The Price of Duty by Claire Dobbin here was a respectful rap on the carriage roof and then the driver called down, "Your Honour, we have arrived." Count Walter Sergei zu Stollenberg awoke from a light doze and looked out to find the sky streaked with the rosy glow of dawn. A minute or so later, when the carriage halted, he opened the window and leaned out to breathe in the fresh scent of early morning. Up ahead were a set of tall gilded gates, each topped with a royal crest. Two guardsmen dressed in bright red uniforms and wearing plumed helmets, left their sentry posts and slowly swung them open. Walter sat back in the seat to straighten his collar and then leaned forward again to rest his arm on the open window. There was the crack of a whip then the carriage swayed and moved forward again towards the ancestral home of the Zahringan-Baden's, absolute rulers of the little kingdom of Salzbaden. At an even pace the horses' hooves crunched along a sweeping drive that had been cleverly designed to show off the parkland through which it wound to maximum advantage. Once inside the gates and through a dense woodland, planted to screen out the curious stares of the unworthy, the vista opened onto a version of Arcadia that came as close to 'natural' as was humanly possible. In the lingering mist of dawn, a herd of deer grazed beside a large lake, their reflections shimmering in its silvered surface. Flowing out of the lake towards the south was a curvaceous river, crossed in two places by finely spun stone bridges, and here and there in the clover meadows were dotted many little temples and groves. Set in the middle of this man-made Elysian field, like a jewel in a crown, was a Palladian mansion built of warm, pink sandstone. It rested on a slightly elevated site and from well over a mile down the drive, closely manicured green lawns rolled up to meet the parterres that fronted the building. At regular intervals and placed with exact symmetry throughout the geometric box hedges of these formal gardens were six large fountains, each of them dancing and sparkling in the brightening sunlight. However 'out-of-sorts' Walter felt after the gruelling twelve hour carriage ride from Prague, he could not but be impressed by the beauty of the place. It spoke of the good taste, resilience and prudence of the people who owned it. The Zahringan-Baden's were survivors. For centuries they had kept a firm grip on this tiny patch of Europe, and though it was barely big enough to be viable as a separate state, by dint of clever alliances and carefully contracted marriages they had managed to keep it out of the clutches of its many large and acquisitive neighbours. As they drew near the house, Walter watched the leading carriage of their little procession come to a halt under the fine portico of the palace. His carriage, being second in line, fell in behind it and he waited until a footman opened the door and put the step in place before he moved to vacate it. The Grand Duke Olav, his father's second cousin and his superior on this diplomatic mission, had already alighted from his carriage and Walter immediately took his place behind him. Together they walked up the steps to the open double doors of the mansion. Waiting to greet them in the grand entrance hall was the nephew of the King, Count Nicholas Zahringan-Baden and First Minister Wittlesbach. Since this was not the formal welcome, which was scheduled to happen later in the day, it was quickly dispensed with. Once it was over they were handed over to the Chamberlain of the Household, who saw each of them to a suite of rooms and left them with the servants who would look after them for the duration of their stay. With his luggage already carried up the back stairs and being unpacked, Walter declined the offer of breakfast in favour of visiting the stables to check on the condition of his horse, which had made the long and tiresome journey with him. He followed the white gloved and wigged servant down an elegant staircase and out through a set of French doors into a courtyard of meticulously raked gravel. Crossing it they exited through an archway, leading onto an avenue lined with cherry trees, each wearing a coat of pink blossom. At the end of the avenue they passed through a second arch and into the stable block. The servant, keenly aware of the demarcation between 'house' and 'stable', halted and turned to Walter. "You will find the office of the Chief Groom on your left at the end, sir." With that he performed a stiff bow and left. Walter walked briskly along the well-kept buildings, glancing into each one as he passed. Several of the double doors were opened revealing gleaming carriages of one type or another. Next to them were two tack rooms, both set out in an orderly fashion. Once past them he came to what was evidently the stable yard office. Walter entered it and waited for someone to appear. When after several minutes no one had done so, he impatiently went in search of someone himself. While searching, quite by chance, he happened upon his own horse. It was Cyrus' irritated whinny that first drew his attention. Following the familiar sound, he found his beloved chestnut stallion being pawed over by a bedraggled looking stable lad. "Stand aside," Walter ordered. The young man turned in surprise at his unexpected arrival. "Where is the groom?" Walter demanded, stepping between the horse and the lad who was looking at him with a confused expression on his dirty face. "Where—is—the—groom?" he asked again, only more slowly for the benefit of the boy who appeared to be feeble-minded. The lad shrugged. Walter tried the question again in German—then in French—with no greater success. Giving up on the lad, he headed towards the door of the loose box, only to rethink the action. Turning back he caught hold of the boy's ragged shirtsleeve and guided him out of the box. "Stay here," he instructed, pointing to the ground at the boy's feet. The lad frowned, a little line appearing across the top of his nose, but he remained in place. Walter strode off back to the office. It was still unoccupied. He grunted in annoyance and returned to the loose box, stripping off his dark grey tailcoat as he did so. He threw it over the half stable door and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Entering the box again he began checking over Cyrus' legs and hooves. The stallion, which he'd raised from a foal, gentled under his knowing hands and the whinnying changed to softly snuffled breaths and snorts. When he was happy that no injury had been incurred during the journey, he straightened up to find himself under the scrutiny of a pair of very fine and very green eyes. He was taken aback by the unabashed stare and it convinced him that the lad must indeed suffer from some form of mental impairment since he clearly did not realise the offence he was giving to one of his betters. "Where is the feedstuff kept?" Walter enunciated carefully. The boy looked at him blankly, then shrugged. "The feedstuff?" Walter asked again, this time reaching out to point at the feeding trough and hayrack. "Hay? Rolled oats?" The lad followed his pointing finger and broke into a wide grin. He muttered something that sounded to Walter like a dialect of Romanche and disappeared. Walter let himself out of the box and followed in his wake. At the end of the row of stables was a large feed store lined with rows of wooden barrels. Walter began checking each one, looking for oats milled in the way Cyrus favoured. When he found some that would pass muster, he turned to the shelf to get a bucket, but the lad was already standing by his elbow with a clean bucket in hand. Walter accepted it and scooped into it the correct amount for Cyrus' morning feed. The lad took the bucket from him and carried it across the yard to a barn. Sliding open the large door he stood aside to allow Walter to enter. Inside was filled with bales of hay and straw. Walter pulled out a handful of hay and shook it out, happy to find it contained very little dust. "This is fine," he nodded as he told the lad. "Bring three or four wafers." The boy grinned again and hefted an entire bale unto his shoulder. "No! No ... " Walter shouted, then lowered his voice when he saw how the boy's face fell. "That's too much. The horse needs to exercise first." He illustrated the point by bringing his hands together over the bale until they indicated the proper amount. The boy nodded and set the bale down. From his back pocket he produced a small knife and cut through the baling twine with a snap. Carefully selecting the amount Walter had indicated he tucked it under one arm and picked up the bucket. Nodding his approval, Walter waved him on and they returned to Cyrus in his box. Immediately the lad tipped the oats into the feeding trough and had the good sense to get out of Cyrus' hungry way. The wafers of hay he shook out and settled into the hayrack, then without being prompted he took a clean rag from his pocket, wiped out the automatic drinker and set it to fill. Looking pleased with himself, he looked round seeking approval and for a second time Walter was treated to an impudent stare. This time, however, it seemed quite natural for him to respond with a 'thank you' and to his great surprise he found himself doing just that. The boy grinned at him again and left the box, only to re-appear in the next stall where he picked up a fork and began mucking out. At first, Walter leaned back against the wall and watched Cyrus chomp noisily on his feed, but soon his attention was drawn to the box next door where the lad was working away with a sureness gained only from experience. As he watched him, Walter began to revise some of his earlier impressions. Firstly, although the stable lad was young, he was clearly no 'boy'. He was a man, with a good physique, who stood as tall as Walter did himself, and from the way he moved in carrying out the back-breaking task, it was plain he was well co-coordinated and very fit. Through the worn cotton of his shirt, Walter could make out how the well-defined muscles of his upper arms and supple back and how they moved in counter-balance to the strong thighs outlined in his skin-tight riding breeches. The more Walter looked, the more he wanted to look at the shapely young man who had the kind of build he found most appealing; well-muscled and strong without losing the impression of leanness. His shoulders and chest were just the right breadth to compliment his trim waist and narrow hips and from the occasional glimpse Walter got of the front of the tight fitting breeches he could tell the lad was of generous endowment in good proportion. Added to which, in Walter's opinion, he had the perfect colouring. A fine, clear skin showing the first glow of a healthy summer tan, sable hair falling in glossy waves, regular features that had the delicacy of a girl's but which somehow managed not to cross the line from handsome to pretty ... and the eyes ... among the commonplace blue and brown, their emerald depths were an unexpected bonus. All these elements blended together into a whole that sorely tempted Walter zu Stollenberg, though as he watched he knew the temptation would be resisted. Many considerations influenced his restraint, not least of them being the judgement of his confessor. Father Andre knew his struggles well. He could hear the old man's words of admonition in his head—'To look lustfully at another woman or ... man,'—the latter word always being delivered with undue emphasis,—'is the same as committing adultery.'—Walter smiled and thought that since he was going to have to purge himself of this sin, he may as well enjoy it to the full. In doing so he tried not to think about Charlotte. She was his wife and he honoured her. Their marriage may have been an arrangement for the sake of duty, but within it they had come to respect and like each other. Unfortunately for Walter, the contentment he found in their partnership did not assuage the needs inflicted on him by his nature. He desired men. In the past he had had them in plenty. His experience of life in a military academy and in the army had ensured he spent a great deal of time on his knees, either in sin or in penance. But, when his father had issued an ultimatum on his thirtieth birthday, he had chosen the path of family duty and since the day he took his vows over three years before, his sins had been restricted to those of lustful thoughts. Even if he had not felt the need to be faithful to his wife he would not have acted on the impulse. Unlike many of his class, he did not approve of taking advantage of servants. He had never abused his position as master and he despised those who did. The lad was quite safe with him... "Your honour, my apologies for not being here to assist you," a sheepish voice said, interrupting his train of thought. Walter looked round to see someone who must be the Chief Groom standing outside the box. The man executed a low bow. "I hope you have not been waiting long," he continued. "I will send someone to you immediately. Do you have any special requirements for your mount?" Walter picked up his jacket and draped it over his arm. The groom glanced at it and looked uncomfortable. Walter tried to put him at ease. "Cyrus is well and has been fed. There is no need to send anyone." But the man grew more agitated at the words. "My humble apologies, sir," he murmured, noting Walter's rolled up sleeves. "Let me assure you that this is not the standard of service you can expect during your stay here—" "You mistake my words," Walter told him kindly. "This lad took good care of—" He did not finish the sentence because when he turned round, the next stall was quite empty. Only the neatly arranged straw and stowed fork remained as proof that the lad had been there at all. Walter looked back at the confused groom. He had not the energy to explain further and instead he steered the man back to his office, explaining as they went the schedule Cyrus was accustomed to. By the time Walter got back to his suite and had breakfast it was too late to get any sleep, so instead he took a long bath and sat at the desk to catch up on his correspondence. About ten o'clock his valet entered the room and suggested it was time to dress for the formal welcoming ceremony. Walter left his letters and by five minutes to eleven he was standing beside the Grand Duke outside the audience chamber. At exactly eleven o'clock, the Chamberlain opened the large doors and ushered them into the royal presence. King Gustavus II sat in a wing-backed chair in the centre of the room. The matching chair on his left was empty. Neither Walter nor the Grand Duke had expected it to be any different. As all the world knew, Queen Sophia, her duty to provide heirs being fulfilled, had long since decamped to Paris leaving the King to pursue his wild boar and ingenue ballerinas in peace. To his right sat the heir apparent, His Royal Highness Prince Heinrich Oleg Gustavus, while on his left sat His Royal Highness Prince Rupert Michael Gustavus, the 'spare' who, since Heinrich's marriage had so far failed to produce offspring, was not yet married off. His Royal Highness Prince Paul Frederick Gustavus was not present. He had already made a most advantageous match with a German princess and was the father of two healthy boys. That left only the youngest son, His Royal Highness Prince Alexander Christian Gustavus, who, though dressed like all the others in a dove grey morning suit and high white collar, sat at the other end of the room and gave the impression of being elsewhere in mind as well as in body. Walter followed the lead of the Grand Duke and bowed deeply to the King, then less deferentially to each of the Princes. Unlike the Grand Duke, who was a blood relative of the King, he did not step forward to embrace the royal personages. Instead he remained standing in his place where he watched the family members exchange greetings. It was when the youngest Prince moved forward to receive his embrace that Walter almost gasped. The clothes and the demeanour had completely changed but the sable hair, the delicate features and the startlingly green eyes that he recognized from his early morning visit to the stables were the same. Feeling the fool, he realized he also recognized them from the only photograph that had been available of the Prince, taken when he was sixteen. Even if you added on four years, dressed him in ragged clothes and put him to mucking out a stable, his distinctive face should have been recognizable. Walter felt a crimson flush slowly climb up his neck to his face. When the Grand Duke glanced back at Walter to make the introductions he cast a curious look as his aide, but smoothly and diplomatically let the matter go as he carried on with the formal interview. They all sat down and coffee was served. Gossip from other European royal courts flowed back and forth and they even talked a little politics. When he was brought into the conversation, Prince Alexander replied in perfect French or German as appropriate. After each such contribution he would smile a small teasing smile at Walter, causing the man's blush to renew itself. It was therefore with gratitude that Walter, who had become embarrassingly tongue-tied, realized that his lowly position meant he could be bypassed altogether in the conversation without too much upset. After forty-five tortuous minutes the three Princes left to pursue their own interests and the formal audience ended. Very quietly, some minutes later Walter also withdrew, leaving the King and Grand Duke to their private discussion. Once set free, Walter heaved a sigh of relief and took the opportunity to wander through the large apartments on the ground floor, stopping here and there to look at a particularly fine painting or artifact. Eventually he found his way to the library where he selected a Tolstoy first edition from the shelves and settled down on one of the leather-covered sofas to read. He had not read more than two pages when he heard a noise at the window behind him. By the time he looked around it was to find the sash thrown up and Prince Alexander Christian Gustavus Zahringan-Baden, already changed back into his 'stable lad' clothes, climbing in through the opening. Walter immediately got to his feet and bowed. "Your Royal Highness," he said. "Count zu Stollenberg," the Prince said, motioning for Walter to resume his seat. "I have come to apologize for my behaviour this morning." "There is no need—" "There is every need, and you must forgive me. It's not often I get the chance to be something other than a title. I could not resist the temptation to—" He broke off, seeing Walter's fresh embarrassment at his words and mistaking its cause. For this time Walter's discomfort came not from the foolish mistake he had made, but from remembering that he too had felt temptation—of a much less innocent nature. A temptation that returned seductively at the sight of the Prince, dressed once more in the clothes of a pauper—albeit a freshly bathed one. And as if that was not bad enough, the humour in the situation suddenly struck him, for he realized that, even if he had been a man free of commitment and conscience, the stable lad who had been too lowly bred for him that morning was now too highly bred. He had to struggle to keep his mirth in check, and seeing the unsure expression on the Prince's face he hurried into speech. "Put your mind at rest, Sir. I take no offence. It was a good joke and ... " he hesitated, wondering if he was about to take too great a liberty. "Yes?" the Prince prompted him. "Well, it's not everyone who can say their horse has been fed and watered by a prince of the blood." Holding his breath he waited for the man's reaction. The prince smiled broadly and said, "I considered it a privilege. Cyrus ...?" He looked at Walter inquiringly. "Yes, Sir," Walter replied. "Cyrus is a fine animal. Did you breed him yourself?" "No, Sir, but I hand reared him when his mare died after the birth." "Is he full bred Arabian?" "No, there is a little Andalusian in him." "Ah, I was wondering about the breadth of his chest." Another wave of mirth washed over Walter and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his lip to control it. In the pause that followed the conversation ran out of steam. "Well, I will leave you to your book, Count," the Prince said, after a minute or two of awkward silence. Walter looked down at the book in his hand. "Actually, Sir, I am just putting in the time until Grand Duke Olav finishes his meeting with your fa ... with his Majesty. If he has no duties for me to perform I intend to exercise Cyrus, who must be ready to kick out his stable door by now." The young man's face brightened up. "I'm on my way to the stables myself, Count. If you are delayed I can take Cyrus out for a canter round the park." Walter, faced with this minor diplomatic crisis, clutched the book hard enough to threaten the integrity of the binding. "Uh ... do not trouble yourself, Sir, I should not be -" "It is no trouble, I assure you." "But ... " Whatever excuse Walter was going to use to divert the Prince from performing this service was never voiced for the young man was already gone. Walter ground his teeth and dropped the book onto the sofa. He went in search of the Grand Duke, remembering the old man's prophecy that it would be a bad idea to bring Cyrus on the trip. And sure enough, Walter's reason for insisting on his own way in the matter was about to rebound on him, for Cyrus would tolerate no one in the saddle but Walter himself. But how did you tell a prince that he could not mount your stallion? The thought made him wince and consider the possibility that an apt, if somewhat misdirected, punishment for his sinful yearnings may already be in hand. He ran up the staircase and along the corridor to the Grand Duke's suite and knocked loudly on the door. At the sound of a mumbled 'Come' he burst in. "Walter!" the Duke exclaimed, disapproval written all over his face. