The past tense parts of this are a chronological story of Francis' life in Gallia and his relationship with his father. The present tense parts are all set during his time in Deva, and non-linear.
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Francis' voice had not yet finished breaking when last Maman entered his chambers uninvited, thus her presence at his bedside when he awoke both surprised and mortified him.
He had recently come of age; a joyful event in any young person's life, but he was the nephew of an Emperor, the oldest son of the Duchesse of Augustodunum and the King of Gallia, and the celebrations to mark the occasion had been so decadently lavish that he was still recovering from their excesses three days later.
His hair was an unwashed, uncombed tangle, his stomach rolling, and the inside of his mouth tasted unspeakably vile. His skin was still brined from the sweat of the previous night's exertions, though his partner in them had slipped away whilst the moon was still full in the sky.
Maman had never much liked Comte Fontaine, denouncing as him as lecher and an opportunistic snake, even though his flatteries and flirtations had never once overstepped the bounds of propriety before. Francis was a man now, though, and if he wanted to take a lover more than twice his age, then that was his right as well as his considerable pleasure.
Nevertheless, he was glad that the Comte had not, in the end, succumbed to his pleading and pouting and begging for him to please not to leave so soon, despite his claim at the time that his heart would never recover from the loss.
Despite his liberation from childhood mores, Maman doubtless would still not have approved to discover Fontaine in his bed, and Francis did not feel equal to weathering a raised voice or sudden movement, never mind an argument.
"I'm afraid you find me at a disadvantage, Maman," he said, pressing one hand flat against his forehead. The skin of his palm was cool, and somewhat eased the sickening ache inside his skull. "I am not fit to face the day, much less company."
He expected Maman to laughingly chide him for being a slugabed, perhaps call him 'mon petit chat' with a despairing shake of her head as she had many times when he was a child, curled up so tight and warm and comfortable inside his nest of quilts that he'd slept straight through breakfast.
But she stayed silent and stared down at him with eyes turned storm-grey by a wash of unshed tears, her normally smooth brow puckered by a fine tracery of pin-scratch creases. One of her slim hands was pressed against her throat, long, elegant fingers fluttering like nervous butterflies, and the gesture drew Francis' own eyes towards the collar of her dress. The one button upon it that lay askew; twisted in its buttonhole and not quite flush with all the rest.
On any one else, such a slight imperfection would not command more than an instant of Francis' thoughts and attention, but Maman never presented or comported herself with anything less than absolute perfection. She was always impeccably dressed, and always demanded the same of her son.
'A sloppy appearance suggests sloppy thoughts, Francis,' she had often said, 'and others will be quick to try and take advantage of that.'
"Maman, what's wrong?" Francis asked, quickly scrabbling up into a sitting position, queasiness and fatigue both forgotten in his anxiety. "Are you unwell? Has something happened to Maddie or Al?"
It is nothing like that, mon cher." Maman's words were reassuring, though her tone was anything but. She bit down hard on her plump bottom lip, the dark flesh blanching beneath the blunt edges of her teeth, and then added, "I... There is a birthday gift you have yet to open. It arrived for you early last week."
Francis had received so many gifts of late – a fine bay horse, clothes and jewels and ornaments beyond counting, and even a small estate house of his own in town – that he was sated with them, and felt no particular impatience to accept another. He could not imagine, either, why Maman was so very eager he have it that she would break a tradition of more than a half-decade's standing in order to belatedly tell him of its existence.
"Who is it from?" he asked through a yawn, late-smothered by the back of his hand.
Maman reached for the purse hung on her belt, paused briefly, her nostrils flaring wide as she took a series of long, deep breaths, and then finally, and with obvious reluctance, drew a letter from it.
"It's from your father," she said, her voice quavering with that same hesitation. "He writes to invite you to visit him in Lutetia."
For a searing, agonising moment, Francis hated his mother. Hated his maman who had loved him and protected him and nurtured him into manhood because she had kept this from him for so long, and he thought she would have kept him in ignorance of it still if she could. Hated her for the sake of a man to whom he had not spoken a single word for fourteen years.
Heedless of his nakedness, the languor stink and dissolution of his body, he surged out of his bed and snatched the letter out of Maman's hand so violently that the envelope tore.
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As Francis sits at his desk in the chambers that have been his one refuge in this dreary country that he has been forced to call home these past three months, that moment weighs as heavily on his mind as the invisible mantle of governorship does upon his unwilling shoulders.
More than Maman's ashen face and her shocked gasp, he remembers her look of betrayal. She could scarcely believe that her beautiful golden boy, her chaton, was capable of acting in such a vicious, brutish manner.
He had reminded her, he now knows, of his father.
On the occasion of his twenty-sixth birthday, the memory of that horrible moment is still as vivid as it had been on his twentieth, and every year that fell in between.
At his feet lies the dark wooden chest that Maman had sent him to mark the day. Its a small thing, barely as long as his arm and no taller than the span of both of his outstretched hands, but she had managed to fit all of Gallia inside it.
