The Hunt, Fields of Rousillon
Prince Martin spurred his horse again as the hounds surged after a wild boar, freshly chased from the underbrush. To his left his childhood friend, Count Ferran of Lerida, let loose a whoop of excitement at the prospect of the kill, but Martin failed to share Ferran's enthusiasm. His mind boiled with the troubles of the moment...specifically, the Baleares. Try as he might to distract himself with the pleasures of a hunt, he could not do so.
"Ferran, I need your counsel", he finally said. The Count looked over, both he and the Prince still riding at full gallop.
"Ask and I shall answer, Martin" he shouted back, struggling to make himself heard over the baying of the dogs and the pounding of their horses hooves. Martin was about to speak when the hounds succeeded in cornering the boar, and so for a moment his troubles were forgotten. The second son of the King of Aragon turned to one of his soldiers and held out a hand.
"Crossbow" he said simply, and the soldier handed him a loaded weapon. Martin raised the crossbow and fired, an awful shot that not only landed far short of its target but also shot through one of his hounds, killing it instantly. At the same moment that the Prince fired, another of his soldiers did so as well...a perfect and precise mark that brought the boar down.
"An excellent shot, my liege!" yelled the marksman to Martin, who nodded and handed the crossbow back to his attendant. Ferran stifled a chuckle...if Martin had a sin, it was vanity. But he had been this way since childhood, and probably always would be. Besides, what was the harm in pretending?
As the attendants did their best to reign in the hunting dogs and keep them from the dead boar, Martin turned to face the marksman who had shot the boar. "Sir" he said, his voice flat and expressionless "why, exactly, did you shoot my hound?"
The marksman thought for a moment. He had been about to say rabies, but he had used that reason four, maybe five hounds ago. He ran through the list again in his mind. Rabies, the pox, the plague, syphilis...
"Blasphemy, my Prince!" barked the marksman after a moment's hesitation. Martin's eyebrows raised.
"Blasphemy? Did you hear my hound bark in a heretical fashion? Did it rise to stand on two legs and speak in tongues as well?" asked the second heir to Aragon's crown. Ferran struggled to contain himself, and was very glad to be behind Martin as his face reddened with stifled laughter.
"Briefly, my Prince! I thought it best to slay the beast before its possession grew more advanced! You were probably distracted while lining up the magnificent shot that slew that boar."
"Indeed" Martin nodded. "It was quite a shot, wasn't it?"
* * * * *
Under the shade of a tree, Ferran and Martin split a bottle of wine and spoke, out of earshot of all their various servants and attendants. Ferran put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull, then wiped his lips with his sleeve. "You prayed my counsel before, Martin. What plagues your mind?"
Martin was silent for a long moment. He had known Ferran since the age of 11, and a truer friend he could never have hoped for, especially in the circles of royalty and power. "It is my father and my brother, Ferran. It is Aragon. Selling the Baleares to the Moor? I fear my father grows senile in his advanced age, and is too open to suggestion. I should spend more time at the court, keeping an eye on him and keeping his fork-tongued advisors at bay."
"If you're going to do that" Ferran said "you should just be King." His face was blank and flat, and Martin turned slowly to meet his eyes. Ferran continued. "Your father grows old, and some evil has worked its way into the court. Some evil that would conspire with heretics and destroy Aragon. Your brother seems more intent on pleasures of the flesh...he has never enjoyed his role as Heir, has he? But you...you thrive on it. You live to reign over this country and her people. Aragon needs you, my friend, and my colleagues and I will back you."
Martin held up a hand. "If you're going to suggest I usurp the throne, then I shall have none of it."
"Not usurp, Martin. Ascend. Your father has committed grave sins, and is no longer fit to rule. This much is obvious. Perhaps a pilgrimage to the Holy Land would be in the best interests of his eternal soul. And what kind of son would condemn his own father to everlasting hellfire? Your brother only thinks he wants the crown...what he actually wants is the leisure and pleasure that an irresponsible ruler can take from the crown. A grand estate in the north here, along with an ample supply of young maidens and hunting expeditions, should make him perfectly happy." Ferran reached for the bottle again.
"Happy perhaps...but for how long? No, Ferran, my brother does not need further leisure."
"Then what?" Ferran asked, raising an eyebrow.
"My brother needs a chance at redemption. The sort only the Holy Father can provide." Martin took the bottle back, and just before he put it to his lips, Ferran swore he could see a wry smile cracking the Prince's face.