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I know we had an appointment, but something has com ... there is something I must attend to without delay ... " The old man almost tut-tutted in annoyance. "Oh, very well, but I must speak with you sometime today ... his Majesty has raised several issues I had not anticipated—" "Later, Your Grace ... perhaps before dinner? I will be at your disposal then," Walter promised breathlessly, backing out of the room. The Grand Duke said nothing, though his expression was quite explicit. Walter ran down the corridor to his own rooms and began stripping off his morning wear the second the door closed behind him. Throwing open the wardrobe and dresser he searched frantically for his riding clothes. By the time he had found them, most of his neatly hung clothing lay in piles on the floor, but he simply stepped over them as he pulled on his riding breeches and shirt. His new boots put up a fight and he cursed his valet's absence loudly and in two languages. Eventually though, he won and stamping hard on his left foot to settle his heel in place, he picked up his tweed jacket and bolted from the room. Three minutes later he arrived in the stable yard to find Cyrus's box lying empty. Fortunately the Chief Groom had seen him hurry by and had caught up with him, eager to be of assistance. "His Royal Highness Prince Alexander—?" Walter began. "Yes, Sir, His Highness has taken your horse to the exercise ring. You will find him through those gates." Walter walked speedily in the direction indicated and as he passed through the gates and into a large sandy arena, he was greatly relieved to find that the Prince was warming Cyrus up using a long rein and a trailing carriage whip. "Your Highness," he called out, "you are most kind." Cyrus snickered noisily and threw his head up at the sound of Walter's voice. "Easy, boy," the Prince said, bringing the horse from the trot to a slow walk. He glanced over at Walter. "Do you wish to take over, Count?" "No, Sir." Walter relaxed back against the wooden rail surrounding the arena. "Please continue." It made for a pleasant sight, a handsome young man controlling a spoiled and powerful animal with little more than a soft voiced command and the touch of a skilled hand on the rein. As an experienced horseman himself, Walter knew the strength of personality it took to bring a horse like Cyrus to obedience. Clearly the Prince was possessed of a very strong will and, as he took the horse through a series of complicated pace and step changes, it was apparent that he enjoyed exercising it. But that was not only thing Walter noticed as he watched Cyrus being worked up into a sweat and cooled down again. The Prince was flirting with him. He didn't know how else to express it. It was very subtle, but it was flirting nonetheless. It was evident in each of the poses the young man struck to show off his figure and in the coy glances he threw over his shoulder to check if Walter was watching. Walter couldn't decide whether to be flattered or horrified. In response he straightened his posture, schooled his features into a neutral expression and tried to concentrate on Cyrus. If he was reading the situation correctly, and he had no doubt he was, he was living every diplomat's worst nightmare. And in this case, considering the nature of his and the Grand Duke's mission, such a development could be disastrous—to say nothing of the embarrassment having to explain it would cause him. Worst of all was the realization that he himself was responsible for this predicament. He had been completely unguarded in his behaviour towards the 'stable lad' that morning and the young man must have sensed his interest. He sighed wearily. Not for the first time he wondered why he had allowed Charlotte to talk him into changing career. He was a soldier not a diplomat as the debacle he had inadvertently set in motion was proving beyond a shadow of a doubt. But what could he do other than to brazen it out? Along with trying to use what diplomatic skills he did possess to let the Prince know that such a liaison was out of the question. As he watched the Prince drop the carriage whip gently onto the sand and begin to gather up the long rein with a looping movement of his hand, Walter came to a sudden and uncomfortable realization—the young man must know nothing of the negotiations that had brought him and the Grand Duke to Salzbaden. Taking hold of Cyrus' bridle the Prince walked the horse over to where Walter stood. "I'm returning him to you, safe and sound," he said, a warm smile on his face. Walter accepted the hold on the bridle in one hand and the rein in the other. Maintaining his bland expression, said formally, "I'm obliged, Your Royal Highness. I'll ask the groom to turn him out in a paddock." He began to lead the horse to the entrance of the arena. The Prince moved ahead of him to open the gate. "No need, Count, if you'll follow me I'll take you to one of the pastures I use for my horses." "I have taken up enough of your time, Sir, the groom can do it." "He could, but that would deprive me of the chance to show off my own favourite mount. Surely you would not deny me that, Count?" Walter was backed into a corner. "Of course not, Sir," he agreed reluctantly and followed the Prince to a sunny meadow. It held a magnificent purebred Hanoverian stallion. The animal stood some seventeen hands high, its brown black coat gleaming in the sun. As soon as it saw the Prince it left off nosing the sweet clover and trotted over to the rail. Cyrus reacted to its presence by huffing and puffing aggressively, his hooves kicking up little clouds of dust as he danced in place. The Prince laughed and said, "Better put him in here." He opened the gate to the neighbouring paddock and held it while Walter walked Cyrus in and removed the rein. Once free, the Arabian took off on a crazy circuit of the field, kicking and bucking as he went. "Idiot," Walter remarked, with mock irritation. The Prince laughed again and together they closed and fastened the gate. Ignoring Cyrus altogether they entered the meadow containing the other horse. Walter followed the Prince's lead and approached the Hanoverian. It was snuffling hopefully at its master's pocket and the Prince took out two sugar lumps and fed the small treats to the huge animal. Its powerful, arched neck quivered when Walter ran his hand down it and along the corded shoulder, but it was clear the animal was as gentle as a lamb. "This is Espoir des Svres, by Emir du Mesnil, out of Qui va de Fribois—otherwise known as Max," the Prince explained. "He's magnificent," Walter said. "May I have the rein?" the Prince asked, rubbing his hand up and down the star on the horse's forehead. Walter handed it over and the Prince clipped it onto the tooled leather bridle. Together the three of them walked back to the stable yard, leaving Cyrus to his tantrum. A groom appeared and the Prince issued some instructions. "We'll use the indoor school," the Prince told Walter. He led the way to a large building behind the stable block. Its doors lay open and they walked directly into the sawdust-covered arena surrounded on all sides by a shoulder high wooden barrier. Like the interior walls of the school, the barrier was painted white and had gold trimming. Running along one full side of the building were six rows of tiered seats. The wall opposite the seating was lined with huge, gilt framed mirrors and from the ceiling hung eight crystal chandeliers. The prince threw a switch by the door and set the chandeliers glowing. With their brightness reflected in the mirrors the effect was to double the size of the space. Walter turned slowly round to take in the impressive scale of the riding school. A few minutes later Max was led into the ring by a groom and Walter climbed the steps to the second row of seating from where he watched the Prince take the horse through some basic warm-up exercises. When they were completed and the groom had tightened the girth the Prince began a dressage routine. If the man was beautiful to look at beforehand, then the way his body moved in perfect harmony with each prance and turn of the horse was breathtaking. Assuming the classic stance of the dressage rider, the Prince sat very upright, his chin tilted slightly downwards, his left arm held unmoving beside his thigh. Without a hat, his longish hair was free to move and flow, falling across his forehead when the pace slowed to a walk and sweeping back from his face when the impulsion of the horse carried him forward in the canter. Together, rider and horse, made the performance seem effortless. Not once was Walter able to discern any of the leg or hand commands being used by the Prince to control the horse, yet it was clear the powerful animal was completely submissive to his whim. It was also clear that both of them relished the shared task with its precision and concentration and perfect timing. Gradually the movements in each sequence grew more demanding, until, as they completed an arena-sized figure of eight in 1 Tempis—flying changes of lead in canter with every stride—only the most difficult dressage element remained to be tackled—an on-the-spot 360 degree turn. Building towards it, the Prince made a final circuit in collected trot and halted for four beats. A walk in reverse took him and Max the exact centre of the arena. There was another halt of four beats and then they executed the full turn faultlessly. Facing front again, neither rider nor horse moved so much as to breathe for nearly ten seconds, then the Prince bowed his head to signal the end of the routine, and it was over. "Bravo," Walter called, standing to salute the man's expertise. A groom appeared from nowhere and the Prince dismounted and handed over the reins, issuing new instructions. Giving a final pat to Max's rump, he walked over to where Walter was standing in the ring. "Do you compete?" Walter asked. The Prince smiled slightly. "That would not be ... appropriate," he said. Walter thought he heard a hint of bitterness in the tone, but it was gone when the Prince remarked, "I'm afraid we've missed lunch." Walter was about to comment that it didn't matter when his stomach suddenly contradicted him. The Prince laughed and said, "I'd better do something about that. Come with me." He strode off in a new direction and when Walter caught up with him he could see they were headed to the rear of the palace. A few hundred metres brought them to a walled enclosure containing a door set into the ground. The Prince began to scrabble around under the paving stones surrounding the entrance to the underground space. "My father has a rather pedantic notion of the times at which meals should be served. If you miss them, you do without. I find the set times rarely coincide with my schedule, so I make my own provision," he explained, smiling broadly when he retrieved a key from its hiding place. "This is the old ice house. It's not used now, but it leads to useful places." The key was slotted into the lock and the door creaked open. The Prince stepped down into the gloom and held the door until Walter stepped in behind him. Their eyes adjusted to the incomplete darkness quickly and soon they were at the bottom on a flight of stone steps and the door was closed behind them. About ten metres further into the room they came to another, more conventional door. The Prince spent a few moments searching for the second key then it too was slid into its lock. This second door he opened very slowly and carefully and before he stepped through it, he turned back to Walter and placed a finger over his lips. Together and silently they moved into the next room. It was the wine cellar of the palace and a single, dim electric light bulb burned in the centre of the room. Once more the Prince moved forward across the stone floor and Walter followed close behind. Even before they reached the third door at the top of a flight of steps on the far side of the long cellar, they could hear the voices of the servants in the kitchens beyond. The Prince lifted a third key from its hook by the door and slipped it into the lock. He was even more cautious with this one and it was a minute or two before the lock gave way and the heavy, grilled door opened on its well-oiled hinges. The Prince flattened himself against the door and checked the corridor, then with a quick nod back at Walter, he moved off down the corridor to the left. Bewildered as to why he was getting involved in this madness, Walter, nonetheless, followed him like a dutiful puppy and soon they reached the place from which the voices originated. Through a partially opened door, Walter could see a long table, covered in a variety of platters and serving bowls, at which about two dozen of the kitchen staff sat eating their midday meal. In a flash the Prince had crossed the doorway and was headed on down the corridor. Walter had little choice but to follow. The second obstacle they faced was more challenging. The housekeeper had her meal, not with the general kitchen servants, but in her parlour next to the pantry, and the top half of the wall it shared with the corridor was glazed with small windowpanes. Walter could see the woman, still at table, sipping coffee as she read her newspaper. Turning to Walter, the Prince signalled that he should remain put and a second later the young man had crouched down and was crossing the width of the housekeeper's parlour below the level of the windows. Once on the other side he grinned back at Walter and disappeared into the pantry. Left standing alone in a 'below stairs' corridor of his host's palatial home, Walter had a surreal conversation with himself as to how he could explain his strange behaviour to the Grand Duke. Luckily, before it could progress very far the Prince reappeared holding half a Gruyere cheese in one hand and an entire Gorgonzola in the other. He held them both up and looked questioningly at Walter, who shrugged and then in desperation pointed to the Gorgonzola. Happy with the decision, the Prince glanced swiftly through the parlour window and just as the housekeeper held up the newspaper to turn a page, he tossed the cheese in Walter's direction. With the reflexes of a well-trained soldier, Walter caught the cheese and held completely still, his strangled cry trapped in his throat. Leaving him standing there the Prince disappeared again and this time returned with a loaf of bread and a bag of apples. Crouching down once more he crossed back to where Walter stood frozen in place and prompted him to return the way they had come. With only seconds to spare, they made it past the servants' refectory door before the scullery maids began to exit it, carrying trays of dirty dishes to be washed in the next-door kitchen. It wasn't until they were on the other side of the cellar door and the key had been turned in the lock that Walter drew a needy breath. Unaware with the anxiety he had caused in his companion, the Prince returned the key to its hook, grabbed a bottle of wine from the nearest shelf and led the way back out into the sunshine. A few minutes later they were climbing the little rise of ground behind the meadows where their horses grazed, and Walter's heartbeat was returning to a normal rate. The Prince set the bag of apples and bottle of wine on the grass and handed the loaf to Walter. Taking out a large napkin from where he had tucked it inside his shirt, he spread it on the grass. He sat down and indicated that Walter should do the same. Walter placed the cheese and the loaf on the napkin and watched as the Prince used his Swiss army knife to slice the cheese and remove the cork from the bottle of wine. The bread he tore into large chunks. "Salut," the Prince toasted, lifting the bottle and taking a long swig. He handed the bottle to Walter. "Salut," Walter responded, and took a swallow. The wine tasted wonderful and the dolce Gorgonzola was tangy and creamy. The last time Walter could remember bread tasting so good was in his boyhood when he and his brothers, drawn by the smell of bread fresh from the oven, had sneaked into the kitchen to pilfer the loaves cooling on the racks—right before they'd had to run for their lives when the cook caught them red-handed. A humiliation he'd been lucky to avoid as an unwitting participant in the Prince's juvenile foray. Finishing the last of the wine, he lay back on the grass and closed his eyes. "That was good," he said, his hunger completely satisfied. He sensed the Prince stretch out a little way over from him. "The House of Zahringan-Baden is famous for its hospitality, Count. To let a guest go hungry would have been unforgivable." Walter laughed. "But to involve that same unsuspecting guest in a crime is acceptable?" he asked. "Is it a crime to take food from your own kitchen? I was only adding a little spice to the meal." "I doubt His Grace would see it that way, Sir, and I have incurred his disfavour twice already today." But the manner in which he spoke the words did not match their meaning for a pleasant lethargy was taking hold of him as the wine and his lack of sleep from the night before began to take their toll. "I should return to the palace. I have an appointment ... " still his eyes remained closed and gradually his breathing slowed into the even pattern of sleep. When he woke, the position of the sun in the sky told him it was well into the afternoon. He sat up abruptly and rubbed his hands roughly across his face. Glancing round he saw the Prince sitting against the trunk of an old beech tree, a little further up the hill. Standing up with difficulty because his left foot had gone to sleep in its new and too tight boot, he stumbled into an apology. "Your Highness, please forgive my ill-manners. I meant no disrespect—" "You do not have to apologize for being exhausted, Count. Even we princes sometimes know the need to sleep." "But, Sir—" "I am not offended, Count, and nothing you can say will make me so," the Prince said, standing up and going over to retrieve the remainder of the picnic. "Let me help," Walter requested, letting the matter drop. The Prince handed him the empty bottle and the last of the cheese wrapped in the napkin. They walked down towards the horses, both of which ambled towards them in hopeful expectation. Taking two apples from the bag, The Prince gave one to Walter who held it out for Cyrus. "I have enjoyed the afternoon," the Prince said quietly. Walter glanced over at him and replied, "I have too, Sir." The Prince smiled and gave Max another apple. Cyrus complained loudly when his first was finished. A second apple was handed over and as their hands touched Walter caught the wistful expression on the Prince's face. Seeing it, Walter began to wonder if he had misjudged the situation. Maybe there was more to be considered here than mere lustful attraction. Maybe the young man was as much in need of friendship as anything else. He tried to imagine the isolation of being set apart from the rest of the world by such high rank, or the hurt of being the youngest of four brothers abandoned by their mother and left to be raised by a succession of nursemaids and governesses. And what must it be like to know that your destiny would never be your own to choose? Though he himself felt constrained by the conventions of his class, at least the choice to conform to them had been his own. Walter couldn't help the shudder that passed through him as he thought of the Prince's lot. No rank or amount of riches could ever compensate for such loss of personal freedom. The young man looked at him quizzically. Walter shrugged. "A goose must have walked over my grave," he said. "Or maybe it's the Grand Duke, wondering what he has done to deserve such a poor assistant." The Prince laughed. "Then I had better not keep you further from your duties, Count." Walter thanked him for his hospitality and bowed formally. As he walked away, he made the mistake of looking back. The instant he did so he knew he had been right about the Prince. The young man was lonely. It was written on his face and in the way he held onto the horse's bridle and stroked its neck with a comforting hand. The part of Walter that knew what it was like to be different, to not fit the norm, responded strongly the pain he saw in the young man. Against his better judgment, he called back to the Prince, "Sir, I would be obliged if tomorrow you would show me the route of a suitable hack ... and