There is a wheel of Cosedian cheese, ripened to perfection over the course of its sea voyage; a long string of cured sausages from Lugdunum; two carafes filled with the finest vintage the finest winery in Burdigala has ever produced; a bottle of his favourite scent, created by the best perfumier in Lutetia; a posy of dried flowers plucked from Maman's gardens. A miniature of Francis, Madeline and Alfred, painted in happier times.
All of these things any many more besides had been surmounted by a note, written in Maman's elegant hand: 'The next best cure for homesickness, mon trésor.'
He has been forever denied the best cure as his father promises to have him executed if he ever steps foot onto Gallian soil again. Maman's alternative is well-meaning, heartfelt, but what little comfort it gives him is nothing but cold.
He wonders if he'll ever see her again. Father has made threats against her life, too, if he were to ever suspect her of trying and aid Francis' escape from this gilded cage he has been confined to, and she as always so hated this dank little island, besides.
He wants to thank Maman for her thoughtfulness, nonetheless, and he wants to apologise for that moment which still shames him.
But, as had happened on this date for the previous six years when the same desire assailed him in the same way, he cannot find the right words.
He sits at his desk until his knuckles ache with the strain of the tight grip he keeps around his poised pen. Until the defeated slump of his back rouses his still-healing scars into caustic life once more, and the sky begins to darken with the coming night outside his window.
He does not light his oil lamp, and he does not write a single line.
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Madeline and Alfred were not quite two months old when Maman returned home to her family estate in Augustodunum; two tiny, wriggling bundles of noise and need who squalled almost without pause, as Francis remembered it, throughout every long mile of that tiring and desperately sad journey from Lutetia.
Neither had any conscious recollection of their father, and they came to know him only in the same way as any of his other subjects might.
For the past eight years, Alfred had scoured the newspapers and periodicals daily, looking for articles and reports that mentioned Father, even in passing. He diligently cut out those he found, and pasted them into the large, leather-bound book Maman had bought him for his sixth birthday, doubtless in the hopes that he might make it a repository for a more appealing collection, such as his drawings of the animals which visited the estate's grounds, or pressed wild flowers.
On the eve of Francis' departure for Lutetia, Alfred brought this scrapbook out from its hiding place under his bed and proudly presented it to Francis when the family retreated to the second best drawing room after dinner.
"I just thought we should all take a look at it before you go." Alfred's eyes narrowed combatively. "You can't keep it, though."
Aside from his pistol, Francis knew the book was Alfred's most prized possession. He gave him his solemn promise that, "I wouldn't dream of presuming otherwise, Al."
Clearly mollified, Alfred's blue eyes and grin both grew wide under his mop of tousled blond hair.
Maman had just lately become so tired of trying to bring any sort of order to Alfred's unruly locks that she'd persuaded him to have them cut unfashionably short. To her horror, the disorder seemed even more pronounced without the benefit of volume to disguise it; exemplified in particular by the tuft that now pointed forever skyward just above his right eye.
Between the cowlick and his excited expression, Francis thought his little brother looked far younger than his fourteen years in that moment.
It brought images of Alfred's fierce childhood tantrums fresh to his mind, and thus he was careful to keep his touch even more light and gentle than was his typical wont when he placed the book down on a nearby occasional table.
"Maman! Maddie!" Alfred cried out. "Come join us!"
Their sister responded to his call with alacrity, but Maman shook her head and pronounced herself quite comfortably settled where she was, and absorbed in her own book, besides.
"There is not enough room at that little table for either me or my skirts, mes petits," she demurred, "but, please, do not let my absence hinder you."
Alfred needed no more encouragement than that, and, after pushing Francis' hand away with impatience when he too reached out towards it, reverentially opened his scrapbook.
At the centre of the first page was an etching, yellowing with age and darkened in spots by the glue which had seeped up through the cheap, thin paper as it dried. It showed Father in his dress uniform sitting astride a pale horse which, in common with all of those that royalty were pictured riding, was rearing up, its front hooves striking out at some unseen foe.
"He looks as though he's got an excellent seat," Madeline said approvingly. She lived and breathed horses, spent every spare moment in the stable yard, and changed out of her riding clothes only for meals, no matter how often Maman scowled, sniffed, and complained about the lingering smell of manure. "I'm sure he's a fine rider. Am I right, Maman? Is he?"
Maman did not reply. She never had a good word to say about their father, but, then again, she never had a bad one, either. So seldom did she talk of him, in fact, it was almost as if she had never known him at all, the three children living proof of their union notwithstanding.
"Who cares about his seat, Maddie," Alfred said, turning to the next etching in his collection. "Look how well he fights!"
The clipping showed Father on the battlefield, the point of his sword pressed against the chest of a fallen Germanic soldier who lay at his feet. The soldier's Pickelhaube was sinking into the mud beside them, and his coat was torn, but Father looked pristine and unruffled, the tiny lines that sketched out his face oddly serene.
"'One of the greatest generals the Empire has ever seen,'" Alfred read aloud from the text below the picture. "Two of the Gallian legions are stationed in Lutetia right now, you know. If you're lucky, Father might take you to train with them, Francis. "
Francis didn't know, but then he paid very little attention to military matters. The entire subject bored him. "I shouldn't think he will do any such thing," he said. "What good would it do me, my first time with a sword in hand? The legionnaires would cut me to ribbons in an instant."
