AN: Warning for gross sexism and ableism (and dub/non-con in later chapters).
Chapter one
His knees ache badly against the stone slab floors, cold creeping through his bones like winter through the forsaken halls of Castle Grey. The Queen has not yet given him leave to stand. He is surrounded by his Father's enemies - nobles whose titles and lands are owed to the mercy of King Carrick, priests whose velvet robes would be hung on hooks were it not for the Crown, all turncoats gathered like crows to feast on carrion - and at their helm, a luminous, blond wraith, draped upon an ill-earned throne.
It's no surprise that he's the only traitor: the executioner's broadsword rests in a young girl's hands, a wide-eyed maiden stealing the odd look his way before glancing back to the throne. She is too delicate to be a slayer of men. The thought sticks in Christian's chest; he doesn't let himself dwell with such naivety again. After all, the war was won by a woman's hand.
Kate titters. She styles herself a Queen now, though she was only an earl's daughter a mere fortnight ago. Whatever secrets her bastard brother whispers in her ear, they turn her blue eyes mild and still the drumming of her fingers against the throne. "We are advised to kill you," she contends over the hushed, smelted silence of the hall, "as a warning to our enemies. What say you to that, Sir knight?" She will not use his name for fear of dredging up old ghosts. She is craven down to the marrow of her bones.
"My mother would weep."
"All mothers weep," Kate snorts, "for their sons' mistakes. Should we break the truce that has brought you to this hallowed throne room, how well do you think the Church would like our mercy?" Patience is not her strongest suit; hesitation earns Christian a swift reprimand: "Speak, sir. We will have your answer."
"I do not presume to speak for the Church, Your Highness," a title unearned, heavy and cloying like a mouthful of honey, but necessary lest the Queen should feel mistreated, "and I can only trust that in your wisdom you will see the value of an alliance between our two great houses."
She is no fool; as an earl's daughter, she would have relished the chance to bind herself to the younger of the Grey heirs. As a queen, she must look beyond her borders for a husband. Her bed will be the subject of much debate among her councilors. The offer is aspirational at best. Christian means only to test the waters: so far the court is one compact boil of pus and pretension. He marks the faces in the crowd, both of those he knows and those he does not. Come Judgment Day, he will put them all to the sword - let them try and sneer when he stands before them, crowned king.
Kate regards him with cold scrutiny, like a merchant appraising a horse in the marketplace. "We are moved by your plea, Sir knight, for we know it is made in defiance of your treacherous brother, your scheming mother, and your sister, whom we hear is lately accused of witchcraft and awaiting trial in Lorcastle." It would be a poor politician who'd let slide the wonderful opportunity to pile grievances upon grievances; Queen Katherine isn't that, at least. She's something much worse - a woman with a knack for outwitting men.
Christian braces himself against her judgment. His right leg has already fallen asleep.
"To show that we can be magnanimous in victory, we agree to honor your appeal - with a wedding" is not what he expects Kate to declare before the gathered assembly. Her jeweled fingers beckon to the chestnut-haired girl holding herself very still against the glinting sword. "My handmaiden, Anastasia Steele, has been lately made fatherless by your brother's unlawful war. You will mend her heart and shower upon her all the lavish attentions of a loving husband, and you will do so at our expense, in this very hall - tonight."
To say he balks would be to say fire is only a little tepid. "Your Highness-"
"Rise," Kate commands him, "and be merry, Sir knight. You have earned yourself a far better peace than you deserve." The dismissal is obvious. Christian affords himself one last glance at the handmaiden who is his bride to be before bowing deep and making his exit from the hall.
A barb of dismay snarls in his chest. He is not some prize stallion to be disposed of as Kate best pleases; she may be Queen, but he is still a knight. A man is still afforded privacy in this country, is he not?
The sun is already low in the sky, its amber glow fading by the minute. How is he to send word to his mother in time? Surely there must be some objection he can raise to stop this farce. But what if, contends the voice of sanity, there isn't? Anastasia Steele is at best a woman of low birth in his enemy's court. At worst she is the natural born daughter of some former lord, a blank-faced court-puppet who will spy and spill his secrets into Kate's waiting ear. He can feel the trap snap around his ankles; tells himself he is not so desperate that he will do as animals in the wild and gnaw his own leg. There are still some cards left to play.
He finds Taylor in the tavern outside the castle walls, surrounded by bawdy women and rosy-faced patrons. Wisely, Kate would not allow Christian's men to enter into her fortress for fear that trouble might arise. She is right to fear: with ten men, Christian knows he could take her castle and her crown, and do away with her ill-fated reign before it begins.
