” He shook his head, frowning. “I left him a plate last night.” He smiled that crooked smile. “He licked it clean. I’ll do it again tonight. If it’s gone in the morning, I’ll pick him up. I can always use some help, and who knows? If he has any wits at all, I may train him for the Information Service.”

* * *

The boy had common sense, Bellarmée had to give him that. It took him half the day to see it, though. Instead of running the long way, along the road, if the boy realized that the road curved, he cut across country if he could, shaving off a little distance and catching up with them somewhat. Intrigued, Bellarmée dropped back even with the last riders of the group, and confirmed that was, in fact, what the boy was doing.

Wit, indeed. This promised to be interesting.

* * *

At the end of the day, Bellarmée did as he said he would; set up camp again toward their back trail, and left another plate of food before turning in.

The plate was empty again in the morning, and Bellarmée had heard not a sound. Stealthy little scamp.

* * *

That third day, Bellarmée left the entourage and rode off into cover. After a while, he heard the pounding of feet along the dusty road, and sure enough there was the dirty little boy, head down, running hard.

Bellarmée drove his heels into his horse’s side, and the gallant beast lunged forward into a full gallop from a dead start. He had nearly caught up when the boy heard him and tried to dodge, but the horse was a canny hunter and swerved with him. Bellarmée leaned down from the saddle and snatched the boy up by his ragged shirt; the boy swung and fought and kicked, to no avail. He was caught.

Bellarmée swung him up and set the boy down in front of him on the saddle. “Stop fighting, boy! I’m not going to hurt you. This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to you, so settle down!” At his words, the boy froze, ducking his head slightly. But then his shoulders relaxed, and he looked around, his curiosity overcoming his fear of punishment. “There,” Bellarmée said, “Isn’t that much better, riding instead of running?” The boy turned his head and shoulders to look back and up, wide-eyed, but then nodded. Bellarmée thought he saw a spark of mischief in those pale blue eyes, and he gave the boy a crooked smile.

The smile the boy gave back lit up his eyes, and did something inside Bellarmée’s chest.

It must have done something to his face as well, because the boy’s smile slid, and his eyes went wide again, and his shoulders tightened. “No, boy!” Bellarmée said, “It’s alright. You just surprised me.” And he deliberately grinned down at the boy. “Let’s ride!” Then he pressed the horse into a rocking canter, bypassing the other riders on his way up to the fore—and the Queen.

* * *

That night, Bellarmée had two bowls of stew made up, and gave one to the boy as they sat outside the fire ring. The others in the entourage were boisterous, more so than usual, as this would be the last night camping on the road. Tomorrow was a small town, with an inn, and beds, and tables, and food they didn’t have to cook for themselves.

‘And baths,’ Bellarmée thought. ‘Stars, but the boy needs a bath!’ He wondered how much of a fight that would be, washing off how many years of grime… And the boy’s hair would need to be cut; there was no comb strong enough to survive that matted mane.

He handed the bowl to the boy, and saw him dig his fingers in almost before the bowl was in his hands. “Wait, boy!” And he almost growled as the boy flinched, his shoulders hunching. But he smiled down at the boy and handed him a spoon as he knelt and then sat next to him on the ground. The boy looked at the spoon, and then at Bellarmée, who showed him how to hold it and then used his to dig into his own bowl and take a bite.

The boy watched him do this twice, and after a moment looked at the spoon in his hand, frowning ferociously. Then he dug the spoon into the stew and left the spoon standing there for another moment as he stared at his hand. Finally he picked up the spoon again in a fair but awkward approximation of Bellarmée’s grip, and managed to get a mouthful of stew. He looked up at Bellarmée under his brows to see his expression. Bellarmée nodded and smiled to let him know it was alright. Bellarmée showed him his hand again, to see how he held the spoon, and the boy looked back and forth from Bellarmée’s hand to his own, finally adjusting his fingers one at a time.

“Good, boy! That’s right. Now you can eat like a proper young man.”

And there was that smile again, the one that caught in Bellarmée’s chest… ‘Damn,’ he thought. ‘the slightest bit of approval… or the slightest frown.’ He would have to go wary with this one.

* * *

“You’re angry, Bellarmée—why?”

He realized then what he was doing; how tight his muscles were, how that communicated to the horse, making it skittish, and how that fed back to him and made him more irritable. He shook his head at her, and raised a hand to stroke the horse’s neck, soothing it. He shook his head again, and sighed. “Because I was right about the boy.”

“Right about what?” Gloriane walked her horse over to where he stood.

Bellarmée clenched his jaw hard, and when he spoke it came out as a growl. “About what they did. How they—used him.” He looked up at her, and she saw how tight his control was, to keep his hand gentle on the horse’s neck while his eyes promised hell.

“Tell me,” she said gently.

“I’ll tell you I’d like to go back and burn that damned village to the ground!” He growled, then handed her the reins and walked off a few yards to stand with his back to her. She let him go, knowing he had to take a moment to calm himself. When he spoke again, he didn’t turn back, and his voice was quiet. “You’ve seen that smile of his,” he said. “Like sunlight.” She nodded, though he couldn’t see. “I’d made up a bedroll for him, put it in the tent. But when I told him to go inside, he saw both bedrolls there. And it was like—” He turned back partway, looking half over his shoulder at her, and made a vague gesture with one hand before turning around and looking at her. “It was like all the light went out of him.” Again he made that vague, helpless gesture. “Gloriane—he would have.” His voice choked for a moment. “He thought that was what I meant, and he would have anyway, just to get a kind word and a meal.”

