by R. Cooper
A Suitable Consort
(for the King and his Husband)
R. Cooper
Copyright 2021 R. Cooper
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 9781005393137
Cover art by Lyn Forester
Content tags: polyamorous and polygamous culture, on-page sex, threesome, on page-drinking, references to past violence including executions, off-page death, assassination attempts, discussion of past trauma and PTSD, class snobbery
Table of Contents
Beginning
Middle
Epilogue
The End
“If His Highness is so preoccupied by the concerns of the court, perhaps he should consider finding a new consort suited to handle such matters.”
The statement resonated through an abruptly silent council chamber, and hung, shivering, in the air like an icicle primed to fall. Mattin thought the temperature of the chamber itself dropped as the silence continued for one more moment, then one more, then another. He imagined he would have seen his breath—had he dared to breathe—despite the multiple braziers lining the walls to keep those at the wide, round table warm in the winter chill.
The windows had been thrown open before the council had met, for light, and perhaps to keep the air fresher than it might have been in a room filled with nobles who smelled of perfumed hair oils and a few guards in their leathers. The draft that reached Mattin in a back corner was still crisp, though nothing to the icy quiet from the one now watched so carefully by the entire council.
Mattin did not look to find who had spoken; he knew the voice, although he would have never expected the man to make such a bold, insulting statement. Not to the king’s face, anyway. It was a wonder he had not also called the king Traitor, as some still did.
Per Tyrabalith, of a family so old as to have been one of the original Earls, centuries upon centuries ago, and also of a family unhappy with the way the dust had settled in recent years. Of course, he and his relatives had taken almost no action after the old queen’s murder, or during the subsequent decades of scheming and confusion and constantly changing rulers.
Not that Mattin could blame anyone for that, seeing as Mattin had never held a sword in his life, but there had probably been chances those of the Tyrabalith could have taken before or during those years of chaos if the throne was of such interest to them. They felt it owed them, more like, as some did. As if that sort of attitude hadn’t been the cause of so many years of tension and spilled blood, or the reason Jola of the Canamorra had once been a prisoner in this very palace, an event many still regarded as a disgrace.
Coveting a thing was a great deal easier than grabbing it and holding onto it, as the past years should have taught anyone with sense. But then, Mattin did not think Per Tyrabalith even helped to run his family’s estates, choosing instead to stay in the capital and act insulting and self-important during council meetings. Per Tyrabalith would know little of the stresses of rule on such a scale.
Mattin made a note to himself to investigate this further whenever he had a moment, before he at last risked a look across the room and the magnificent, gleaming table of stone to the king himself, who had one hand closed in a fist though he had been playfully, silently drumming his fingertips against the tabletop moments before.
Someone, likely the palace guard not far from Mattin, swore softly under her breath.
Mattin lifted his gaze from the sign of the king’s anger to sweep it over the robe of blue so dark it was nearly black, and the collar of fur meant to shield the king from the bitter cold of the capital around the time of the winter solstice, and the hint of mail the king often wore. The king’s beard was dark, short, and neatly trimmed, yet did nothing to conceal the old, faded scar that slashed across and up his cheek, nearly reaching his eye.
The injury had occurred decades ago, but it seemed to remind many of the other wounds concealed beneath the king’s furs and armor, the wounds that had nearly killed him, yet put him on the throne. Sometimes, Mattin wondered if the king knew that, and used it. Then he realized that of course he did. Arden Canamorra might not have asked to be king, but he was no fool.
Mattin followed the thin line of scar tissue until it stopped. The king’s eyes were dark also, as dark as his thick, frowning brows and the rest of his hair, except for the strands of silver. Mattin spent another moment staring, then glanced away, although he was far across the room and unlikely to be noticed.
King Arden turned his head, displaying the cuff of gold along the shell of one ear as well as the unusually short length of his curls—short, how those in the Outguard wore their hair, as if he was one still in his heart. He did not wear a crown, not in the council chamber and rarely anywhere else. Neither did he have to wear a traditional fighting weapon, but Mattin suspected the king’s other hand was on or near his belt, where he often kept the practical knife of an outguard, and sometimes a sword as well.
Then the king smiled, white teeth flashing for a moment as if something had amused him terribly.
The guard next to Mattin made a disappointed sound. Someone at the table sighed in relief.
Mattin did not make either sound, though he understood both. Arden of the Canamorra was inclined to overthink decisions on things like import tariffs and palace repairs, but had no patience for the sort of posturing that had led to years of bloodshed. In the beginning of his reign, recovering from his injuries, he had nonetheless roared at council members and loomed over them with his great height and his body thick with muscle and added armor, and called himself the Traitor King before they could dare, and the council members had learned to moderate their tones when it came to demands and, importantly, to never, ever, speak ill of the king’s husband.
Per Tyrabalith did not seem to like King Arden’s smile, and grew louder. “With no insult intended, you should choose from among those who still hesitate to be your allies.”
Mattin felt his eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline but at least suppressed his gasp.