Collapsing onto a wooden bench as he helps himself to Taylor's cup, he feels less certain about that prediction. "Have one of your sprites fetch me the bishop," Christian mumbles, all but inhaling the ale.
"Was he not in the castle?"
"Aye," Christian snorts, "but he will not like to be seen cavorting with me until I have been firmly separated from my claws." He takes another swig: "I am to be wed."
Taylor snorts through his nose. "When pigs fly!" His eyes widen when Christian doesn't partake in the joke. "Wed whom? When?" As Christian tells him, the look of disbelief becomes one of outrage. "You refused?"
"How could I, with the whole gaggle of'em watching?" Shame hits like an arrow to the heart. The ale tastes suddenly acrid on his tongue, a poor drug to make up for the whirlwind trampling his better judgment. He must save his sister somehow; he'll be of no good to his brother if he is dead. Excuses rise like soldiers: not one in the whole sorry legion makes Taylor's glower feel like any less of a heavy weight to bear.
"Perhaps," Taylor begins, haltingly, "she will be mild. Is she... comely?"
Christian tries to recall the girl's face in his mind's eye and cannot conjure a clear picture. "Her face was... very grave." He's never known what to say of a woman's beauty; it's too much like the buying of a horse to vaunt her qualities and too little like the bard songs his sister used to enjoy so much. "Bring me the bishop," he says again. "He may have ways to delay this ruse."
The bishop does not. Flynn was only a Prior when the war began; he looks uneasy in his new robes, fingers ornate with jewels. When he pries back the cowl of his cloak, his eyes seem haunted. "My predecessor fell from his bed."
"I'm sorry."
Bishop Flynn chuckles mirthlessly. "Aye, so am I. All the more so since it is rumored he fell onto a waiting dagger." He lets Christian pour him a glass of wine as he stands by the window, warily glancing out into the street below. "Her spies are everywhere. She has bought the loyalty of the people with money pilfered from Church coffers. They say she means to spare her new nobles their taxes for a whole year."
"And how will she pay for the loyalty of so many newly-minted lords? With smiles and witticism? Or does she mean to-" A single sharp glance from the bishop stops him from mentioning that Kate is yet unmarried; that she is removed to have slept with her captains and their wives alike. "Forgive me. These are... trying days."
"Indeed. I hear your sister stands accused of consorting with the Devil." Flynn is a man of the cloth, but he is susceptible to its weaknesses.
Christian doesn't contradict. "I haven't been allowed to see her since she was taken away. I came to plead for the Queen's mercy, but..."
"You have been saddled with a wife, instead?" The Bishop's robes trail across the floor as he comes to seat himself down at Christian's side. His hand is a heavy clutch, warm against the knee. "She is a handsome maid. At least you may take some comfort in that."
"She is a nobody," Christian retorts. "An albatross around my neck meant only to thwart a more fruitful alliance." Elliot will never be wed now that he is dubbed traitor and fugitive. Mia will likely spend the rest of her days in a monastery, far from her accusers. "Is there no way to prevent this travesty? Surely it is a perversion of the marriage bonds, to be entered into so lightly..."
"You forget I was your confessor, Christian. Perversion is not so foreign to you."
A better man would feel ashamed. Christian isn't that man. And still he asks: "Do you see nothing amiss in forcing this Anastasia Steele into my arms?"
"Between your bed and the Queen's court, I am hard pressed to say which is worse." Not so long ago, Flynn was party to the feast and fairs at Castle Grey. He can still jape with the best of them, for all that his voice seems tight now when he rises from the bed. "Base-born though she may be, a new wife will bear you sons, my lord. Treat her kindly and she will keep you in the Queen's good graces."
Christian shakes his head. "Have you not heard? I am Sir knight, now."
"You do not need your father's ring to be Lord Grey, Christian. Never forget that." It has all the markings of a warning, but the Bishop's lessons have lost their pull since the war. He, too, seems diminished by circumstance. Christian makes to walk him to the door, but Flynn shakes his head. "We cannot be seen, lad. Oh, I am compelled by my position to remind Taylor that adultery is a sin in the eyes of God."
"Bishop?"
"These are his chambers, are they not? And that is a woman's comb beside the pillow?" Flynn squeezes his hand between warm palms. Christian considers correcting him but thinks better of it. "We will wait for you at sundown. May God keep you, my boy."
"If there is something," Christian starts, "anything - you can do for my sister, I would be in your debt." It's not a promise to attend his own wedding, but neither is it repudiation. He's well aware that he has been given a length of rope to make his noose. If he runs, he will have shamed Lady Steele as much as the Queen herself.
