“Which one of your brothers is Marco?” Yusuf asked Nicolò that night, as they sat on the balcony of their quarters and watched the moon rise over the bay. Nicolò had told him the names of all of his siblings, but if Yusuf was being honest, they were all very difficult to remember and besides there were six of them – that was just the living brothers – besides three sisters, who were all married, which was more names to remember. It was almost as bad as trying to remember how he was related to everybody in his father’s family.
“The next oldest,” said Nicolò. “He went out on campaign for the first time at the same time as me. He enjoyed it.”
Nicolò had never been terribly specific about exactly why he had taken against military life so badly, or not more than he had been on their wedding night; Yusuf had heard some tales of the Franks in Sicily and could imagine some of the details, not that any military campaign produced tales to gladden the heart.
“You must have enjoyed some of it,” Yusuf said. Nobody got to be quite as competent with a longsword as Nicolò was, in a deadly fight, without some love for it.
“Well, some,” said Nicolò. “Your sister also wants me to teach her how to use a crossbow, I feel obliged to tell you.”
“Of course she does,” said Yusuf. “She’s practicing in case she decides to assassinate me and take the throne herself.” Nicolò rightly rolled his eyes at that. “You may as well show me at the same time. I’ve never tried.”
“Maybe she can shoot Marco, if he ever does show up here,” said Nicolò. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“We’re pretending to have an alliance,” said Yusuf. “That isn’t going to help matters.” “Yes.” Nicolò sighed. “What a pity.”
*
Unfortunately for everybody involved, it turned out that Nicolò had not been wrong about what he’d seen. The first Yusuf knew about it was when his brother – or actually it might not have been, Yusuf wasn’t very good at telling Franks (or Genovese, as Nicolò would remind him) apart when they were trying to assault him – anyway, the first Yusuf knew about was when he and Nicolò were out hawking with some of the court ten days later and somebody grabbed him from behind.
They had wandered a discreet distance away from the main party, although not so far that yelling would fail to alert anybody, they weren’t stupid. As Noor had pointed out the other day, given their positions, the amount of time they spent truly alone with each other was actually very limited. All Yusuf had really wanted to do was sit with his newlywed husband by the river, and pretend there were not a dozen courtiers and twice that many guards and servants within earshot, and perhaps recite some poetry, the hunting that day having proved very poor. Or maybe do things other than reciting poetry; Yusuf hadn’t been sure how Nicolò felt about outdoor trysting but was very curious to find out.
That plan had been summarily ruined when he had seen two Franks emerge from low bushes behind Nicolò, armed and armored. He had opened his mouth to shout, and found an arm around his throat.
Yusuf kicked backward – the man wasn’t wearing greaves, as he found out when he didn’t break his heel – and threw himself forward. His assailant was pulled off his feet, and in the short ensuing scuffle Yusuf was able to roll away. What he had not counted on was that they were very close to a point where the land rolled upwards along the river, leaving an increasingly steep bluff. Yusuf went over it.
He was saved the ignominy of drowning himself in the river, as he probably would have done if he’d hit his head, by landing in a bush growing out from the bluff. Some distant yelling drifted down to him; he couldn’t make out the words. This was proving to be a very annoying day.
Yusuf made his way painfully back up the bluff over the next little while. A childhood spent climbing around the palace had given him the patience to attempt it, and rendered the height less terrifying than it might have been – really, Yusuf thought, the danger in falling had been the shallowness of the river in the height of summer, not the fall itself. Although he was going to be feeling it for the next few days at least.
He concentrated on the climb and the fall because he couldn’t afford to start worrying about what was happening to Nicolò. The only way to help him was to reach the top. He could see some more vegetation growing along the edge of the bluff, and aimed for that. It would cover him as he climbed.
As he got close to the edge, the yelling resolved into words. It was in very colloquial Ligurian, Nicolò’s native dialect, and Yusuf had to concentrate to make out what was being said.
