WG I - Catharsis
Catharsis
By Sovandar
This was written as week one of the Writers' Guild Summer Challenge:
(http://www.sofurry.com/group/1045)
This work contains sex between two men, so if you're too young to be reading such things in your country, you need to wait until you're old enough. In other words, unless your age has changed before the end of this paragraph, stop reading... now.
Sadly not one of my best - even I don't rate it particularly highly. Time constraints and a lack of inspiration somewhat marred its inception.
No copying without permission lest the wrath of the great god Copyrictus strike you down, all characters are fictional, and no resemblances are intended.
* * *
The soldier sneaked through the deserted hilltop village alone.
A lion, mane full and glossy, his bearing regal, anyone looking at him would think he was in his twenties, and guess - correctly - that he was Noble-born. His musculature was discernable but poorly-defined, showing that he had never done a day's labour on the land; and with the fine cut of his tabard, the exquisitely carved sword at his belt, nobody would think him a mere merchant's son. Thus, a Noble, out to earn power and glory in the final days of this Crusade.
An educated viewer might have wondered further why the lion's tabard was unadorned except for the dyed red cruciform; while the rank and file of the French Crusaders wore the Cross on plain cloth, the Nobility still wore their family crests. The Church encouraged it; the priests took a definite metaphysical thrill in painting the cross atop such heraldry - God symbolically asserting His dominance over mere mortal vanity. The Lion's lack of heraldry was, therefore, rather odd; but perhaps it was sensible not to attract brigands who might see potential for a ransom.
A viewer might have been confused as to why an able-bodied, noble-born young man was not right now leading soldiers against the renegade Fortress of Toulouse, and the heretic Count Raymond.
The solution to the riddle was his age. Despite his appearance, the lion was only seventeen; old enough that in many Noble families he would already be head of the House, but still young enough that it was not unusual for him not to be.
His overbearing but well-meaning mother had taken charge of his family five years ago, when her husband had died; the lion, only twelve at the time, had been told that he would only be permitted to take charge of the House when he reached his twentieth year. He had agreed, reluctantly, and without much choice; he resented it now that he was, for all intents and purposes, an adult.
Louis - for that was his name - had wanted to come on Crusade earlier, but was refused. It irked him that now that he was here, he was effectively a common soldier - albeit a spoilt and unpunishable one - not the heroic commander he'd wanted to be, leading an army to excitement and adventure.
The closest he'd come to danger was when an aggrieved peasant had attacked the small patrol he was with; an insulting mismatch of skill at arms. Louis was disappointed that fending off deranged, dispossessed peasantry appeared to be the sum of the Crusade now, with Count Raymond actively trying to sue for peace; so, he decided to manufacture some excitement of his own. The disobedience of running off alone like this was thrilling.
Certain now that there was no danger in the village, he strode openly into a small, ruined cottage at the very crest of the hill. It had been deserted for months; the thatch of the roof was burned away, and the poorly-made fire-damaged walls had started to crumble with neglect.
There were only two rooms in the wrecked home; one, taking up almost the entire interior, was a kitchen, bedroom, and living room all combined. The charred remnants of furniture were a few charred lumps beside an empty fireplace. Off this large chamber was a small, half-collapsed pantry, long since raided for whatever scraps had been left there.
Six months ago, this small village had been the centre of a skirmish between the Cathar heretics loyal to Count Raymond, and a group of French knights. The heavily-armed and well-trained knights had easily taken this village, but on arriving, found the place wracked by Plague.
Obviously, it was a Divine punishment for the heretics. God's will had been clear to the Knight-Captain in charge, and it had been carried out - the village had been razed, its people killed and the bodies burned. If the Plague took hold amongst the Knights, it might have set the war back years - Knights were not abundant.
Brushing the residual cinders from the waist-high hearth, Louis sat down heavily, recovering his breath from the brisk, furtive journey up the hillside. The spring day was warm, and the sunlight shone brightly through the bare space where the roof had once been. He felt uncomfortable in his chainmail; unwise to remove it, but if all went to plan, he wouldn't need it. The place was deserted, and his sword was still close at hand just in case.
The armour was discarded, as was the sweat-slicked tunic beneath; he tossed them carelessly aside, stripped to his waist. However, he folded his cruciform-painted tabard with deference, and laid it reverently so that it would not be sullied by the dirt and ash on the floor.
He leaned back against the charred grate for a few minutes, simply basking in the warm sun, and enjoying being alone for once in his life. His mother tried to make sure that he was always accompanied by at least one armed bodyguard, just in case; but, what was the point of a Crusade, if one took no risks in God's name?