He watches the cloaked priest from the window until he passes out of sight in the thicket of houses and merchant carts rolling in with fresh goods for the marketplace. It's there that Taylor finds him an hour later, his tread heavy upon the landing.
"Finished with your Hail Mary's?" Taylor presses a cup of wine into his hands. "You look stricken. Did Bishop Flynn-"
"He serves a new master now," says Christian, not without a trace of bitterness. They were friends, once; now he is a beggar and Flynn keeps his tongue for fear of losing his head. That he came to the inn should be enough to earn Christian's gratitude; it is not. He knows no more of Anastasia Steele than he did this morning and still he is to marry her. Flynn did nothing to spare him the indignity of such a match. "I will give you coin to buy horse and saddle; that should do as a bride price, don't you think? Expect us at the east gate." Kate may have wrangled an alliance through marriage, but Anastasia isn't of her blood and there will be nothing to keep husband and wife in Stonemarsh once the vows have been spoken.
The sun is only a thin amber coin perched over the green forest west of the castle when he enters the Queen's throne room once more, armed this time not with a white flag but with his best tunic and his brother's sword scabbarded at his hip. The throng of nobles parts before him like the sea before Moses. He sees Bishop Flynn in their midst, but the priest offers no show of recognition; they must be strangers here if they are both to live.
"What an early bird you make," drawls Kate's brother, the Duke, "and proud as a peacock." Ethan of Ashlake has his sister's eyes, but what feminine wiles may smooth Kate's jagged corners into winsome sparks of eccentricity are absent in him. When he grins, his face takes on the mien of a shark. They say he is a great warrior, but Christian has seen him on the battlefield. He fights without honor, like the rest of his wretched tribe; his victory at Castle Grey means nothing. "Will you not bow before your betters, Grey?"
Christian's fists coil tightly. "I will, if you would be so kind as to point me in their direction." A nervous snigger unfurls around the room, snaking around Ethan like the worst kind of challenge. (Duels are fought with words as much as swords; it took his father's death to teach Christian that lesson.)
"You forget your place," Ethan hisses, quick to anger. The broad paddle of his farmer's hand makes to grip the hilt of a newly-forged broadsword. "You dare insult the throne of-"
A herald stops him short with three thumps of his lance against the stone slab floors: "Her Highness, Katherine, Queen of England, Wales and France!" It takes little more than a proclamation: men and women prostrate themselves at the summons, as regimented as veteran soldiers on the battlefield. Slightly better dressed, it must be said.
Christian follows their example, sinking into a low bow before the wooden throne and ignoring the way it exposes his neck to Ethan's sword should the Duke wish to finish what he started.
"Sir knight," the Queen says, calling upon him with her forked tongue and reptilian smile. "You are still here. Keen to be wed?"
The crowd laughs, court jesters all. Christian ducks his head. "I serve the throne, Your Highness, and do its bidding." And if the throne's will is best served through marriage to a commoner, then so be it. Christian can't help wonder a little at Kate's disdain for her handmaiden that she should dispose of her as if she were mere chattel.
Anastasia stands stiff and formal at the Queen's right, wearing a brocade dress with gold trim. Her thick brown hair has been covered with a veil pinned in place by small jade pins. Seen up close, she looks pale and sickly, and much too thin. Her eyes dart to his only once, briefly, as if to confirm that he is the same fool who came to plead for the Queen's mercy this morning. Christian can't help wonder if she too is disappointed to find him no more improved.
"Good Bishop," the Queen says, beckoning Flynn forward with a flick of the hand. "Will you officiate so that our young lovebirds may become man and wife? I can sense their enthusiasm." The priest confirms that he is here for that purpose. It's not as though he could deny the Queen. Since both bride and groom are present and accounted for, he might as well perform the rite and keep from angering his earthly masters.
Christian is well aware of his bride's hand in his through the ceremony, the bone-white fingers resting like a sparrow's claws in the crook of his palm. Anastasia's skin is very cool; this doesn't bode well for their wedding night. Christian repeats the vows when he is bid, the court's eyes like daggers upon him. He's sure Ethan is still fingering his sword hilt, perhaps contemplating how much displeasure he'd attract if he were to interrupt. A duel would be welcome - it might warm Christian's blood a little more than the sight of his betrothed standing meek and sullen before him.
Flynn's voice echoes around the silent hall: "Do you, Anastasia of Steele, take Sir Christian Grey for you lawful wedded husband, to have and hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death do you part, according to God's holy ordinance?"