"You're a decent shot, though," Alfred said. Supportiveness soon gave way to bravado, however, and he added, "Not as good as me, of course, but decent enough."
He made a gun out of his index and forefinger, pointed it at Francis' forehead, and then cocked it with his thumb.
Francis flinched gamely. "Of course," he agreed. "I will be sure to tell him that you would make a fine addition to his army, mon frere. I would not, I fear. There are many other things I hope to learn in Lutetia, however."
Alfred frowned in puzzlement. He had longed to join the Imperial army since he first picked up a pistol, and doubtless could not conceive that there was anything more important than fighting that Francis might be taught at his father's side.
"Like what?" he asked.
Augustodunum was a beautiful city, and, more than that, it was Francis' home, but he imagined it must be hopelessly provincial when compared to Gallia's capital.
He wanted to learn of the latest fashions there, in dress, and entertainments, and thought. He wanted to be presented to the highest court in the land at last, and partake in its customs and ever-shifting allegiances.
He wanted to learn what his father was like as a man, beyond what he chose to share with journalists and biographers.
He wanted to learn whether he, in turn, was a man Father would be proud to call his son.
"Everything there is to know," he said.
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Every day after luncheon, Alfred withdraws to the make-shift training hall Francis had constructed in the cellars beneath his palace.
If Francis has no other more pressing engagements, he will accompany him, and stand at the very back of the room to watch him practice with his guns.
Even with his hands pressed tight over his ears, each shot is whip-crack sharp and painfully loud, the noise resounding like thunder off the bare stone walls. Alfred never seems to hear it, though; his focus unwavering in this place, even though it is a fickle thing everywhere else.
Today, as every day, he hits each target dead centre with both pistol and rifle, and then offers Francis a bright, sunny grin.
Francis cannot hear his voice over the ringing in his ears, but he doesn't even need to read his brother's lips to know what his question is when he asks it. It is invariably the same one.
"I bet you didn't see shooting that good even when you were in the army, did you, Francis?"
"I did not," Francis says. It is the simple truth, but it will not help his brother to hear it.
As far as martial skills are concerned, their father cares for nothing but the sword. He considers guns the weapons of cowards, and thinks little of them beyond some grudging admiration for their ruthless efficiency in battle. Alfred's proficiency would not impress him.
"Tell Father that in your next letter," Alfred says as he always says, his expression dimming slightly. "Tell him I could prove it by besting any one of his officers in competition, if he'd like."
All these years later, he is still desperate to fight for the Empire. He will not go against Maman's express wishes and recruit, but he knows that, if Father pressed the issue, she would have to capitulate, just as she did with Francis.
And he is still yearning for the same invitation Francis was extended: to join their father in Lutetia. To be given the opportunity to prove himself to him.
Francis knows that invitation will never come. Their father's experience with Francis has undoubtedly led him to believe that his and Maman's match had been more ill-favoured than he'd ever thought to believe before; that the well of their mingled blood was irretrievably poisoned.
He has, by now, probably given up any hope he might once have had for all of their children, and washed his hands of Madeline and Alfred before even meeting them as adults. He likely maintains his thin veneer of interest in Francis' doings beyond his work as governor solely in order to remind him that distance is no barrier to his attention, and that his eye is ever watchful. To thus punish him yet further for his past misdeeds by denying him the succour of complete indifference.
"Of course," Francis says, and, of course, he will do as his brother asks. He, at least, is keen not to disappoint Alfred.
He suspects his father's eyes will skim straight past the information without reading it, though.
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In Augustodunum, Francis was chiefly addressed as Seigneur Bonnefoy, and on very rare occasions, by those either ill-informed or eager to flatter him, Duc.
Although he never forgot that he was the son of the King of Gallia, somehow it kept slipping his mind that that meant he was also a prince.
When the elderly servant who was awaiting his carriage's arrival at Father's palace greeted him with a florid bow and, "Votre Altesse," it was therefore as much a surprise as a delight to him.
He whispered the honorific over and over to himself whilst he followed the stoop-backed man across the courtyard, testing how it sounded and felt in his mouth. It seemed an uneasy fit now, strange and unfamiliar, but he was certain it would grow comfortable with shameful speed.
"I'm to take you straight through to see His Majesty," the servant said, pushing open the grand, ivory inlaid front door of the palace, the hinges and his joints both creaking. "He requests that you join him in his study."
The exterior of the palace was widely held to be one of the finest examples of mid-Imperial architecture in all Europa, with it's fine fluted columns, glistening white marble facade, and magnificent gilded central dome. Francis had been expecting the interior to be equally breathtaking, but it seemed far darker than the high, arched windows would allow, and there was not a speck of decoration anywhere to be seen. No statues stood on the dull brown tiles underfoot, and the grey green walls were bare of paintings.
Each hallway the servant led him down was the same: dull, gloomy, and unadorned. Francis footsteps echoed down them starkly.