A sound broke his reverie; a slight clatter of stone on stone, as someone or something stepped on the loose rubble in the pantry.
Louis reacted with trained precision, grasping his sword and drawing it fluidly from the ornate scabbard, his calm demeanour belying his sudden anxiety.
"Who is there?" he asked, in a tone of command. "Come out where I can see you!"
He wasn't surprised when a terrified young goat, to judge by his short horns no older than Louis himself, stepped gingerly through the door, hands raised in pacification. The goat's clothes were ragged and torn, mended crudely and far too often; despite that, they were clean, as was the goat's short, coarse fur. The clothes did little to conceal the goat's lean, slightly malnourished but otherwise healthy and well-defined body.
The goat stammered, "D...don't kill me, sir knight..."
"Cathar, I presume?" Louis asked. Catholics these days did not skulk alone in ruins.
The goat didn't give a straight answer; in fact, he declined even to make eye contact, and his tone was sad, defeated, rather than angry. "The Christ himself preached a path of peace; why do you Knights come here and make war on us? Do we not all serve God?"
Louis shrugged; he didn't know much of the Cathar religion, and didn't much care to. The Pope had declared that these self-proclaimed 'Christians' had perverted God's word into satanic, heretical poison. So a Crusade was called, to convert them - or eliminate them.
"The Pope speaks with the authority of the Holy Spirit, with the voice of God. This is God's will."
The goat opened his mouth to speak again, but Louis cut him off before their disagreement went any further. "Your leader is discussing the terms of his surrender as we speak. There is no more need to fight", Louis said, lowering the point of his sword, and sitting back down. He kept himself ready, though; just in case the boy had a weapon concealed somewhere, and was looking for revenge. Unlikely, but one never knew.
The Cathar lowered his hands to his sides slowly, staring intently at the Cross laid atop Louis' chainmail. Louis tried to make eye contact, to read the goat's intent, but found the gaze slippery as an eel, and his expression, ambivalent and unreadable.
"Do you hate us?" he asked suddenly.
The goat had been so passive, Louis hadn't expected him to take the lead. He was surprised enough that he gave his honest answer without a pause for thought.
"No."
The Cathar's expression brightened suddenly. "But... if you do not, sir knight, why do your people come here to make war, and call us evil, heretics?"
"All I know is that the father of the current Count of Toulouse murdered a Papal Legate, come to preach reconciliation with the Cathar. The Church has many enemies, and does not tolerate attacks on the faithful."
The goat listened attentively; as an uneducated beggar, he almost certainly had no idea of the big picture. "Sir Knight, I am but a beggar and know nothing of Kings and Popes; but why not make war on the Count? Why blame the Good Christians?"
Louis frowned, perplexed. "Good Christians?"
The goat looked anxious, fearing rebuke. "You call us Cathar, after our Cathartic rituals of baptism. But we are just Good Christians, living peaceful lives." Unlike you, came the subtext.
Louis felt slightly embarrassed at forgetting that 'Cathar' was the Pope's word, not a name they applied to themselves. "Well, the Count was sentenced for the murder in his absence, and then excommunicated when he refused to submit to punishment. He then sought sanctuary with the leaders of your Cathar sect..."
"We have no leaders, sir."
"...with your leaders," Louis continued, ignoring the interruption, "and when this was granted, the Pope had no option but to call for a Holy War to bring about the judgement that God commanded." He was lying; or rather, repeating the Pope's lie. Louis knew full well that there was no formal Cathar leadership, the way the Pope led Catholics; the Count's claim of protection and favour had been a bluff, but one that had backfired. In the last two centuries, Christendom had gained a long and reputable history of taking war to rival faiths in alleged self-defence.
The Cathar gave no reply for some seconds as he digested the news. "I cannot understand sir knight, how a mere man, like the Pope, can command other men with the authority of God. Is it not blasphemy?"
Louis took a deep breath, calming the instinctive rebuke; surely the boy did not intend to insult him. "The Pope is filled with the Holy Spirit; he does not *command* the men of France, he merely says that God will be with them if they take up arms. It is then up to each individual to decide, for their own reasons."
The goat opened his mouth to ask something else, but Louis was not interested in continuing speaking of war; it was all he had spoken of for weeks.
He interrupted with another question. "What brings you here, Cathar?"
The goat's face took on a look of slight panic, and his eyes darted furtively, searchingly around the room before settling on the pantry. "Um, looking... for food. It's been days..."