Anastasia nods.
"My lady, you must speak-"
"I will answer for her," the Queen interjects.
"Your Highness, that is highly irregular-," Flynn protests and a flare of hope is kindled in Christian's breast. If she does not consent, perhaps he can extricate himself from this farce.
"Have I not said?" Kate shows teeth when she smiles. "Anastasia does not speak."
Christian feels the light pull of his bride's hand, a retreat begun before she remembers herself and her position here. His fingers tighten around hers all the same. He doesn't intend to be made a fool of by some baseborn trollop. A shard of ice crunches in his voice when he speaks: disbelief transfigured into fury. "She is mute?"
The Queen still grins. "She is a dear friend. And you are a lucky, lucky man, Sir knight." Her gaze drifts, as if wearied by his query: "Bishop, finish your toil." Her voice drips poison.
Hope is snuffed out like a candle. "You have," Flynn sighs, "declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your vows and fill you both with his blessings." He may as well be reading a funerary rite for all the exultation in his voice. "What God has joined, man must not divide. Amen." The Bishop crosses himself. Some, but not all, of the nobles present follow his example. The Queen startles them all out of their silence when she begins to applaud.
It is a rising tide, a ground-swell of mockery and Christian stands at its center as immobile as he is trapped. He can see Ethan's sneer and the glinting ruby on his livery chain. Flynn's furrowed brows, lips pursed in what might be an apology. (Unwanted, Christian tells himself, and far too late.) And then there is the bride who has not moved or spoken since she was brought out to serve as his ball and chain. Christian grips her hand tighter and turns to face the throne.
"Your Highness!" His voice pitched high, he just barely manages to make himself heard. "Your Highness, if I may... with your leave, I would take my young wife to Lorcastle tonight, to introduce her to my mother-"
"-aye," Ethan snorts, "just say you cannot wait for the bedding!"
Laughter rises from the gallery. Anastasia flinches where she stands.
Amused, the Queen gives her accord. "I trust the next time I see you, Sir knight, you shall have sons of your own: good loyal soldiers to fight for the Crown!"
The next time she sees him, Christian vows silently, it will be with the sharp end of his blade at her throat. He shakes Anastasia by the arm as they leave the hall, the better to get her attention. "Get your travel clothes. We have a day's ride ahead and no time to waste." The girl lingers, wide-eyed and tight-lipped. A chestnut strand of hair has blown free of her braids and curls against the curve of a rosy cheek. Christian nudges her with a sharp hand: "Go."
Taylor waits by the east gate, three horses saddled and ready to take them far from this hellhole. "Alone?" he asks, handing Christian a cloak. "Lost your wife already?"
"Would that I could," he mutters.
Despite Christian's hopes, Anastasia doesn't dither. She comes to them with arms loaded with satchels and nearly trips in a divot on her way into the courtyard. The satchels fly loose. Christian watches her right herself in midair, a strangely graceless attempt that lets fall a heavy leather pouch the length of a horse's leg. Steel glints in the moonlight when Christian slides the sword from its sheath. He'd draw it all the way free and unravel the silk cloth from its pommel, were it not for Anastasia wrenching the scabbard from his hands. It's something of a miracle that she can even lift the damn thing, waif-thin as she is.
Christian struggles to cover his surprise with a shallow laugh. "Easy, wife. We've only just pledged to share our worldly goods - and you have sworn obedience." Anastasia curls around the sword with a jealous glare; clearly that is not what will persuade her. Frustration mounts; not only is she dumb and simple, but she is stubborn, too. Christian heaves a breath. "Give it to Taylor. He will bind it to the saddle."
"Evening, m'lady." Taylor's sheer brutish size is enough to temper the flash of willfulness. Anastasia gives up the sword and hugs her sides instead. Once he's done, Taylor holds out his hand to her. "Give you a leg up, m'lady?"
"She's mute," Christian interjects when the silence hangs a beat too long. He mounts his own horse without looking back. "Help her up."
Despite her cumbersome skirts, Anastasia ducks under Taylor's arm to seize her courser by the saddle and lever herself up by her own means. The white mare whinnies, protesting the commotion going on around her with a toss of mane.
Christian's impatience curls his lips into a sneer. "Try not to get yourself killed," he says, and drives his own horse out of the gate. He'll trust Anastasia Steele to follow, though should she fall behind and become lost along the way, he can't say he'd mind. This is the bargain he made: matrimony for a chance to keep his head on his shoulders. And still somehow it feels like he's been taken in.