Chapter 6: A Fight, a Waltz, and Broken Glass

The Ball preparations went on for almost a month, the ball itself lasted an entire day (and night), and I don’t think anything like it has ever happened but I may be just lacking in imagination.

Personally, I danced with 36 different women, coupled with 29, got into a proper fistfight (which I think I won, but still spent time in a healing chamber for), and surprisingly I thoroughly enjoyed the whole process.

It was a real Affair ... we started with breakfast, dancing for the men was not optional and our partners were predetermined. I never had to ask, I simply looked for the lady with an outfit or a fan, or a parasol that matched mine. I changed clothes often enough that I might have worn the skin on my back down to the bones.

Musicians were present at all times, and wearing odd but supposedly appropriate formal attire. Interestingly there were men in the ensemble, the first I’d seen of the males from Cassandra. They were uniformly thin and slight of muscle. None had any facial hair, and to my mind they looked like youths.

There were also other men there besides my group; four very tall dark-haired men who spoke the language of Celts and were dressed in furs and leathers. I could tell from the way they carried themselves that they held themselves above all others. This (of course) stirred a response immediately from myself. I had met a number of high-ranking Celts during travels with my Uncle and these men were adorned in the garments of the general soldierly, not the command, or leadership.

They did not outrank me.

The first few dances were interspersed with some snacks. Light fruit and mild wine was served by women who were not our dance partners, but I suspected brought in as a sop to fill out numbers, maximize exposure and political capital from the ‘Hero-men’ present.

While I paid great compliments to my dance partners, and flattered them whenever possible (including coping a feel whenever I could be certain that all sorts were surreptitiously watching) but I decided to play off-script and dally with as many of those ‘other’ women as possible. Consequently, none of my dance partners felt my prong, however quite a number of the serving ladies, musicians, and especially those women whose only job was to help me change my suits of clothes ended up bent over a convenient table, chair, or just plain picked up by their thighs and neatly skewered. Back pressed against one of the pure white walls.

Word must have quickly gotten around, for after I ripped the underclothes off the third of my assigned clothiers the rest of them simply arrived without them. Numerous times I was slightly late for the next dance and arrived slightly dishevelled and reeking of sex. Strangely, those dance partners were oddly distracted and were never as perfect with their footwork as I imagined they could be.

The dancing was good fun, and all the better since the damned Celts were awful about it. My men flawlessly performed many chain-dances, partner dances, and small group dances all day while the other big clods stepped all over their poor Caretakers and companions feet. Truly, our ladies had been excellent in their training of us.

The musicians were lively, and obviously very skilled. Instruments played were very different from the normal ‘lute, flute, and drum’ which I was accustomed to, and during a pause in the music I stepped up to the band leader and offered my appreciation for his music. The poor man-boy initially looked quite fearful, and responded in a language unknown to me. Out of (seeming) nowhere, Diane appeared at my side and translated. I had flowering praise to both him and his ensemble, as well as a polite bow meant to appear as non threatening as possible.

From over my shoulder I heard one of the Celts comment ’That little lad over there looks like he’d rather seed the queer musician than the woman beside him’.

I excused myself from my current little group and turned to the only two Celts I could see within earshot and replied in their guttural language ‘Which of you two faggots is to suck my cock first?’ which instigated one of the best fistfights I had ever been party to. (It’s hard to get into a proper fistfight growing up when you’re the son of the local Laird, even if you’re only the second son)

The smaller of the two gave a roar and flung his mug at me then charged with one big ham-sized fist in the air. ‘lt is always a little one!’ I taunted as I readied for him. He must have thought I would just try to stand my ground. I cannot imagine that he had ever received any specialized training in fighting hand-to-hand. Just before impact I stepped back and turned, grabbing his swinging fist and twisting it over my shoulder. I had intentionally twisted his wrist up, so that I broke his elbow as I threw him over my shoulder, directly into a table of glassware.