Eventually, they fetched up at an unprepossessing door, no different to any other they had passed before; its smooth oaken face free of all ornamentation save for a plain brass key hole escutcheon and matching handle and door plate.
At this, the servant rapped three times, and was answered by a voice crying out, "Enter."
The nervousness that Francis had thought he'd successfully mastered during his long journey returned to him threefold at the pronouncement. His stomach churned, and his legs seemed so heavy that he could not find the strength to lift them until the servant's prompting, "He does not like to be kept waiting, Your Highness," brought him back to himself and thence the realisation that the feeling was naught but an illusion.
His sweat-soaked palm left a damp ghost imprint of itself upon the plate as he pushed the door open.
He had expected Father to be seated at a desk, perhaps poring over a map or reviewing important documents, but instead he was standing not more than three paces away from the door, body held in the strangely stiff posture that Francis had often seen the captain of Maman's guard adopt when he called one of his underlings to attention.
Father's gaze was as calculating as the captain's, too, and Francis suspected that he was been evaluated just as thoroughly as any of those guards. He tried to keep his head lowered against Father's scrutiny, because he knew that their being related did not exempt him from showing all the deference a King was due as his right, but he couldn't stop himself sneak a peek or two of his own, all propriety be damned.
His memories of Father were those of a five-year-old, hazy and disjointed, and the stern sound of his voice had remained far clearer amongst them than the details of his frame and face. It was something of a revelation, to discover that Father was maybe a little shorter than Francis himself – though, as the heels of Father's boots were low, and Francis' were most definitely not,, it was somewhat difficult to tell for sure – and significantly narrower across the shoulders.
His face was long where Francis' was round, blunt where his was pointed, but Francis could see some small points of resemblance in the shape and colour of their eyes, and the curve of their cheekbones.
"You're dressed in your finest, I presume," Father said at length.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I –"
"Enough," Father snapped, holding up one hand, palm flat and quelling.. "We will have time enough to talk later. For now, I just want to take a proper look at you."
So Francis bit his tongue as Father prowled around a slow circle around him, taking in his appearance from every angle. Though he was dressed in a newly purchased outfit, each item of which had been chosen with fastidious care – from the Gallian blue waistcoat embroidered with the Bonnefoy crest and colours, down to the mirror-fine polish on his boots – he still worried that he would be found wanting somehow, as he had no clear idea of what his father might consider clothing becoming a man of his age and station.
Whatever that was, Francis had obviously fallen wide of the mark, despite his best efforts.
"Find him something more suitable to wear," Father called out to the still-waiting servant, "And call for my barber. His hair will have to be cut short before he's brought to see me again."
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Even four months after Francis first took up residence in it, the governor's palace is still very much a work in progress.
Despite the many hundreds of men and women who had toiled, day and night, on restoring the building and grounds to make them fit for human habitation once more, it was a task far too vast for the eight weeks of notice Francis had been able to give prior to his move.
He had only had nine, himself.
The northwest wing is covered in scaffolding, manned by a team of masons, carpenters and builders who are desperately trying to reverse its slow, relentless slide into a pile of rubble, and the northeast wing, though wallpapered and carpeted, is as of yet completely uninhabited.
Crates still arrive daily, containing ledgers and official accoutrements from the old governor's mansion in Eboracum; statuary from Roma; Francis' own clothes, books and sentimental knickknacks from Augustodunum; new furniture and fittings ordered from Londinium; and all manner of other luxuries and necessities besides, sent from all four corners of the Empire.
Even so, Francis has never before received a package whose label denotes it as having originated from the Lutetian royal palace, and he finds himself very unwilling to discover what lurks within it. His sole consolation is that the crate is far too small to conceal his father, coiled ready to spring out the moment M. Jansen lifts the lid, and thereafter to pour scorn on Francis' decorating choices.
"We weren't awaiting any deliveries from Lutetia. There's nothing in the records," his secretary says, glaring intently at the papers in his hands as though expecting that the pertinent information might suddenly manifest itself there if only he disapproved of this intolerable, disorganised state of affairs hard enough.
"Nevertheless, we can hardly just leave it here, cluttering up the place, M. Jansen," Francis says. "Shipping crates are not really in keeping with the aesthetic I had in mind. Unexpected or no, I think we should open it. "
Although M. Jansen's eyebrows twitch upwards and his lips part ever so slightly, no further objection is forthcoming. With evident reluctance, he puts his clipboard aside and picks up the crowbar which is for the moment a permanent fixture in the entranceway, aesthetics be damned.
He handles the tool as though he's been charged with scooping up manure without the benefit of gloves, nostrils flared and fingers picking fastidiously across the metal as he tries to find the best grip on it. He looks like a man who's never been asked to perform physical labour before, and considers it beneath him, even though Francis has noticed before that his hands are heavily calloused, and not in the pattern of one habituated to wielding nothing more weighty than a pen.