Louis shook his head. "Nobody is starving here yet, with the number of abandoned fields ripe for the harvest in the valley."
The goat shifted anxiously from foot to foot. "The... The crops rot in the fields, and..."
Louis felt a little offended at the blatant lie. He'd walked through the same fields himself, only hours ago.
"I thought farming was in the blood of the peasant, but you either know little, or think me a fool. If you truly follow God, then you know that it is a sin to lie..?" Louis' eyes wandered over the goat's half-exposed skin as he spoke; and this time he was appraising more than the Cathar's diet.
The goat noticed his gaze, and seemed perturbed by it. "Um..."
"You heard the noise in here, and came to investigate?" Louis prompted.
The goat nodded, his relief obvious. "Y...yes, sir knight. I wasn't following you..."
Louis arched an eyebrow. The goat had a guilty conscience, it seemed. "Why here? Was this village your home?"
The goat shook his head sadly. "No, sir. I have no family; the Pox took them when I was a babe. I lived in Toulouse on the streets, but when the fighting approached, I fled to the countryside." Louis had the impression it was the first true thing he'd said. It was a sadly common tale.
The goat looked doubtful, making momentary eye contact at last; his gaze lingered on Louis' bare chest before returning stubbornly to the floor. Louis suppressed a smile, knowing he had judged this right. He felt suddenly impatient; fun though toying with his prey was, it was time for a more direct challenge.
"Are you sure you weren't following me?" he asked.
The goat jumped as if stung. "N...no, sir Knight! Why would..."
"I've seen you before", Louis interrupted, setting his sword entirely aside at last. "You thought you had hidden well, by the riverside?" The Cathar's anxiety intensified.
Louis had seen him six days ago, hiding in the bushes along the bank of the small stream where Louis had gone to wash himself clean of the blood of the peasant who'd attacked him.
Louis had found that little bend in the half-dry river deserted. He'd ordered his bodyguard - an embarrassment named Sir Simeon de Montfort, sent by his mother to keep him safe, over Louis' objection that it defeated the point of going on Crusade - to stand out of sight while he bathed.
He'd felt foolish that it took him a minute or so before he noticed the beggar crouched, naked, in the bushes nearby. The youth's own bathing had apparently been interrupted by Louis' arrival; he was still dripping wet, his fur matted and soaking. Ironically, if he hadn't been so badly hidden, Louis might have felt threatened, fearing an assassin. But, there was little harm in a naked Cathar, whose skills at stealth were so poor.
He'd considered calling de Montfort to move the beggar along, but really, where was the harm? It had surprised him when he looked back a minute or so later, and his covert glances showed that the goat was erect, still watching him. He had felt a sudden, secret thrill at provoking such a reaction in another man; Louis was young, but he knew what he liked.
He had surreptitiously stretched to show off his body, spent rather more time than was seemly scrubbing around his swollen sheath, and taken great pains not to obscure the goat's view. By the time Louis' surreptitious counter-voyeurism showed him that he had provoked the goat to consummate his desire vigorously, Louis himself had become erect too. He liked to think he'd put on a good show; none of his 'private times' had felt as good as spilling his seed into the chilly stream waters, while the heretic spilled his too, almost silently in the undergrowth.
He had seen the goat once more since; in the distance, the goat looking furtive, and trying - again, badly - to keep out of sight. It was actually Sir de Montfort who spotted him, and asked the patrol captain if there was any danger. The man had laughed, and written him off as a harmless beggar who lived in the ruined village up the nearby hill, no threat to anyone.
It entertained Louis to think he might be the object of the goat's affections. It was merely amusing at first; but the temptations of the flesh grew stronger the more he entertained them.
Then there was the dream.
It came to him two days ago; he dreamed that the goat had been caught sneaking into the Crusader camp itself, and the soldiers had brought him before the commander of the army. With reasoning that only made sense in a dream - Louis was summoned, since it was he who the goat lusted after, so he got to decide what to do about it. Louis had, in front of the other Crusaders, torn the goat's clothing away, lain him down on the muddy floor of the tent, and taken him roughly in the backside. He had roared as he asserted the Noble's right over the lower classes, the soldiers had cheered, and the goat had whispered his name in lust, arching his back in pleasure.
