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"Bad news?"
Angus didn't answer, just sank deeper into his seat, arms crossed. All that was missing was a pout on his face, like so many times before. But as a sixteen year old heir to a great kingdom, that was hardly appropriate, was it?
Ser Proletius gently tapped the prince's leg to have him pay attention. The signal worked – sometimes Proletius was just short of congratulating himself for his efforts in raising the young prince.
“I understand that you're bored, but as the future king, you must not show such behaviour, there's foreign ambassadors looking on, not to mention your own people."
For a moment, Angus seemed to contemplate just getting up and leaving, something he'd done more times than the knight next to him could count. Eventually he just grumbled to himself, but sat up, resting his hands on the armrests like a true royal, though the scowl on his face stayed. He refused to look at his mentor and bodyguard, rather sweeping his gaze over the field in front of them, already crowded with people of all ages and classes, ready to see the tournament.
Behind the tents, the warriors were warming up before the games, not few of Proletius' own Knights of Crail included.
No doubt would Angus much prefer to be out there on the battlefield, proving himself and maybe bringing rest to his racing thoughts like only a battle could, instead of sitting here, wearing a much too warm, ostentatious armour without anything to do but look good.
Ser Proletius mustered his prince for a moment, before throwing a glance at Angus' father, King Alastair. The king was in deep conversation with another chieftain, a big man with dark hair. Next to him stood a no less imposing woman, wearing a simple but excellent blue dress and silver tiara. The swirling blue lines cut into both royals' arms told of them being of the McDougall clan.
Proletius sighed. He should have known the problem ran deeper than simply being annoyed by his princely duties.
“Another suitor?”, he asked, lowering his voice so only the prince could hear him.
Angus' shoulders sagged, the expression of a little boy being caught with his hand in the bread basket crossing his features. He lowered his gaze into his lap, hands closing around the much too pompous armrests.
“Ser Proletius?” His voice wavered.
“Yes, prince Angus?”
“What if I don't want to marry?”
Proletius blinked, taken by surprise. “Well, it is expected of a prince to continue the lineage and you're an only child.” He paused, unsure of what to say that didn't sound like an outright No. “Have none of your potential wives piqued your interest even a bit?”
“No!” Angus flinched and lowered his voice, mouthing “Sorry” to his father.
“Truly? There were some beautiful women others would envy you greatly over.”
“I don't care if they're pretty!”, Angus hissed. Proletius was shocked to see actual tears glistening in the young prince's eyes. He hadn't expected Angus' torment to run that deep. “It's just... they're all so boring! All they care about is jewellery and clothes and stitching! How can I be expected to spend my life with someone if we can't even talk about things that matter?”
Proletius nodded slowly, turning the prince's words over in his head while he poured them both a drink.
“It's customary for a woman to stay home,” he pondered. “And not get caught up in the men's domain of war and politics. But that doesn't mean there's no princess out there who can be a true companion.”
Angus stared off into the distance, hopelessness overtaking his features. “No. No I don't think so. This is the last one. Father wants me to meet her today. If I don't say Yes to her, it's lady Donalda.”
Proletius nearly spat his mead over the entire balcony.
He remembered princess Donalda. Of all the maidens that had come forth to fight for the prince's hand, her father was the most vicious in his attempts to convince the king. Donalda herself was... beautiful. In fact, she was the most beautiful maiden in the country, people said. Unfortunately, that beauty had left little room for anything else, including intellect. How she'd made it to adulthood at all was a mystery.
Unfortunately, the McKierans also held large strips of land to the west. A marriage between the two houses would increase Fife's power greatly.
Still, such a fate was nothing Ser Proletius would wish upon the young prince, even in a moment of anger. He now understood the prince's desperation. He was only sixteen, for crying out loud!
King Alastair had married at age 29, his father at age 33, why the rush?
“Maybe this one is different?”, Proletius offered with a half-hearted smile. Angus shrugged and emptied his mead. In a wave of sympathy, Proletius filled his cup. Normally he'd refrain from giving the boy alcohol – it made him even more unpredictable than normal – but he felt like the prince needed the morale boost.
A trumpet announced the tournament to start. Proletius sat up, hailing his knights as they marched into the arena alongside the warriors that had come from afar. The McDougall clan was easy to spot with their intricate tattoos and heavy leather armour. The knights from the McKierans were the loudest and unruliest, wearing the banner of their clan as if they were wild boars themselves.
Angus watched the parade with a gloomy expression, hand cramped around his cup. Lord McDougall and his wife had settled themselves amongst the other royals, but aside of Donalda McKieran, there was nobody nearby that looked even remotely like a princess.
Donalda was gorgeous, no doubt. Long blond hair, shining like gold, porcelain skin like alabaster and curves a man could only dream of touching.
She smiled wistfully at the scenery, and her eyes told every perceptive onlooker that there was literally nothing going on behind them.
