"Now landsmen all, whoever you may be,
If you want to rise to the top of the tree,
If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool,
Be careful to be guided by this golden rule —
Stick close to your desks and never go to sea,
And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navee!"
Arthur huffed as he walked through the street, trying to get the irritating song out of his head. As if it was not bad enough that his brothers dragged him to that ridiculous comic opera on his last night in London and loudly sang that song until his boat finally set sail. Try as Arthur might, the overly cheerful melody refused to leave him. No amount of humming did anything to change that. When he returned home, he would give his brothers a great and angry lecture on what kind of entertainment they decided to bring him to. Maybe they thought him too sensitive, but Arthur did not care. He was a first lieutenant in Her Majesty's Navy, the finest institution in the world, not something to be lampooned on stage. He would be an admiral one day, a great one, and he would not get there by staying home and doing nothing. No, he would work, strive, and prove he was worthy of the responsibilities given to him. He wondered what his brothers would think. Little Artie, an admiral, with a list of accomplishments beneath his name. Maybe they would refuse to believe it, but it would be there, for everyone to see.
"Idiot," he muttered under his breath.
A jolt from the side nearly sent Arthur tumbling. His hat fell to the ground. Recovering his footing, Arthur glared at the man who pushed him, a farmer pulling a large cart of produce. "I am sorry, senhor!" the man shouted as he hurried away. Arthur sighed. He reached down and picked up his hat, dusting it before placing it atop his head. Slowly he brushed away any dirt his clothes might have acquired. No damage had been done. Even to the most trained eye, his uniform was practically immaculate. He hoped he could keep it that way for the duration of his leave, although that was perhaps unlikely considering the size of the crowd in front of him. Arthur steeled himself and journeyed forth.
The Portuguese street was indeed packed tightly with people darting in and out of various shops, shouting, talking, and jostling each other with arms full of goods. Rich smells of roast meat, good beer, and freshly baked bread mingled with those of sweaty customers and their animals. Arthur moved as deftly as he could, his eyes scanning and mentally translating the many signs. He made a mental note to visit them before he left the town. Maybe Angelique would like something from one of the jewelry shops. Rubies to match the red ribbons she wore in her hair or a clear, bright blue stone. Something so fine was surely beyond his salary, but his fiancée deserved the best money could buy.
He needed a quiet place away from these throngs of people. He caught sight of a path leading away from the main street and followed it. Trees lined the narrow road, providing welcome shade from the hot sun. To his right he saw a park. Green grass covered neat spaces and gently rolling little hills. The sun glinted off a small lake in the center. Flower bushes accented the area with color. Couples and families strolled, and some rested on spread-out blankets, enjoying picnics. Birds sang in the many trees. A perfect place.
Finding a bench, Arthur sat down and pulled out a thick envelope from inside his jacket. It was still warm from being so close to his heart. Opening it, he found two letters and the photograph of a beautiful, smiling girl wearing ribbons in her hair. Gently, Arthur placed the picture on his knee, taking care that a gust of wind would not carry it away, and began to read the first of the letters.
Dear Arthur,
I hope this letter find you well, and this voyage has been a safe one. I do not need to say how much we miss you when you go away. You have said many a time how much you love this, but I still believe the house feels emptier when you leave. Your brothers feel the same, even if they won't admit it to you. Now don't you go thinking that your big sister is getting weepy and sentimental. I don't get weepy, certainly not like other older sisters in the world, that's for sure. And a little bit of sentiment has never harmed anything.
This reminds me. Arthur, write to your brothers as soon as you can. I admit, it is fun to see you flustered like a wet hen, but you left still angry with your brothers. They're crazy more often than not, I know, but they do love you. I know that little show they took you to was on the silly side, but I don't think they meant any real insult by it. At the very least, I don't like to think of you sailing the seven seas mad at the only brothers you've got. We don't know when you will return, and there shouldn't be bad blood among you four for months at a time.
