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The first time Cedric sat down at a borrowed table to pen a letter to Wamba, he felt utterly foolish. He nearly abandoned the pursuit twice, poised to crumple the parchment in his fist, but he paused each time. He was three weeks out from Rotherwood, another fortnight at least between him and his return home, and the truth was that he missed Wamba more fiercely with each day that passed.
The letters Wamba received from Lady Edith had become a regular fixture in the boy’s life, and he was frequently to be found reading them in Cedric’s chambers, perched on a chair with his legs tucked up or sprawled on the rug before the fire. It pleased Cedric to imagine Wamba reading his own words with such eager attention, thinking of him while he was away, and so he persevered.
His stilted missive was inelegant at best, but he dispatched it the following morning in the hands of a messenger, letting it precede him home. In the meantime, he contented himself with the memory of his slave, the difference in him that true intimacy had wrought, and let himself anticipate their eventual reunion.
Cedric and his party rode into Rotherwood well after dark seventeen days later. He handed off his horse in the torchlit yard, before making his way inside. He bathed in the garrison, where there was warm water ready, careful to remain only long enough to loosen the tension of the road from his weary muscles without letting himself be pulled too far toward sleep. Then he went at last to his chamber, and was warmed and delighted by the sight of Wamba curled beneath the furs in the great bed.
It was the first time Wamba had ceded to Cedric’s insistence that he remain in the lord’s chamber even when Cedric himself was away. The Saxon had finally told him, as he prepared to depart, that he found returning from his occasional travels to discover that Wamba had retreated to his small, empty cell increasingly vexing. “You are not here solely for my pleasure. This is your bed, and my absence should not drive you from it.”
Now, finally, the young jester had stayed. Cedric chose not to disturb him, and settled instead in his chair with a heavy sigh, taking up the cup waiting for him there with the appreciation only long absence could give for familiar comforts. Despite his care, Wamba roused at the sound of his movements, and sat up slowly, rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand. A joyful smile lit his face when he saw Cedric. He slid out of the bed at once, bare feet shuffling softly on the stone and shift hanging loose as he approached his master.
“Welcome home, my lord,” Wamba murmured, soft and warm, and climbed straight into Cedric’s lap. He tucked his knees into the spaces beside Cedric’s hips and wrapped his arms around the Saxon’s neck, melting against him with a happy sigh. Cedric laughed at this unexpectedly affectionate reception, and set his cup down to close his arms about Wamba in return. The young jester was still warm and pliant with sleep, the kisses he dropped on Cedric’s neck sweetly soft and clumsy.
Cedric took gentle hold of Wamba’s head to raise his face for a kiss. The boy met him ecstatically, humming as they reacquainted themselves. When they parted, Wamba was nearly glowing with happiness.
“I take it you received the letter I sent?” Cedric asked him.
“I did,” Wamba said, his sleep-rough voice all enticement. “I have been thinking on how I might thank you for it.”
Cedric could not help but smile. “And what have you decided?”
Wamba bent his head and licked at Cedric’s lower lip, a slow tease. "That I have nothing to give that is not already yours."
The weeks of unfulfilled lust that roiled in Cedric’s gut caught sudden flame, and he lunged up, lifting Wamba to lay him down on the table and claim his mouth in a consuming kiss.