Louis awoke in the morning rather wet, and hoped he had concealed it well enough to avoid embarrassment, in the cramped confines of the military encampment. He knew it wasn't right, as such - sodomy was a mortal sin, and he would have to bring the dream up with his Confessor. But lesser contact did not, to his mind, seem forbidden by the Bible, not unforgivable; with the seeds of an idea planted, his raging teenage hormones did not permit him to resist for long. Never mind that he was on Crusade - God would surely understand. Just the once.
So here he was. He had easily managed to volunteer for a patrol this morning, send de Montfort off on a minor errand, and then given them all the slip. Here, in this deserted village, was where the captain had said the beggar lived, and so here he came.
There were other small campsites scattered through this valley where other beggars and refugees lived, but Plague-ridden ruins where death had walked - they put a superstitious fear into the hearts of many. Louis suspected that the goat lived here alone, and he was apparently correct.
The goat looked horrified at the sudden turn of events; he'd evidently had no idea Louis had known he was being watched.
Louis continued. "I could see you the whole time while you pleasured yourself."
"I..."
Louis leaned back, rubbed a hand lazily over his neatly groomed abdomen, and adopted what he hoped was a seductive stare. "I was watching. You stared HARD..." Louis stressed the word, the double-entendre obvious, "and you wanted what you saw, didn't you?"
The goat shook his head vehemently in denial; but his eyes betrayed him, as they stopped roaming the room and fixed instead on Louis' naked upper body.
"You've been following me for a while, haven't you? If the Serf wants an audience with the Lord, then it is only right to grant it..."
Louis met the goat's eyes properly at last, and found them confused; embarrassed deeply, but shot through with suppressed lust. He smirked. "Well you certainly seem pleased to see me."
The goat looked down, and realised belatedly that the loose fabric of his ragged pantaloons was rising as his poorly-hidden desires manifested physically. He gave a gasp of shock, and covered his shame with his hands, turning away.
Louis put on his best commanding tone. "Take your clothes off, Cathar."
The goat looked around at him, uncertain what to do. "But sir..."
"Take your clothes off", repeated Louis, as his hands carefully undid his belt, "and let's see how hungry you really are." He pulled the belt away; opening his trousers, he peeled them back to expose his furred sheath and testicles. The goat gulped, eyes wide with astonishment.
This time his hesitation was only momentary. The torn shirt was thrown off so fast Louis thought for a moment it had disintegrated. Shucking his pantaloons and kicking off his crude leather boots, the goat was standing completely naked within a very few seconds, still anxious, and still - slightly absurdly - trying to cover his own crotch as he stepped closer, staring hungrily at the lion's swelling sheath. He clearly felt conflicted about this situation.
"Sir Knight", he asked, "isn't this a sin?"
Louis sighed in frustration, as he shifted to allow his trousers to fall to his ankles. "I thought you people were 'Good Christians'? Don't you know?"
The goat cleared his throat. "Sir Knight, all pleasures of the flesh are equally sinful; but only the body is corrupted, because the soul belongs to God, and..."
Louis waved a hand dismissively. "I didn't come here for a theology lesson."
"But sir knight..."
Louis interrupted. "Sodomy is a sin, so use your imagination. Why don't you put your tongue to better use?"
He leaned forward, and grabbed the goat's arm before the Cathar could kill the mood. He gave a solid tug, pulling the goat off-balance, and shifted his legs to make room as the Cathar stumbled. Louis watched impassively as the goat fell to his knees, nearly smacking his head on Louis' crotch.
Louis leered at him lustily. "Good, the peasantry should kneel before their betters. Now, I think you'd better get to work, if you're going to reap the harvest..."
Louis grabbed his rapidly stiffening manhood and pointed the barbed tip at the goat, whose uncertain expression was almost comical as he went cross-eyed trying to focus on the tip.
Despite the goat's voluntary nudity and throbbing erection, Louis thought for a long moment that the Cathar was about to refuse and walk away. But then, hesitantly, the goat raised a hand to grasp Louis' cock, and Louis happily moved his own hand out of the way to allow the goat better access. His breathing quickened as the goat grasped it gently, as if mesmerised.
Louis leaned back against the dusty hearth and sighed contentedly as the goat started to stroke slowly, prodding with his off-hand at Louis' ample testicles as if he'd never seen anything like them before.
"Yes... that's good..." Louis whispered, encouragingly.
The young Cathar's hand left his scrotum and wandered slowly upwards, feeling carefully through the tangled fur on Louis' stomach, probing at the soft flesh while his other hand probed at the far-from-soft flesh below. His stroking sped up perceptibly, before stopping quite suddenly.
