“Mmmm ... you’re a fast learner.” Arlyne said, her hands releasing the young man’s hair, “If only your father would learn such tricks.”

The boy smiled, he was just 14 and the woman was one of his father’s mistresses. Arlyne was beautiful: raven hair, smooth skin, round and soft in the right places; probably no older than 20. She had taken him as a lover on the day he had turned 14 – something of a birthday present to him. And, she had offered lessons often since.

He smiled lazily at her as he kissed her stomach, “I think that ...”

“Whore!” Their silence was shattered by the bellowing of his father’s voice. “You think to make this boy a man?” He shouted, lifting his son easily with one arm and throwing him against the wall of the stable.

Behind Baron Castigar were Rodrigo (his master-at-arms), and his two oldest sons (Brion, the oldest and Vicente, next in line). “My Lord Baron, it is not what you thi...” her voice was silenced by the back of his hand; the only sound from her was soft sobbing.

“No, woman! This is exactly what I think it is.” He punctuated his statement by spitting on her. “Take her.” He said to Rodrigo. “Find a drunken ship and give her to the sailors; tell them to make sport of her. If I see her again, I will be less kind.”

“No!” The youngest son shouted, as he leapt to his feet; he rushed to stand between Rodrigo and Arlyne. He saw her face was torn and already starting to swell where his father had hit her. “You wo--” the boy went down, the air knocked from him; pain rocked his stomach. He fell to the ground again.

When Rodrigo had taken the girl away, his father stopped pacing in front of the boy. “I suppose I should be relieved.” He said angrily, “I had expected to find you being skewed by the stable-master; not between the legs of that bitch-whore. I can be thankful that you are not a faggot.”

The baron kicked his son, hard, in he chest; then again. The boy did his best to cover up, curling into a ball. He had taken a beating before, but never like this. Blow after blow reigned down on him.

“Enough father, you want him dead; but you don’t want to kill him.” Brion said, pulling his father off.

“No!” His father bellowed, “He stole from me ... my woman! But, his blood won’t be on my hands. You’re old enough now to serve and you’ll leave in the morning for the Ogre March. You’ll learn to kill dolfanc, or you’ll be killed by them. You’ll return home a man or not at all.”

“Yes father. He’ll earn your name or a quick burial.” Brion agreed, “I’ll see personally to sending him away.”

The boy, who had only minutes ago felt every bit a man, lay crying on the floor. The cold of the evening setting into his naked and bruised body.

“I can’t believe that weepy thing is my son.” The father said, turning without another word and leaving.

Hours later, the boy had not moved from where he fell. The cold had mixed with the time to make his bruises swell with blood. He could still taste his own blood; it mixed painfully with the taste of his lover. He cried again thinking of what was happening to her. He was weak and felt like a coward for failing to protect her. When he heard rustling and movement in the stable, he did the best he could to pull himself out of view. No one should find him like this. He needed to pull himself together, get back to his room and prepare for his trip north.

“Luis.” The voice whispered. “It’s me, Brion; come out. It’s time for you to leave.”

Luis, pulled himself up to a sitting position. Brion turned the corner, carrying a bag. “Here, put this on.” He tossed clothes to his little brother. Luis stood and began to pull on the pants, they weren’t his ... but they were well worn and sturdy; the boots he was given were also well worn and sturdy.

“Look; you don’t have much time.” Brion said. “At sunrise, Rodrigo will expect you at the North gate to leave for your military service – where (make no doubt) you will be killed.” His brother’s voice was somber. “But, if you leave right now, you’ll be miles down the road before sun-up and it will be another hour or two before we have searched the grounds and know that you have deserted...”

“I will not desert; I can face ...” Luis insisted.

“No; you can desert. You’re being sent off to be murdered to keep your blood off our father’s hands; which will keep our mother appeased. You’re saving your own life, that’s what you’re doing.” Brion was insistent on this, “Do you understand?”

Luis nodded.

“Here, take this.” Brion handed his younger brother a traveling pack and a pouch of coins. “That’s enough coin to get you off the island and beyond, but be smart with it. You can’t use your name, you’ll need to change it to something else. Last, you can’t come home until our father is dead and I am the Baron. Then, I will welcome you home.” He hugged his brother.

“I cannot thank you enough.” Luis said. “I ...” the younger brother stood tall. He had been in training to squire for Brion, and was now being sent away by him. He bowed at the head. “I will return when you are Baron.”

The brother’s embraced. “One more thing.” Brion said handing Luis his lute. “You cannot leave this behind, it’s how you’ll earn your keep once the coin runs out.”

Luis stood, dressed in his brother’s old clothes; still sore from his beating – was filled with love for his brother. “How...?”

“No more questions, I over the fence and off with you.” Brion said. “Buy a horse, first place you can after light and ride for the coast. If you’re caught, you’ll be murdered for sure.”

Luis did not sleep for two days as he went south to the southern most port city. It wasn’t the closest city, but was the one to which he was least likely flee. He booked passage to the mainland and took to calling himself Giacomo; and used his charisma, charm and musical ability to earn a living while wandering. Never staying in one place too long; always falling in love, without ever being in love.

He knew that his father was not chasing him, and if he were, who would recognize him? He was now a man of close to 21. He was tall and thin; his smooth face now wore a well-groomed beard. He had out grown the boyish body he used to wear and had also made a small name for himself. He never found a bed comfortable for more than a handful of nights and never found a road that didn’t look like the answer to all his questions.

Well, I am an idiot walking a tightrope of fortune and fame
I am an acrobat swinging trapezes through circles of flame
If you've never stared off in the distance, then your life is a shame
and though I'll never forget your face,
sometimes i can't remember my name

Hey Princess don't cry
Hey Princess I know why but
Hey Princess won't you talk to me

Well, there's a piece of Arlyne in every song that I sing
And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings
And there is always one last candle to blow out and
one last bell to ring
And the last one out of the tavern has to lock up everything

-- from Princess’ Lullaby (totally stolen by Giacomo from Counting Crows’ “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby”)