He thought that he should have to write more letters in future, if this was the reward.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Farren went first to the dungeons. He barreled into the guardroom, startling a soldier napping with his feet up on the rickety wooden table. The young man quickly jolted to his feet and straightened to attention at Farren’s hurried entrance.“Where are they?” he demanded.“Who, captain?” the soldier stammered, glancing around in confusion.Farren stopped, straining his ears to listen. The dungeons were quiet and calm, no sound issuing from the rows of empty cells.“Has any new prisoner been brought down today?”“None, captain,” the young soldier said. “Are you looking for someone, sir?”Farren only grunted. He turned to stalk back up the stairs and made his way next to the bailey. It, too, was peaceful, its only occupants a pair of stable hands lounging by wall. Confusion began to bleed through the sweeping panic in Farren’s mind. There was only one way to be certain of what had happened. He gathered his resolve, and went to call upon the king.The guards at the stair nodded to him as he passed, not questioning their captain as he made his way to the king’s private study. He rapped one knuckle briskly on the heavy wooden door.“What is it?” came the curt reply from within.“Forgive me, your majesty but…” Farren stopped as the door swung open and the room came into view.King Richard was seated behind his table, an impatient frown on his face, but Farren could not tear his eyes from the king’s guest. Wamba turned in his seat, startled at Farren’s entrance, but blessedly whole and unharmed.“What is it?” the king demanded.Farren could not find his voice, gazing upon Wamba a stricken stare. The young man’s eyes widened suddenly, and he stood, crossing the room to look up at Farren.“Oscar went to you?” he asked quietly.Farren nodded.He could not quite shed the crippling relief of finding Wamba here. The immediate urgency Oscar’s confession had kindled in him was unpleasantly familiar. He had watched Wamba suffer too many times to take lightly the prospect of further hurts inflicted upon him. He could not countermand the king’s order, but at the very least, he meant to stand by Wamba’s side and see him through it.The sad quirk of Wamba's mouth said that he understood all of this. He reached out to take both of Farren's hands in a reassuringly tight grip, though his thin fingers were dwarfed by Farren’s rough paws. It was only then that Farren realized he was shaking.“Fear not. I’m not bound for the dungeons today.” Wamba was smiling as he said it, but Farren saw the haunted memory in his eyes. He knew it was reflected in his own.“I would not let you face it alone,” he said.Wamba looked up at him, affection and gratitude in his gaze. “Thank you, Farren.”Behind Wamba, the king heaved an exasperated sigh. “Does no one have any faith in me whatsoever?”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Devy would never forget the cruel face of her lord. He smiled and forced her to watch as her parents were killed, their bodies set on display as a warning to others who would think to defy their lord. She saw that face in her dreams every night, after she had cried herself to sleep, her body aching and spirit in tatters, like the threadbare blanket she wrapped around her shoulders as she curled on the pile of dirty straw that was her bed. Eventually her tears ran dry, her existence reduced to an endless cycle of hunger, fear and pain.She did not trust the man with the kind smile at first. They had smiled at her before, spoken softly until she began to trust them and only then shown their true colors. So she did not trust him. But he kept his promise, and did not hurt her. He did not let Avery hurt her either. That man gave her to another man, much taller but equally kind, who held her gently as they rode away from her home and the nightmares that dwelled there. She wondered where they were going, but she did not ask, preferring not to invite attention and thereby danger. She ate when she was fed, and slept when she was given a bed, and sometimes she slept on the tall man as well, but he did not seem to mind.Devy would never forget her first sight of the face of her lady. The woman was forbidding, with iron gray hair and a stern expression, but something about her spoke of comfort, and Devy did not fear her, or the hand that beckoned her closer.“Come, child. I am Edith, and this is your home now.”Home for Devy had not been a comfort for some time. She thought that it might be again, however, as she let the lady take her hand in a papery grasp, firm but gentle. She was taken first to a small chamber, where maids who were older than Devy filled a tub with steaming water. The lady sent them away after, instructing Devy to remove her shift and washing Devy herself. The hands on her made her nervous at first, but the touch was efficient and brisk, nothing like the unwanted feelings that haunted her dreams.Once she was clean, she was given fresh clothes and seated on a stool so that the lady could comb out the tangles of her hair. She was careful, picking apart the worst knots with her fingertips before running the comb through the loosened tresses. No one had done that for Devy since her mother, and as the lady worked, the gentle tugs and sweeps made her eyes well with tears.The lady noticed, and took Devy in her arms to hold her while she cried, relief and exhaustion spilling from her in waves of raw emotion. When she calmed, the lady led her to a soft bed in a small, quiet room with a proper door and a single candle burning on the little table. She slept peacefully that night, and for the first time since her parents died before her eyes, she felt a touch of hope, a timid tendril of peace.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Wilfred woke Wamba with a hand on his shoulder. It was only dawn, but the young man would no doubt want to make his exit before the castle woke and the ever-curious servants began to fill the corridors. Wamba turned at his touch, settling on his side facing Wilfred and offering him a faint smile. He was still weary, a mere shadow of the jovial youth that Wilfred remembered from happier days, but the relatively restful night had done him some good.“How are you?” Wilfred asked quietly.“Much better, my lord,” Wamba replied.“I am glad,” Wilfred said, running the tip of his finger gently along the bite-shaped bruise on Wamba’s shoulder.Wamba flushed, closing his eyes at the reminder of the assault. “I’d better see that Oscar didn’t get himself into any new mischief in my absence.”Wilfred pulled his hand away, tucking it back beneath the blankets. “How is he? I have not seen him in longer than I can remember.”“Taller,” Wamba said with a faint smile, “but otherwise much the same as he ever was. Stubborn and reckless.”“Still angling for your heart?” Wilfred asked.“Perhaps,” Wamba said quietly. “I have not dwelled much on it, to tell the truth.”“No? You have given no more thought to whether you are prepared to grant him your affections?”Wamba smiled sadly, his shoulder lifting in a small shrug. “They were not mine to give away.” The rest remained unspoken, that Avery had taken that which Wamba would never willingly relinquish, taken what in his mind belonged to Cedric.Heart aching, Wilfred pulled him forward to press a gentle kiss to his brow. “Then you can think on it now. Do you want something more with him?”Wamba was silent for a time. Then, in a whisper, he confessed, “I don’t know.”Wilfred sighed. Wamba’s uncertainty was no mystery. He had spent too many of his early years at the mercy of a cruel master, his will disregarded, overridden, taken from him entirely. Wilfred imagined that it must be hard for him to know what he wanted when he had been taught to want nothing for himself.“You should be happy, Wamba,” he said quietly. “I may not know everything about what you shared, but I know my father could not have loved you and still wanted you to spend your whole life mourning him. If Oscar, or anyone else, can give you that, you should take it.”“Are you giving us your blessing, my lord?” Wamba asked, a teasing smile quirking the corner of his mouth.“If you like,” Wilfred shrugged, “on the condition that you finally learn to call me by my name.”“I will try. Thank you, Wilfred.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Richard surveyed the shady clearing through the slit of his visor as he sharpened his sword, making a rough count of the woodsmen gathered there. Their company had attained an impressive number already, and more forces were arriving all the time, trickling in from the forest to answer the clandestine call for brave men to lay siege to Torquilstone in the name of Cedric the Saxon.
