Don Julius woke before dawn with a jolt, prodded to consciousness by the sharp chill in the room; the fire in his chambers had dwindled to mere embers, and he had thrown off his bedclothes overnight as he twisted fitfully in his slumber. Surely he had never endured so long a night! The hours had passed for him as a series of delicious, delirious dreams interspersed with wakeful spells of drunken frustration - a torment of waiting for this day, this moment. Raising himself on an elbow, the prince noted a large pool of urine by the window - he had no memory of relieving himself there - and smirked. Another conundrum for his servants, who were compelled to treat his every bodily fluid as if it were holy water and dispose of it by exercising elaborate and stringent courtly protocols. Although by this time, Don Julius mused, they were accustomed to such predicaments in his service, for he had made a vile game of depositing his urine, phlegm and seed in ever more unlikely places in his chambers for his servants to discover; some days, it was his only source of amusement.

But not today.

Today, Don Julius had much, much more awaiting him - he rose from his bed and walked to his window, where he peered down upon the bathhouse below, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Was Marketa still abed? Did she slumber deeply, dreaming of him, as he had dreamt of her? Or was she awake this moment - as he now was - unable to contain herself at the gravity of what awaited them both? Turning from the window, the prince shouted for his servants.

Moments later, two sleepy-eyed attendants were escorted into his room by a guard duo; the small group somewhat bemused at the early arousal of the king's son, who typically slept late into the morning as an effect of his heavy drinking. They shrank slightly from his rough appearance, drawing back from his reddened eyes and haunted, manic expression.

"I wish a bath before I break my fast this morning," Don Julius instructed.

The servants darted glances at one another in confusion, hesitating. "But... forgive me, my lord..." one spoke carefully, eyes cast downward, "I am told that this is your day for the hunt."

Don Julius waited for more, his eyes flashing back and forth between the two servants. "Well, what of it?" he snapped.

The servant who had spoken flinched, his face reddened in humiliated fear. His companion took a step away from his side, as if to be distanced from any sudden attack by the Hapsburg.

"Do you mean to imply that I have forgotten my own arrangements on this day?" Don Julius growled. "That I require prompting by my servants in order to mark my purpose moment by moment?"

The cowed servants shooke their heads in unison, eyes on the floor.

"You will draw my bath at once and keep your insolent tongues still, or you shall find them cut from your heads and fed to the hounds."

Dawn was rising in vibrant pink glory over the distant forest treeline; Don Julius rubbed his hands together in the frigid air with fervent anticipation. Behind him, he could hear the squeak of leather as girths were tightened around the bellies of horses, the clink of bits as bridles were fastened, a gritty shuffling of restless hooves. A human tread approached, and the prince turned to face his valet, who bowed briefly before speaking.

"Sir? What weaponry do you desire this morn? What will be your quarry?"

Marketa! My quarry is a beautiful maiden, the light of my heart and the angel of my soul! At the thought of his secret quest, Don Julius smiled widely, enjoying the effect this had on the valet, who was more accustomed to seeing the king's son in foul tempers. "I require my crossbow on this hunt, and my knife," he directed, purposely ignoring the second half of the valet's query.

The valet waited a beat, observed the prince's freshly scrubbed face and still-damp, clean-smelling hair with some perplexity, then nodded briskly and departed to retrieve the weaponry.

Don Julius looked over his shoulder at his despised retinue of guards as they milled about - some already mounted - outside the Rozmberk stables. Joking loudly in the biting chill of the morning, their rough voices pelted Don Julius's ears like thrown rocks. He scowled. Seeing his glowering stare, the small crowd of men quietened, their grins fading into their beards. The prince's eyes moved from one to another, counting, sizing each Krumlovian guard up. Eight in all - more than what had escorted him in his earlier hunts during the summer. And each of them with obvious hatred for him burning in their eyes. Don Julius tightened his jaw; his wrist twisted unconsciously as if carving out the offending orbs from each man's head. Ignorant, brutish fiends! Stinking jailors! Don Julius turned away from the men and spat; the sight of his father's hired wardens had soured his palate like stale wine.

The valet led Don Julius's horse to him and handed him his hunting blade. The prince vaulted into the saddle, checked that his crossbow was secured as instructed, and immediately put his heels to the animal.

Surprised shouts rang out from behind him as the guards saw their royal charge racing away. The men that were mounted gave chase immediately, the remaining guards scrambling into their saddles, swearing, to join the sudden pursuit.