The first game was riding. Proletius' own knights, in lack of war horses, had refrained from this challenge. The Questlords of Inverness however, had not, and they crushed their opponents, even riding regular horses instead of unicorns. Despite not being on great terms with the Questlords himself, Ser Proletius was amused to see the veins pumping in Lord McKierans neck as his own men were overthrown as if they were mere leaves. Pointing it out to Angus even earned a semi-genuine smile from the gloomy prince.
The second game was archery. In this, nobody could beat the Knights of Crail. Ser Proletius' expectations were fulfilled. Especially a quite slim and small knight showed himself to be mighty indeed. He bore the banner of Crail, though it seemed attached somewhat... sloppily.
Proletius made a mental note to reprimand him about it later. Small mistakes led to big mistakes, everyone knew that. Well, he would tell him... when he'd figured out who this knight was.
“That knight is quite proficient,” Angus remarked. “A senior warrior?”
Proletius hesitated, then nodded. He didn't feel like admitting he had no idea who this person was. He prided himself on knowing all of his men, even in full armour, but somehow, his brain drew a blank right now.
Conversation picked up around them as the battlefield was prepared for the final discipline: fencing.
“Have you seen princess McDougall?”, Angus whispered, looking around suspiciously.
“Not yet,” Proletius admitted.
Their conversation was interrupted by the king himself. Both the prince and his mentor immediately shot to their feet, backs straight, and hailed their king in the proper manner.
“This is my son,” King Alastair said warmly, shoving Angus in the direction of the McDougalls. Angus greeted them politely, but his eyes kept darting around, no doubt looking for the princess.
“And this is Ser Proletius, Grand Master of the brave knights of Crail.”
“The mighty eagle warriors,” Lord McDougall rumbled. He had a voice that could shake mountains and towered over Proletius like one. “I thought you'd be taller.”
“In flying combat, being light is an invaluable advantage,” Ser Proletius replied stiffly.
Lady McDougall let out a very unladylike snort. She spoke the eastern dialect Proletius himself had grown up with. “Iona will like him. She's always wanted to ride an eagle after horses got boring.”
“Will your daughter join us?”, Angus burst out.
The brief silence seemed to stretch into eternity as King Alastair frowned at his son. Angus returned the visitors' gazes, only the reddening of his ears showing he was trying not to squirm.
“She will soon, I believe,” Lady McDougall said with a cryptic smile.
“We have just discussed the details of a possible arrangement, should you two find each other... appealing,” King Alastair said with a pointed glance at his son. “Excuse us for a moment.” He laid a hand on Angus' shoulder and more dragged than led him away, to the back of the royal terrace, exchanging a few quite agitated words with his son.
“Bit scrawny, the lad,” Lord McDougall commented in a low murmur, most likely assuming nobody understood his heavy dialect. Ser Proletius didn't twitch, though he was fuming inside.
There was a reason the McDougalls, while powerful, had a bad reputation, not only because of their barbarian traditions.
“Well, he seems fiery enough,” the Lady replied, laying a hand on her husband's arm. “Maybe this one won't go running. I'd hope so.”
“My apologies for interrupting,” Proletius threw in, just late enough to pretend he hadn't understood anything. “But allow me to ask, where is the princess Iona? I assumed she would be present to watch the tournament.”
Lord McDougall cranked an eyebrow. “Oh she's... not very enthused by watching this kind of spectacle. We thought it better to leave her be. She has quite the temperament.”
Oh great, sounds fantastic, Proletius thought with an internal sigh. He felt sorry for Angus, having the choice now between a wife with barely enough brain to keep breathing, and a spoiled brat who would raise hell if she didn't get what she wanted.
But out loud, he only said: “I look forward to meeting her.”
When Angus and King Alastair returned, the prince's eyes were reddened, and he refused to meet Proletius' gaze. They settled in their seats again, the prince kneading his hands in his lap. The trumpet announced the start of the last discipline, and the first pair of knights – a Questlord and one of the McKieran's warriors – faced each other in the arena.
“Have you seen her?”, Angus whispered.
Proletius leaned over, pretending to merely take a more comfortable position. “She's not attending the tournament,” he explained in a low voice. “Her parents said she finds it boring.”
“Oh.” The way he sagged in his chair, the news may as well have been a death sentence. “One of these again.”
The Questlord triumphed, which evoked a furious roar from Lord McKieran and a joyful chorus of shouts from the unicorn warriors. Donalda still smiled into nothingness, her gaze only once sweeping over to her parents. “Is that good? Did we win?”, she asked.
The next opponents were one of house McFife's own soldiers, and the slim knight that had dominated the archery section before.
Proletius stared at the figure, trying to make out anything - anything! - to hint who he was dealing with. He knew all his men, knew their gait and way of combat. Yet he couldn't guess who it was. Ser Morgan would be his closest bet, but he knew his squad leader was at home, protecting the fortress.