All that Richard knew of Cedric was what he had learned from Wilfred during their time together. The Cedric of Rotherwood of his imagination was a stern, unyielding man, quick to anger and merciless in his dealings. It was interesting, therefore, to be forced to reconcile the son’s account of his father with the man who was evidently so beloved for who he was and what he stood for that his slaves would issue foolhardy challenge on his behalf, and no less than five hundred men rally to his aid of their own volition in but a few short days.
Richard shifted beneath the weight of his armor, resenting once again the disguise he was forced to maintain until his brother’s schemes on his life could be thwarted and his throne reclaimed. The thought made him bring the whetstone down sharply on the blade of his sword, causing the metal to give off an unhappy squeal.
“Why so solemn, friend?”
The table beside Richard shuddered as a lanky body came to rest suddenly atop it, legs swinging. The disguised king looked up to find Cedric’s jester peering at him with both brows raised high. Though he had spent only a few days in their company, Richard found himself growing quickly fond of Cedric’s slaves, the taciturn swineherd and the odd, frenetic youth of the quick smile and unnervingly pretty face who watched him now.
Their plans for Cedric’s liberation rested on this boy, on his ability to fool an entire castle of Normans that he was in fact a man of the cloth. The trick was clever, though Richard suspected that even the bulky robes of the friar could not disguise the difference in girth between the jester and the thane. They would doubtless have to wrap the slight youth in several extra layers to allow him to be convincingly mistaken for his stockier master.
“Is this not a moment for solemnity?” he asked, flipping his blade to draw the stone down the opposite edge.
Wamba smirked. “That is quite a change of color from the jolly fellow we found sharing cups with the friar in the woods. Perhaps you are another knight entirely, and the body of our fine sluggard rests beneath a tree in yonder wood.”
“Do you not fear what you might face on the morrow?” Richard asked, curious at the jester’s apparent lack of comprehension as to the danger he had agreed to shoulder for the sake of his master.
“And what is it that I should I fear, sir knight?” Wamba asked, swinging his legs carelessly and making the table rock.
“If you are discovered, you will almost certainly be killed.”
Wamba nodded his head from side to side, considering this with narrowed eyes and a little moue. “Did you not risk death when you rode to glorious battle in the Holy Land, good knight?” he said at last. “Yet you rode for the glory of God against the barbarian hordes, and so you did not quail. Permit me to flatter myself that I do but the same, if for a slightly more worldly power. What better glory than to exhaust one’s life for such a cause?”
Richard stared at him, his hand stilled on his blade. Perhaps Gurth had not been wrong on the count of Wamba’s cleverness. “That is remarkably apt.”
Wamba grinned suddenly, tucking his legs up so that he crouched like a gargoyle on the edge of the table. “I have promised the men of the wood a bit of entertainment, before I depart to take my holy orders. Will you not join the revelry?”
“I suppose I will, at that,” Richard agreed.
“Splendid.” With a thrust of his legs, Wamba leapt from the table and executed a quick flip before landing on his feet. He offered his arm to Richard. “Allow me to accompany you to that den of merriment, sir knight.”
Richard reflected that the loss of that talent, should the worst befall Wamba, would be a true shame. If tonight was to be his final performance, it should be enjoyed. So Richard followed along, and took a cup, and let himself be entertained.