maybe a gallop ... if that wouldn't be too great an imposition?" For two seconds the Prince's smile was dazzling, then his expression became very earnest and he rushed into speech. "Why certainly, Count, let me know your schedule and I will make the arrangements." "Thank you, Sir," Walter said and grimly made his way back to the palace. Dinner that evening could not have been more different from the meal Walter and the Prince had shared at lunchtime. Having written a hasty reply to the letter from Charlotte that had arrived during the afternoon, he bathed and dressed for dinner, then spent almost two hours discussing strategies with the Grand Duke. After which, even the prospect of a formal court dinner seemed like a welcome escape and he followed the elderly diplomat to the salon where a hundred or so other guests had gathered. The arrival of the royal family ended all conversation and in respectful silence the company turned as one to bow or curtsey in the manner court etiquette required. Walter looked up to watch the King and his sons make their way through the salon to the Renaissance dining room, but he had eyes only for Prince Alexander. The young man was groomed to perfection, with his hair worn back of his face in a style that made him look older than his twenty years. He wore a severely cut black tailcoat and fitted trousers and across the snowy white of his dress shirt and waistcoat lay a sash of sky blue watered silk, decorated with a Star of St. Alphonse in diamonds and emeralds. It wasn't until the Prince's gaze fell on Walter that his solemn expression relaxed into a smile, and for a moment the young man could be glimpsed through the studied formality of his rank. Then as quickly as it appeared the smile was gone and Walter followed the Grand Duke into dinner. Being the guest of honour and a relative of the King's, the Grand Duke was placed at the head of the table, between the His Majesty and the Crown Prince. By association, Walter too sat near the top of the table. Next to him, on his right, was a baroness and on his left was Saltzbaden's foreign minister. Across the table from him and several places closer to the top, sat Prince Alexander. Luckily for Walter, there was no annoying table decoration situated between them, and luckier still, the baroness and the minister conducted a conversation that required only an occasional neutral comment from him and virtually none of his attention. The balance of his, hopefully subtle, attention was on the Prince, watching how he smiled and conversed with the guests around him. It was a remarkable performance. Through all the nine courses of the meal, from the consomm’ vermicelli to the peach compote, the young man remained animated and charming. Not an easy task when your audience includes a very hard of hearing bishop and a painfully shy young countess. After coffee, the Chamberlain of the Household signalled to his staff to take their places behind each dining chair and, just as the first strains from the orchestra could be heard, the company rose and followed the royal family to the ballroom. Walter spent an hour engaged in the social niceties, being introduced to Saltzbaden's nobility and dancing with several partners. Out of the corner of his eye, he tracked the Prince's progress round the room as the young man danced virtually every dance, each with a different partner. When he took the hand of the shy young countess and led her to the floor for a second time, Walter was glad to see the Grand Duke nod to him to indicate he wished to leave the gathering. Going up to the raised platform where the old man sat beside the king, he bowed and stood waiting. "If your Majesty will forgive a weary old man, I will retire for the evening," the Duke requested. "Of course, Olav. Have a good night. There is much to be settled tomorrow." "Thank you, Your Majesty. Goodnight." Walter offered his arm to steady the Duke as he stepped down onto the ballroom floor. Together they bowed and withdrew. The last impression Walter had as he left the room was of the Prince waltzing and smiling at the young woman in his arms. He was surprised at how cold the image made him feel. It took the Grand Duke a long time to climb the stairs to his suite. The overnight journey had exhausted the old man and Walter felt a little guilty about the neglectful attitude he had shown towards him and the task they had undertaken. Vowing to himself to do better, he opened the door to the Duke's room. "A good beginning," the old man said. "The boy seems to have fulfilled his promise. He is charming and has wit ... and heaven knows he's decorative enough. I think this will turn out well." He released his hold on Walter's arm. "Good night, Walter. Oh ... and make sure your report to Karansky is very positive." "Good night, Your Grace," Walter responded to the closing door. Slowly he made his way to his own rooms and sat at the desk. Switching on the lamp he took a sheet of paper from the drawer and began to write. As the words appeared on the page he found that his renewed commitment to the task was already deserting him. The next morning dawned with the gemlike clarity found only in the early days of summer. The sky was cloudless and though the sun was warm enough to make its presence felt, it shone down on a landscape still lush and green from the spring rains. As he gazed out of the study window, Walter found himself growing more and more impatient with the petty squabbling that had been going on for most of the morning. For no apparent reason, Grand Duke Olav and Chief Minister Wittlesbach, having agreed all the major clauses of the contract in the first hour, had been at each other's throats ever since over the most inconsequential details. Some five minutes before, the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece had chimed noon, signaling to Walter that yet another hour of the fine day had been lost to diplomatic point scoring. He had already sent his apologies twice to the Prince, firstly informing him that their plans would have to be moved back from eleven o'clock to twelve o'clock—and then to one o'clock. Whatever happened he was determined that, he would keep their latest appointment. To that end, he addressed the Grand Duke. "Your Grace, it is less than an hour until lunch and since all the major items have been agreed between yourself and the Chief Minister, why don't you allow Deputy Minister Erzberger," he nodded to his opposite number in the negotiations, "and me to take care of these lesser details. We can have a draft prepared for consideration before dinner." Grand Duke Olav favoured the Chief Minister with a jaundiced look. "That is an excellent idea, Count," he said. "Perhaps a fresh perspective is what is needed. Have a copy of the draft sent to me before six." "Certainly, Your Grace." The two protagonists withdrew and Walter and Erzberger sat together at the desk with a clean sheet of paper. Within three quarters of an hour they had finalized the outstanding clauses and had modified, where necessary, those already agreed. Erzberger put the paper in his document case and said, "I will have a final contract prepared at the same time as the draft." He smiled knowingly at Walter. "I think they will find little to argue about once they see it set down on paper." "You'll ensure his grace receives a copy by the agreed time?" Walter questioned. "I'll see to it personally, Count." Ten minutes later, Walter had changed into his riding clothes and was entering the stable yard. He found the Prince, seated on an upturned bale of straw, patiently waiting for him outside Max's stable. Their two horses were saddled and stood tethered side by side. Max waiting as patiently as his master, his head down, his weight resting on one rear hoof, the other balanced daintily on the point of its shoe—while Cyrus fidgeted uneasily, anxious for the off. "Your Highness, again my apologies," Walter said as the young man stood to greet him. Somewhere, across the park, a church bell tolled once. "Well, at least I made it before 1 o'clock." The Prince smiled at him and called for the grooms. A 'leg-up' into the saddle and they were crossing the stable yard to the accompanying sound of clattering hooves on stone flags. With all thoughts of duty left behind, they set out to enjoy what remained of the day. The first leg of the hack took them along a broad, oak lined avenue with green turf as smooth as any lawn. Moving from walk to trot and back again, they used its even surface to loosen up the horses. Every so often as they went along, the Prince would point out a landmark or explain a little of the history of the palace but mostly they just rode in silence, enjoying the freedom and the company. After a mile and a half they cantered up to the top of a hill from where they could view the vast sweep of the river Baden's alluvial plain. It lay stretched out before them like an unrolled map across which meandered the river, glinting silver in the bright afternoon sunshine like a piece of fine scrollwork. "The perch pike season has just opened," the Prince told him, nodding toward it. "If you have an interest, I can arrange a day's fishing." "I'm not much of a fisherman," Walter admitted, "I haven't the patience." "Then we have something in common, Count." Once down the far side of the hill, they entered a small wood. Out of the sun, its interior felt cool and damp and a thick carpet of ferns grew in its shade. As they wound their way through the trees, Max and Cyrus's hooves cut a swathe in the undergrowth and their weight crushed the bulbs of allium ursinum lying dormant in the moist, leafy soil. Instantly the wood filled up with the pungent garlic aroma of the plant. Just then, a branch snapped beneath a horse's hoof and high up in the canopy the noise sent a redshank squawking and fluttering from one tree to another. Its cry and the flapping of its wings stirred Cyrus into wide-eyed terror. His master tightened his grip on the reins and tried to soothe the frightened animal but Cyrus was having none of it. He didn't like the close quarters of the wood and he wanted out of it. Trusting the horse's instincts, Walter allowed him to canter ahead to find the shortest route back to the sunshine. They emerged from the trees onto a cattle track that zigzagged across some rough pasture, and Walter gently reined in his horse until the Prince and Max caught up with them. Riding abreast again, they continued along the track for several miles until the Prince called a warning to Walter and veered off to the left towards a hawthorn hedge in full bloom. Without breaking stride, the young man collected his horse for the take off and sailed over the obstacle. Being unfamiliar with the terrain, Walter was left with little choice but to follow—not that any force on earth could have deterred Cyrus from making the jump. And in reality, the hedge presented little challenge to either horse or rider, both of whom were used to ditches twice its size in the hunting field. Walter was grateful, however, for the soft landing on the other side that brought them back into the park where Max and the Prince stood waiting. When they set off again, the two horses resumed the comfortably paced canter they had maintained through most of the ride. Until, that is, the Prince, smiling a smile that would have graced the face of any choirboy, leaned forward in his saddle and spurred Max into a flat out gallop that left Walter and Cyrus behind as if they were standing still. Cyrus neighed in frustration and shied to the left as he fought Walter's control. Recovering quickly from his surprise, Walter gave the Arabian his head and the challenge was accepted. It was glorious—it was speed and passion—it was the clink, clink, clink of the bit—the pull of the reins—the snort, snort, snort of Cyrus' breathing—the sound of hooves pummeling the ground—the crazy blur of grass and sky—the exhilaration of the chase—the feeling of being able to fly. Steadily they closed down the gap, for though Cyrus would never be able to outstay Max in the long run, he was bred for explosive speed over short distances. Stride for stride, he outpaced the slower horse to draw level and when he did Walter took the time to fix the young Prince with a smug look. Then he flicked the crop once across Cyrus' flank and accelerated past the Hanoverian, leaving the heavier horse and its rider struggling in his wake. Glancing back over his shoulder to ensure the humiliation was complete, Walter carefully reined in his sweating mount. Easily done, for the fire in Cyrus had burned out and he settled down into an edgy trot so quickly that it took only seconds for the chastened Prince and a very tired Max to catch up with them. "That was ... invigorating, Your Highness," Walter remarked with a hint of triumph. "Well, you did say that a gallop would be desirable." "Yes, Sir, the gallop was very welcome ... I just hadn't anticipated it being a point to point." "I see little value in activity for its own sake, Count. It's the challenge ... and the risk ... that makes life worth living." His words sobered Walter out of his euphoria, bringing with them the guilty realization that he had been a willing participant in something that had the potential for disaster. One misstep of a horse's hoof could have meant - "But, I don't believe in taking unnecessary risks," the Prince interrupted his thoughts, seeing the worried look on his face. "You may have noticed I made no wager on the outcome of the ... point to point." The young man's attempt at a serious expression did a poor job of hiding the amusement beneath it, and in spite of his concern, Walter found himself responding with laughter. "I also noticed that you gave me no chance to propose one of my own," Walter told him with contrived indignation. "Well, Count, even I have to admit that Max, despite his willing heart, has limitations," the Prince said, reaching down to pat the sweat streaked neck of his horse "but, if you are interested in another challenge, I have a five year old thoroughbred whose performance over three kilometres I'd be more than willing to wager on." "I'll give that some consideration, Sir," Walter told him, knowing such a contest was out of the question. They walked on for another quarter mile or so, taking care to cool down stressed muscles and relax stretched tendons. Up ahead, a small lake came into view. The Prince nodded towards it. "This would be a good place to rest," he said. They ambled over to it and dismounted. Fastening up the reins, they left the horses to graze and walked down to the water's edge, the Prince carrying a leather pouch slung over his shoulder. They found a comfortable place and sat down. "This is the only one of the natural lakes in the palace grounds that my great grandfather didn't drain," he said, picking up a small stone and sending it plopping into the water. "What about the large lake at the front of the palace?" Walter asked. "My grandfather had it made to measure," the Prince explained. With an upward movement of his eyebrows, Walter commented, "Of course." He watched as the Prince opened the leather pouch and produced a carefully packed lunch of savoury and sweet pastries and a bottle of white wine. They ate and drank in comfortable silence and then stretched out in the sunshine. As he basked in the warmth, Walter couldn't help wondering how his and the Prince's friendship had managed to develop so quickly and so intensely. Never before had another man's character and interests meshed with his own so perfectly that within a day and a half of their meeting, it felt as if they had known each other all their lives. But whatever the reason and however awkward a position it placed him in with regard to his duty, Walter was glad of it. "Have you ever visited the Camargue, Count?" The Prince asked suddenly. Walter had to think a moment about the unexpected question. "No, Sir, not specifically, though I have spent time in Provence, and I've been to Paris, of course." "Paris, yes ... I've been there too ... twice, in fact. Unfortunately on both occasions there was no time to venture beyond the city." "Still, as cities go, it has much to offer," Walter said, reasoning that the journeys to Paris must have had been so made so the young man could visit his mother. "That's true ... but tell me about Provence ... " They settled into the conversation easily—questions were asked and answered—memories and anecdotes were recounted. It took Walter some time to realize that most of the questions came from the Prince, while most of the memories and tall tales were his. But that didn't seem to matter much as an hour slipped by unnoticed. To mark its passing, the faint chiming from the distant church bell measured out four in the afternoon. The Prince sat up reluctantly and stretched, his shirt molding itself to the damp skin of his back. For a moment his gaze settled on the cool, blue water of the lake then he turned back to Walter with a broad grin on his face. "I believe we have enough time for a swim, Count," he declared, pulling off one of his boots. "What ...?" Walter asked, sitting up abruptly. "A swim," the Prince repeated patiently. "Could there be a better day for one?" "Well ... no Sir ... but ... I ... we shouldn't ... it's not ..." Walter stuttered to a halt, once again at a loss to understand why he, a man of good judgment and inner strength, seemed unable to exercise either of those qualities when it came to saving himself from the Prince's reckless plans. By then the young man was barefoot and had taken off his shirt. Watching how the muscles of his long, smooth back moved as they were revealed made Walter's mind up for him. He had little choice but to throw himself into the latest plan—literally. The interest aroused in his groin at the thought of seeing the Prince unclothed made sure of that. Suddenly the cold water of the lake looked very appealing. He began tugging off his boot. The Prince was already naked and running into the water. Much as he would have liked to take the time to impress the beautiful image on his memory, Walter stood up and began stripping his clothes off in a race to get into the lake before the young man could see his excited state. Leaving them in an untidy heap, he headed for the water and gritted his teeth when its cold presence swirled around his feet and legs. Just in time, he glanced up to see the Prince plunge in and as soon as he was far enough out he too dived headlong into the cloudy depths. It may have been the kindest way to acclimatize his body to the temperature but it still shocked the breath out of him. Despite that, he managed to travel a good fifteen metres underwater before he returned to the surface. As he breached it, he drew in a lungful of air and swiped the water from his eyes before looking around for the prince. He spotted him heading towards the far shore. Walter followed again, swimming with strong, rhythmic strokes. With the initial shock passed, the sensation of the cold water on his hot skin began to feel good, as exhilarating in its own way as the gallop had been earlier. It also took care of his embarrassing condition—if anything, almost too well. He realized with amusement that he'd be more reluctant for the Prince to see him in his present state than when he'd been aroused. By the time Walter was half way across the lake, the Prince was already on his way back. They met somewhere in the middle where they behaved like eight year olds, splashing and dunking each other. Then they just floated, side by side, watching the late afternoon sky fill up with clouds. When the sun disappeared behind them, it signalled the end of the perfect summer day and reminded them that their time together was finite. Slowly they swam back to the lake edge and climbed out of the water. Walter, his eyes front and centre, immediately walked to where he'd dropped his clothes on the grass and began to dress. It was the instinctual sensation of knowing he was being watched that made him look over at the Prince. The young man stood perfectly still, making no attempt to hide his candid, appreciative gaze. It was natural and honest and Walter accepted it for the compliment it was. In return, he allowed his own admiring gaze to rest indulgently on the beautiful, hard body before him. The Prince was everything he had imagined him to be, elegantly long of limb and possessing a graceful strength. He stood posed in that artless manner so favoured by the sculptors of Classical Greece, his linen undergarments held trailing and forgotten in his clasped hand. But this man was no pale marble fabrication—with his eyes heavy lidded, and his face showing the first blush of sexual arousal, he was the embodiment of living, breathing flesh and blood. Nor did he conform to the Greek aesthetic ideal of disproportionately small endowment. Happily for both of them, his manhood was large enough to impress and Walter's eager gaze traced a path downward from the fine shading of chest hair, bejeweled with water droplets, to where the flawless cock stirred in its sable bush. After a breathless moment, he looked up into the Prince's green eyes and found his own emotions mirrored in them. To know such desire, and to be so desired, without the