The Hooded Man
The Duke of Navarre was still a young man when he died. Thrown from his horse while out hunting, a broken rib had pierced a lung, and Don Rafael had drowned in his own blood.
Because Rafael had never married, and had no children, most thought his younger brother Sebastian should be the next to wear the thorned crown of the Navarre.
There were those who disagreed.
Don Sebastian, they said, was too wild. Too fond of chasing skirt. Too often in his cups. Too impulsive. Too headstrong.
But the youngest of the three brothers, Matteo, was still a child. Sebastian's years numbering one and twenty to Matteo's nine.
Better a child, insisted Don Antonio Vicarrio, than a drunk.
The boy is moon touched, argued Don Thiago Los Gabriel. These visions he has are better suited to the priesthood. Send him to the Temple.
Don Emilio De Santiago spat on the floor to show what he thought of that idea. The boy is an innocent. He said. If we give him to the ball cutters they'll soon have him singing soprano in their choir.
Sebastian is a blade new forged, counselled Don Emanuel Di Campo. He needs only to be tempered. He should be married as soon as possible. Nothing knocks the wind out of a man's sails like a wife.
What of the ball cutters? Asked Don Emilio.
Let them find their song birds among the beggar boys, said Don Javier Des Montoya. Matteo will stay at the royal court to continue his training.
Don Emilio cleared his sinuses one at a time into an oversized handkerchief.
The Montoyas were the wealthiest and most powerful of Navarre's noble families. And Don Javier favoured Sebastian.
Her name was Isolde. Her hair was raven-wing. Her skin and her kisses lingered on the lips like salted caramel. Matteo loved her desperately. His first, last, and only love.
She was promised to his brother Sebastian.
Who also loved her.
Deeply. And dangerously.
Why him? Why not me? He's an old man!
He's only thirty, said Isolde. That's not so ancient.
Only thirty! He could be your father!
Do you really hate him that much?
No, said Matteo. I love him. My hatred I save for the weavers of fate. The ones who would deny me everything that makes me happy.
We cannot unravel life's threads. Nor can they be cut, though they have no more substance than gossamer. They bound Isolde to Sebastian as surely as any iron chains. The two would be wed come the spring, in a chancel of white cherry blossom. And when the red poppies graced green fields, their union would be blessed with a son.
All this Matteo dreamed. And more...
A toddling Alejandro picking wildflowers to give to his smiling mother.
Alejandro again, though older, maybe ten or eleven, gathering more flowers. This time to leave at his mother's grave.
Sebastian gifting the boy his first suit of armour and shield. Both enamelled a glowing, ominous, crimson.
Why that colour? It was the colour of blood.
More blood.
Always blood.
It coated the dagger Matteo thrust repeatedly into his brother's heart in a fit of jealous rage.
He woke up screaming. Trembling. Sobbing. NO!
He loved Sebastian.
He could never...
It was unthinkable.
Unbearable.
That he might...
That he would ever...
Oh, but Isolde!
He would leave Navarre.
He must leave!
In the dark of night.
No one would see him go.
There could be no goodbyes.
He would never see her again.
He would forget her.
Could he forget her?
He must.
Matteo had never been so cold. He begged a cloak from the young king of Rhealmyrr and the queen returned with a bundle of mottled green. The wool was thick, yet soft, and the cloak surprisingly light when she draped it over his shoulders.
Where will you go? The king asked him.
Matteo didn't know. North... Maybe.
It doesn't get any warmer, the queen told him kindly, pinning the cloak with a skilfully crafted silver pine-cone, and reaching around with both hands to lift the fur trimmed hood over his head.
Your horse is spent, said the king. Leave it here and take a fresh one from the stables.
I couldn't...
You can. And you will.
It broke Matteo's heart to know the birth of the child the queen was carrying would kill them both.
Years passed. As is their custom. Matteo returned to Castellayne. He'd heard no word of the king remarrying, and yet, there was a boy. A prince. But how?
His dreams had never been false before.
His name is Robin, said the wizard Aldhyrwoode. And he's perfectly real. In fact, he's perfectly perfect. Don't you think?
Is he... Adopted?
Robin is everything a prince should be, said Aldhyrwoode. Everything a father's heart could ever wish for.
Matteo saw the look in the wizard's eyes and asked no more questions.
Later that day, he and Robin gathered armfuls of wildflowers to lay at the queen's memorial. A tall, square column of polished pink granite inside a walled garden filled with perfumed roses that had been underplanted with blue forget-me-nots. There was no inscription.
The king's parting gift when Matteo rode north again was a handsomely constructed longbow carved from yew wood and a quiver of grey goose-feathered arrows.
What do you make of Robin? The king asked, leaning in close so no one else would hear.
He's perfect, said Matteo. Perfectly perfect.
The two men clasped forearms. Don't get lost in the forest, said the king.
Matteo grinned. I'll try not to.