Don Julius bent low over his mount's neck, lashing its flanks urgently, and stole a glance over his shoulder. Despite his unexpected flight, he had not managed as large a margin of advantage as he had hoped; four of the guards were closing fast. The guard in the lead was shouting, imploring him to slow his horse, to await his ensemble.

With an oath, Don Julius swung his horse's speedy track in a wide sweep toward the forest in the distance. Hooves thundered closer and closer as his captors neared on either side, the guards yelling frantically for him to stop, to pull his horse up, as they collectively realized that the madman's flight was no mere game but an earnest and desperate attempt at escape. The horse to his right suddenly veered close, bumping his own mount as both sprinted along at breakneck speed. The rider, cursing, leaned forward to grab for Don Julius's reins in a frantic effort to gain control of the Hapsburg's mount. Don Julius jerked his horse's head to the left, but the Krumlov guard had seized the reins and immediately sawed backward on the horse's mouth.

The horse skidded to a halt in the mud with such suddenness that it nearly sat on its haunches, and Don Julius scrabbled to keep from being thrown over its neck - his chin struck bony peak of the horse's skull, jarring his teeth. The guard's horse had hurtled past Don Julius's mount, causing the rider to jerk his reins forward, out of the prince's reach, before losing his grip on them. Three more mounted guards slewed to a stop around the king's son and his horse, hands reaching for him and for the animal's bridle. Crying out in desperate rage, Don Julius clawed wildly for the reins that had been pulled nearly over the horse's head, feeling his liaison with his beloved Marketa slipping away with the leather straps. Then they were in his hand again, and he was reconnected with his mount, the horse's mouth alive in his grasp; he dug his boots into the animal's sides to propel it forward.

But another guard blocked his path, the horse leaping in front of his and bringing Don Julius's steed up on its hind legs. The Krumlovian reached upward for the reins, ready to seize them once the horse descended - and Don Julius recognized him as the dark-haired man who had mocked him the night before. Twisting in his saddle, Don Julius used the horse's momentum as it came down and deftly plunged his knife into side of the man's chest just beneath his upraised arm.

His hand felt light as air and powerful as steel - the knife had gone into the guard's torso as easily as it would have a rotten pumpkin - and Don Julius earned a flash of the man's surprised, rolling eyes as he drove the blade in further. He wanted to thrust his entire arm through the man, obliterate him. Blood flooded over his hand in a warm cascade and still he pushed, twisting the weapon forward, forward, until he felt his grip on the knife's handle beginning to slip.

The dark-haired guard clutched feebly, faintly at Don Julius's rigid arm, but he could do little more than pluck at the Hapsburg's sleeve, gasping, before he began to slump sideways in the saddle. Horrified shouts raised in a clamor from the other guards as they witnessed the prince spill the blood of one of their own, but Don Julius did not wait for further reaction. Yanking the knife free of the guard's body with a spray of blood, he viciously shoved the man's shoulder with his gory, slippery hand, easily spilling him from the saddle and onto the ground with a limp thud. With a victorious shout, he rammed his heels into his horse's sides to bolt away from the carnage.

His breath came hard in his throat, burning. His vision speckled, his hands tingled; Don Julius bowed his head over the coarse, flying mane of the horse, willing himself not to faint. To swoon now, he would surely fall from horseback and be captured - he would never fulfill his destiny with Marketa. Gritting his teeth, the young prince tightened his thighs around the horse's barrel, urged the powerful destrier to greater speed yet. He could smell the guard's blood on his hand, running up his sleeve. The meaty, alchemical scent, an aroma of butchers and battles, of life and death - the smell of his own valor and bloodlust - revived him, and Don Julius pulled himself upright in the saddle once more.

Daring a look back, he saw that only two guards remained in his pursuit - the others, far behind at the scene of the attack, were clustered around the fallen Krumlovian.

And his final pursuers were flagging, now that they had witnessed the bastard prince plunge a blade into their companion with no more thought than he would spear a roasted pig at supper. Even as they still rode, Don Julius knew, they were weighing which was more dire - to face King Rudolf's ire at allowing his son to elude their custody, or to directly confront the bastard Hapsburg in his mad flight. As the reluctant pair dropped further behind in their half-hearted chase, they sustained a volley of shouts to him, token commands that he turn his horse back and rejoin them in the name of the king, his father. Don Julius charged onward up the hill, feeling strength flowing into him from some unknown source, and his face broke into a brilliant smile. Marketa. She was near, sending him the vitality he required to complete his mad dash and to reach her.