Adhemar's POV ***

 

Count Adhemar stood against a pole with his arms folded across his chest. He had watched the entire drama unfold before his eyes, seen Sir Ulrich dare to battle against the heir of the Borish throne. But what left him as furious as bubbles in a boiling kettle was when he saw Sir Ulrich step forward to take the prize for winning the joust and sword-fight competition. Worse still was the girl, Lady Jocelyn, who wouldn’t stop gossiping about the knight to her handmaiden. He clenched his fist, gritted his teeth and left the tournament ground with rage and hate curdling like milk in his heart.

 

“Out of my way,” he yelled as he rode his horse without slowing down, knocking more than one person out of the way.

 

He almost ripped off his tent as he got in. However, he did shatter his mirror with a clean throw of his dagger, pulled the sheets off his bed, and threw the small stool out of the tent.

 

Someone yelled “Ouch!” outside, but Count Adhemar did not care a bat’s wing about it. Just then, Germaine stepped into the tent with a hand to his head and a letter in the other.

 

“My count,” he said to the count, bowing.

 

“Don’t just don't,” Count Adhemar spat at Germaine. “If you hadn’t told me it was Prince Edwards, heir of the Borish throne, I’d have tilted against him and beat that lousy Sir Ulrich at the joust a second time. And then, that girl and her handmaiden would have had something nicer to gossip and giggle over!”

 

Germaine cowered. “I – I am sorry, my count,” said the herald, still holding his forehead with a hand.

 

“And take that hand away from your head,” count Adhemar barked.

 

Germaine obliged, and when the hand was removed, there was a swell the size of a bird’s egg on it.

 

“What’s that? Cover it immediately!” count Adhemar snapped, disgusted.

 

“The chair threw itself out of the tent and struck me on the head,” said Germaine.

 

Count Adhemar cleared his throat and put his hands behind his head. “These are strange times, aren’t they? What’s that letter you’re holding? And cover that horror on your head.”

 

“Y – yes, my count,” said Germaine, returning the hand to his head. He managed to undo the bind around the letter with his teeth and a hand, and unfolded it. “It’s a letter from the Lord Grove of Makinburg, Father to lady Jocelyn.”

 

A black scowl washed over count Adhemar’s countenance. “What business does he write me a letter to?” he asked. “Was his daughter not here to cheer her champion on to victory?”

 

“Well, yes, but she is just a child,” said Germaine. “She can’t be very sensible yet.”

 

“A human that knows the difference between left and right is no longer a child,” said count Adhemar, gritting his teeth. “Left is another word for wrong, Germaine. But, pray, tell me what business it is that the old man writes me for.”

 

“”From Lord Grove of Makinburg, to Count Adhemar of Fort Anjou of Messers country. Master of the free companies – “

 

“Wait,” said count Adhemar, raising a hand. “Did Grove add in the letter that I was master of the free companies, or you did?”

 

Germaine squinted and went through the letter again. “He did,” said he. “It’s written right here.” He made to turn the book, however, count Adhemar bade him to go on reading the letter.

 

“And just tell me what it’s all about,” said count Adhemar, stiffly.

 

“He wants to wish you well, and congratulate you on your sure victory at the tournament.”

 

“What sheer mockery,” said count Adhemar, fuming. “He wrote that note to shame me, I tell you.”

 

“But the letter must have been sent three days ago,” said Germaine, “surely he expected a victory for you, everyone did!”

 

“Until the Prince of Borish happened,” said count Adhemar. “How can a prince not realize it is beneath him to compete in a joust? Here’s what you will do for me.”

 

Germaine stood at attention, ready to take in the count’s orders.

 

“You’re to reply to the letter that I have to be given time to consider his proposal of marriage between myself and his daughter. Tell him, that I am entangled in the affairs of war and country and cannot say if I’ll be able to marry his daughter at all.”

 

Germaine swallowed loudly.

 

“Tell him as I have spoken, Germaine,” said the count, “and you deliver the letter to him personally. I want you to read his face, tell me stories of horror and disappointment written on him. Is that understood?”

 

“Yes, my count,” said Germaine, bowing. “But… why?”

 

Count Adhemar raised a brow. “I believe I have told you, Germaine; the weak must fall. Grove needs me to save his estate, and while accepting his offer strengthens my fort, I don’t want to save anyone least of all a foreign lord.”

 

He rose from the bed and went to the shattered mirror with a dagger sticking in the center.

 

“His daughter vexed me so today,” said the count, “and as I cannot slap her face with my hands, I’d like to slap her father with my words.” He swirled suddenly to face Germaine. “Write the letter in the words that I have dictated, understood?”

 

Germaine bobbed his head. “Yes, my count.”

 

“Good. I’ve always believed there’s too much of us at the top, let lord Grove fall, and we’ll see if Sir Ulrich still finds his daughter attractive then.”

 

“Count Adhemar of Fort Anjou!” a voice boomed outside the tent.

 

Count Adhemar and Germaine’s eyes darted towards the entrance at once and they exchanged knowing looks.

 

The Count brushed past Germaine and stepped outside the tent. There was a man sitting on a high horse with a flag to his back. He was dressed in black clothing sewn in a style similar to Count Adhemar’s.

 

“A royal messenger?” said Count Adhemar. “What message has my king of Messers deemed so urgent for him to have sent his fastest courier over to me?”