The lawn had been cleared of all equipment today, and circles drawn in chalk upon the grass.
He was determined to give it a go and crossed his fingers he didn’t end up with Wittensbach again.
What Francis hadn’t expected was to be asked to strip down to his trousers only, and have warm oil poured all over him.
He balked.
Oil? In the sun? Half naked?
His skin would turn red and blotchy. None of this would look pleasant. He would look ghastly, in fact.
He almost bowed out, but then he caught Montferrat and Hiro sneering at him, so Francis steeled himself.
He was not a coward. He would give this his best shot.
How hard could it be?
* * * *
Francis awoke the next morning with his body stiff and bruised, his face and entire upper body sore from sunburn.
What a mistake yesterday had been. What a huge mistake.
Turkish oil wrestling was, in fact, incredibly difficult, thanks to the oil making the opponents and the ground slippery.
That alone would have been tricky enough, but now all the other suitors saw him as a threat they were playing dirty. Francis had been tripped, bitten, elbowed, and had just about every dirty trick in the book thrown at him in the short rounds he’d managed before bowing out.
No more wrestling.
The thought of dragging himself out of the sumptuous bed and going out to meet the rival suitors again was not appealing.
Neither was the prospect of another gruelling day spent battling them all in a contest of sports Francis had little interest in.
This all seemed rather silly.
He was busy staring at his ceiling and the pretty tiling up there, when a servant came in with a tray of that sweet chai, and informed him that a communal breakfast was due to be served in the Harem.
Francis imagined his rivals eating all the food before he got there. Or worse, spitting in it. And what other mean-spirited jokes did they plan to play on Francis today?
No, it did not appeal. None of it.
Francis drank a cup of chai, got dressed into white linen trousers and matching tunic. He found a white turban with a white veil, enough to keep the sun off his head and hopefully disguise his entire face if he draped it just so.
He stepped into a pair of delicate blue slippers with gemstones on the turned-up toes, grabbed a red apple from the fruit bowl, and made his escape out of the window.
To hell with this silly competition.
Francis had to scale down a rose trellis, but it was sturdy enough. He bit into the apple to hold it in his teeth as he used both hands to climb down.
His muscles ached, but he went slowly and carefully and safely made it to the ground.
The garden he’d landed in was quiet and peaceful. Francis hummed in approval and ate his apple as he calmly walked away.
If he acted like he belonged, he probably wouldn’t be disturbed.
Shame he didn’t have a book to read, but Francis wagered he could find something interesting to keep himself occupied.
More interesting than having to deal with all those rival suitors, at any rate.