“- rescue me?” Nicolò was saying. He wasn’t yelling; his voice was just very cold, and very clear. It was how Yusuf would expect him to sound if Yusuf ever insulted him unforgivably, or suggested that instead of Noor marrying a Venetian Yusuf should take a second wife, or something of that nature.
“Yes!” said someone else in the same dialect, although he was yelling. “You were a month away from taking your vows, after Father so generously allowed you to enter the monastery, and then we are expected to believe that you decided to throw it over to marry some heathen prince?”
“They’re not heathens here, they’re Muslims,” said Nicolò wearily, “which is different, and I know you know this. I sent a letter, Marco, and surely the rest of Father’s men told him what happened.”
“Duke Keane was murdered that same night! Who knows what else really -”
“Duke Keane tried to murder us.”
“Is that what you were told?”
“That is what happened.”
“You were told this was ceremonial, so they had no cause to be insulted and attack us or our shipping! You were told to refuse -”
“I was told that if I behaved myself and didn’t embarrass Genova I could go back and take my vows,” said Nicolò, “which is not the same thing, and if Father wanted me to refuse then he should have said so in so many words.”
“You’re such a sophist,” said his brother. “I suppose that’s what they teach you in monasteries.”
Yusuf was now in a position to see that there were only the three of them, the two he had seen and the third, who must be the brother. They had Nicolò on his knees and his hands bound, but a broken nose on one and two very good black eyes on the other suggested that had not happened easily. Yusuf would have expected no less. He contemplated announcing that he had been told in so many words to refuse Nicolò and it was only because his mother was a benevolent and generous woman (and had spent so many years already training him to rule, as she had pointed out since) that he had been allowed to get away with accepting him. Also because Nicolò had turned out to be kind and intelligent and a devil with a sword in his hands, which were all excellent qualities in a consort. He wondered if Nicolò’s brother knew any of that. He seemed to have a very poor and wrong view of him.
Then he decided that Nicolò’s brother seemed bent on getting Nicolò to agree that kidnapping him back to Genova was some sort of favour, which Nicolò was never going to do and would therefore eat up precious time, and headed up the river, along the edge of the bluff. There was really no point in all the guards and servants and things if he insisted on doing everything alone. That lesson of his mother’s had sunk in.
SEQUEL FILL: Joe/Nicky, The Prince Is Getting Married, Royalty AU [2/4]
“The next oldest,” said Nicolò. “He went out on campaign for the first time at the same time as me. He enjoyed it.”
Nicolò had never been terribly specific about exactly why he had taken against military life so badly, or not more than he had been on their wedding night; Yusuf had heard some tales of the Franks in Sicily and could imagine some of the details, not that any military campaign produced tales to gladden the heart.
“You must have enjoyed some of it,” Yusuf said. Nobody got to be quite as competent with a longsword as Nicolò was, in a deadly fight, without some love for it.
“Well, some,” said Nicolò. “Your sister also wants me to teach her how to use a crossbow, I feel obliged to tell you.”
“Of course she does,” said Yusuf. “She’s practicing in case she decides to assassinate me and take the throne herself.” Nicolò rightly rolled his eyes at that. “You may as well show me at the same time. I’ve never tried.”
“Maybe she can shoot Marco, if he ever does show up here,” said Nicolò. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“We’re pretending to have an alliance,” said Yusuf. “That isn’t going to help matters.”
“Yes.” Nicolò sighed. “What a pity.”
*
Unfortunately for everybody involved, it turned out that Nicolò had not been wrong about what he’d seen. The first Yusuf knew about it was when his brother – or actually it might not have been, Yusuf wasn’t very good at telling Franks (or Genovese, as Nicolò would remind him) apart when they were trying to assault him – anyway, the first Yusuf knew about was when he and Nicolò were out hawking with some of the court ten days later and somebody grabbed him from behind.