He's never asked M. Jansen what they had been caused by, as experience has taught him that the man no more cares to talk about his past than he does any aspect of his present that is not circumscribed by his role at the palace. Questions about such things are very politely, but very firmly ignored. It's almost as if he was only created two years ago, fully formed at the age of twenty-four, to become Lord Churchfield's secretary. Had Francis not seen M. Jansen travel down into Deva on his free afternoons, he would have suspected that he simply ceased to exist for a while when there was no work for him to do.
Despite the secretary's grimace of distaste, he pries the crate's lid free very efficiently when he does finally take the crowbar to it; a display of brute strength quite out of proportion with his scrawny arms and narrow shoulders.
"It looks like another painting, Your Highness," M. Jansen says. "The packing straw's covering most of it, so I'm afraid all I can see is that it has a plain wooden frame." He squints his eyes contemplatively. "Perhaps mahogany?"
Francis had left nothing of any personal interest or value behind in Lutetia. "That doesn't ring any bells," he says, "but I imagine the canvas itself will shed more light on the matter. If you would, M. Jansen."
After a few abortive attempts to manoeuvre the bulky frame out of the top of the crate, M. Jansen concedes defeat and sets about making judicious use of his crowbar again between the boards that make up its side. As the wood falls away, and the packing straw seeps out through the resultant gaps, the painting is slowly but surely revealed in small, disjointed patches of detail: a shock of blond hair here, an epaulette and firm jawline there.
It's the eyes that make Francis' heart race; that make a wave of dizzying heat wash over him. Those pale blue eyes staring out at him with that all too familiar expression of mingled superciliousness and disapproval.
It seems his father had stowed himself away in the crate after all.
The thought is almost ridiculous as the instinctive sense of dread the sight of the man's face had awoken in him, despite knowing full well that it was nothing but oil paint and could no more hurt him than he could disappoint it, no matter what the sternness of its mien might suggest.
As such, Francis can't help but laugh at himself, and M. Jansen gives him a look that, by dint of being a degree or so softer than his usual, is likely meant to telegraph concern.
"I was just a little shocked," Francis says blithely. Even in the event he was willing to share such private failings with his secretary, he doubts the man would find them amusing. If he has a sense of humour, or even a rudimentary understanding of the purpose of jokes, Francis has yet to see any evidence of it. "I certainly wasn't expecting... this."
"Nonetheless, it's a worthwhile addition to the palace, Your Highness," M. Jansen says. He takes a step back from the painting and tilts his head, presumably so he can better take in the full, bone-chilling effect of the composition as a whole. "You'd managed to track down portraits of every Imperial King of Gallia, save for one of the current incumbent, had you not?"
A deliberate omission, and Francis wonders if his father had heard of it and taken umbrage, or if this delivery was sent for no reason other than to rattle him.
"Indeed," he says, regretting his decision to mention his efforts in amassing his collection in his last letter his father. If nothing else, the man is incredibly skilled in turning even the smallest titbit of personal information into a very personal attack, and does so like to keep Francis on his toes. "How very considerate of my father to aid me in my endeavours. Please write and thank him for me, M. Jansen."
"Of course," M. Jansen says, bowing. "Where shall I order the painting to be hung, Your Highness?"
Down one of the privies is Francis' first thought, at the centre of a bonfire, his second. Both would be incredibly satisfying, no doubt, but also incredibly foolish. Disrespecting the likeness of an Imperial official is considered treason, and Francis doubts he'd survive another accusation of that crime. He is in less danger in Deva than he could ever have been in Eboracum, but he is not safe. His father would come to know of his actions somehow, and he would not be lenient enough to stop at flogging a second time.
"That little drawing room in the northwest wing will be perfect, I imagine," he says.
"No-one uses that room, Your Highness," M. Jansen says, his eyes widening slightly. "It hasn't been furnished yet."
There's no better place for his father, to Francis' mind. Nobody's liable to stumble across him unwitting and unprepared there, and he can just scowl at an empty wall for all eternity, sparing the rest of them.
"That's exactly why it is perfect," he says, giving the secretary a false smile so broad that it makes the hinge of his jaw ache. "That way I can decorate around him, and thus make sure he's given a setting he deserves."
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There must have been some kind of mistake, Francis thought. Some miscommunication, or a note gone astray.
"So this is to be my room?" he asked the old servant, who had never been more than two steps away from his side throughout his first hour in Father's home.
He had hoped to trigger a memory of the true order he was sure the man must have been given, or else a realisation of his error. He would even have even welcomed laughter, and the discovery that this had all been a joke at his expense.
The servant's countenance did not alter, however; did not lighten with either mirth or revelation. He looked at Francis with the same blank-eyed disinterest with which he had watched both Francis' meeting with Father, and his subsequent torment at the hands of the royal barber.
"Yes, Your Highness," the servant said. "Your luggage is being unloaded from the carriage. It will be brought to you shortly."
With that, he bowed with a fluidity Francis would have thought him incapable of, given the shambling progress the two of them had made around the palace, and hurried away, leaving Francis alone for the first time to explore his surroundings unfettered.
Not that such an undertaking could take more than a moment of his time. The chamber that was apparently, unbelievably, to be his for so long as Father chose to keep him in Lutetia was smaller than his dressing room in Augustodunum.
