Froi of the Exiles

do.

‘And here I was becoming so attached to your sweet disposition.’ He beat his breast with pitiful exaggeration. ‘If I go tomorrow, I’ll never have a chance to know you.’

Her brow furrowed, as though she didn’t quite comprehend him. Despite it all, he didn’t want to be cruel. If he was to do what he was sent to do, he didn’t want to feel anything, even hatred or dislike. But he pitied her. The way she spoke about herself as if she was another. The way her court dismissed her. Isaboe of Lumatere was loved. Adored. Isaboe knew who she was even when she took the name Evanjalin for all those years.

‘You’re not what we expected,’ she said, and there was disappointment in her voice. ‘They promised us more.’

There was something so strangely matter-of-fact in the way she spoke. Froi fought hard not to react and choked out a laugh.

‘They?’ he asked. ‘Bestiano and your father?’

She stepped out of the dress and pulled off her slippers, leaving her in only a white cotton shift that reached her knees.

Froi pulled the shirt over his head, inwardly rehearsing what he would tell her. How his inadequacy prevented him from planting the seed.

She stopped undressing for a moment, confused. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘You don’t need to remove your shirt.’ She indicated his trousers, pointing a finger.

This time, Froi sighed and made an exaggerated show of untying the string around his trousers while she lay down, raising her white nightdress to the top of her thighs, but no further.

Froi shucked his trousers and knelt on the bed. Buy time, Froi, he told himself. His hand travelled up her legs, his fingers gentle. She pushed them away, and there was that unrelenting stare again.

‘Do you not know what to do, fool?’

‘I know exactly what to do,’ he bristled.

‘Then be done with it. Hands are not required.’

‘Should your pleasure not be part of it?’

‘Pleasure.’ She shuddered. ‘What a strange word to use under such circumstances. We’re swiving, fool.’

‘That’s a filthy mouth you have there, Princess.’

She caught his eye. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a romantic,’ she said. ‘What would you like to call it? Making love?’

‘I just want to make it easier,’ he said, honestly. ’It’s not in me to be tender and I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘I’m not looking for tenderness,’ she said, turning her head to the side. ‘Just haste, and if your mouth or fingers come near me again, I’ll cut them off.’

But Froi could only remember his bond to Isaboe. You never take a woman if she doesn’t invite you to her bed, Froi. During the years it had changed to, I’ll never bed a woman again, my queen. He had wanted her to know that the bond came from his free will and not her order. Although this moment with the Princess was sanctioned, he felt like a demon.

‘I can’t continue if it’s not what you desire,’ he said, quietly, wanting her to turn back to look at him.

‘What has desire to do with it?’ she asked, cold fury in her voice. ‘If you would prefer a moment to conjure up passion, I’ll turn my back and you can use your hand on yourself and think of another.’

Froi spluttered with disbelief.

He stalled again, placing a hand gently on her thigh, and for a moment he saw wonder in her eyes. Until he realised that the wonder came from whatever lay above him. He twisted his head to see her holding up a hand to make the image of a bird on the shadowed ceiling.

And he knew he couldn’t go through with the mating. If he was going to do what he was sent here to do, he couldn’t feel pity or compassion or even desire. Not that he felt desire. How could he with this squinting ball of hair? Froi knew what desire felt like. He fought it daily. His bond to Lumatere was to rid them of the enemy, not to bed their abomination, their curse, their despised princess. He regretted not asking Trevanion what he meant by the words, What needs to be done. What did he mean for Froi to do to the Princess?

‘Begin,’ she said, turning back to look at him, and when he shook his head, she slapped him hard across the face. In an instant he had her body straddled, trapping it between his legs.

‘I’m not a whore and nor are you,’ he hissed, ‘so don’t treat us so. And next time we do this, I’d like a bit more involvement from you, Princess. I don’t like to feel as though I’m swiving a corpse.’

He saw the snarl curl her lips and the base savage inside of him was excited by the burning malevolence he saw in her eyes. But he leapt out of the bed, pulling on his trousers and slamming the door behind him. Bestiano stepped out of the shadow.

‘Is it done?’ he asked.

‘No. I’ll have to return to see her tomorrow.’

The next morning, Froi watched a party of men on horseback ride out of the courtyard and prayed the banker from Sebastabol was amongst them. When he thought he was safe he ventured to breakfast, starving from having missed out on food the night before.

‘Sir Berenson was disappointed to have left without seeing you.’ Quintana was at his shoulder the moment he walked in. She was wearing the same awful pink dress that she had worn the first time he saw her, and every other time, come to think of it. Froi decided it was either her favourite dress or the only dress she owned. The latter was ridiculous for a royal, so he settled on the former. It was obvious she had bad taste. She was back to being the Princess Indignant, all earnestness and incessant talking. It actually relieved him to see her in this mood.

‘Sir Berenson left?’ he asked, looking around the room for the best candidate to sit beside. Perhaps Lady Mawfa with all her gossip would be helpful to him today. ‘Already? Without so much as a goodbye?’

‘He said he asked for you all night,’ Quintana said, indignantly.

‘I searched for him high and low.’ Froi feigned a hurt expression. ‘It’s always the same,’ he said, searching for an audience. ‘Despite being a lastborn I will never receive the same respect as my cousin. If I were Vassili, rest assured Sir Berenson would have made the effort to find me.’

Froi was placed opposite an elderly cousin of the King, who picked at the dry pieces of skin between his fingers and put them on the table beside Froi. Next to Froi were Gargarin and Quintana, who insisted once again on stealing food from his plate. He slapped her hand away more than once.

‘Do you have something to tell us?’ she whispered in his ear.

Froi gritted his teeth. He didn’t know what part of her he disliked more. The cold viper or this annoyance.

Suddenly he felt Bestiano’s attention from the head table. ‘What are you both whispering about?’ the King’s First Advisor asked.

Froi pointed to himself, questioningly. ‘I was just wanting to say how becoming the Princess looks in that gown. The colour is perfect for her complexion,’ he lied.

Her response was a shocked squint. She tilted her head to the side in confusion, as though contemplating whether Froi’s words were a compliment.

‘Quintana,’ Bestiano called out. ‘One responds to a flattering remark.’

The Princess seemed wary. ‘We’re not the recipient of many compliments, my lord, so we’re unsure about its sincerity.’

There was no bite in her tone. Just confusion. Froi realised too late that he had picked the wrong person to play with, and was beginning to feel uncomfortable about what he had started.

Gargarin of Abroi kicked him under the table as a warning.

‘Say thank you, Quintana!’ Bestiano barked.

‘We cannot offer thanks, because I doubt Olivier’s earnestness,’ she said. There was anxiety in her voice, as though she didn’t know what to do under the circumstances.

‘Say, thank you,’ Bestiano repeated.

‘It’s not necessary,’ Froi said. ’It was an attempt at humour between us and –’

‘Say. Thank you!’