Louis jumped as he felt the soft, wet abrasion of a tongue across the head of his penis, and there was a delicious pause before he felt a hot breath across his skin as the goat's muzzle closed gently around his flesh, the goat's precum-slick hand freed to redouble his exploration of Louis' body.
Louis all but melted against the crumbling fire grate, as sensation more intense than he'd dared to dream radiated from his groin, and he couldn't suppress a purr as the goat's eager tongue dragged over his sensitive barbs.
The goat was inexperienced, and didn't get a good rhythm going; but Louis was still young, and highly strung. It wasn't long before the fiery pleasure started to bunch up into a more localised, intense sensation; Louis knew he wouldn't last much longer.
His body tensing up, he sat upright, and grabbed the goat by the horns, pushing the Cathar's head further into his crotch.
"Yes... oh, yes, that's it!" Louis whispered breathily, and he barely noticed the goat's exploring hands come to rest, leaving one on his thigh, while the other lowered to work the Cathar's neglected cock frantically. Louis practically bent over double, the sensation of approaching orgasm more intense than he'd experienced before.
He let out a load, echoing roar, deafening in the small space, as he came with such force that it felt like his penis had literally burst. The grip on the young goat's horns tightened until it seemed he would crush them to dust in the palms of his hands. He felt the Cathar cough, splutter, and gulp as Louis' seed poured into his mouth and throat, while Louis held his head still, forcing him to swallow.
As his roar faded, he felt the Cathar shudder suddenly, the rapid breath in the fur at his crotch suddenly ragged. In the sudden silence, he heard the splash of liquid against the stone of the hearth, along with the frantic slap of flesh meeting, as the goat came with equal force.
Louis' orgasm faded to a trickle, and he released his death grip on the Cathar's head. Still spluttering, the Cathar jumped back fast, gasping for air, his expression dazed. His tongue licked a thin strand of semen from the side of his mouth, as if savouring it, while he still worked violently and almost absent-mindedly at his own penis, trickling with the fruits of his own pleasure.
They both sat for a long moment, breathing heavily as they both came down from their high.
It was Louis who moved first, pulling his trousers up and refastening his belt.
"Sir Knight... what..."
"I must be going. I've done what I needed."
"But... we..."
Louis gave a snort. "We've had our fun. That's that." The goat looked crestfallen. Louis continued, "You didn't think there was anything more to it, surely?"
"I..." the goat trailed off, and turned his gaze steadfastly, bitterly back to the floor. "Is this all I am to you?"
Louis raised an eyebrow, adjusting the pantaloons as his maleness shrank to a more comfortable size. "Of course. You're a beggar." His tone softened slightly. "Besides, I've only just met you. It's not like we're friends."
The goat looked up, hopeful. "So... will I see you again?"
Louis shook his head vehemently, faintly amused at the goat's naïvety. "Of course not. Why would I stay here? It's safer to just go."
The goat gave a whimper. "Safer for you. I'm..." the goat gave a sudden sob.
Louis was irritated. Disappointment, he'd expected; tears, he wasn't sure how to deal with; why did the goat have to make this awkward? With a sigh, he prompted, "You're what?"
"Your people have won the war... they'll kill me."
Louis shook his head, smiling. "They won't. The knights are brutal in war, but when peace comes, they..."
"Not by the sword. Your Church is already giving our homeland to foreign Lords, populating it with foreign farmers." He held up his hands, helplessly. "We have nowhere to go. We will starve while they watch..."
Louis couldn't stand whiners. It was pathetic. The goat had been begging all his life, and now he'd given a Noble one blowjob, he seemed to think he was entitled to something extra. Something small, like... defying the Church? It was inconceivable. But, Louis supposed, whores got paid; it was unfair to just go.
A thought occurred to him that might get the damned Cathar out of his hair properly, if the goat was cunning enough to manage it.
"Tell you what; I'll give you some sage advice. I warn, you'll have to travel. And you still won't see me again, that's not up for negotiation."
The Cathar looked up at him from his squatting position on the floor, still sitting by the hearth with congealing semen pooled in front of him. "Sir Knight?"
"Have you heard of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of the Christ and the Temple of Solomon? The Knights of the Order of the Temple?"
The goat started to shake his head, confused, but Louis continued on without looking at him. "They are the Holy Order of Templar Knights. They refused to take up the Crusade. They accused his Holiness the Pope of having... unworthy motives in declaring war on the Cathar."
"I don't underst..."