There were only four pieces of furniture, all made in the same plain style: a blocky chest of drawers, wardrobe, desk and narrow bed. At one side of the bed was a commode, and the other, a white porcelain basin set in a dull brass stand. Given the lack of any other doors leading off from the room, Francis supposed they were supposed to serve him in the stead of a private bathroom.
Above the basin hung a mirror, no more than a foot in length and tarnished with age. It drew Francis towards it like a lodestone at the same time as it repelled him. Caught between two such opposing forces, he found he could do nothing save try and distract himself from its presence and the heavy weight it pressed on his mind.
He fed some more coal into the fire in the grate, which made the flames splutter and spark though they did not grow appreciably larger, gazed out of the room's single window onto an uninspiring view of a small ornamental pond whose waters appeared to be completely choked by duckweed, and then finally smoothed a hand over the already pristine blue quilt laid out on the bed.
This last action brought him perilously close to the mirror once more, and having now stripped the rest of the room bare of any possible diversions, he reluctantly allowed himself to succumb to its seductive lure.
The barber had performed his nefarious work with Francis seated in front of a huge mirror that spanned most of the length of one wall, held up another to show him the back of his head, and though Francis had smiled and pronounced himself very happy with the cut, his eyes had been closed throughout.
For all the years he had lived in Augustodunum, he had worn his hair long as had been the fashion of the region since Maman herself was a child, and thus he had no recollection of what it felt or looked like short.
He had no recourse against the novel sensation of cool air prickling across the entirety of his neck, but he could, as he did, postpone the epiphany of his appearance until such time as he was alone and not beset by the shrewd scrutiny of Father's men.
If it was the shock he feared it might be, then, at least, no word of his disquiet would reach Father's ears.
When first he risked taking a glance at his reflection, he barely recognised it as his own. He, like Alfred, seemed much younger; made a boy once again, after less than a month as a man.
His face looked rounder, less defined, without the line of his hair drawing the eye down. His nose, conversely, looked more pointed without its softening shadows. And, like the sheep the villanus tended on Maman's estate lands come summer, he had been shorn so closely that he could see patches of skin in between the stubble that remained.
Far more disagreeable than any of that, though, were his ears. He had forgotten quite how prominent they were; slightly oversized and fixed at an awkwardly wide angle instead lying almost flush against his head.
The gold and sapphire earrings Maman had gifted him for his eighteenth birthday, that he had always thought were exquisitely beautiful, and served as a wonderful complement to his eyes due to their hue and lustre, now only seemed to attract attention to this most unsightly of features.
With a heavy heart, he removed them, and then placed them atop the chest of drawers; the first piece of himself laid out in this otherwise characterless room.
Despite their fine appearance and bright, vibrant colours, they did not brighten it one iota. Like a single match struck in an effort to banish the darkness, they instead seemed to be swallowed up and smothered by it.
They looked lost.
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... Nine, ten, eleven...
"Do you really spend this long on your hair every day?"
Francis shifts his focus slightly, so his eyes meet the reflection of his sister's in the mirror hung above the sink. She is sitting on the edge of the bath, fresh from an afternoon spent in the stable yard, and still dressed in grass-stained riding breeches, and an oversized brown shirt and equally shapeless grey jacket. Her filthy boots have left smears of mud – and likely other sticky brown substances much more unpleasant to contemplate – across the otherwise pristine white tiles of Francis' private bathroom, marking a clear trail of her progress betwixt door and tub. He can't even bear to contemplate the ruin she's doubtless made of the carpeting in the hallway.
Maman would likely be reaching for the smelling salts if she knew that her only daughter and heir was traipsing around an Imperial palace, in full view of the servants and any dignitaries who might happen to be passing by, looking like a stable hand. Francis will not be the one to tell her of it, though. He is happy to be able to offer Madeline this small freedom, one that she has been denied of late in her own home. It might persuade her to stay in his longer.
"Twice a day, at least," Francis says. "Fifty strokes each time, just as Maman taught us."
... Eighteen, nineteen, twenty...
Madeline's nose wrinkles. "I don't know how you have the patience. I can never be bothered with it."
Her hair is roughly scraped back in to a loose tail; flaxen curls spilling out every which way in front, and a frizzy, tangled mess behind.
"Yes, that much is evident." Francis tilts his head to give Madeline the prim, pursed-lipped look that their nurse, Mme. Dufour, used to fix her with whenever she did something the old woman considered indecorous.
Madeline scowls with mock ferocity at the insult, and grabs a large tablet of soap from the basket set at the end of the bath. She weighs it up in her hand, as though judging its potential worth as a projectile weapon.
... Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six...
"I wouldn't if I were you," Francis says, turning his gaze back to the mirror. "Assaulting an Imperial governor is considered a minor act of treason. I could have you put in the stocks."
His sister obviously considers this an empty threat, as she soon lets the soap fly. It sails deliberately wide, however, and misses Francis by a good margin, ending its languid arc by bouncing harmlessly off the side of the water closet.
Francis tuts disapprovingly. "So it's to be attempted assault of an Imperial governor, then? I think the punishment for that should be accompanying your brother to dine with his guests this evening, ma petite."