The guard near him did not make the same effort for her quiet snarl. “He means a beat-of-four.”
Mattin glanced around the table, to the council members whose faces he could see from his position in the back of the room, then to Cael, the palace’s official Head of House and the king’s first advisor, before returning to King Arden. The king’s smile had frozen in place.
Per Tyrabalith rose from his seat, although the lady next to him attempted to discreetly pull him back down. The Tyrabalith of the Tyrabalith, who was young for such a position, wore his long hair loose, with a few braids to keep the cedar-colored strands from his face. Some of them tumbled forward as he put a hand on the table to make his point. He did not smile, although his tone was almost too ingratiating.
“A hero is good for a story or a song, and perhaps in bed, but after five years, the situation has not improved. It is time to consider new options—you must choose a new consort… Your Highness.”
Mattin’s gaze flew to the space just behind the king’s chair, and the large, larger even than the king himself, figure in metal and leather armor who stood there, a sheathed bastard sword visible under the folds of his thick cloak.
Mattin supposed he ought to be worried about Per Tyrabalith’s deliberate hesitation over properly addressing the king, but Mattin doubted very much that Arden was concerned with that at the moment. The king was still looking at his husband, as he had when he had first smiled, although his expression this time was more serious.
“You speak of the Captain of the Palace Guard,” someone reminded Per Tyrabalith, rather sharply. Mattin was grateful for it, even if it said much that n
one of the other nobles present had disagreed with Per Tyrabalith’s suggestion. They might even already be scheming to find a suitable consort—from their own houses, naturally.
Mattin curled a hand around his wrist and his enamel bracelet in the design of a rowan tree, and wished for many things, but mainly for Per Tyrabalith to shut up. The rowan was sacred to the fae. The fae, absent though they often were from the doings of humans in their realm, seemed fond of the Traitor King, perhaps for something Arden had done while in service in the Outguard. They might listen to Mattin’s tiny prayer now.
Possessing a fierce temper or not, Arden could be inscrutable when he chose to be. Instead of leaping from his seat and ordering Per Tyrabalith silent or banished from the chamber, the king regarded his husband steadily, and seemed prepared to ignore the rising tension in the room as The Tyrabalith went unanswered.
There was little about Arden or his husband that might be described as soft, but Mattin did not think he imagined the fondness in the king’s eyes as he looked over his chosen spouse and accidental royal consort.
Far from inscrutable, the Captain of the Guard had fixed Per Tyrabalith with the interested stare of an eagle, or perhaps a wolf, like his name would suggest. Mil, surname Wulfa, a palace guard from a family of palace guards, who had run away with the disgraced and far too young Head of the Canamorra when they were barely more than children, to serve as outguards together.
It was while in the Outguard, patrolling far reaches of the country and ensuring the will of the current ruler as those in the Outguard were sworn to do, that they had married—hand-fasted, in the manner of the countryside, but nonetheless binding.
Mattin often wondered if Arden and Mil had been bearded then, if they had fallen in love before they had left together, or afterward, and if they would have made the same choice to marry if they had known they would be drawn back to the capital and the palace years later. He hoped they would have.
Mil, with a beard of dark red-brown, and hair the same but for a streak of white at one temple, wore no jewelry at his ears, and had permitted his hair to grow slightly longer than the average guard either in the palace or outside of it. He often kept it up in a small tail at the back of his head, but today it was down, making him look neither outguard nor noble. He was protected from neck to foot in the plain, dull-colored clothes and armor of the Outguard, save his vambraces, which were finely made, and, if Mattin was not mistaken, a gift from his husband. Though simply dressed, Arden was a lord and a king. Mil could have stepped back into the Outguard at that moment and no one would have known he was the reason the capital had not drowned in its own blood.
Arden tipped his head to one side and Mil’s attention came back to him. The king’s smile returned. It was reserved and yet still a smile like dawn breaking.
“I don’t believe another hand-fasting was mentioned in today’s agenda when we discussed it this morning,” Arden remarked, voice low and faintly husky, as well as entirely calm. “Do you remember that, my love?” he asked Mil, almost teasing.
Whatever Mattin had expected Arden to finally say, it had not been that.
Mattin released a puff of air in surprise, then hid a smile at the sudden burst of fidgety energy from many of those at the table.
Mil hummed thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Sass would’ve mentioned it,” he answered in his usual, somewhat gruff tone.
Someone coughed a laugh, then stifled it.
Mattin hunched his shoulders nearly up to his ears and did his best to disappear. It should not have been difficult. Mattin was hardly tall, and while his tunic and vest were finely crafted, in the bright colors and patterns of the latest fashions, he did not stand out in a room full of some of the wealthiest figures in the capital, if not the entire country.
He shot a look to the guard nearest to him, who was now regarding him with some amusement, and nervously tugged at his long braid, dotted with shining, jeweled clasps in the shape of berries, before forcing himself to release it. He huffed.
The guard, perplexingly, grinned at him.
