A beating heart

Chapter 37

Thank you guys for all the likes and positive feedback on the last chapter! It was one of the hardest ones to write and I'm incredibly happy you guys enjoyed reading it. So thank you!

He leaped out of the way, cowering behind the now opened door. A second later and the men, who were now mindlessly staggering through the empty alley, would have seen him. His heart hammered in his chest and the adrenaline, cursing through his veins, almost brought stars before his eyes.

The flesh covering his left shoulder throbbed with pain, as he had slammed against the hard stone behind him. Now, wedged between the mill's wall against his back and the scabby wooden door covering him from the men's view in the front, he did his best to catch his breath. The icy air streamed into his lungs, numbing his mouth and nose in passing. The backs of his boots scraped against the rough face of the stone bricks behind him and he dug his gloved fingers against the wall to keep as quiet as possible.

The sky was black and the moon and any stars one might have glimpsed in the sky were absent above him. He must have fallen asleep, sitting against the wall. A dim light and the fading colour of orange and rose were creeping up from horizon. He shivered and felt the ache in his muscles. Both his legs and lower back were throbbing from the sudden movement, when he had leaped out of the way. He silently cursed himself, he had been utterly careless to sink into deep sleep in this position. It dawned on a miracle that the men, whoever they were, hadn't yet seen him. He could hear the sounds of their boots on the frozen ground slowly fading into the distance and he carefully propped himself up against the wall.

If the men really were, who he suspected them to be, it was imperative that they didn't discover him here, crouching behind a door. The fingers of his right hand slowly crept across his torso and carefully found the shaft of his sword. His grip tightened and he collected his thoughts. He would have to think of a plan, and quickly.

For now, the men had moved out of his view, behind the part, the door before him was obstructing. He could hear there slurred voices and audibly drunken laughter. The noise echoed through the empty alley and carefully tried to sneak an eyes out behind the door. He couldn't understand what they were saying exactly, the words sounded foreigner but familiar. It was definitely not French and he concluded that they must be foreigners. The language, it wasn't Spanish or Italian, he knew enough of those languages to recognize that it sounded too harsh to be either. He focused his thoughts, no it wasn't one of the German dialects, the words weren't hard enough. It must be English, he concluded.

His heart seamed to skip several beats at the realization. He had actually found them, reached the hideout his mother had spoken of. It had to be them, the chances of meeting random English travelers or merchants at this hour, in this shabby mill where close to zero. His fist tightened around his sword and his heart hammered against his rib cage with every echoing beat.

What was he supposed to do? He had, since a young age been trained at the art of sword fighting and duels, but this was different. No one had ever thought to teach the future King the skill of hiding in the shadows and sneaking past enemy lines. Now that he stood here, alone and without any idea how to proceed, he regretted his gap of knowledge. His tutors and father alike had alway insisted on one on one duels, as it was the only honorable way to fight. In their eyes, cowardly hiding from one's enemy and trying to outsmart them with cheap tricks was a dishonorable deed not befitting for a future king. Those kinds of tasks where to be left for guards and hired knives. They were the ones to slash men's throats in the dead of night and assassinate any unwelcome foes. After all, there was no honor to be had in stabbing the blade into one's opponent's unsuspecting back.

He would practical hear his fathers words, his hard voice screaming from the realm of heavens. ‚A true man faces his enemy and fights.' Henry had uttered it in a fit of anger as Francis had never been the keenest when it came physical confrontations. He had in no way been bad or clumsy with swords - on the contrary he greatly appreciated the beauty and art worked into every single blade - but he would always pail in comparison to his older brother. Bash had been a natural, he had spent days hunting in the woods and could out maneuver any man, at least with a sword. Politics, talks of strategy and spending had always been reserved for Francis. He had been sheltered and kept hidden at court. His pure royal blood had been his greatest value to both France and his parents. No adventures or spontaneous visits to Paris, not an hour unaccompanied by either guards or his mother. Bash had been free to roam the woods or the rest of the word, for what Henry had cared. He had been jealous, had envied his brother's freedom but after having tasted it himself the allure had faded. Being forced out of choices, forced from Mary's side for, what they had called, his own safety, had drawn up a different kind of prison entirely. This time the walls hadn't been placed to keep him inside but as far away form the one thing he had desired most.