“Father said I will marry Iona,” Angus said quietly. Proletius snapped to attention, shock momentarily sweeping away his own thoughts.
“What about the McKierans?”
Angus shook his head. A shiver ran through him, though no tears fell. “They're too... too something. I don't know. Father thinks the McDougalls are the best fit. I missed my chance to choose.”
Proletius sighed and patted the prince's hand. “I'm sorry it happened like this. Come, let's watch the battles, that will cheer you up.”
Angus merely shrugged, accepting the handkerchief his mentor passed him in an inconspicuous gesture. The knight of Crail triumphed in battle, which earned him a full-on war chorus by his fellow men. One by one, the warriors fought, until in the end, only two were left after a row of victories: Sire Equestrion, a seasoned Questlord, and the mysterious knight of Crail.
Proletius had long since waited for this showdown. The Questlords thought themselves superior by virtue of herding the majestic unicorns, but their ego was bigger than any victory they'd ever achieved.
“He's tiny,” muttered Angus. Indeed, against the bulky figure of the Questlord, the knight of Crail seemed almost frail.
Proletius leaned forward in his seat, brows furrowed. Something was off. The armour of the eagle warriors was traditionally light, to enable swift movements on a flying battlesteed, but this knight was not wearing such armour. The material had a different shimmer, something to hold off arrows perhaps, but certainly no sword.
A single blow would most likely shatter the light armour and cause major damage, if not kill them.
Ser Proletius should not have been worried.
The knight was swifter than an eagle in dive. He avoided blow after blow, dancing around Sire Equestrion like they were attending a ball, until the Questlord seemed dizzy from spinning around.
Then he struck.
With a mighty blow to the back of his knees, the knight toppled his opponent, evoking a gasp from the crowd.
Too easy, Ser Proletius thought.
The Questlord rammed the pommel of his sword into the knight's leg, evoking a scream as they fell – a very unmanly scream.
As in: Not a man's scream.
“Fucking cunt!” The knight rolled over the ground, not bothering to put weight on their injured leg, avoiding another blow. The Questlord was so startled by the clearly female voice that he didn't even attempt to parry. The unknown woman hit him so hard he crashed into the ground and stayed down.
It was entirely silent for several seconds, before the Knights of Crail roared in joy, pumping their fists in the air, close to storming the battlefield to celebrate their champion.
Proletius got up, stepping to the edge of the platform. He signalled the herald to finish the tournament. Trumpets screeched.
“The champion of the fencing discipline is-” The herald hesitated. “State your name, my Lord!”
The knight sheathed the sword again and walked over to the royal podium, limping slightly where the Questlord had caused injury. They stopped before the podium, looking up at the king, before taking off their helmet.
“Iona McDougall,” she announced. “Though I assume that soon will be Iona McFife.”
Proletius was not the only one whose jaw dropped. Angus dropped his cup, spilling mead all over the wooden boards, and even the usually stoic king gasped.
Iona heaved herself up on the podium, her dark hair messy, sweaty strands clinging to her forehead. Proletius automatically offered her a hand and took the now useless helmet. Where the hell had she even gotten this?
“Pardon me for not dropping a curtsey, your majesty,” Iona McDougall said with a bright smile. She had an aristocratic face with high cheekbones and full lips. Sparkling blue eyes took in every detail around her. “My leg, you see. And pardon me for not attending earlier. I find watching these kind of events rather tiring.” She turned to Angus, who stared at her with his mouth open, face as red as a ripe tomato. “I had hoped you'd participate, but I assume there's still plenty of time for me to test my skills against you.”
“Surely,” he croaked.
He jumped to his feet, suddenly aware how inappropriate his behaviour was. He offered his hand, which she took, and placed a shaky kiss on her knuckles. “Lady Iona, welcome, I'm- I'm prince Angus. Pleased to meet you.”
“I noticed,” she said with a only half-hidden grin. “Now if you will excuse me, I should probably change into more fitting attire.”
“I'll help,” Lady McDougall offered. She left her seat to steady her daughter as she limped off the podium, vanishing behind the colourful fabric.
Angus stared into empty space for quite a bit, and nobody stopped him. It was deathly quiet.
But the attention span of crowds was short, and soon the normal patter returned. The king and Lord McDougall left, followed by their guards, to return to their negotiations, as did the McKierans, not without noisily proclaiming that there had to be something fishy about the entire tournament. Proletius looked down at the helmet in his hands and decided he'd have to have some words not only with his knights, but also himself.
Angus fell down heavily into his seat, the blush somehow not fading from his face. He stared down at his hands, eyes glazed. For a moment, it looked like he'd burst into tears on the spot.
“Ser Proletius?”
“Yes?”
Angus looked up, the dazed expression slowly making way for the first genuine smile he'd borne in days.
“I think I'm okay with marrying her.”