“It is a valid suggestion,” Per Tyrabalith insisted, pulling all the tension back into the chamber just as the air had seemed to lighten.
The king and his husband exchanged a look before turning to face Per Tyrabalith as one. To his credit, The Tyrabalith remained on his feet, though he faltered and seemed to lose whatever he had been going to say.
“The idea is not without merit,” another noble offered, not quite timidly, but carefully. Rory Stelollen, not a beat-of-four, but from a respected line nonetheless.
Mattin forgot all about his hair or his warm face and narrowed his eyes to reconsider the assembled council.
“Oh,” he said aloud, though barely audible. Most of those at the table supported this idea, even if most of them would never have phrased it so rudely, offering such disrespect to a good ruler and his chosen.
Mil was not the typical royal consort, this was true. But the last few royal consorts had also been scheming or murderous or cowardly. Compared to them, Mil, who served faithfully and well, was admirable. He was Guard Captain, responsible for both the safety of the palace and the rest of the country through the Outguard. He was also a hero.
But Per Tyrabalith had mentioned that, and the others were still silent, agreeing with The Tyrabalith, but gauging the king’s reaction before they spoke.
Mattin swallowed. No amount of coaching was going to get Mil Wulfa to sit down to long dinners and talk nonsense for hours. But even if it did, the fact remained that the old families did not want him there and it was creating tension. Had been creating tension, long enough for it to fester. Arden had his shortcomings—his temper, his lack of training for this role despite his name and his birth, his occasional obvious contempt for those like Per Tyrabalith who felt entitled to what they had not earned—and Mil was not the sort to soothe hurt noble feelings.
Mattin had done the math. Mil had probably grown up in this palace alongside many of those at this table. He knew them as well as he cared to. Which might not have been a problem in a time of more security, when a stable ruler would have been on the throne for more than just a handful of years.
Cael delicately cleared her throat. She sat straight, her snow-white hair in several intertwined braids that formed one thick plait which she wore over one shoulder. She had served the old queen and had appeared in the palace shortly before Arden’s coronation, as if she had known she’d be needed, or perhaps had wanted to help the man she’d known since he had barely come to her knee.
“There is much else to discuss on this day,” Cael said, with a formality that had been in favor in the court of the old queen and abandoned in the subsequent years of chaos. “We have issues of more immediate importance than the king taking another spouse.” Mattin rather hoped the others felt chastised, but imagined they did not. Cael carried on, regardless. “This winter will remain, hopefully, less harsh than the last few. But there are concerns for what is to come.”
With that, unless Per Tyrabalith or someone else decided to act with even more offensiveness, that topic was closed. At least, for the present. Perhaps only even for the day.
Mattin ducked his head and reached into the satchel nearly always hanging from his shoulder or across his chest to rest at his hip, and pulled out a stitched-together book of blank pieces of paper that he used to keep notes on what might be needed for when he returned to the library. He focused on that, shaping words in his messy, shorthand version of a Master Keeper’s cursive, and not the stilted discussions of crops and soil and weather that went on around him, or the occasional quiet remark from King Arden, or the silence from Mil Wulfa.
Whenever Mattin glanced up, to them, of course to them, as everyone did, the royal couple appeared untouched, unbothered. He did not think they were. They could not be. King Arden might eventually accept an alliance of some kind, but he had wedded his beloved and he had made that known. Outside of this room, outside of the palace, he was adored for it
, Traitor King or no. That popularity was so great, it was at least half of the reason that so few nobles had ever dared stand directly against Arden; there had yet to be a ruler who kept the throne for long without the support of the traders or workers in the capital and elsewhere. The foolishness of nobles was often tolerated or endured… but not always, and the tales of Earls dragged from their beds, or abandoned by their armies on the fields of battle, were favorites in every tavern.
Even if the king and his husband ignored the continued disrespect offered to Mil—if they could ignore it, which Mattin could not—it was ridiculous for anyone to see them together or know the songs sung of them, and think that anyone else, no matter how noble or fine, could be joined to them and not feel lesser for it; an unwanted outcast in their own marriage bed.
Mattin exhaled harshly and stilled his hand.
He would not… well, he would not wish that on anyone. Or at least, not on most.
King Arden asked a question on a topic that Mattin had not been following. The king had been learning quite a bit about the history of the country and the old families. He said it was useful to have counterarguments and examples ready when someone criticized something he did as unprecedented, when, in fact, it wasn’t.
Mattin bowed his head to tuck his book and pencil away, then curled his hand around the tail end of his braid as it fell forward. He stared at jeweled clasps to brighten up hair of plain, flat black, and to attempt to hold down the fly-aways. He scowled.
King Arden would do what was necessary to keep the peace. Mattin was suddenly sure of that.
Mattin raised his head and avoided looking at the rest of the table and anyone standing near it to catch Cael’s eye. He lifted an eyebrow, and she gave him a studying look that made him grasp his braid tighter before letting go. But she finally gave the smallest nod, and Mattin took that for the order it was and lowered his head again before slipping from the room.