"They accept Cathar recruits, as long as the would-be novices are willing to renounce all other ties except those to the Templar order itself. The Templars are protected in France by Royal Decree dating back fifty years, and by the declaration of Pope Clement nearly a century ago. If you can persuade them to accept you, you will be safe."
The goat looked despairing. "Sir Knight, I am a beggar. Why should they allow me to be a knight? Why do you think I would want to serve as a Catholic warrior?"
Louis gave the Cathar a sharp look, and adopted an adversarial tone. "If you're not lying - again - then it's your only option, other than making your peace with God and starving here. As for joining them... they claim to be an order of warriors, but they're..." he spat the word, "usurers. Moneylenders and coin-counters, to the last man. They'll let in anyone..." he tossed a small object, from a concealed pouch at his sleeve, to the ground, "...who can pay. Tell them you're a Cathar seeking sanctuary, and give them that. It's the price of admission. But, on no condition ever tell them about what happened here between us, okay? They're... not so understanding on that front."
The Cathar picked the object up hesitantly, and gasped. "This is a whole gold Agnel! But sir knight, I cannot possibly..."
"It's more than you're worth, sure, but I've plenty more. Now, the nearest outpost of the Templars would be... let me think, Marmande, it must be. Nearly a hundred miles, outside the Languedoc."
The goat's eyes widened. "Sir Knight, I'd never left Toulouse until a month ago..."
Louis wasn't really listening; he'd got what he wanted from the lad. He was intently focused on fixing his sword-belt back into place. "Hmm? Oh, you need travelling money? Here..." he threw a handful of silver coins to the ground carelessly. "A few Gros Parisis; that should be more than enough."
The goat scrambled to gather them up, eyes bulging out of his head. "Twenty silver... I... this is too much, sir knight..."
Louis finished putting on his cruciform-emblazoned tabard, and looked down at the Cathar crouched naked at his feet. "No, it's not too much. In fact, probably not enough, but you're a bright lad, you'll figure it out" An aristocratic sneer curled his lip slightly, and he spoke with disdain. "Now put your damn clothes on, and get out of here. I hear some of the troops coming."
Without stopping to look back, Louis strode out of the cottage. He never saw the goat again, nor ever tried to find out how he fared after. It wasn't until he'd taken ten paces that he realised he'd never even found out the goat's name. He shrugged; he hadn't exactly given his, either. The anonymity was half the fun.
He strode rapidly down the dirt track out of the village, toward the heavy thud of hoof beats, the clunk of platemail armour, and shouting voices that heralded a search party. He probably shouldn't have roared so loudly - but it felt good to let it all out, damn it all.
The riders reined their horses to a stop as they saw him approaching; at their lead was a battle-scarred lion in a plain but well-cared-for breastplate. Louis gave a mental sigh as he realised it was his bodyguard de Montfort, leading a spare horse - not Louis' own, but that trained warhorse wouldn't let anyone else near it.
Sir de Montfort dismounted and strode forward, impassively holding out Louis' usual tabard, bearing the Fleur-de-Lis, the coat of arms of House Capet. "Young master, your mother requests your presence, for which you should be... properly attired."
Louis folded his arms, pretending to be irate. He didn't want to answer any questions, which he felt sure would be coming.
"Does she? And do I, indeed?"
The grizzled older lion nodded. "She does not know - yet - of your disappearing act. She has been otherwise occupied; Count Raymond has signed a document of surrender. He is to be imprisoned and his only daughter is to marry your brother. These lands will become a province of France within the year."
Louis' eyes widened; he had only expected the Count to agree to become a vassal, not pass the entire Languedoc on...
He nodded his stunned acknowledgement, took the decorated tabard from de Montfort, and started to walk toward his steed. The soldier cleared his throat as he walked past. "I will have to inform her of your foolhardy jaunt out here alone. It is unseemly for you to behave so."
Louis rounded on the man angrily, and hissed, "That is a poor opinion to spread around, de Montfort. Remember your place!"
He lowered his head, admonished, but his tone turned vaguely condescending. "My apologies for the statement, your highness."
Irritated at the mild show of defiance, but not wanting to argue further, Prince Louis leapt onto the back of the horse. "You are forgiven - this time. Now, let's be going to see mother, then, and let's see how she's managed to get that bastard Raymond to agree to this."
So saying, he turned his horse, and in the pause as de Montfort mounted his charger, Louis spent a moment in quiet contemplation. The coronation could not come soon enough; so thinking, he set aside the thoughts of his one-time lover, with the ruthlessness that only the future King could muster.