The act of mocking him was a ritual . He guessed it was a rite of passage between father and son in their family. Marc’s hands balled up into fists, in an attempt to assert himself. Still, his eyes shifted from point to point, anywhere but at the Comte, unable to face the man.
This man would have been bald were it not for his cheap powdered wig. Even at fourteen years of age, Marc towered over this troll of a man. The splotchy skin, crooked nose, thin lips, and rotund body were nothing to brag about. Marc often wondered how he looked nothing like his father, or even his wife. Now I know…
“My lord,” Marc said through clenched teeth.
Disclaimer: This excerpt from Man of War is currently in development. There may be typos, errors, omissions, inconsistencies and so forth.
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