possibility of even a fleeting touch was agonizingly wonderful. They looked long and hard. Only when the raw need threatened to overcome what remained of their good sense, did they turn away to finish dressing. Something that proved unexpectedly difficult for Walter as he battled to pull his clothes on over his wet skin. The struggle made him hot and sweaty, as did the sudden change in weather from breezy sunshine to sultry greyness. Straightening up from pulling on his boots, he eyed the sky warily. High above them the clouds were growing thicker and darker by the minute. For more than the obvious reason, it seemed prudent to seek shelter and Walter walked the short distance to where Cyrus stood dozing and hoisted himself into the saddle. He watched the Prince do the same then in silence they began the journey back to the palace. It was an easy silence, full of heightened awareness and crackling with anticipation. In place of words they exchanged lustful glances and knowing smiles. The knowledge that what had been kindled between them was risky and forbidden only served to add a frisson of excitement to the wonderful feeling. A feeling that reminded Walter of the heady sensation that came from drinking a fine wine. When he glanced over at the Prince he could tell that the young man was experiencing the same intoxication. The Prince, he thought, how can this person still be 'the Prince'? This was not 'the Prince'—this was the man, impossible though it was, with whom he was falling in love. The man he wanted to know in every way it was possible to know another human being. The man he wanted to take to his bed, to shower with kisses, to caress, to explore, to join with, to make his own ... But just then they rounded the side of a hill and there before them, in all its magnificent splendour, was the palace of the Zahringan-Baden's—and at the sight of it Walter felt the breathtaking coldness of lake water again, this time swirling around his heart. What was he thinking? This man was 'the Prince'. He would never belong to Walter. At least not in the way Walter wanted him. Anything they might have together could only ever be furtive and tawdry and would end up dishonouring them both. His euphoria dissipated instantly, and the lowering sky and the imposing facade of the building that loomed ahead combined to make him feel small and powerless. He glanced over at the young man who had touched him so deeply and ached at the thought of having to tell him, 'No'. Wrapped up in these thoughts, Walter failed to notice how the gathering clouds had whipped themselves up into the first storm of the summer. It was the harsh brightness of the lightning flash that jolted him out of his reverie. In response to it he and the Prince picked up their pace and cut across the lawn to reach the shelter of the stable block. They had just turned into the avenue of cherry trees when the thunder caught up with them and its shock wave stripped every remaining pink petal from the branches and sent them fluttering to the ground. The roar and resulting 'snowstorm' were too much for Cyrus to bear and he tried to bolt, forcing Walter to hold on grimly. "Steady boy!" he ordered, doing some roaring of his own. Cyrus tried to buck him off, his front hooves lifting high off the ground as they tore at the air. Walter could feel control slipping away from him and he knew that another lightning strike or thunderclap would be all it took to send the horse into a frenzy that could kill them both. From somewhere a hand reached out and caught hold of the rein where it was attached to Cyrus' bridle. Then the Prince, still astride Max, was leading the terrified horse towards the wide open door of the barn. Once inside, both riders dismounted swiftly and let the horses find their way to the remotest corner of the big building. The Prince ran the door shut on its silent runners and turned back, a worried look on his face. At the sight of it, and with a feeling of sudden intimacy in that safe, dark place, every noble intention and wise thought in Walter's head deserted him. In their place a volatile mix of adrenaline and simmering sexual need welled up. He reached forward and pulled the young man into a desperate kiss. The Prince's response was overwhelming. He groaned and opened his mouth. At the same time, he wrapped himself so forcibly around Walter that they almost toppled over onto the stone floor. Retreating until his back found the support of a stack of straw bales, Walter kept up his assault on the Prince's mouth, his strong hands holding the young man's head at just the right angle to give him complete access. He was rewarded with a series of moans and with the intense pleasure of having the Prince's groin pressed hard against his own. Good though it was, the need to intensify the feeling overtook Walter and he released his hold on the Prince's head. Without breaking the kiss he widened his stance and pulled the other man's lower body in tight between his legs. Once he had the Prince anchored there, he molded his hands around the young man's perfectly shaped rear and began kneading it in counterpoint to the measured thrusts of his hips. Almost immediately the Prince's pleasure spiked and he broke away from the kiss. One second later a flash of lightning found its way into the dimness of the barn and in its momentary brightness Walter watched the young man's head fall back to expose his neck. In the darkness that quickly returned, the Prince murmured desperately, "Touch me ..." Then he groaned as Walter's eager mouth found the skin over his collarbone and licked and suckled. But that wasn't what he wanted, and the plea came again, "... touch me ... please ... Walter ... want to feel your hand on me ... now ..." To emphasize the urgency of his request, he rubbed the hardness of his groin against Walter's own and continued the onslaught until the older man obliged him by running his hand down between their bodies and cupping his genitals in a firm, massaging grip. The Prince's groan became a shout, but it was drowned out by a booming thunderclap ... then by the sound of Cyrus kicking at the back wall of the barn. Not surprisingly, the normally serene Max reacted badly to the other horse's threatening behaviour and began running back and forward in the restricted space of the barn. Walter's moan echoed the Prince's as they forced themselves to draw away from the passionate embrace. With difficulty they struggled to stand up and gather their wits sufficiently to deal with the frightened horses. Very carefully, the Prince stepped out into the clear space where the increasingly frenzied Max was trying to find a way out. "Be careful ... " Walter called out, having difficulty with his ingrained training when he realized it no longer felt appropriate to add 'Sir' to the end of every sentence. The Prince nodded, his eyes never leaving the out-of-control horse. "Easy Max," he coaxed. "Easy boy." The animal immediately responded to the familiar, trusted voice and he settled down into an agitated walk. When he was as far away from the barn door as he could get, the Prince moved swiftly to open it. Max, of course, headed straight for the opening and had calmed enough to allow his master to grasp hold of his bridle. With the Prince once again firmly in control they headed off together towards the horse's own stable, fifty or so metres across the yard. Walter walked to the door to watch the Prince guide the big animal into its box and close the door behind him, then he turned back to deal with Cyrus. "If I had any sense I'd feed you to the hounds for this," he warned the highly-strung animal in a gentle voice that belied the words. "Now, stop this nonsense and calm down." Man-handling a series of straw bales he began building a makeshift wall in front of Cyrus that effectively boxed the stallion into a smaller, more reassuring space. A minute or two later, the barn door was again run closed and the Prince was beside him, helping in the construction. When they had strengthened the temporary partition with the addition of another layer of straw bales, Walter climbed into the enclosure and took off the horse's tack. Then the Prince handed him over a couple of wafers of hay. Never one to let his paranoia stand in the way of a good feed, Cyrus immediately began eating. When the next bolt of lightning flashed about them and its accompanying thunderclap sounded, the horse reacted with nothing more than a shudder that ran along its neck and back. Walter climbed back out to where the Prince was waiting for him and immediately the green eyes darkened with renewed arousal. With an almost physical pain, Walter realized that his 'heat of the moment' excuse for behaving as he had was long since gone. At great cost, he forced himself to resist the urge to take the younger man back into his arms. The decision must have been written on his face because the Prince's chin rose defiantly. "I know you're married ..." he said, the disappointment and hurt and rejection making his voice husky. "Yes," Walter agreed, "but ... God forgive me ... that's not the reason." "Then ... why?" he asked confused, the little frown line Walter had begun to know well creasing the top of his nose. "Don't you want—?" "More than I want to draw my next breath," Walter interrupted with complete conviction. The Prince's confusion only increased at his words and Walter knew he was left with no alternative but honesty. He owed this precious, wonderful man that much. "Have you been told nothing of the reason for the Grand Duke's visit here?" he asked. The Prince shook his head apprehensively and Walter inwardly cursed the man's overbearing, controlling father for the bastard he was. "He's here to negotiate a marriage ... a marriage between you and the Grand Duchess Olga." The Prince's breath caught in his throat and he swallowed convulsively. Recovering his composure, he said quietly, "I knew it was a possibility ... I just hadn't expected it so soon ..." "You probably won't have been told, but there was a serious threat to the heir's life a few months ago and it has become policy to ... secure the succession ... as soon as possible." "I see," the young man answered with bitter resignation, "and where else would they turn but to a family that can produce healthy males—who do not bleed?" Walter could offer no defense against the Prince's callous outlining of the facts. "Don't worry," the young man continued, finding a half smile from somewhere, "I made peace with my situation a long time ago, Walter. I just regret that ... you and I ... won't ever ..." He couldn't find the words to finish what he wanted to say. "I feel the same way ... Sir." The return to formality made it easier for Walter, but he noticed the fleeting look of hurt that crossed the Prince's face at his use of the honorific. "But, there is duty and—" he began. "Not another word, Count," the Prince interrupted. "You don't have to make excuses for being an honourable man." At first, Walter bridled at the command. He felt it denied him the opportunity to explain that it was his refusal to compromise on the real and deep feelings he had for the Prince, rather than any abstract concept of duty, that prevented him from acting on them. But after a moment, he came to the conclusion that it would be kinder not to add to the emotional burden they would both have to bear as a result of their foolishness. They looked at each other for the first time with unease and the uncomfortable feeling made Walter rush into hasty speech. "I just regret, Sir, that I didn't explain why I was here at the very beginning. It may not have been my place to do so, but ... it may have spared us a great deal of ... " he wanted to say 'pain', but he stopped short of it. Unfortunately, he didn't finish there. "... and I fail to understand," he blundered on, "why His Majesty did not see fit to involve you in this decision." The Prince looked over at the stallion confined in his temporary prison, standing as meek as a lamb, and asked, "Tell me, Count, will you consult with Cyrus when the right mare comes along?" A quick nod of acknowledgement towards Walter, and he was gone. Out into the rain that had started to fall. Walter sat down heavily on the nearest bale of straw and remained there for a long time, listening to the thrum of the rain on the barn roof. It was still raining that evening when Walter climbed out of the carriage at the entrance to the palace. He breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow he had managed to get through the tedious ritual of dinner with the royal family, and the even more tedious ritual of attending a performance of 'Don Giovanni' at the Opera House in the city. Though that was nothing compared to the torture of finding himself seated next to Prince Alexander in the royal box and having to make polite conversation as if they meant nothing to each other beyond their roles of noble prince and respectful courtier. Gratefully he bade his hosts good night, and climbed the stairs to the Grand Duke's room. The old man had been too fatigued to go to the opera and Walter knocked softly on the door to see if he required anything. "Come." Walter opened the heavy door and stepped inside. "Ah, Walter. A good evening?" "Yes, Your Grace," he said, knowing the old man was referring to the absence of any diplomatic blunders rather than the quality of the entertainment. "Karansky has telegraphed a reply to my report on the negotiations." He lifted a yellow sheet of paper from the pile set out before him on the desk. "He has authorized me to proceed with the signing of the contracts tomorrow ... provided, of course, that the medical examination proves satisfactory." Walter's blood ran cold. "I want you to take care of that tonight. More discreet all round, don't you think?" Discretion, Walter thought rebelliously. Yes, by all means let's have discretion. It is so much more important than humiliation. "Is there a problem?" the old man asked. Walter swallowed hard and glanced away from the searching look of his superior. "Is this really necessary?" he asked, his jaw tight. "It is sine qua non, Count. I intend to make sure that we bring home a Paul, not a Heinrich. Now, if you wish to be excused -" "No, Your Grace," Walter interrupted. "I'll see to it." "Very well. I will not retire until you bring me the results." At Walter's request, Count Nicholas agreed to be present and to take care of the practical arrangements. A little over an hour passed before a servant came to show Walter to a dressing room on the floor above. The specialist who had traveled with the Grand Duke's party from Prague was already there and had set out his instruments on the desk in the corner. Beside the desk was an examination couch covered with a white linen sheet, and next to it stood a large screen. After a final check that everything was in order the doctor nodded his readiness. Count Nicholas left the room. He was gone no more than ten minutes, but to Walter, left waiting in silence with the doctor, it seemed like an eternity. Eventually the door opened and Nicholas entered, followed by Prince Alexander. The Prince wore a brocade dressing gown over his starched white shirt and black evening trousers. His face was very pale and his eyes were distant. Walter watched how he studiously avoided looking at the medical instruments and equipment. There was an awkward silence and Walter decided that to spare them all discomfort, this thing needed to be done as quickly and clinically as possible. "Your Highness," he said, brusquely, "this is Dr. Savin." "Your Highness," the doctor said deferentially, and bowed very low. The Prince nodded curtly to him. "If you would be so kind as to sit, Your Highness." The doctor indicated one of two chairs next to the desk. Nicholas helped the Prince remove his dressing gown then he sat down in a chair opposite Walter's. The doctor placed a stethoscope around his neck and sat down, pulling his chair up closer to the Prince's. "If I may, Your Highness?" he requested, holding the stethoscope sounder out towards the Prince's chest. The Prince looked at him in confusion for a moment, but then he made sense of the request and began unbuttoning his shirt. The doctor put the earpieces into his ears and leaned forward to place the sounder on the Prince's chest. The instrument was moved around and the Prince was asked to breathe deeply each time it was placed in a new position. When he was satisfied, the doctor stood and pulled the Prince's shirt up at the back so he could listen there. Finishing with it, he put the stethoscope down on the desk and made a series of notes. Next he took out a silver pocket watch and took the Prince's pulse. It was also recorded in the notebook. "Have I your permission to draw blood, Your Highness?" "Yes." The Prince's shirt was removed and the doctor began by washing his hands in the wash-basin on the bureau. After drying them well, he applied a tourniquet to the Prince's upper arm and picked up a needle. Walter looked away before the puncture was made, and when he looked back the procedure was completed and the doctor was applying a small dressing to the crook of the Prince's arm. "Now, Your Highness, if you would move to the examination couch," the doctor requested. Leaving his shirt behind, the young man walked stiffly to the couch and stood there looking unsure. Discreetly the doctor opened the screen to its full extent, and he and the Prince disappeared from view. Walter relaxed back into his chair, a feeling of relief sweeping over him. He looked over at Count Nicholas. The other man sat poker-faced, staring at the wall opposite. Obviously his way of dealing with this unpleasant situation was to have no connection with it. Walter envied him. He felt all too connected to what was happening—to what the Prince was enduring. He was just about to look away from the man, when his attention was drawn to a movement reflected in the full-length mirror that stood a metre or two behind the Count's chair. Clearly displayed in the glass was the image of everything that was happening behind the screen. Walter froze, caught between embarrassment and the need to know. Powerless to resist, he found himself watching the scene. The Prince was half-standing, half sitting on the edge of the couch and the doctor was standing beside him, writing in a small book. Walter could hear the murmur of a voice asking questions and the murmur of a voice answering, though he couldn't make out the words. Then the doctor turned away to place his book on the desk and the Prince straightened up to unfasten his trousers and underwear. He let them drop to the floor and stepped out of them. The doctor, who had sat down in the desk chair, swiveled it around to face the Prince and began an intimate examination of the young man's private parts. It was thorough and excruciatingly embarrassing and it caused the Prince's face to flush a deep red. Walter felt the colour creep up into his own face, and when the doctor signalled that the Prince should turn to face the couch, Walter looked away. But, to his shame, he could not keep his eyes averted for long and when he did look back it was to watch the Prince hoist himself up onto the couch and lie down. As the young man stretched out fully, Walter's eyes were inexorably drawn to his penis, standing out half hard from his groin. The older man knew from his own limited experience of medical examinations that the arousal was most likely due to the doctor's ministrations. Unpleasant though they may have been for the young man, at least they had begun the process needed to complete the examination. The doctor spoke quietly to the Prince and poured something from a small bottle onto his upturned palm. Then turning away, he again sat down at the desk with his back to the couch. Picking up his pen, he started to write in his notebook. Walter watched mesmerized as the Prince lay very still for a minute or two, his eyes tightly shut, then his hands moved down to his groin where he took hold of his shaft in a right-handed grip and began to pull on it. At the same time, his other hand moved lower to cup and massage his testicles. For several long minutes, he worked himself in that way, but by the end of them he was no closer to erection than when he started and his face was wearing an embarrassed frown. Biting down on his lower lip, he raised up one knee to give himself more room and opened his eyes to look down at his body. It was in that moment that he too caught sight of the mirror and realized instantly how its positioning compromised his privacy—only from his point of view, the image captured was one of Walter watching him and looking very guilty and very ashamed. The Prince's movements, even his breathing, stilled completely. Walter leaned forward in his chair, his hands gripping its arms as he prepared to stand, but he never completed the movement. The expression on the Prince's face had relaxed and his eyes held no hint of accusation. If anything, the young man was looking at Walter hopefully, desperately, as if he was a lifeline, cast into a stormy sea. Walter leaned back again and held the Prince's gaze as the young man's hands began to move once more, though much more sensually this