They had wandered a discreet distance away from the main party, although not so far that yelling would fail to alert anybody, they weren’t stupid. As Noor had pointed out the other day, given their positions, the amount of time they spent truly alone with each other was actually very limited. All Yusuf had really wanted to do was sit with his newlywed husband by the river, and pretend there were not a dozen courtiers and twice that many guards and servants within earshot, and perhaps recite some poetry, the hunting that day having proved very poor. Or maybe do things other than reciting poetry; Yusuf hadn’t been sure how Nicolò felt about outdoor trysting but was very curious to find out.
That plan had been summarily ruined when he had seen two Franks emerge from low bushes behind Nicolò, armed and armored. He had opened his mouth to shout, and found an arm around his throat.
Yusuf kicked backward – the man wasn’t wearing greaves, as he found out when he didn’t break his heel – and threw himself forward. His assailant was pulled off his feet, and in the short ensuing scuffle Yusuf was able to roll away. What he had not counted on was that they were very close to a point where the land rolled upwards along the river, leaving an increasingly steep bluff. Yusuf went over it.
He was saved the ignominy of drowning himself in the river, as he probably would have done if he’d hit his head, by landing in a bush growing out from the bluff. Some distant yelling drifted down to him; he couldn’t make out the words. This was proving to be a very annoying day.
Yusuf made his way painfully back up the bluff over the next little while. A childhood spent climbing around the palace had given him the patience to attempt it, and rendered the height less terrifying than it might have been – really, Yusuf thought, the danger in falling had been the shallowness of the river in the height of summer, not the fall itself. Although he was going to be feeling it for the next few days at least.
He concentrated on the climb and the fall because he couldn’t afford to start worrying about what was happening to Nicolò. The only way to help him was to reach the top.
He could see some more vegetation growing along the edge of the bluff, and aimed for that. It would cover him as he climbed.
As he got close to the edge, the yelling resolved into words. It was in very colloquial Ligurian, Nicolò’s native dialect, and Yusuf had to concentrate to make out what was being said.
“- rescue me?” Nicolò was saying. He wasn’t yelling; his voice was just very cold, and very clear. It was how Yusuf would expect him to sound if Yusuf ever insulted him unforgivably, or suggested that instead of Noor marrying a Venetian Yusuf should take a second wife, or something of that nature.
“Yes!” said someone else in the same dialect, although he was yelling. “You were a month away from taking your vows, after Father so generously allowed you to enter the monastery, and then we are expected to believe that you decided to throw it over to marry some heathen prince?”
“They’re not heathens here, they’re Muslims,” said Nicolò wearily, “which is different, and I know you know this. I sent a letter, Marco, and surely the rest of Father’s men told him what happened.”
“Duke Keane was murdered that same night! Who knows what else really -”
“Duke Keane tried to murder us.”
“Is that what you were told?”
“That is what happened.”
“You were told this was ceremonial, so they had no cause to be insulted and attack us or our shipping! You were told to refuse -”
“I was told that if I behaved myself and didn’t embarrass Genova I could go back and take my vows,” said Nicolò, “which is not the same thing, and if Father wanted me to refuse then he should have said so in so many words.”
“You’re such a sophist,” said his brother. “I suppose that’s what they teach you in monasteries.”
Yusuf was now in a position to see that there were only the three of them, the two he had seen and the third, who must be the brother. They had Nicolò on his knees and his hands bound, but a broken nose on one and two very good black eyes on the other suggested that had not happened easily. Yusuf would have expected no less.
He contemplated announcing that he had been told in so many words to refuse Nicolò and it was only because his mother was a benevolent and generous woman (and had spent so many years already training him to rule, as she had pointed out since) that he had been allowed to get away with accepting him. Also because Nicolò had turned out to be kind and intelligent and a devil with a sword in his hands, which were all excellent qualities in a consort. He wondered if Nicolò’s brother knew any of that. He seemed to have a very poor and wrong view of him.
Then he decided that Nicolò’s brother seemed bent on getting Nicolò to agree that kidnapping him back to Genova was some sort of favour, which Nicolò was never going to do and would therefore eat up precious time, and headed up the river, along the edge of the bluff. There was really no point in all the guards and servants and things if he insisted on doing everything alone. That lesson of his mother’s had sunk in.