Soft light from the tapers along the wall caused the apartments to glow, the outer room's fire burning down as the hours waned. The decanter of wine was pushed to one side, forgotten, the remnants of a simple meal also left behind. The low murmur of a baritone voice crept out from the inner chamber as one servant dared to creep in and take away the dinner plates, the obvious want for separation clear as the figure just beyond did not even turn at the sound of clinking plate and cup. Instead, the master of the chamber moved away from the bed within, his red-rimmed eyes focused upon the object in the corner, latching onto it and moving towards it hastily.
The man knelt at the prie-dieu, his large-framed body folding with deceptive grace as he did so. The blunt cut of his blond hair fell out of the combing it had been put into that morning, blue irises glimmering with more than candlelight as he took it upon himself to pray. Hands came together as his elbows planted on the armrest and he let out a shuddering breath. The rosary he often carried in his pocket was between his fingers, the beads passing as the prayers came tumbling over his lips. The familiar warmth of the Latin did not touch his soul as it normally did, but he still moved through the words, hoping to find solace along the way. There was little else to be done; the distractions of his duties could not keep him occupied, as night had fallen and the great court had gone to its rest for the evening. Though he was promised ale and forgetting by his closest friends, he had declined, his melancholy longing for nothing more than solitude and the silence of his rooms. The drinking and the other...activities, would be left to men of a better temperament than he.
At the foot of his bed were his boots, his jerkin and doublet crumpled upon the bedclothes. A mandilion of dark blue wool was spread beneath an abandoned baldric, the sword of his office laying haphazardly atop it. The state of his mind had been such that he had to shed the outer layers, shed all that had protected him during the day. The turmoil of his soul needed to be relieved, and so he loosened all until he was merely in his shirt and hose, no longer the illustrious Knight-Captain of the King's Guard.
There, he was simply Steven Rogers, his elevation nothing in that moment...as it was nothing to certain others.
The bitter thought would avail him nothing, he reminded himself harshly, turning his mind onto the solace he wished to find in his prayers.
Áve María, grátia plena. Dóminus técum. Benedícta tū in muliéribus, et benedíctus…
He bowed his head, the hand holding the rosary coming up to rest against his forehead. Pain rippled across his skin as it pressed, but it did not register with him. He was too broken, too drained to even feel anything outside of his sorrow. Stumbling upon the praise to the most holy of women, he felt the new surge of tears press against his eyes, and he shut them swiftly. Gritting his teeth, he nearly growled out as his palm came back down, nearly slamming the beads against the rest.
The Mother of God had other appeals to listen to, he was sure, and intercession would be impossible at that point. For that day, what had happened was beyond his control, beyond his will to change or alter. Miles and miles away, he could do nothing but mourn the loss of his soul, choking down the sadness as he continued to dwell upon it.
She was marrying today. The love of his life, the other half of his heart, would be marrying a man that was not him. They would become bound in life and unto death to another, and he could do nothing but feel the ache in his chest and pray for comfort. All his hopes and wishes, his dreams for a future with her, had come crashing down around him. The troth she had pledged months ago did not soften the blow of the loss, nor did it assuage the rage and sorrow of his heart. The fact that she had been promised to the nobleman she'd been married to had been nothing to either of them, not when they had found love and joy in one another.
It should have meant more.
Though Sir Steven had been raised to a position high in the military order, a position that placed him close to the king himself and therefore placed him in his care, it was not enough. Lady Margaret Carter, fair of face but with dark eyes and brown curls spilling out of her hood on occasion, was higher still, the daughter of the Marquess of Hampstead. He was not worthy of her, in her father's eyes; hardly any man was, but such was the thought of any father with a well-formed daughter. Witty, vivacious, lovely Margaret had been promised in marriage to the eldest son of the Duke of Brookland for years, long enough that she had never thought the wedding would ever take place. Brought to court to prepare her (for either that future or some other, according to her mother), she had crossed the path of the Knight-Captain, looking beyond the title to the man within, to Steven. Barriers had been passed that no other had passed before, and he had thought that she would be the only one to ever do so. He aspired to love her, aspired to marry her, sweet kisses stolen and whispered promises made in the dark.
That joy lasted until her father had come to whisk her away, the betrothal finalized and the contracts ready to sign.
Steven had presented his suit the minute he received a note she'd sent him in her distress, forbidden to leave once the older man had learned of their tryst. The Knight-Captain was bound and determined to have Lady Margaret as his wife, and had actually made the desperate flight from the training yards through the court to the family apartments to do so. Alas, he failed to find Margaret there; only the Marquess in all his red-faced fury stood in the midst of frenzied packing. No amount of pleading, negotiating, or promises could sway him, and the man, as a senior member of the King's Council, threatened to make his displeasure known to His Majesty. His daughter would suffer for the foolish knight's pursuit of her, and he would see him ruined as well. Up until the last hour did Steven attempt to bargain and make his case, nearly on his knees before the great lord.