time. His body was moving too. Undulating slightly as Walter's gaze swept over it ... his eyes darkening and becoming hooded ... his nipples peaking ... a flush of arousal spreading across his chest ... and most fascinating of all, his penis filling and lengthening, curving up towards his belly, its head glistening in the lamplight. By then, Walter was in some difficulty himself, and not from an inability to perform. Quite the reverse, for the third time that day he was hard and aching, but, once again, he just gritted his teeth and concentrated on the Prince's needs. And what the Prince needed then was simply release. With a tight grimace, the Prince let go of his genitals and laid his hands down by his sides on the couch. "Doctor," he murmured, his gaze staying firmly fixed on Walter's face. Walter had one final look at the young man's fully erect condition, then his view was blocked by the physician's body. Cautiously, he stood up and moved directly away from Count Nicholas towards one of the windows on the other side of the room. As he drew the curtain back to look out into the darkness of the rainy night, he heard a faint grunt and he sagged a little in relief, realizing that the nightmare was over. From behind the screen there was some muffled talk and the rustle of silky clothes being pulled on. Less than two minutes later the Prince emerged and walked quickly to the door. Only when it closed behind him did Walter turn back into the room, his own excitement thankfully under some kind of control. He resumed his seat and waited for the doctor to complete his work at the microscope. A few minutes later, the man finished washing his hands a second time and came forward to give his report. "His Royal Highness is in excellent condition and is a fully functioning male. In my opinion he will father many healthy children. My written report will be ready in the morning." Walter and Nicholas thanked the doctor and gratefully escaped the room. The Grand Duke was pleased with the outcome of the examination, and not just because it ensured the success of his mission. Back home the climate was growing increasingly unsettled, becoming ripe for rebellion or worse. The wedding of two such well favoured, young lovers as the Grand Duchess and the Prince would provoke nothing but joy and good will. Handled correctly, such a celebration would unite the people and give them something to focus on besides the scandals and sedition that seemed to pervade every aspect of the nation's life. "... and a year, God willing, could bring a child." the Grand Duke said warming to his subject. "Hope, Walter ... a new beginning. That 's what we need." "Yes, Your Grace," Walter replied, careful to keep his tone neutral. "Will I begin making arrangements for the journey home?" It sounded like the suggestion of a well-organized assistant, but to Walter, it was more about escaping the untenable situation he had helped to create. Either way, it wasn't to be. "We won't be leaving before next week. His Majesty has suggested I accompany him to Freiberg for a few days. I want you to use the time to familiarize Prince Alexander with the workings of the court and to prepare him for the betrothal ceremony. Now, I have a very early start in the morning, so I'll say good night, Walter." "Good night, Your Grace." Walter nodded and withdrew, his heart lifting at the thought of spending time with the Prince, however difficult the circumstances. At least the Duke's instructions gave him a valid reason to go to the Prince at once. He'd had an uneasy feeling ever since the young man had fled the dressing room and he was glad of the opportunity to make sure all was well with him. The door of the Prince's suite was slightly ajar. Walter knocked on it firmly but got no response. He pushed it open and glanced inside. The discarded dress clothes, lying scattered on the bed, were all that remained to indicate the Prince had been there. Walter walked through the room and quickly checked the connecting rooms. The young man was nowhere to be found. With a sense of foreboding, Walter knew exactly where to find him and, still wearing his own formal evening suit, he headed for the stable yard. Stepping out of the cover of the portico he was glad to find that the rain had stopped at last. He had only gotten as far as the avenue of cherry trees when the Prince came cantering towards him on Max, a grim expression on his face. "Damn," Walter muttered. "Sir! May we talk?" He called out, but he got no response. The Prince passed him swiftly, his eyes averted. "Your Highness!" Walter shouted after him. The horse's pace remained constant. "Alexander!" Walter shouted again, in full voice. The sound of hoof beats continued to retreat, but they slowed, then ceased abruptly. Walter stood listening, undecided about what to do. Return to the palace and spend the night pacing the floor? Or saddle up Cyrus and try to follow the Prince? Unpalatable though the first option was, the alternative of riding out to look for him in the darkness would be insane. So it was with great relief that he heard the familiar sound of Max's hooves retracing their path along the avenue to where he stood. Horse and rider emerged again into the pool of light spilling out from the palace windows and this time the Prince's gaze rested with great intensity on Walter. Walking the horse around the older man in a tight u-turn, he brought Max to a halt and reached out his hand. Walter looked at it, then looked up into the Prince's face. There was no mistaking the young man's intent, and Walter made sure there was no uncertainty regarding his response. In that moment it became clear to them both that somehow, amid the relentless onward momentum of the world and its affairs, they were being gifted with a little, precious gap of time together, in a place where duty did not exist ... and neither of them had the strength or the inclination to refuse it. Grasping hold of the outstretched hand and taking a firm grip of the rear of the saddle, Walter pulled himself up to sit behind the Prince on Max's ample back. Immediately his arms went about the young man's waist and they set off, out into the darkness. The journey was thankfully short and familiar to the Prince, and soon he was steering Max through a set of gateposts. At the end of a driveway they both dismounted and Walter helped the Prince to remove the horse's tack. A slap on his rear sent Max trotting off around the side of the large building that stood dimly outlined before them. Walter could hear the sound of a key being turned in a lock and a door opening. Several footsteps sounded and a match was struck, its flaring, yellow brightness being quickly transferred to the wick of an oil lamp. Bending over, the Prince adjusted its flame to maximum brightness and replaced the glass shade, then he turned back to take the tack from Walter. Setting the saddle down carefully on its front end, he laid the bridle and reins across it, then closed and locked the door behind them. The hallway in which they stood was large. An impressive staircase rose up from the centre of it to connect with a galleried landing. The Prince picked up the lamp and walked to the foot of the stairs. Turning, he gave Walter a slight questioning look. Walter joined him immediately and they climbed the stairs. At the top, the Prince turned right and led the way through a set of mahogany doors into a large bedroom. Inside, everything was covered in dustsheets but Walter could tell from the freshness of the room that it was regularly cleaned and aired. The Prince set the lamp on the mantle piece and knelt down in front of the hearth. He struck another match and set light to the kindling on which a pile of logs rested. It caught instantly and, although the summer night was still warm, Walter was glad of its brightness. He went to stand in front of it and, when the young man stood up from his task, he slid his hands into the sable hair and brought their lips together in a gentle, tentative kiss. The Prince leaned into Walter and put his arms around him. They remained like that even after the kiss ended. It was plain that the Prince's greatest need was for comfort and reassurance and Walter felt a little ashamed when his body began to respond strongly to the feel and scent of the man he desperately wanted to make his lover. Sooner than he considered decent, it became impossible for him to hide his arousal and the man in his arms pulled back to look into his eyes. "I want you as much as you want me," the Prince told him in a soft murmur. They kissed fleetingly again and then the Prince pulled out of the embrace. His hands moved to open the top button of his shirt, but paused there. Even in the dim light of the fire and the single lamp, Walter could make out the flush of embarrassment on the Prince's face at the memory of what had happened earlier. He turned away from Walter and began undressing. Walter was having none of that. He stepped up behind him and put his hands on the Prince's upper arms. Placing a swathe of kisses up along the back of his neck, he whispered, "Nothing this world can do, will ever change how beautiful you are to me." He turned him then and kissed his lips with the same passion that had fueled his words, but that was only the beginning. Breaking away, he began undoing the shirt buttons. When the last one opened, he ran his hands up along the warm, sensitive skin of the Prince's chest to his shoulders where he slid them under the garment and eased it off to fall on the floor. Taking the time to look his fill, he at last leaned down to kiss and lick and suckle at the little brown buds that had peaked under his scrutiny. Unexpectedly, his teeth grazed a nipple, causing the young man to gasp and grab hold of Walter's shoulders for support. A swipe of his tongue, intended to soothe the little hurt, did nothing but incite the Prince further, and amused by his response, Walter straightened up again, a smile on his face. He stepped one pace back, and with the Prince's hands still clutching his shoulders he knelt down to willingly play the servant's role in removing the young man's shoes and socks. Setting them aside, he raised his hands to lay them on the bulge pressing against the button fly. As he did so, his manner changed, becoming more like that of an acolyte than a servant. Feeling how tightly the Prince's burgeoning manhood strained against the cloth, he was very gentle. More gentle than the Prince had patience for, and a noisy groan echoed in the room. He smiled again and molded his hands more firmly around the hidden prize. The Prince moaned and leaned into the caress. Walter glanced up to see the young man's head tilted forward and his lower lip trapped painfully between his teeth. The sight did not please him and he immediately released his hold on the Prince's genitals. Very quickly he unbuttoned the trouser fly and the linen drawers and guided them down the long, strongly muscled legs. Bending down he encouraged the Prince to step out of them and then he tossed them aside. He looked back up the length of the man's body to his face then, and the emotions he read in the deep, dark, green eyes were as complex as they were open. The love and the lust were plain enough, but also showing was great vulnerability and more than a little awe at the tender treatment he was receiving. Walter felt the need to capture the image, to fix it in his memory so that every detail would be remembered faithfully. "Beautiful," he said, holding the Prince's gaze. Then running his hands up the back of his lover's thighs to cup them round his firm buttocks, he leaned forward to rest his cheek against the erect penis. "Beautiful," he said again, feeling the man shudder in response to the vibrations of his husky voice. "There won't ever be enough of you," he murmured and turned his head to begin mouthing up the shaft towards its head. The move drew a shout from the Prince and Walter took in as much of him as he could and sucked strongly. It was enough to draw orgasm from him and his warm come filled Walter's mouth. "Uh ... so good ... " he muttered as Walter swallowed and began licking him clean, " ... but ... not enough ... need you ... inside me ... now ... " The words almost pushed Walter over the edge. He struggled to his feet and began stripping off his clothes. "Get me something to use," he ordered, "... don't want to hurt you ... hurry ..." The Prince swept the dustsheet off a tall bureau, sending the jars and bottles nestling beneath it clattering across its surface. Desperately he hunted through them until he found a bottle of almond oil. Turning back he saw Walter, naked, bending over the bed to pull off its dustsheet. He moaned aloud, causing his lover to turn towards him and the sight of the big, heavy man, fully aroused stopped him in his tracks. He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on where the long, thick penis curved upward. "You want this ... me ... don't you ...?" Walter asked in the tone of a man who had been denied too long. In answer, the Prince pushed the bottle into Walter's hand and climbed onto the bed. Dragging down a couple of pillows, he pushed them under his belly and spread his legs. A second later Walter was kneeling between them, his shaking hands struggling to remove the stopper from the bottle, and clumsily spilling more than half of the oil over the Prince's rear. Dropping the bottle, he leaned forward on his hands and rubbed his hard member into the slick crevice between the Prince's buttocks. "Can't hold back ..." he moaned, "... won't tear you ..." "You won't," the Prince bargained. "I'm no virgin ... just take me ..." With a degree of self-control he never knew he possessed, Walter reined in his desire and slid two fingers down the Prince's crack until they found their way to the perfect, little opening hidden there. To his great relief they continued to slide in with only marginal resistance. There was no more hesitation after that. It was what they both wanted. Making sure he was covered in the oil, he moved into position and wrapped one arm around the Prince's waist. With his free hand he placed the head of his penis against the willing rosebud and pushed hard enough to get it inside, then he lay down on top of his lover and used his weight and a single, powerful thrust of his hips to sheath himself completely. The man below him grunted in pain, but held steady. "Uh ... don't ... don't let me hurt you, Alexander ... " Walter babbled, taking hold of the young man's right hand in his own. "Stop talking and fuck me, Walter," Alexander growled impatiently. His words unleashed the full power and sensuality of the man on top and, settling into a slow rhythm, he began to give his lover everything he needed and more. Only gradually did he build up the depth and speed of his thrusts and by the time he was ready to come, they were both bathed in sweat. Grunting with every stroke, Walter called out a warning, " ... have to come ..." "... do it lover ... want to feel you coming ..." "... Alexander ..." he shouted, pumping deeply several times into his lover's body before collapsing on top of him. They lay like that for a while, reveling in the feel of skin on skin and enjoying the sensitivity of the places where their bodies remained joined. When eventually his penis slipped free, Walter rolled off Alexander, who in turn climbed on top of him and lay across his chest, listening as his ragged breathing calmed and his heart rate settled. They slept and roused and made love again, before falling into a deep sleep that held onto them until noon the next day. Slowly, Alexander stretched and pulled out of Walter's embrace. "Where are you going?" Walter asked groggily. "I need to pee ... and to eat ..." he replied, pulling the dustsheets off a large wardrobe and hunting through its contents. Walter watched him and then looked around the room, clearly visible for the first time in the daylight. "What is this place?" he asked. "The old dower house. My mother had it renovated so she could play 'bourgeois housewife'. It's used as guest quarters now but I keep some things here, for when life at home gets too ... intense." He pulled out some clean underwear and a fresh shirt and threw them across a nearby chair, before turning back to the huge wardrobe and beginning to search through the clothes filling the rails and shelves. "There'll be something here you can wear, Walter ... " Walter propped an extra pillow under his head and settled back to watch his beautiful, naked lover. An hour later, they were sitting in the kitchen, a breakfast bought from the neighbouring farm spread out before them. When they had eaten their fill, they went back to bed to make love and nap as the mood took them. Later they rode out to a quiet place on the river where they swam and lay under the trees, talking and touching and kissing. When the sun began to dip in the afternoon sky, they journeyed slowly back to the dower house, stopping at the farm on the way to purchase the makings of dinner. Satisfied by a simple meal, they returned upstairs where Walter did battle with a monstrosity of a gas boiler to fill the big marble bathtub with hot water. Stripping off they climbed together into its warmth and lay soaking for almost an hour before drying each other in a way that sent them hurrying back to bed, where the passions they had aroused could be indulged in comfort. It wasn't until the late in the small hours that they fell into a satiated sleep and when they woke next morning, the pattern for the new day and the ones that followed had been set. Each precious one of them was bittersweet, filled with a freedom and an honesty neither man had known before. But it was the third day that would always be most vivid in Walter's memory. They had ridden out towards the little village of Hertzonen, where the road to Prague connected with the road to Badenberg and had walked to the top of the hill behind it, where the ruins of an old church lay forgotten. Climbing up onto its broken wall, they sat watching the carts and carriages making their slow progress along the roadway. "Prague," Alexander said, pointing to the west, "and Vienna ... and Provence ... " "Don't forget the Carmargue," Walter added. Alexander laughed. "Why the Carmargue?" Walter continued, asking a question that had been on his mind since Alexander had first mentioned the place. "I found a book in the library when I was about eight," he explained. "It was full of pictures of the wild horses roaming free across the salt marshes. It was my favourite book. I still have it somewhere ... " his voice trailed away, wistfully. The tone of voice and the distant look on the young man's face opened a floodgate of emotion in Walter. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and released it. Opening his eyes again, he looked directly into Alexander's eyes. "Let's go there," he said simply. "What?" Alexander asked, confused. "Let's go there ... to the Carmargue ... you and me ... together." "Are you mad? There isn't time ... my father will be home any day ... in less than a month I'll be on my way -" "Tomorrow we could be on our way to the Carmargue," Walter interrupted him. Alexander stared at him as the meaning of the words sank in. "You are mad," he said. "If madness is choosing life ... happiness ... then yes, I'm quite mad." "But ... I have a duty ... people expect ... " his voice trailed off. "Does the thought of duty make your heart beat faster? Does doing what people expect of you make you want to be alive? Our duty is to each other, Alexander. Everything else is meaningless." He watched the young man's face as he struggled with the strange new concept of having the chance to choose freedom—to choose him. "I need time to think," Alexander told him. "And I can't think with you looking at me like that." "Take whatever time you need." Walter jumped off the wall and followed the path down the hill to where they'd left Max. He found himself a shady place under a chestnut tree and sat down to wait. Strangely, it was the sound Alexander's footfalls made as he approached that gave him the answer to his question. Still he stood and faced his lover. "Yes," he said, and smiled. Walter pulled the young man into a bear hug and held on tightly enough to make breathing difficult. They parted eventually and headed straight home, too dazed to talk much. It was late in the night, long after their lovemaking had run its course, when they began to plan the future. Walter lay in the dark, wrapped in Alexander's arms and listened to the secret desires of his lover's heart. The yearning to be free, to be known only to the people who mattered to him, to live a simple life without rules and protocols, to love whom his heart chose. "We won't have much," Walter warned him, "unless you have some resources you can carry with you." "I have some money in gold and a few personal possessions. I won't take anything that isn't mine and mine alone." "I will leave most of what I own behind for ... " he didn't finish the sentence. "It is the only thing to do. Besides, we can't draw attention to ourselves." He laughed aloud. "You realize there won't even be the possibility of something as grand as a bourgeois household. How does the thought of becoming a peasant strike you, Your Highness?" "It is strangely appealing, Count. So long as we can feed Max and Cyrus and keep a roof over our heads, I will be content." They settled down then and sleep came surprisingly easily. The following morning Walter awoke abruptly and opened his eyes to find Alexander gazing down at him. He could tell instantly from the look in the young man's eyes that the madness of the day before had not survived the cold reality of dawn. "We're not going away, are we?" he asked unnecessarily. Alexander shook his head and the little frown line above his nose was creased more deeply than Walter had ever seen it before. "My country ... my people need this alliance..." he said, his voice a broken whisper, "...and you have your own ... commitments. We cannot turn our backs on either and expect to live conscience free." Walter pulled him down into a desperate embrace. "You have to help me, Walter. I can't do this on my own," he begged. "Anything, my love ... whatever you need," he promised rashly. "Then tell me you love me one more time and help me go back to being 'His Royal Highness'." He never got the chance to reply. Downstairs the front door opened and slammed shut. "Alexander!" An angry voice shouted. "My father," Alexander whispered urgently. "Go ... quickly." Walter got out of bed, grabbed the bundle of clothes he'd left lying on the chair beside it and hurried to the connecting bathroom. He just managed to get behind the bathroom door before the King burst into the bedroom. "So this is where you have been, you ungrateful whelp!" Alexander said nothing. "And not alone, I can tell. Let me warn you that if you have done anything foolish enough to compromise this marriage, I will take a belt to you myself." An unfamiliar anger surged through Walter and it was only the fact that an intervention from him would make the situation infinitely worse for Alexander that stopped him from striking the man. "Let me make this very plain," the King thundered. "Get rid of the whore and get your sorry self back to the Palace. There is work needing done if you are to be made fit for the responsibility that is your right and your duty." With that he stalked out of the room. A sickening, empty silence settled about them for several minutes, then on either side of the door the two men dressed hurriedly. Alexander finished just as Walter entered the bedroom and came to stand behind him. The younger man did not turn round. "You must be very careful. I've never seen my father so angry," he said. "Stay here until it's dark. I'll find a way to explain your absence." As he walked to the door, Walter said, "I love you." There was a second or two of hesitation and then he was gone. The whole matter of their unscheduled absence was dealt with very discretely. In Walter's case, the only censure he received was a searching look from the Grand Duke and the frosty silence that followed it. That did not mean he went unpunished. The month that followed, during which they both suffered the agony of spending most of each day working together on the preparations for the betrothal, took care of that. But no matter how difficult it became, Walter remained true to the promise that he would help the Prince in any way he could, and, as required by protocol, on the morning of 23rd June, he watched His Royal Highness Prince Alexander Christian Gustavus Zahringan-Baden stand before the high altar in the Chapel Royal and exchange betrothal vows with his future wife. Afterwards, he found a quiet moment to snatch a few words with the Prince. "Congratulations, Sir. May I wish you good luck?" "Thank you, Count." The Prince's fingers briefly traced a path along the embroidery on the sleeve of his dress uniform. "You've returned to the army?" "I think it has been established beyond all doubt that my career as a diplomat was ill-founded. We are what we are born to be, Your Highness." He smiled, trying hard to hide the bitterness of the words. "I leave for my regiment tonight." "Then, may I wish you good luck, Count?" "Thank you, Sir." The Grand Duke made a well timed appearance. "Your fiancé has been asking for you, Your Highness," he remarked pointedly. "Of course. If you'll excuse me, Count?" Walter bowed and watched him walk away, then he left the palace for the last time. Five days later, twenty shots rang out in Sarajevo and the lives of countless people were changed ... changed utterly ... Epilogue Chateaurenard The Camargue 29th January, 1919 Walter Stollenberg sat by his window staring out at the flat, grey expanse of salt marsh. Above it, a flat, grey sky mirrored the cold desolation of the landscape, and of his heart. For him, the stillness and silence that had come to the Carmargue with the onset of winter was comforting. He welcomed the way its frozen bleakness matched his prevailing mood and cut him off from all the trivialities of humankind. In the three months since the arrival of the first frost, he had conversed with only two other people—the owner of the village grocery and the local priest. The conversation with the shopkeeper had been tolerable and necessary. His pantry needed replenishing and he had been able to keep it very businesslike. The conversation with the priest had been different, and uncomfortably social in nature. The man, a native of bustling Marseilles, evidently missed the city and its society and was in need of the kind of intellectual stimulation the local peasantry could not supply. He had been waiting for months for Walter to make an appearance in church. When it became plain that was not going to happen, he had cycled out to welcome him personally to the locality. Walter had been as respectful as he could, but with his grip on the social graces tenuous to say the least, he had let the man know his intrusion was unwelcome. Less than a quarter of an hour after he knocked on the door, the priest was leaving again. Walter had watched him ride away on his bicycle down the muddy, narrow road towards the tiny village and as the silence closed in around him again, he had returned to his solitary study of the shapes made by the burning coals in the hearth. But the Carmargue was much more to him than a peaceful safe haven. In the first few hours after he regained consciousness in the field hospital at Clermont and discovered that he had been condemned to live, it was the very notion of the place that had saved his sanity. His thoughts had been filled with dreamlike images of its wild, empty landscape and the goal of reaching it had become his obsession in the pain-wracked days and nights that followed, giving him something to focus on, something to pin his future to. Of course, by the time he was well enough to be moved to a convalescent home, he had come to realize that the obsession was nothing more than the morphine-induced re-awakening of a dream that had faded long ago. Slowly, as he recuperated and won back his strength, its siren call receded once again into the distance of his subconscious. On the morning of his release, Charlotte had driven out from Paris to bring him home. From the first moment, they had been tense and awkward with each other and being together seemed to grow more difficult, not easier as the day passed. So as soon as the silent dinner was over, Walter pleaded exhaustion and retired to his room. But by the end of the first week, it was plain that his presence in the household was creating nothing but tension and disruption. Unhappy though he was, it was Charlotte who was most adversely affected. The war had changed her life beyond recognition. Thanks to the trust fund Walter had set up for her she was financially secure and after moving to Paris she had successfully made a new life for herself in the liberal, free thinking city where pre-war attitudes and social conventions had been thrown away like a pair of old shoes. For almost five years she had been the mistress of her own destiny and she had grown accustomed to it. No matter how benign his intentions, Walter's return threatened that independence and suddenly she found herself trapped between the need to honour her marriage vows and the reality of living with a man she no longer recognized or needed. It was an impossible situation for them both. Walter watched her struggle with her conscience for another month and found himself overwhelmed with relief when she summoned up the courage to suggest he travel to their villa in Nice. "Sunshine is what you need," she told him. He was even more relieved when she looked away and told him that she would not be accompanying him there. "I understand, my dear," he told her. "It's truly for the best." When she looked back at him, there had been a moment of unfamiliar openness between them as they realized that their words had settled something much more important than the matter of a trip south. The relief she too felt, was written on her face, and like his own, it was tinged with sadness and loss. He had taken her in his arms then and they had held onto each other for a little while as the last certainty of their old lives slipped away. Three weeks later he kissed her good-bye and drove away through the busy Paris traffic towards the south. Making good progress he followed the planned route until he came to Avignon. Driving into the old city, he turned southeast towards Provence. At Arles he stopped off at the offices of a local land agent. The papers to be signed were ready and waiting for him and the man, who was also the Notary Public for the district, oversaw the signatures that made the transfer of ownership legal. From there it was only a short journey to the Carmargue. The little house he had bought, sight unseen, was simple to the point of bareness, but it had everything he needed. When he sat in its garden or lay unmoving in bed at night, the only sounds to be heard were those of the wind blowing in from the sea and the babble of the Brent geese out on the marsh. The healing he so badly needed, began almost immediately. He could feel it in his mind and soul, more than in his damaged body. Gradually, the images and the sounds of war that had been his constant companions for four years began to fade from his waking memory. His days were filled with a blank routine that required nothing of him but existence—and it made his existence bearable. The nightmares were a different matter, however. Though not as frequent as they had been in the hospital, they still plagued his sleep. In them, the thud of ordinance and the smell of death returned with a clarity that tore him sweating from sleep. Still, they no longer overwhelmed him as they had done in the beginning and he was hopeful that they could eventually be laid to rest along with his other ghosts in the solitude that surrounded him. When the priest turned up on his doorstep a second time, it was not from the desire to be social, but from the need to ask a favour. The epidemic of influenza that had been sweeping the world had somehow found its way to the remote little village. Ten of the villagers, mostly the very young and very old had already succumbed to the deadly virus. Of those who remained, over half were infected and the rest were barely coping with the task of nursing the sick. A little girl, Isabeau Forget, whose brother and father had already been taken, was the latest to fall ill. The doctor was not hopeful about her chances of survival and he was even more concerned about the fate of her mother should the child not recover. He had arranged for her to be treated in the hospital in Sainte Maries de la Mer. She needed to be transported there quickly and since Walter was the only inhabitant, apart from the doctor, who owned a motor vehicle, the priest came to ask for his help. "I would not impose on you, sir, but Dr. Bujold cannot be spared—" Walter waved away the need for an explanation and immediately fetched his coat. He and the priest drove back into the village. The child's mother was waiting on the doorstep of the family's narrow, stone house in the centre of the village when the motor car pulled up. She wrapped her shawl around herself more tightly and called into the house. The priest opened the rear door for her and helped her climb in as a man carried out what looked like a bundle of blankets and placed it on her lap in the back seat. "Thank you, sir," she murmured, glancing up at Walter. He nodded and steered the car along the road towards the sea. When they had reached the coastal town, he followed the instructions the priest had given him and within minutes he was parked outside the hospital and was carrying the child up the steps into its antiseptic interior. An orderly took the little girl out of his arms and headed towards a set of double doors. "I will wait here for you, Madame," he told the distraught mother. She thanked him again and hurried after the orderly. Walter was shown to the waiting room with its view of the sea. After three or four hours in the stuffy warmth of the room he drifted into sleep... ...it had turned cold and the clouds were so low and thick that it felt like night. They had been waiting two days for the order to attack. When the whistles sounded, ending the awful anticipation, they cheered. The cheer became a battle cry as they scrambled over the top. A quarter of them died in the first minute, never making it as far as the vicious barbed wire. Leading the way for those who remained standing, Walter ploughed through the quagmire of craters and unexploded shells and corpses. From behind them came the constant thud of artillery, laying down covering fire, in front of them where the telltale flashes of machine guns, and the churning of the earth each time a shell exploded. Seven minutes of hell later, they fought their way, hand to hand, into the enemy trenches. The general's reply to his report of 'target achieved' had been ecstatic. When asked if he wanted to send a response to the general's message, Walter simply shook his head and issued the order to his officers to begin making tallies of the dead and injured. It took them two hours to verify all the names. The list he was handed showed that more than half of his men were dead or badly injured. When the figures for the whole sector came through, he learned that two and a half thousand men had died, their lives offered up in exchange for one hundred and twenty metres of blood soaked soil. The bombardment ceased suddenly and there was a small moment of blessed silence, then the screaming began. It came from men trapped or dying in no man's land. They were the enemy, but that didn't make it any easier to listen to. The other side retrieved as many of their injured as they could. No one fired on the sorties that emerged from their new forward positions. But some of their dying were too far away for them to reach, or were too badly injured to move. So they went on screaming, through the night and into the next day. By the middle of the second night only one man continued to scream. About six a.m., just as the first glow of dawn appeared in the sky, the screaming became moaning ... an hour later it turned to whimpering... at the sound of it Walter reached breaking point... he began climbing out of the trench... his own men pulling him back... he fought them... and reached the top... there was the flash of a mauser... and the death rattle sounded loud in his ears... ...the dying soldier's... ...and his own... "Sir! Sir!" The man shook him out of the nightmare. "You are dreaming, sir... " He opened his eyes and looked around. He had no idea where he was, then he recognized the orderly's uniform and he remembered the sick child, and the journey to the hospital. A dream. It had been a dream, the one that always gave him the most grief. He took a deep breath and relaxed back into the uncomfortable, leather armchair. "Have you any news of the little girl?" he asked. The man shrugged. Walter searched his memory. "Isabeau... Isabeau Forget?" he remembered. "You will have to ask as the desk, sir," the man told him. He picked up his coat and walked to the lobby. No one was at the desk. He waited for a few minutes, then walked to the double doors leading to the wards. He looked through one of the circular window. The corridor beyond was empty and he began to turn away... then he heard it... a whimper. His hand gripped the door handle tightly in reaction to the sound. He pushed the door open slightly. He listened. Nothing. It is only the dream, he reasoned, knowing how they sometimes lingered in his mind. But just as he was about to release his hold on the door, the whimper came again, this time followed by a harsh cough and a sob. He opened the door fully and stepped into the corridor. The smell of antiseptic was overpowering and other sounds clamoured for his attention, but he held still... waiting... listening. The next time the whimpering sounded it led him to a door immediately on his right. He pushed it open. The room was sparsely furnished. Its walls were white. A simple crucifix was the only decoration. A Sister of Charity sat by the bed, saying her rosary. Lying in the bed was Alexander. Walter drew in a shaky breath and leaned his hand against the doorpost. The nun looked up from her prayers and saw him. "Sir," she held out her hand in warning. "This patient is infectious. Please leave at once." He didn't hear the words. His coat fell to the floor as he strode to the bed. Sitting down, he placed his hands gently on either side the deathly pale face. "Alexander," he called softly. The whimper sounded again, tearing at him. "Alexander," he repeated, more forcefully. The eyelids struggled to open and it was many long seconds before the green eyes focused on his face. "Alexander," he said, beseechingly. The cracked lips began to move, but only the barest whisper sounded. Walter leaned down to place his ear against them. "Am... am I dead?" Alexander asked. Walter looked back at him. "No, Alexander," he said defiantly, "you're very much alive ... you're here with me... and you're going to stay with me." There was no reaction to his words, but the effort to speak had initiated a bout of coughing in Alexander. He became agitated, fighting for each painful breath, his lips taking on a bluish tinge. Trying not to panic, Walter stood up and wrenched the tightly tucked bed linen free. Reaching under Alexander, he raised him from his flat position on the bed and looked around for more pillows to prop him up. There were none. Sitting down on the bed again, he pulled Alexander towards him and leaned him against his chest, his hand moving in soothing circles across the young man's back. "Breathe, Alexander, breathe. Everything's going to be fine. You're safe now, with me," he whispered into his lover's ear. "Sister! Nurse!" he called, noticing the woman was no longer in the room. The words were hardly out of his mouth when two orderlies burst into the room. One of them began to lift Alexander out of his arms while the other caught hold of his right arm in a manner that showed he meant business. "Don't be awkward now, sir," he instructed. "You have to come with us." Walter didn't move a millimetre, nor did he release his comforting embrace on Alexander. "Step back," he warned the two men, "or I will not be responsible for my actions." His voice came out as a kind of low, intense rumble. The men let go and looked back towards the door where the nun was standing. "Sir," she began, "we are acting in your best interest—" "I'm sure you are, Sister, but I'm not in any danger. I have been exposed to this disease many times and have never become sick. Not that it would make any difference. I'm staying here with Alexander." There was an absolute finality to the words. "Now," he continued, "get me some pillows... and the chief consulting physician." She issued an order to one of the orderlies, then he heard her quiet footsteps retreat down the corridor. Walter straightened a little and allowed Alexander to fall back into his supporting arms so he could look at his face. The intensity of his coughing had eased and the blueness around his lips was disappearing. "Get some water," Walter instructed the remaining orderly. The man walked around to the little bedside cabinet and poured some water from the carafe into a glass. Leaning across the narrow bed, he held the glass to Alexander's lips and allowed a tiny sip to pass between them. "Drink, Alexander," Walter coaxed and immediately the young man swallowed convulsively. "Give him some more." The man began feeding him water and Alexander drank it down greedily. After the fourth swallow Walter said, "Enough." Alexander moaned. "There'll be as much as you want later," Walter promised. Just then, the other orderly returned with an armful of pillows and, as Walter continued to support him, the two men banked them up behind Alexander. Gently, Walter laid him back against the supporting softness and got his first good look at his lover. He was desperately thin, his skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones. His beautiful sable hair had been shaved to almost nothing. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to remain conscious. He moved restlessly in the bed, his breathing shallow and laboured. "Go to sleep now, Alexander," Walter told him. "I'll be here when you wake." Almost at once, the young man's body relaxed back into the pillows and Walter felt his own tension ease. He reached out to take Alexander's hand in his own and it was only then that he noticed the empty sleeve. He ran his hand up along it until he felt the end of the misshapen stump. "Oh sweet Jesus... " he murmured. A shudder passed through Alexander's body and he hurriedly released his grip on the damaged arm. His breath caught in his throat and a wave of nausea swept through him. Not at the thought of the disfigurement inflicted his beloved's body, but at the pain and fear Alexander must have endured because of it. The nausea passed quickly, though, and it was replaced with anger and remorse that he had not been there to protect Alexander from such an obscenity. But before he could dwell on it, a man in a crumpled white coat bustled into the room, quickly followed by the Sister of Charity. "I am Dr. Vaillancourt, the chief clinician of the hospital, sir. I believe you wish to speak with me?" the doctor said, brusquely, coming to stand beside the bed. Walter stood up and looked him straight in the eye. "What is his condition?" Walter asked. "Sister?" the doctor said, reaching out his hand. The nun unclipped a clipboard from the end of the bed and handed it to him. The doctor flipped through the sheets attached to it, giving each one little more than a cursory glance. "The patient has been given the standard treatment and has been made as comfortable as possible." He shrugged his shoulders. "It is now up to nature to run its course." He handed the clipboard back to the nun and said, "If you would excuse me, sir, I have many other patients to attend." He headed towards the door. Walter reached it before him and blocked his way. "That is not good enough, doctor." "Really, sir, I don't—" "The child ... the little girl I brought to the hospital... Isabeau Forget. The doctor in Chateaurenard sent her here for specialist treatment." "That is something... unproven... something that one of my junior doctors read about in a journal. I only agreed to it because the child is dying. Whatever we do now will make little difference to the outcome." "What is Alexander's prognosis, doctor?" Walter asked bluntly. The doctor glanced back at the young man lying in the bed and heaved a weary sigh. "It is not good, sir," he answered. "He won't survive the night, will he doctor?" Walter continued. The man shook his head, then took a few minutes to weigh the risk against the certainty before coming to a decision. "Very well, I will send Dr. Hebert to you, Mr. - ?" "Stollenberg." "I will also need to you sign a consent form. What is your relationship to the patient?" "I'm... his brother," Walter lied, not altogether convincingly. "You are Mr. Baden's brother?" the doctor asked, his eyebrows rising. "I meant... half brother... of course," Walter replied, even less convincingly. The doctor gave Walter a skeptical look, but he made no further comment. Taking back the chart from the nun, he returned to Alexander's bedside and began reading through it more carefully. "Sister, please fetch Dr. Hebert," he requested. The young doctor who returned with the nun several minutes later looked completely worn out. Nonetheless, he assisted the older physician with a degree of enthusiasm that increased markedly when he was asked his opinion of Alexander's suitability for the new experimental treatment. At Walter's insistence, before doing anything, they explained Alexander's condition to him in layman's terms. Listening carefully to the doctors' words, he learned that the greatest danger to patients who contracted the new strain of influenza was not the illness itself but rather its tendency to open the way to more deadly germs. Having come through the acute phase of the disease, Alexander had somehow contracted a secondary bacterial infection that was rapidly developing into bronchopneumonia. Left unchecked it would destroy his lungs, and eventually lead to toxaemia and heart failure. That much he understood, but when they began talking about 'irregular pyrexia' and 'leucopoenia' he interrupted them. "What does this new treatment involve, gentlemen?" Walter asked. "We will begin with a 'roentgenograph' and a Wassermann reaction test to see what we are up against," Dr. Vaillancout began. "If it is the type of bacteria I suspect, I will then prescribe a drug called 'epinephrine'... " the doctor's voice trailed away as he looked down at Alexander. Taking hold of his jaw gently, he moved Alexander's head from side to side. Walter immediately recognised the symptom the man had noticed, a faint bluish tinge creeping over Alexander's face. He knew what it meant as well as the doctor. "Sister," the doctor called. "I want you to start this patient on oxygen immediately." The nun left with an orderly to fetch the equipment. "These are just the first steps in the treatment," Dr. Vaillancourt said, turning to Walter. "We will see how he responds over the next twelve hours. Now, Mr. Stollenberg, I have something to say to you. I will give permission to remain in this room on one condition only, namely that you obey the instructions of the nursing staff and do not get in their way. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, doctor," Walter agreed. "Good." The next few hours were hectic. With the oxygen mask fitted, Alexander was wheeled down to a room in the basement where a film of his chest was taken. Through it all Walter held his hand and explained everything as simply as he could. The only time he left the young man's side was for the few moments when the 'roentgengraph' machine was activated. As soon as the green light came on again, he returned to his sentry position at the side of the trolley and helped wheel it back to Alexander's hospital room. Already, the oxygen was making a difference. Alexander's breathing was becoming easier and a little colour was returning to his face. When Doctor Hebert came back carry out the blood test and to administer the drug, he told Walter that the processed film had shown the pneumonia to be much less advanced that they had feared. He said it was a good sign It then became a matter of vigilance and careful nursing. Twice in each hour a nurse came to take Alexander's temperature and listen to his lungs and heart. Regularly he was bathed and turned in the bed. Cold compresses were administered to his forehead, while warm packs were placed across his chest. Tired of having Walter hovering over them to no purpose, the staff began to involve him in the care of Alexander. He was given the responsibility of getting as much fluid into him as possible. He also helped with the lifting and bathing, but undoubtedly his most important contribution was his presence. He became the constant reassurance Alexander needed when the pain was bad and the fear threatened to overwhelm him. In the snatched minutes whenever the nurse on duty left the room for supplies or to answer a summons, he would gather Alexander into his arms and tell him about Chateaurenard and the little house, and make all sorts of promises about how happy they were going to be living there. As he talked he could feel the body in his arms relax a little, though Alexander's hand always held on to his shirtsleeve as tightly as his weakened state would allow. Around three a. m. on the second night, Walter noticed a change in Alexander's breathing. It was a faint wheezing that alerted him first. For nearly ten minutes he listened intently. It became more obvious with every passing minute, as did Alexander's increasing agitation. He let go of the hand he was holding and walked to the other side of the bed. Shaking the nurse awake, he said, "Fetch Dr. Hebert. Something's wrong." Walter's words jolted the nurse into awareness and he went to check Alexander's condition. The worried expression he wore when he finished, confirmed Walter's fears. As soon as the man left the room, Walter took hold of Alexander's hand again. "You are not going to let this beat you, Alexander. Do you hear me?" He demanded. "You're a fighter... a survivor... you're stronger than this -" Dr. Hebert's entrance halted the tirade and Walter glanced over at the physician with a look of desperation on his face. What he saw did not comfort him. The young man looked as though he should be in a sick bed himself. Still, he immediately put on his stethoscope and placed it to Alexander's chest. "Roll him onto his side," he instructed Walter. "I want to listen at his back." Walter gently turned Alexander and held him in position. The doctor listened intently for several minutes. "You can put him down on the bed again," he said. "What is it?" Walter asked. "Fluid is pooling in his lungs. I'm going to have to drain it off." Walter swallowed hard, but he nodded his agreement. "What can I do, doctor?" "You can hold him." It was one of the hardest things Walter had ever had to do, but he held Alexander securely against his chest and used all his strength and courage to give him the support he needed. Even before the procedure was completed, he could feel the improvement it brought about in Alexander's breathing and when he laid him back down on the bed and wiped the sweat from his face, the exhausted man was comfortable enough to drift off into a deep sleep. Walter drew his own first easy breath of the night as he watched the doctor insert a tube into a vein in Alexander's arm so a constant supply of isotonic glucose could be drip-fed to him. "That's as much as I can do, Mr. Stollenberg," the doctor said when he finished writing up the notes on Alexander's chart. "Now it is up to him." He left then and Walter returned to his vigil. Within minutes of his sitting down in the chair, the nurse fell asleep once again. Walter was happy to let him sleep. It gave him a degree of privacy with Alexander that was very welcome. Unobserved, he was free to dwell on each expression that passed across Alexander's face and to hold his hand. As the hours passed he catalogued all the changes adversity had wrought in his beautiful lover since he had last seen him, five long years before. Compared to what had been done to his arm, the small scars and incipient wrinkles on his face were nothing. If anything, each imperfection, whether small or large, only served to make him more human and vulnerable in Walter's eyes. They also reminded him of his own words and their validity, 'Nothing this world can do, will ever change how beautiful you are to me.' But he had another, more urgent reason for his close observation of Alexander. He watched for signs of cyanosis and listened intently for any change in the rate and depth of his breathing. He also monitored the dial on the oxygen tank so that he could have its replacement into position when it was needed, and kept watch on the glucose drip so he could set it flowing again whenever it seized up. By eight o'clock the following morning, the constant vigilance and anxiety had left Walter in a state of exhaustion. Dr. Vaillancourt came into the room on his rounds and after examining Alexander and finding his condition satisfactory, he turned his attention to Walter. "I'm prescribing a minimum of six hours sleep for you, Mr. Stollenberg," he said firmly. "I can't leave—" "You will be allowed back in at 2 o'clock, not a minute before. You'll find the Hotel Mirador in the Rue Rodin, that's to your left as you leave the hospital. It's clean and comfortable." "But—" "Mr. Baden is doing remarkably well. I believe the worst is over. You, on the other hand, look like death warmed over, and I can assure you I have all the patients I need at the moment." With a final glance at Alexander's sleeping face, Walter reluctantly left the room and followed the doctor's directions to the hotel. The weariness that overtook him as he turned the key in the lock meant he didn't even get undressed before stretching out on the bed and falling into a heavy sleep. An insistent knocking on the room door woke him five hours later. "Sir, it is one o'clock. You asked to be woken at this hour," a muffled voice called. "Are you awake, sir?" Walter climbed out of the bed, noticing how crumpled his clothes were. "Yes, I am awake. Thank you," he answered. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and walked to the window. As he opened it, a bracing wind from the sea filled the room with the smell of salt and fish. He breathed it in, savouring every easy, oxygen filled breath, and thought of Alexander. He hurried to the telephone on the bedside table and cranked the handle. "Front desk," a voice responded immediately. "This is room seventeen. I want you to send up a pot of coffee and some croissants as soon as possible." "Very good, sir. Anything else?" "Can I have a suit pressed immediately?" "Of course, sir. I'll send someone up for it." Less than an hour later, he was walking into the hospital feeling refreshed and rested. He didn't ask anyone's permission to enter Alexander's room, though he did knock quietly on the door before he pushed against it. What he saw when it swung open, brought a smile to his face, Alexander was awake and sitting propped up against a hill of pillows. The oxygen cylinder with its mask stood unneeded in the corner of the room. The intravenous bottle and frame were gone altogether and the sister who had been on duty the day he found Alexander was standing beside the bed, holding a spoonful of some kind of mushy food to his lips. Alexander looked over at him and a ghost of a smile materialized on his face. He tried to push the nun's hand away, and grimaced when she gently swatted his hand away and continued to force the food into his mouth. "I'll take over, Sister," Walter intervened smoothly. "I'm sure there are other duties needing your attention." She put the spoon back in the dish and waved a warning finger at her patient. "Eat it all, Alex," she ordered. Alex. Her use of the shortened name made Walter halt in his tracks, though only for a second. It sounded so strange and yet... so right. He tried it out. "Well enough to be causing trouble I see, Alex." It felt as right as it sounded and... Alex... didn't seem to notice the difference. "Walter... " he whispered croakily. "Don't try to talk. You're going to need all your energy to eat this," he warned. Alex frowned deeply and sealed his lips. "Thatıs not going to work," Walter told him matter-of-factly, "so you may as well make the best of it." While Walter kept up the small talk, Alex stoically ate as much of the pureed food as he could. Only a few spoonfuls remained when the nun came in to check on him, and she relented on those when she saw how tired he looked. She quickly took his temperature and pulse rate and noted them down on his chart. "Time for a nap," she stated, looking pointedly at Walter before beginning to remove some of the pillows. "No," Alex said as forcefully as he could. "Your brother can wait in the lobby, Alex. I'll call him as soon as you wake." "Brother -?" Alex asked, looking confused. "I'd like to remain with him, sister," Walter interrupted before any damage could be done. "I'll make sure he sleeps." She was not happy with such flouting of the rules, but she gave in and picking up the dish, left the room. Alex was staring at Walter. "I had to pretend to be related to you, or they would have thrown me out," he explained, pulling up a chair and sitting down close to the bed. Alex reached out to take his hand and held onto it tightly. Walter looked down at their clasped hands and said, "I take it this means you have no objection to there being a connection between us?" Alex held on even tighter and smiled. "Don't remember much... but..." he whispered with agonizing slowness, " I know... you saved my life." "You weren't the only one I was saving," Walter whispered back. "Now you'd better try to sleep, or that nun really will have me thrown out." "You stay... promise?" Alex asked, his eyes beginning to close. "Always." Sleep took hold then and he slipped into its healing arms. With Alex off the critical list, the nursing staff became less tolerant of Walter's presence and promptly at eight o'clock he was sent away with the other visitors. Before leaving the ward, however, he stopped at the Sister's office to ask who it was that had brought Alex to the hospital. She checked her file and referred him to the almoner's office in the main lobby. A worn looking, middle-aged man was working late in the small office when Walter knocked on the door. "Come in," he called. "I'm looking for some information on Alex Baden, Ward 6," Walter explained. "Charity case?" the man asked. Walter bristled. "Perhaps," he conceded, watching the man go through a card index. "Though not any more. I am his brother. You can send the bills to me." Walter wrote his name and address on the sheet of paper the man gave him and left it back on the desk. "Ah, yes, here it is. I remember this one," the man said taking a card out of the drawer. "Mr. Baden was admitted a week ago." "How was he brought here?" "Old Mr. Fourier, from the livery stable across town brought him in. He had been doing some odd jobs around the stable for the old man... well, as much as he could with the disability. Fourier couldn't pay him much, but he let him sleep in the hayloft. He felt bad about having to sign him in as a charity case, but times are hard, sir, as you know," he finished, eyeing Walter's expensive coat. "Is that all you know?" Walter asked. The man looked up at him nonplussed. "I would have thought that since you are his brother, sir, you would—" "We lost touch at the beginning of the war," Walter interrupted. "I happened upon him by chance when I was asked to bring a patient from Chateaurenard here to the hospital." "Ah, how fortunate for you, sir," the man told him. He stood up and walked to the back of the room. Hunting though a dozen bundles of clothing lying on a shelf, he found the one he was looking for. He checked the label a second time and brought it over to Walter. "I'll need you to sign for this," he said, sitting back down at this desk and taking out a form, which he stamped and dated. Walter signed it and thanked the man. He carried the bundle back to his hotel and ordered dinner to be served in his room. While waiting for it to arrive, he untied the rope holding the bundle together and spread it out on the bed. It consisted mostly of mismatched, old clothes, but hidden here and there among them were a few personal items. In the toe of a sock he found a gold pocket watch and a signet ring. He wound the antique watch carefully and listened to its fine mechanism springing into life. Setting it to the correct time, he discovered that it chimed each quarter hour with a pleasant musical phrase. The signet ring bore the crest of the Zahringan-Baden family and was studded with several square cut diamonds. He put the jewellery aside. The next item he found was a flat, black leather box that fitted into the palm of his hand. He undid the clasp and opened it. The contents made him gasp. Resting on its velvet lining and threaded with a scarlet ribbon was a 'Croix d'Honneur'. On the reverse face of the medal was engraved, 'Alex Baden—1918'. Reverently, he set the box on the bedside table and searched through the rest of the clothing. Inside a jacket pocket he found a wallet containing a few francs, Alex's identity documents and his military discharge papers. Tucked into the back of the wallet was a page torn from a picture book. He gently unfolded it, careful not to let the worn creases fall apart. A stampede of wild Lipizzaner horses thundered across the page. Walter smiled, realizing how much he owed to the book from which it came. He refolded the page just as carefully and put it back in the wallet, then setting aside the military discharge papers and the jewellery, he gathered up the entire worldly possessions of Alexander Zahringan-Baden into a bundle and tied it again with the length of rope. He put the bundle into a dresser drawer and slipped the jewellery into the breast pocket of his jacket. Settling back on the bed, he read through the discharge papers. Unsurprisingly, it was a medical discharge and it showed that Alex had been awarded a small pension because of his disability. The recommendation for the pension was counter-signed by one Lieutenant Colonel Michel Janffre. After dinner, Walter sat down at the desk and wrote a letter to the Lieutenant Colonel. In it, he introduced himself as Alex's half brother, and imposed on the man a request to furnish the details of Alex's military career and an account of how he had sustained his injury. He included the name of a high-ranking officer in the French army who could vouch for his good character and signed the letter using his own military rank and the name of his former regiment. The next afternoon, Alex was stronger and much more vocal. He could remember snatches of Walter telling him about a little house near Chateaurenard and he wanted to hear more. Walter indulged him by describing all of the house's quirky features in great detail. "...so obviously the builder didn't own a metre rule, since no two doors or windows are the same size... nor have I been able to find a single right angle in the