Chapter 3

James opened his eyes with a start.

A face was leaning over him. A boy's face. One he knew. James did not know many boys, certainly none that would be in his dorm room...

"I'm sorry, Your Grace. They say you have to get up."

Right. He wasn't in his dorm room.

James put his hands to his eyes. He could feel dried crud on them, as sometimes happened. Keeping his eyes closed, he brushed the unwanted secretion out of his lashes. Maybe, when he opened his eyes again, he'd be home. He gave it a shot

Nope. That was still the boy Felek standing there.

James sat up, the thick blanket falling from his bare chest. He was on a cot in a tent, faint light coming through the canvas. It was still early, almost pre-dawn. He blinked.

"What is it?" he asked. A good, general purpose question. He remembered going to bed, the fact a couple people had been kicked out of the tent commandeered for his use weighing on his mind. They had been well dressed, though, so the guilt about them having to join the other tentless refugees hadn't been that severe. He did know the kid had not been there when he closed his eyes.

"The camp is rising, Your Grace. Captain Putaski told me to help you get ready."

"Ready for what?" James yawned. He rotated both shoulders, the joints making a cracking sound.

"We're breaking camp within an hour, Your Grace. I'm to help you wash and dress, make sure you get your breakfast."

"You are?" James looked at the kid. He was standing a foot away from the bed, almost at attention. His brown hair was brushed, and even in the dark James could tell he had washed up. Felek bowed his head.

"Yes, Your Grace. They said they needed someone to be your servant, and I volunteered. I'll do anything you ask."

His own ... what? Slave? Steward? Manservant? Boyservant, at least. James closed his eyes. He was finding it too easy to get used to all these people bowing to him, even after only one day. Now he had his very own servant. Would a harem be next?

The image of Ewa, shyly smiling in the firelight, came to his mind.

Tossing the blanket aside, he slid his legs off the cot, sitting there in his blue boxers. Felek ran five feet to the side of the tent, grabbing a small table that had not been there the night before and carrying it over. It was made of four wooden legs, two crossing each other on either side so the table could fold up for easy storage. The fabric top drooped under the weight of a white porcelain basin filled with water. Walking slowly so as not to spill a drop, Felek carefully set it before James. Soap and a towel sat on either side.

"Wash up, Your Grace, then I'll comb your hair. Once you're dressed I'm to let them know so they can bring breakfast."

"Food will be good." Grabbing the small cloth next to the soap, he got to work on his morning shower.

It wasn't Felek, but a girl about his age who brought in the wooden tray with breakfast. Her eyes were wide in nervous apprehension as she slowly carried her burden. She waited while Felek removed the wash basin and its assorted accessories from the small table, eyes looking everywhere except the now dressed James sitting on the cot. They had found for him local clothing, of a surprisingly good fit. He had wondered at this, before noticing his otherworldly clothes were gone. The table cleared, the girl slowly and carefully placed the tray on it. She bowed her head low.

"Your breakfast, Your Grace." It was a soft whisper, barely audible. She was blond, hair pulled back into a long braid similar to the one Ewa had worn. It must be the "in" style. The braid fell over her shoulder, hanging down before her. James nodded back.

"Thank you, My Lady." Her eyes jerked up, startled. They were nice eyes, dark blue. Looking down at his metal plate, James saw eggs, sausage, and three thick slices of bread with thick clumps of butter spread over them. He grabbed one, chomping in. It wasn't fresh baked, he knew, but it was probably the best they could offer. A glass of wine sat before him. Wine with breakfast. Well, he could pretend it was grape juice.

The two children stood watching him. He swallowed.

"Have you two eaten?"

The girl shook her head, almost violently. Whatever they had told her, she was terrified of doing something wrong in the King's eyes. Felek put a hand on her shoulder, as if to calm her.

"They said we could eat after you were done. We're getting good food, as are our families."

"Good," James said. He picked up the metal knife and fork and cut a slice of sausage. "You two can relax until I'm done. I won't be long."

James walked from the tent into a mist filled twilight. He could hear more than see the wagons being prepared, the people moving around, packing, readying themselves for another day on the road. Two guards stood on either side of the doorway. As James moved forward, they fell in a few steps behind him. He'd have to get used to this, he thought. Almost as soon as they were away from the tent, men ran forward into it, beginning the process of packing. Looking back a few moments later, he saw the fabric fall down, the supports already being removed.

"Given it's the first day I've been here," he said, to himself as much as to his guards, "this all seems well rehearsed."

"Dealing with Nobility is our job, Your Grace."