In the end, it was Margaret who persuaded him to leave off his petitioning. With tears in her eyes, she begged him not to ruin himself, not for her sake. She would carry her love for him in her heart, but it would be foolish to fight against the inevitable. She had been meant for marriage to a duke's heir, and sadly, that was not Steven. Too shocked and too broken at her capitulation, he had barely felt the kiss good-bye on his cheek, his eyes set upon the train of wagons and the carriage that bore her away.
Over a fortnight had passed since that day, not a day going by that did not feel as though his heart had been rent in twain. He would inspect his troops, would engage in sparring, would attend councils and meetings with the king, but nothing could fully remove him from the fact that Lady Margaret was taken farther and farther away from him. Not even with His Majesty's offer to speak with the lady's father himself could do much. The marquess would not approve, and more to the point, she would not allow Steven to do so.
She had likened it to going to war, an outcome she did not desire in the least. And so, he was left as he was then. Final letters were passed in secret, promises to care for one another until the end of their days locked away in a chest and pushed beneath his bed.
And now, now the day had arrived, the king having been informed of it discreetly a few days prior and a proxy granted to stand in his place as the ceremony went through. His Majesty was kind enough to inform his Knight-Captain of it in private, allowed him to take some time to himself, but Steven had refused, thinking his work would aid him.
Ultimately, that had failed. It would be likely that Steven would take the king's offer in the morning, absent himself for a time from the court. His father, at home upon their estate, would gladly welcome him home, welcome his input in surveying the farms surrounding their manor, and he himself would be away from all that reminded him of her.
Until then, he could only pray.
Long hours passed, the quiet of the court in the wee hours only broken by the change of the guard outside his rooms, the faint call of an owl hooting in the trees beyond his opened window. The mullioned glass showed nothing but the black outlines of trees, reflecting the light of the tapers that were growing lower and lower as he moved from one prayer to the next.
Áve María, grátia plena…Margaret, my Margaret…
His Margaret, pledged to another man, given to accept another in her heart and her bed...the thought made a shiver of rage and distress shoot through him, and he nearly tore his rosary apart as he twisted it in his grip. It would do him no good to think of it, he pushed himself, and so he turned himself away from the notion of her taking another's kiss, another's touch. The bile in his stomach burned up into his throat, the image within his mind subsiding too slowly for his liking.
It wasn't until the blackness began to recede, the gray of dawn threading across the sky, that he felt himself jerk and become aware of his surroundings again. Somewhere within the third go-around of the rosary, he had fallen into a fitful doze, slumping over his prie-dieu. A servant, likely the one from the night before, was making quick work of stoking the fire. Likely the lad would come into the bedchamber and pull out fresh clothes for him, after setting out the washing water. Rising from the kneeler, Steven felt the creak in his knees, the exhaustion in his body almost causing him to topple over. Glancing over at the single mirror along the wall, he was not altogether stunned to see the dark circles beneath his eyes. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he laid his rosary down upon the armrest of the prie-dieu, moving to fetch his portable writing desk from the chest set at the end of his bed.
The king and his country would survive without him for a few days while he recuperated, he silently resolved, pulling out fresh parchment and a quill along with ink. Else, he was not sure he would survive himself.
Marvella would have its Knight-Captain back soon enough, after he gave Steven Rogers the chance to grieve and accept the truth of his reality. God help him.
A/N:...So putting out the prologue of this took less time than I thought it would.
Yes, it is another AU put forth by yours truly. I hope the taste you've all gotten is enough to keep you intrigued. This AU will be taking place in a Renaissance/16th Century/Elizabethan-esque world, which is going to be quite a bit different from what we're all used to. Can't get the image of a jousting Steve out of my head for some reason...:P
And yes, it is yet another Steve/Holly story (Stolly, for those of you familiar with it, hey-oh!) for this section. For those hoping for Steve/Peggy, Steve/Sharon, or any other pairing...I will kindly direct you back to the main page. Otherwise...I hope you are all ready for this.
The title is inspired by "The Heart and Service", a sonnet by Sir Thomas Wyatt. I encourage you to read and enjoy it, if you haven't before.
Bear in mind, please, that while I will be researching along the way as I am writing, I am not an accredited historian. I will likely make mistakes as I attempt to write for a time period quite different from what I have been working with for these two. Also, please allow whatever differences I do make consciously; some will be for a reason. As well as that, please make allowances for the fact that I might accidentally let a contraction or two slip into the dialogue (which wasn't a common thing that happened during that time period). I will try to be accurate, but also I hope you'll be on-board with some of the alterations I do make.
Another point: I am not abandoning Growing Pains. I will be working on both of these stories, though there will be slow updates for each. I ask you all for your patience with that. :) I have a Twitter, where I will post notifications for updates, etc. My handle is PhanProTweets.
Finally, like with the bulk of my work, this story is UNBETA'ED. This is due to my schedule being different from others', which does not always allow for such things to occur. I edit and restructure my own work, and can only do my best.
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other references made in the text.
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next chapter!