Madeline groans, her shoulders slumping. "I thought Al was on duty today."
"He was, but, alas, he was stricken by a dreadful illness late this morning, and has since had to retire to his chambers."
"Let me guess; an acute bout of malingering?"
"The worst case I've ever seen," Francis says, sighing dolefully. "So sad, to be cut down thus in the prime of his life." In a more serious tone, he adds, "I can hardly remove him from his 'sickbed' by force, though, so I find myself at a bit of a loss of how to proceed. Other than turning to my darling sister for aid, of course."
"This is blackmail, Francis," Madeline says, her voice low and breathy with feigned horror.
"Blackmail is such an ugly word." Francis winces. "I prefer to think that I'm simply throwing myself at the mercy of your kind and tender heart in the hour of my direst need. If there were any other alternative, I would surely take it and spare you."
... Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.
Whilst Madeline ponders his proposition, Francis sets his brush down and studies the results of his labours. Maman had always said that the hundred brushstrokes she prescribed daily promoted blood flow to the scalp and thus improved both the health and growth of hair.
Despite his sister's obvious cynicism regarding the practice, Francis is inclined to believe in its efficacy. Over the course of the year following his father's decision to stop policing its length, his hair has grown to become almost at a level with his chin and shines like gold once more. To his continued annoyance, it is just as curly as it ever was before he was shorn, but otherwise he is quite pleased with its progress.
"All right, I'll do it, then," Madeline suddenly huffs out on a peevish-sounding sigh. "But Al has to attend the next TWO dinners with you. No excuses."
"Thank you, Maddie," Francis says, beaming at her in gratitude. "You know how dull I find these occasions when I have to face them without the pleasure of your company to distract me. You can consider yourself the saviour of my sanity, and also the new owner of that fine bay mare you've had your eye on."
Madeline's smile of delight is both spontaneous and honest, but it's soon schooled into submission, quickly replaced by reddened cheeks and an abashed expression. "Francis, I... No, that's too much. I couldn't possibly..."
"Nonsense," Francis says, waving her concerns aside with a brisk flap of his hand. "I don't think two dinners is repayment enough for such a sacrifice. I've heard that Lord Mason is infamous in his own circle for being particularly tedious company. A terrifying prospect, I'm sure you'll agree, considering how wearisome the rest of the nobility of this town have proven to be."
-
-
Francis had not managed to snatch more than a scattered handful of minutes of sleep from all the dark hours of the night.
His new bed creaked and shook alarmingly whenever shifted his weight, putting him in fear of its imminent collapse, and the thin mattress was so unevenly stuffed that it felt as though it was filled with rocks in some spots, and nothing but air in others. Around three o'clock, he had unfurled himself from his quilt, tightly wound around his body to protect it from the air's chill kiss, and inspected the bed frame inch by painstaking inch, to reassure himself that there were no obvious defects or weaknesses in its construction.
As he had little idea of how such things were normally put together, his examination did nothing to help ease his mind into a state of restfulness.
The rising of the sun found him gritty-eyed and woolly-headed, barely able to find either the breath or the will to answer the knock at his door with a wavering, "Yes?", never mind the scathing excoriation he would have liked to deliver to whomsoever saw fit to disturb him at such an ungodly hour.
The servant's reply made him very thankful that he'd lacked the wherewithal for more.
"His Majesty demands your immediate presence in his study, Your Highness."
He doubted that Father would have taken kindly to his messenger being responded to in such a boorish fashion.
As he washed and dressed, he was fleetingly glad, too, for the orders Father had issued the previous day. Overcoming the fatigued tremble of his hands for long enough to slip on the loose shirt and trousers he'd been provided with was onerous enough, he shuddered to think how long it might have taken him to fumble with all the buttons and ties that fastened his preferred, many-layered outfits, and likely everything would have ended up disgracefully rumpled, besides.
Absent the snarled curls that would usually blight his mornings, his newly close-cropped hair required just as little attention as his clothes,. From start to finish, the entire process took him less than two minutes; not quite immediate, but close enough to it, he hoped, to satisfy Father.
His entrance to the study a moment later was greeted with neither praise nor censure, however. Father looked up from the papers spread across his desk but briefly, and if the change in Francis' appearance pleased him at all, he did not see fit to make mention of it.
Instead, he slid one of his documents towards Francis, and said, "Translate that for me."
Francis quailed a little at the sight of it. Even at a glance, he could tell it was written in High Imperial, of which he knew no more than the odd word that had made its way, unaltered, into the common discourse of Roma. It was a dying language now, used only in seminaries and the Imperial law courts, and as Francis was bound for neither, Maman had not considered his learning it worthwhile.
Not wanting to disappoint Father at such an early stage in their renewed acquaintance, Francis struggled to voice this admission. "I... I..."
"'I... I...'," Father mimicked, matching Francis' diffident tone precisely. "If you cannot read it, just tell me so. I'll not stand for any stammering and prevaricating, boy. Always speak boldly, even if it is to admit your ignorance. If you're not sure of yourself, no-one else will be."