entire place," he finished. "That doesn't mean it isn't a good house," Alex countered. "It is a very good house and I have been content living in it," Walter said, his tone becoming measured and thoughtful. "But it is just a house, not a home." "Your home is elsewhere, Walter, with your wife and family," Alex said, the brightness fading from his eyes. "Wherever I will call home, it won't be with Charlotte. She and I have parted... amicably... there will be no reconciliation." Alex lay very still, apparently in deep thought. Walter looked at him hopefully. Alex said nothing. Walter huffed in an irritated fashion. "I'm going to be the one who has to ask, aren't I?" Alex's fear melted away and he smiled at Walter. "No, you already asked the question... a long time ago and the answer is still 'yes'... but this time it is given with a free and willing heart..." he told his lover. "...a little peasant house in the Carmargue shared with you is the only place I want to call home." But the tiny doubt that lingered made him add, "That is, if you want me." "Want you?" Walter asked, making no attempt to hide the hunger in the words and in his eyes. "There are so many ways I want you, I don't know where to begin." Alex was stunned by the intensity of Walter's words, and the expression that appeared on his face made Walter's ardour suddenly cool. He smiled. "Don't worry, my love, I have no intention of ravishing you in your sick bed." Alex smiled back. "Well, if I ever needed an incentive to get out of it..." he began, but he didn't finish the sentence, and his face clouded with some unspoken worry. "What?" Walter asked. "I've changed, Walter... I'm not the same person, in mind or in body." "That's what life does to us all, my love. No one escapes it, especially in wartime." "If you are sure...?" "I'm sure." "There's one more thing..." "What?" "I can't ever talk about it... the war, I mean... or even the time before... " "I understand, Alex. The only thing I value from the past is knowing you. Let the devil take the rest of it." When, two days later, he returned to his hotel and opened the package that was waiting for him, he understood Alex's reluctance to talk about his experiences in the war. It contained a long letter from Lieutenant Colonel Janffre and a copy of Alex's military record. He read through both with slow deliberation. The file gave the facts, the letter told the story. Private Alex Baden had volunteered within months of the outbreak of hostilities. At his own request, he was assigned to a regiment already at the front. There he was quickly identified as an able soldier with leadership potential and was promoted to sergeant, then to lieutenant with unusual haste. Janffre's words placed no gloss on Alex's approach to soldiering, describing him as '... a completely ruthless and driven killing machine...' Walter had encountered soldiers like that at the front. They were the men who had nothing to live for... nothing to lose. He read on. Janffre described how the enlisted men in his unit had followed him slavishly in the beginning. He took care of them. His unit had the lowest casualty rate and the highest kill rate in the detachment. But then, as his orders became increasingly reckless, the men began requesting re-assignment to other units. 'They still followed him, of course,' Janffre wrote, 'because he is a leader, and because his own fearlessness inspired their loyalty. But mostly they followed him because they were afraid of him and because they knew that if the circumstances warranted it, he would be as ruthless with them as he was with the enemy." He went on to tell how orders to withdraw Alex's unit from the front line came down from regimental headquarters, and how Alex was ordered to report for a psychological assessment. But it never happened because his file somehow passed across the desk of an officer in military intelligence who diverted it to his commanding officer. Less than a month later Alex was transferred to the intelligence corps. Janffre could tell him nothing about Alex's work with military intelligence, and the next time the officer heard of him was when his name appeared on the list of those being awarded the Croix d'Honneur. He referred Walter to the medical report that had led to his discharge from the army. Walter took out the copy of the report. It made grim reading, but the sentence that stood out contained the words: '...clearly the amputation was not carried out in a surgical setting, nor was it performed by a physician." Walter sat staring at them for a long time, then feeling drained, he collected together all the papers and returned them to the file. After putting it away in the drawer along with Alexander's belongings, he took out a sheet of writing paper and began composing a letter of thanks to the Lieutenant Colonel. Alex grew tired of the hospital routine very quickly and, even though Walter spent every second of the permitted visiting times at his bedside, he was soon agitating to be set free. A combination of his promises to be a model patient at home and his increasingly restless behaviour eventually persuaded Dr. Vaillancourt to give in and sign the release form. On the day it was handed over, Walter, armed with two pages of nursing instructions and a box full of medication, hurried home to get everything ready. The next morning, he paced the living room waiting for the ambulance to arrive from the hospital. When he spotted it approaching from the direction of the village, he went outside to watch it complete the final kilometre of its journey then he helped the two attendants lift the wheelchair, containing a happily grinning Alex, out of the back. Walter thanked the men and pushed the wheelchair up the path and into the house. "Welcome home, Alex," he said, pulling his lover up into his arms. Unable to reply in words, Alex leaned forward and placed his lips against Walter's. By any standard it was a timid, almost chaste kiss, but it was given with love and trust and for both men it marked the moment when life began again. Walter smiled at his lover and eased him down to sit on the settee by the fire. He fussed over his pillows and blankets until Alex pushed him away. "I'm hungry, Walter," he declared. "Hungry for some real food." Immediately, Walter disappeared into the kitchen... They spent the day talking and planning what they would do with the thirty acres of land that had come with the house. There was even an argument over Alex's demand to be taken out to see the yard and pasture at the back. Of course, Alex prevailed and wrapped up in four layers of wool he was wheeled out into the winter sunshine. As he watched his lover close his eyes and breathe in deep lungfuls of the clear, crisp air, Walter knew he had been right to give in, the slow journey to recovery that lay ahead Alex would not be furthered by treating him like an invalid. Nonetheless, after twenty minutes in the cold, Walter was wheeling him back inside, oblivious to the threats and entreaties. At seven o'clock, when the weariness started to show on Alex's face, Walter went upstairs to light the lamps in the bedroom. He carefully broke open the fire that had been banked down all afternoon and watched it flame into life before adding fresh coals. Downstairs again, he wheeled Alex to the privy and helped him inside to attend to his needs. Then he wheeled the chair to the foot of the stairs. He didn't intend there to be an argument over what had to happen next, trying to climb the stairs would exhaust Alex, so he simply reached down and picked him up. It was an indication of how tired his lover must be when there was no argument. Alex just wound his arm around Walter's neck and let him get on with it. Setting him down on the edge of the bed, Walter closed the door. Alex glanced round the simple room. It was just big enough for the iron framed double bed, a wardrobe, a dresser, a washstand and a chair. The addition of a camp bed in the corner behind the door left little more than breathing space. "I hope the previous owners left that behind by mistake," Alex said, eyeing the freshly made camp bed with distaste. "That is the thoughtful gesture of Madame Avare. She will be coming up from the village every day to help out until you are on your feet again. You'll meet her tomorrow, she is... well... she is Madame Avare." Walter began taking off Alex's boots. "Won't her presence in the house make things difficult?" Alex asked. "Not at all. The whole village knows the story of how I found my long lost brother while performing a good deed," he continued. "It was carried back from the hospital by Father Lambert. I am told he preached a sermon on it." The thought of that made them smile at each other. "And since we have proved to be such an inspiration to our neighbours, I think it would be wrong to correct any minor misperception the good father and his congregation may have formed." Alex laughed aloud and began unbuttoning his shirt. Walter took over from him and swiftly undid and removed the garment. He was dreading the next moment, for though he had seen the damaged arm several times in the hospital, it had only been at times when Alex was either semi or totally unconscious. He let his gaze rest on it for a moment then he looked into Alex's eyes and began stripping off his own clothes. When he stood naked in front of his lover, he ran his hand across the ugly, jagged scar that traversed his belly and abdomen. Alex looked at it, his shock and concern driving all thought of his own injury from his mind. He reached out towards Walter and gathered him in, his arm wrapping around Walter's waist and his face pressing against Walter's chest. "How?" he asked. Walter caught hold of his head in gentle hands and coaxed him to look up before he said, "We're leaving the past in the past. Remember?" "But-" "I survived, Alex. That's all that matters." He gently manoeuvred himself out of the protective embrace and knelt down on one knee to undo the button fly on Alex's trousers. With Alex's help he tugged them and the woollen 'long johns' down and off and tossed them both across the camp bed. Eagerly he looked back at his lover, sitting open and vulnerable before him. "Ah, just as I remember," he said, sighing happily. Alex gave him a gentle cuff round the ear, then glancing down Walter's body to his groin, he murmured, "Me too." Walter grinned and bent down to lay a trail of kisses up one thigh and down the other. Alex laughed out loud at the ticklish sensation and ran his hand over Walter's balding head. "Something has changed, though ..." Walter diverted from his task, looked up sharply. "... but I like it... it's right somehow... and it's a sign of virility..." With a blank expression, Walter stood up and began folding back the thick down quilt and under sheet. "...not that it was ever in question..." Walter scowled and lifted Alex's legs into the bed. There was a soft thump as the young man fell back against the pillows. "Does this mean I'm going to get a demonstration?" Alex asked, staring up at him hopefully. Walter's resolve nearly cracked then but he managed to keep control of his mirth. "This means you're going to sleep," Walter told him, pulling the quilt up to under his chin and tucking it in tightly. A minute later the lamp was doused and Walter was sliding in beside Alex, taking him in his arms. The bed quickly filled with their body heat and settling further into his lover's warm embrace Alex said, "These words have waited a long time, Walter... I love you." Enough light was spilling out from the fire for Walter to see Alex's face clearly. Tempted though he was by the beauty of the man, he contented himself with placing a soft kiss on his lover's mouth and with listening to the easy sound of his breathing as it settled into an untroubled rhythm. It was a long time before Walter joined him in sleep though. The feel of having his lover in his arms where he belonged, was just too intoxicating to be let slip away easily. Eventually, of course, his body's need for rest won, and around two o'clock in the morning, when the fire had burned low and the room was quite dark, he drifted off. He woke abruptly five hours later, one split second before the climax of an intense dream of him coming deep inside his lover. Unsurprisingly, he found he was hard and aching, his penis pressed against the cleft in Alex's rear. He choked back a groan and began to pull away from the deliciously warm body in his arms. He didn't get very far. "Mmm... where're you going?" Alex mumbled. "It's time to get up, Alex. I'll—" "I think you're up already, Walter," Alex interrupted, chuckling as he turned onto his left side to face his lover. "And I think I need to do something about that." "No... " Walter murmured, pulling away further, "... this is too soon... you are not ready for this." Alex followed him across the bed. "I am ready for this, Walter. I want this. I want to be close to you. I want to feel you and to hear you. Let me do this..." Walter relented and allowed Alex to lie along his right side. Alex kissed him then and slid his leg between Walter's, forcing them apart. His hand traced patterns through Walter's chest hair and plucked at his nipples while his leg pressed gently but insistently against Walter's testicles. Walter moaned and his hand moved down to take hold of his own penis. Alex caught it by the wrist and laid it flat on the bed. "That's mine to take care of," Alex told him confidently. Walter moaned again, but it didn't bring any urgency to Alex's ministrations and he returned to Walter's nipples. This time using his mouth on them, sucking and licking in no particular pattern, as he listened to the needy sounds of his lover. Finally, after several minutes of teasing caresses to his testicles, Alex's fingers wrapped themselves around Walter's penis and began a firm massage. Very little more stimulation was required because the man was so hard and so in need of release, just one swift sweep of his thumb over the exposed glans and Walter was coming and yelling as hard and as loud as was humanly possible. "That's it, my love... give it me..." Alex was coaxing and laughing. His hand milking every last drop of come and pleasure out of his lover's orgasm. Afterwards, as Alex trailed his fingers through the sticky mess on Walter's belly, it was the older man's turn to be held and watched as he slipped back into sleep. A month later, Walter hauled the last bucket of hot water up the curving staircase to the bedroom. The countryside was still in the grip of winter and he had insisted on placing the old copper bath that usually stood in the upstairs washroom before the fire in their room so Alex could bathe in comfort. For once, Alex had not complained about his protective streak. There had been ice on the inside of the washroom windowpanes that morning and even with the fires burning all day in the hearths, the washroom temperature was still hovering around freezing. Closing the door on the draughty landing behind him, Walter carried the bucket over to the bath. "Ready?" he asked. Alex nodded and sat forward so Walter could carefully rinse the soap out of his hair. Enjoying the way the water flowed and cascaded through the sable waves, Walter noted with satisfaction how quickly Alex's hair was growing. He estimated that another month would bring it to just about its perfect length. With a sense of anticipation he set down the bucket and handed Alex a small towel to wipe his eyes. "Are you ready to get out?" he asked. "No... it will be a while yet," Alex answered in a self-indulgent tone, sinking back into the warm depths. "Hmmm..." Walter murmured and sat down in the armchair beside the fire. He turned up the wick of the lamp and lifted his book then he opened it at the bookmark and began reading, his booted foot finding a convenient place to rest on the rough stone of the fireplace. In his peripheral vision he was aware of Alex's movements; the way he occasionally ran the soapy washcloth over his chest and shoulders, and how he settled his head more comfortably on the folded towel that Walter had placed between it and the hard rim of the bath. How well Alex was feeling showed in his eyes and in his eager demeanour. Steadily, day by day his health and strength were returning and though he still tired easily, more often than not, there was a good reason for it. Just that day he had spent all morning working at little tasks around the barn and paddock. In the afternoon they had driven over to see old Mr. Fourier and had eaten lunch with him and his wife. On the way home they had stopped in at the grocery store in Chateaurenard to order a month's provisions and there they had met Madame Forget. At her insistence they accompanied her home to see Isabeau who had been released from the hospital just two days before. The visit turned into having dinner and it was well past nine o'clock before they arrived home. And through the whole of the long, strenuous day there had been no breathlessness and no pain. Alex bent his knees and sank even deeper into the water, rinsing off the last of the soap, then he levered himself up again. "I'll get out now," he said. Closing his book, Walter fetched the towel that had been warming over the fireguard and slung it over his shoulder. He reached down and took hold of Alex's outstretched hand and with a well-judged effort, he gave his lover enough lift to stand up out of the water without sending it splashing over the bedroom floor. Dripping and flushed pink from the warmth, Alex grabbed the towel off Walter's shoulder and began drying himself briskly. As he stepped out onto a second towel, Walter dipped the bucket in the water to begin the tedious job of emptying the bath and walked to the bedroom door. "Walter... " Alex called out to him in a strangely awed voice just as he reached it. Walter turned back to look at Alex and found him staring down at the way his penis was making a good attempt at getting half hard. He dropped the bucket with a clattering splash and crossed the distance back to his lover in two strides. Sinking to his knees, he engulfed the entire organ in his mouth and began sucking gently. Alex drew in a gasping breath and cupped his hand tightly around the back of Walter's head. Afraid that Alex might lose the tenuous erection, Walter began adding little teasing touches of his tongue to the sucking. The response was a gratifying lengthening and hardening of the penis and he slowly pulled off it until only the head remained in his mouth. The sensations his talented tongue bestowed on it were enough to bring Alex the distance to full erection. With a few final licks and sucks on the glans he allowed the wet organ to bounce free from his mouth and he sat back on his heels to view his efforts. The sight was beautiful and arousing, as was the look on Alex's flushed face. Standing quickly, Walter half carried, half dragged Alex over to the side of the bed and manoeuvred him back to lie on it with his legs hanging off the edge. Pushing them apart, Walter knelt down between them and once again took the penis in his mouth, sliding his lips up and down it this time in a regular rhythm. Alex groaned noisily and his hand clutched at the bed linen. Reaching up, Walter's fingers began nipping and rolling Alex's nipples, making each little movement fit the rhythm his mouth had established. Steadily, he began increasing the speed and the intensity of what he was doing with his mouth and fingers, and beneath him he could feel a satisfying tension begin to coil itself tighter and tighter in Alex's groin. He spilled suddenly and silently on a down stroke of Walter's mouth, filling it with his bitter, enticing come. Walter released him carefully and swallowed. As he stood up to fetch the washcloth from the bath, feeling almost dizzy with euphoria, he heard Alex laugh. Abandoning the washcloth, he climbed onto the bed and took his lover in his arms, joining him in the laughter. When it subsided, Alex told him, "You know I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to be able to... if that was ever going to happen again." "Can't keep a good man down," Walter told him, only to receive a hearty thump for his trouble. He ignored it and continued, "This merits a celebration. We have a bottle of good champagne in the back of the pantry. I'd say it has Little Alex's name on it. I'll go fetch -" "Oh no," Alex told him, "no champagne for me." He pulled Walter down into a lush and sensual kiss. Ending it reluctantly, he explained, "I want to do this again..." Another kiss. "...soon..." A third. "...now... " Walter took control of the kissing then, as he felt Alex's hand begin undoing the buttons of his shirt. Incredibly, in that moment, despite the heat and passion that had flared between them, the basic truth of his existence suddenly became clear to him - this was how his life was meant to be. It felt good to be finally home. finis I love deadlines. I love the noise they make as they go whizzing by. Douglas Adams guppyshark@populli.net

Title: The Price of Duty Author: Claire Dobbin Pairing: Skinner/Krycek Rating: NC17 Type: AU/Romance Warnings: None Summary: A detour far into AU country. back to top

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