“Gods, Gérarde…” Her voice went faint. Then she cleared her throat and went on. “What did you do?”

“I told him no, that the tent was for him.” He started back to her, calmer for the moment. “I smiled at him, and I pulled my bedroll out and laid it out outside.” He waved off her protest. “I’ve slept cold and damp before, for far less reason.” He shook his head and came back to her, took back the reins. “He didn’t know what to make of that. I told him to go to bed, and he did.”

“Where is he now?”

Bellarmée gave a short laugh and shook his head. “He’s packing up the camp. He crawled out of the tent and watched the others around us for a bit, then turned around and did the same.” He shook his head again, diverted to a better mood. “He’s got a wit, that one!”

“So you’ll be keeping him?”

Bellarmée laughed again, a real laugh this time. “You say that like he’s a stray pup! But yes, I’ll not let this one get away. There’s something about him… something special.”

“What are you calling him?”

“Damien, of course! That’s the name you gave him, isn’t it? I’m certainly not calling him ‘Damn-ye’!”

* * *

Bellarmée was right again, about the boy. The moment he saw the bathing room at the inn, he turned to bolt. Bellarmée snatched him off his feet, but it was like holding a wildcat. For all he was so small, the boy was wiry and strong.

“Wait, let me try,” Gloriane said quickly. “Damien!”

The boy froze, just outright froze, and then turned to her, wide-eyed.

“Yes, Damien, I’m talking to you.” She put out her arm, showing him her hands, so very white and delicate, then gestured toward his. Confused, he held out his arm, and looked from his grimy one to hers, and then up at her face. “Do you see how clean we all are?”

“Cl-clean?” his voice was hesitant.

“Yes, clean,” she said. “We like being clean. We like those around us to be clean, too.” Her tone became coaxing. “It would be good if you were clean, too. We would like that. I’m sure you would, too, if you tried it. Won’t you try?”

He didn’t look convinced, and he glanced up at her with his face half turned away. But he relaxed and stopped resisting. “Try,” he said, his voice not much more than a whisper.

“That’s good, Damien! That’s very good.” She looked over at Bellarmée, and he groaned at the glint of mischief in her eyes. “What?” she said innocently. “You said he learns by imitation. Perhaps you could provide an example?”

“I just had a—oh, alright.” Bellarmée grumbled half-heartedly, but then looked over at the boy and gestured to the door. “Come along, boy, let’s both of us get clean.” And to the bath attendants, “Two tubs, mind!”

A bit later there was another altercation when they tried to cut his hair. It was filthy, it was matted, and Bellarmée wasn’t completely convinced there wasn’t a family of mice living in it. But he thought they could salvage a fair amount of length, so he snapped his fingers to get the boy’s attention, and then he ruffled his fingers through his own long hair. When the boy tried to do the same, he couldn’t even get his fingers in. He looked so crestfallen that Bellarmée had to bring up a handful of water to wash his face to cover his expression. But the boy let the bath attendants cut out the worst of the mats, and ended up with clean, glossy, black tendrils almost to his shoulders.

There was no salvaging his clothes. Bellarmée sent one of the attendants out to fetch clean garments, and paid for them out of his own purse. The man was wise enough to buy clothes larger than necessary, pointing out the boy was old enough to be due for those sudden jumps in growth, and this way he might get a few months’ wear in.

Best, though, was when Bellarmée brought the boy in to show him off to the Queen. Gloriane was speaking with the owner of the inn and, catching sight of him over the man’s shoulder, broke off what she was saying.

“What a handsome lad you are now, Damien!” She looked up at Bellarmée with a brilliant smile. “He’ll be breaking hearts in a few years, mark my words!”

Bellarmée nudged the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Her Majesty said you were handsome, boy. That’s called a compliment. When someone compliments you, you should thank them for it.”

To their astonishment, Damien laid his hand over his heart and bowed his head, then looked up at Gloriane shyly. “Thank you, your Ma’sty, most kind f’you t’ say.”

“Well, someone has taught you gracious manners!” Gloriane said, delighted. “Who was that?”

Damien shut down. His face just—closed, his eyes shuttered. “Mama,” he whispered, looking down.

Gloriane stepped forward and crouched in front of him, reaching out and touching his hand. “I am so very sorry, Damien. Was she ill?”

He drew his hand away from hers slightly, and shook his head. “Arbro beat her. I couldn’t stop him. She told me run, so I ran.” Then he looked up at her, and his pale eyes blazed like a lightning strike. “He said I did it, but I didn’t!”

“I believe you, Damien,” she said. “I believe you.” And then she looked up over the boy’s head into Bellarmée’s eyes and the same fire shone there as well.

Bellarmée nodded and spun on his heel, and stalked out of the room.

* * *

Bellarmée sometimes thought that talking to Damien was like following a serpent; the boy’s mind took such twists and turns that he never knew quite how to respond.

“Douthan Arbro is dead,” he told the boy as they rode the next afternoon. The boy turned to look up at him over his shoulder.

“Why?” the boy asked. “What happened?”

“He was executed for the murder of your mother.”

But the boy looked away, troubled. “Why?” he asked again, then added something Bellarmée would never have thought to hear. “Now two people are dead.”

Bellarmée cocked his head, puzzled by the boy’s response. “I thought you would be glad to hear that she has been avenged.”

“Will that bring her back?”

To that, Bellarmée found that he had no answer.

* * *