Andrew and Emrys have gone to escort Angelique here for the wedding. I have been busily working on her wedding dress, and once she arrives, we will finish it. Things have not been progressing completely smoothly, though. Sean and I have been arguing where the ceremony should be. Sean says it needs to be in a Protestant church, and I insist that it should be in a Catholic one. You were baptized in a Catholic church after all. But it is your decision, and don't let my biases get in the way of your wishes. Write to me soon and tell me what you want, so we can make arrangements. I still believe you need to be married in a Catholic church, though.
To think my youngest brother is getting married! Arthur, Angelique is such a sweet girl! I think you'll be very, very happy. We have been corresponding regularly and becoming very good friends. She sent me a letter and photograph for you, which I'm enclosing in this. You are such a lucky boy.
Stay safe, Arthur and come home soon.
Céad míle beannachta.
Your loving sister,
Brigid
"Who's that?" Startled by the new voice, Arthur looked up to see a tall army corporal with unruly blond hair staring at the picture resting on his knee. Arthur suddenly felt very protective. He glared at the man and tucked the photograph inside the envelope.
"My fiancée," he told him, his voice cold. How dare this impudent man interrupt his reading? Arthur glared at him. The corporal did not seem to take the hint. He whistled.
"Lucky you," he said with a wink. "I bet you met her on one of your voyages. Where was it? Polynesia? The Philippines? I heard the girls are gorgeous in Jamaica."
"I think it is none of your business." Arthur gritted his teeth.
"Hey, let the remaining bachelors in the world dream! I'm just an army corporal, so there's no chance of my ever running and marrying her sister. We're a landlocked bunch, and Portuguese girls are nothing to complain about. Although, now that I think about it, my ancestors sailed the seas. Maybe I should have joined the navy instead. Best job in the world, huh?" He nudged Arthur with his elbow. Arthur recoiled. "Traveling to all those places, shooting cannons. Cannons are the greatest thing, am I right? Light the fuse and BOOM!" His blue eyes gleamed. Arthur wondered what the man did before he joined the army. "Hey, have you ever fired a cannon? There's not any chance of it here, since everything's so quiet, but I was just wonder—"
"Corporal Køhler," a quiet, low voice interrupted. Immediately, the corporal snapped to attention and saluted. Curious, Arthur turned to see a sergeant standing behind his bench, his expression unreadable. Despite being smaller in statue and slighter than the corporal, the sergeant seemed to wield a special kind of control over him. His dark blue eyes met Arthur's for a moment, and Arthur immediately understood why.
"Køhler, were you bothering this gentleman?"
"Just making conversation, sir."
"Is that true?" the sergeant asked Arthur.
"Conversation of a sort," he replied. The sergeant said nothing.
"Very well. Back to your duties, then." The two shared a salute, and the sergeant disappeared before Arthur realized he was gone. Køhler laughed.
"He's a handful, let me tell you. Never can figure out what's going on in his head. He likes me, though." He shrugged. "Could have been Oxenstierna. Now that's a man you don't want to meet when he's mad. But hey!" Køhler pulled out his pocket-watch. "Listen, you've been at sea for a while, so you're probably eager to see the sights." Arthur did not know how to respond to that. "Well, today's your lucky day. About this time, the artists and their models come here to work and talk. They like this spot, has something to do with the light. They'll be coming any minute now. I think you might like it, since you've only had your fiancée's picture for company." He leaned forward. "The models are beautiful. They meet your gaze straight on and will whisper sweet words in your ear. If you're interested."
"Køhler." The corporal immediately straightened.
"How does he do that?" he wondered aloud.
"Thank you but I am not interested at all," Arthur told him.
Køhler shrugged. "Suit yourself. They're coming." He winked and hurried away.
The nerve of him, Arthur huffed. As if he would just latch onto some random woman of easy virtue just because he had not been with anyone for several months. The thought disgusted him. Angelique deserved better, and he would give it to her.