He held Francis' eyes steadily as Francis breathed deep and slow, calming his nerves so he could then speak, "I cannot read it, Your Majesty," without a hint of hesitation.
"Do you read any other tongue save your own?" Father asked, his gaze dropping to desk again.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Francis said proudly, sure that, in this, at least, he was on firmer ground. His tutors had always lauded his facility with languages. "Trade, of course, as well as Low Imperial and Luisitanian. I have a working knowledge of both Old Brittonic and Old Gallian, though I cannot claim to be fluent in either."
Father scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "The army's high command still uses High Imperial to issue orders to its officers. You would have done better to learn it before any of the others."
That information would not have swayed Maman from her decision, whether she was aware of it or no, as Francis was never bound for the army, either. He supposed that Father, being a military man to his core, considered it of far greater import, though, so Francis readily offered the lie that: "I would, Your Majesty."
This seeming agreement earned him a curt nod, and another question, "So, what else did your mother teach you, then?"
Francis had been expecting this question, at least. He took another long breath before starting to recite the answer he had already prepared. "Drawing and painting, natural philosophy and history –"
"Did you concentrate on any aspect of history in particular?" Father interrupted him to ask.
Maman believed that breadth was the more important quality than depth when it came to the teaching of that subject. "No, Your Majesty."
Father lifted one hand and twirled in a lazy circle; an obvious cue for Francis to continue his list.
"The harpsichord and flute," Francis said. "Cookery and needlework, marksmanship and –"
"Rifle, pistol, or bow and arrow?"
"All three. I have been told that –"
"And all three equally useless," Father said with a derisive snort. "Coward's weapons, the lot of them. A person's true mettle in battle is only tested when they meet their enemy eye to eye. How are you with a sword?"
Francis had expected this question, too. Expected and dreaded it. "I have never even held one in my hand, Your Majesty," he reluctantly admitted.
"Enough!" Father emphasised the word by slamming down both hands, clenched into fists, in front of him. The double blow was so firmly dealt that Francis was astounded that the desk did not break in two beneath it. "I have heard enough. She has not sent me a man, but a half-formed boy! She did you a disservice; your education has clearly been lacking.
"I'll send for tutors in High Imperial, military history, and swordplay. As soon as they arrive, we'll set about rectifying its deficiencies."
-
-
By necessity and habit, Francis' bedchamber is plainly furnished and undecorated save for the map of Deva he had commissioned before taking up his appointment as Governor of Northern Britannia.
The one indulgence he allows himself is his bed, whose mattress is a foot and a half thick, packed with soft wool, and wide enough to fit three comfortably, should Francis ever be in the position again to indulge himself in that way, too.
His sheets are made from the finest linen, almost as smooth as silk; his quilts numerous, each one on its own heavy enough to withstand even the bitterest Brittonic winter night; and his pillows as plump and soft as spring clouds.
It's a nest. A cocoon. Safety. He's eager to sink into it at night, loath to leave it come morning.
Still, he rises not long after dawn every day, and with far greater ease than he ever did in Lutetia.
Perhaps because the hours he keeps are now both his choice and his duty, and not a command he is compelled to obey, handed down from on high.
-
-
Francis' bed seemed to cradle him like a lover's arms when he fell into it; soft and warm for the very first time since he'd been sentenced to serve out his nights in it.
Anything would be comfortable, though, in comparison to the misery of moving, of standing, and sitting, and speaking, and thinking. Even breathing is its own form of agony, though one he must perforce learn to endure even supine.
His tutors in swordplay had arrived today, and brought with them gruelling exercises meant to limber up his joints, quicken his reflexes, and build his strength and stamina. They gave no quarter to his inexperience, ignored his cries of pain.
Every muscle he possessed ached, even those he had hitherto been unaware existed. The skin of his back and thighs tingled and stung in a way that promised bruises come morrow, shaped in the form of blunted practice blades.
He thought he could easily sleep for the rest of the week, and perhaps into the next.
"When I said you should retire to your bed at a more reasonable hour, I did not mean directly after dinner."
A fortnight's residence in Lutetia had taught Francis that a closed door offered no guarantee of privacy even in his personal quarters, as Father never extended the courtesy of knocking if he thought his business sufficiently pressing. Whilst still unable to predict the timing of such intrusions, Francis had come to expect them, so the sound of Father's voice came as no particular surprise to him.
"Your Majesty, I fear I am –"
"I don't want to hear any of your excuses," Father snapped. "You still haven't finished the chapters of Moretti's Tactics you were assigned, have you?"
"No, but –"
"But nothing. You're too far behind on your reading, as it is. I want that book finished by tomorrow, boy. We'll discuss what you've learnt before we take our breakfast."
Which is scheduled for seven o'clock, meaning Francis will be rising at dawn yet again. He stifled his groan of protest, because Father, like the tutors he had hired, would probably give short shrift to Francis' claims of exhaustion.
And as Father remained unmoving after giving his order, Francis could not nourish himself with so much an extra moment's dubious comfort.
Although his body protested every inch of the way, he pushed himself upright and then hobbled, haltingly, to his desk.