Neither of the guards were the one from the night before. Made sense. Stopping, he looked around the camp.

"So, what now?"

"You're to help lead the morning prayer."

He blinked.

What had he gotten himself into...

"Oh, Lord, bless us this day, as we start on the path you have chosen for us. Help us help our brothers and sisters, that none may stumble on the road before us. In the Name of the Father, the Mother, and the Son."

"Amen."

James opened his eyes again. He sat on a chair behind the priest, his part in the morning benediction apparently to just look good and inspire. That was good. It was also good that his own faith was weak enough that he could convert to anything that wasn't that strange. This seemed to be a version of Christianity that gave Mary a bit more importance, but then maybe all Catholics did that. He for sure hadn't paid much attention to them. Religion had, so he understood, been beaten out of both his parents in misguided attempts to beat it into them.

The priest turned to him, his face serious. The holy man was dressed in a brown robe, falling down to his feet, a thick coarse rope tied as a belt around his waist. His head was bald, shaved, including his eyebrows. The look was ... interesting.

"Thank you, Your Grace, for your presence at our Mass. I know this must all be strange for you."

"Enough is familiar that things are not too bad, Father..."

"Brother Ofim, Your Grace."

"Thank you."

The people were going back to their tasks. Much of the mist had burned off, the wagons on the other side of the road now visible as the defensive ring was broken up. Horses and oxen were being hitched to wagons. On the road, a unit of horsemen rode by, moving quickly towards the head of the column. They lacked the wings of the Hussars, thus he assumed they were the normal cavalry, or scouts.

"Your Grace."

He turned. From the forest side, six winged riders came towards him. Their armor was polished, feathers on their wings alternating white and red. Very Polish. With them, a riderless horse. They came to a stop before him. Their leader was young, young enough to be the son of the Commander. Which made sense, as he supposedly was.

"Greetings, Your Grace. I am Lieutenant Piotr Kosciuszko. We will be your escort on the road."

James finally had to laugh. The young man frowned. James quickly shook his head, smiling.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. It's not you. All the long names have finally broken me, as I'm just not used to them. I'm going to be lucky if I can recall more than a half dozen by the end of the day. All of you only have to remember 'Your Grace', which has to be quite a bit easier."

The soldier smiled.

"You may call me Piotr, if it helps, Your Grace."

"It does. Although," James added, eyeing the horse, "I'm not sure how much it will help in this. I have not been on a horse in ... well, awhile."

He had been on a horse once, at summer camp. The times he had been on some poor pony walking in a circle at a summer fair didn't count. Knowing he could sit on the beast was a confidence builder, though. Otherwise, he'd be scared shitless.

Piotr motioned to two nearby men.

"Would you like some assistance, Your Grace?"

He considered. On the one hand, his ego, and his place at the top of this society. On the other, his safety.

Oh, what the hell. If he broke his neck, most of his problems would be solved.

"Let me try it once alone." One of the riders dismounted, grabbing the reins of the royal horse and leading it over to James. He looked at it. Saddle, stirrups, the thingy you grabbed so you didn't fall off ... Turning to face the eyes he knew were on him, he raised his voice.

"I am about to ride a horse for the first time in ten years. WHEN I fall off onto my ass, you have my royal permission to laugh."

That brought laughter from all around him. Turning back, he saw his guards and the soldiers grinning. He nodded.

"Let's do this."

One of his guards knelt down, cupping his hands together as a step. Very brave of him. James took a deep breath. He reached up, grabbed the saddle, placed his foot on the offered hands...

And found himself safely mounted on the light brown stallion.

The people cheered. He raised his arm, waving. The horse moved under him, James quickly grabbing for whatever he could to hold on. Cheers and laughter mixed. Piotr confidently moved his mount beside James, face one of respectful amusement.

"Very good, Your Grace."

"My Grace is lucky." James took a firm grip of the reins. "To say I don't know what I'm doing up here is an understatement."

"Just let your mount do what it wants, which will be to stay with us. We'll make sure you come to no harm."

"Good. I like no harm."

At no real signal that he could see, wagons began to move from the grass onto the dirt road. It probably, James suspected, had started at the head, the first wagons just making their way when they were ready. Each group behind them saw the one ahead move out, quickly starting their own journey before those behind caught up and forced them to wait for some opening in the endless caravan. No traffic signals, or traffic cops, here. Or, maybe there were. Soldiers were everywhere, mounted or on foot. With the sun now fully over the horizon, he could see the colorful units off beside the far tree lines. Their protectors, at least a small part of them. They, too, were moving, shadowing the civilians. Shielding them from unknown, and known, dangers.