PULP & POPCORN

Page 42
Noel, like all men, got older. Like all men, he got slower. And one day, narrowly
avoiding his own death, he realized he had grown too slow. He had raised his last blade in
battle. Announcing there was no more land to conquer, no more honor to chase, Noel came
home, and he brought his armies with him. They brought along the spoils of war. And for a
time, his was a life of endless splendor.
His court, so long silent in his absence, was filled with people, awash with activity and
color, his signature vigil of crimson woven through it all. Noel sat in his place of honor,
wrapped in heavy red robes, his sword and his scabbard always close at hand.
His Royal Wives, all nine of them, reclined together, wrapped in the finest silks from
the distant lands he had won with his massive armies, draped in the gold he had taken at
such great cost. Each one represented a different royal agreement, a different dowry
designed to make his own land stronger. They were all lovely, strong women, smart and
cultured and companionable. Of them all, only one truly held his love and affection close.
With a Nordic cold exterior and passion beyond measure, Greta was his one true wife, and
the other wives all loved Noel more for his true and steady heart, willing to stand aside for
such genuine love and reverence.
Noel's Major Domo ran the court in his absence, and now that Noel was back, his job
became coordinating the entertainment meant to occupy this now-sedentary man of action.
Each night, he brought the court to order, then cued the guards to throw open the
massive double doors at the end of the court, allowing a parade of entertainers, all hoping
for the king's approval.
Jugglers, tumblers, balancers, swordsmen, dancers, singers, clowns, fire eaters, freaks,
and animal acts. One after another they performed, trying to elicit some response from the
king.
Noel sat bored by it all.
He took some small pleasures, though. Each night, Noel watched a massive, broadframed
man flirting with the pretty girls at the edge of the court, and he would smile,
rooting for him in his pursuit. The young man, always dressed in armor so dark it almost
seemed to pull light from the room, was at least two decades younger than Noel, and
strikingly handsome, almost more beautiful than the women he approached each night.
Noel had trouble believing that the same blood that produced him also produced Black
Peter, but he was indeed Noel's younger brother, as well as his most trusted general.