The sounds of laughter and talking met his ears. Several people were approaching, many of them clutching easels, sketchbooks, pencils, and palettes. Arthur watched them. The women who walked with them were indeed as lovely and bold as Køhler had claimed. Some of them walked barefoot, holding their skirts up and exposing their ankles. Many had loosened their hair and let it fall free around their shoulders. They chatted merrily with the artists. Their eyes flashed provocatively at anyone they noticed looking at them, with coy smiles and dangerous glances. And the artists! Such an odd mix of people. Arthur noticed a tall man with curly dark hair who looked as if he were sleepwalking. A cat peered out of his bag. Behind him walked a young man who seemed to be having an energetic conversation with the air. Several girls latched onto him, giggling and blushing while he talked. To his surprise, Arthur noticed a woman among them, although he was not sure at first due to the trousers she wore. But woman she was, with blond bobbed hair and a wide brimmed hat and long scarf. Arthur had never seen anyone like her. He returned to Brigid's letter.
"Francis! Francis is here!" someone shouted.
Arthur looked up. The world stilled.
At the end of the long line of artists came a man. He moved with a certain kind of grace that was neither walking nor dancing. His shoulder length hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight and fell in smooth waves down the sides of his face. A slight beard grew on his chin. He was thin but evidently strong and muscled if the slender cut of his clothing indicated anything. His skin practically glowed with health and life. The man glanced in Arthur's direction. Their eyes met. Arthur ceased to breathe.
Blue. Blue like the waters near Angelique's home. Deep and warm and so, so inviting. Calm on the surface, mysterious and dark below. Arthur wanted to wade into them, let them hold him, surround him until everything dissolved and there was nothing left except the blue of those eyes. He would stay there forever if the world let him. A strange feeling bubbled in the pit of his stomach; his heart raced. There was a glimmer, a bit of charmed light that sparked in those orbs. "Let them shine for me," Arthur thought. Suddenly he blinked, frowned, and shook his head. Just what had gotten into him? "Water can drown," he told himself. He tore his gaze away from Francis.
The artists arranged themselves around the park. The young talkative man settled on the grass, surrounded by various laughing girls. The strange woman in the trousers sat a few feet away under the shade of a large tree. The one with the cats just lay down in the sun. Francis seated himself at the bench opposite Arthur's. Crossing his long legs, he took out a large sketchbook and smiled. His teeth were white. Arthur glared at him and focused on Brigid's letter.
Women and men gathered around Francis. Some drew very close to his legs, touching his knees with light, hesitant fingers. Others stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders and stroking his hair. It was as if they desperately needed to feel him in some way, to be close, and to know that he liked their hands on him. Some stared at him with curiosity, others with admiration, but the desire and longing were evident in all. Watching Francis begin to make broad, swift lines on the paper, Arthur wondered if the artist knew the extent of the veneration his followers experienced towards him. When Francis smiled and winked at a young man at his feet, Arthur rolled his eyes. Of course he knew.
Behind Francis, a girl bent down and wrapped her arms around him. She nuzzled his cheek. "Francis, Francis, when will you love me?" Francis turned towards her. He kissed her hand.
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, I cannot say. Perhaps you would not want me to love you."
The girl made a noise of protest. "Oh Francis, I adore you! If you loved me, I would wish for nothing else in this world." Others spoke up with similar declarations.
"Francis, marry me."
"Francis, we should be together."
"Francis, when will you give your love to us?" At that, the artist tipped back his head and laughed.
"When. When. That is all you think about, mes amours! Love is an untamed bird! It comes and goes as it pleases! Once you try to control it, it cannot exist. I will say I do love, but who it is I cannot say. It could be any one of you." He paused. "It could be you!" Something struck Arthur's head and fell into his lap. To his astonishment, he found a brilliant red rose lying there. Astonished, he picked it up and raised his head. Francis stared at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Arthur tossed the rose away and scowled. The admirers snickered. Arthur refused to look at them. The simpering group of people was not worth it.
"You may not love me, but I might love you, and if I love you, you might wish it were not so."
"Francis!" the woman in the trousers shouted. "If you do not stop talking, I will take my palette and break it over your head! I am trying to concentrate, and you keep chattering on. And now the sun has disappeared behind the clouds and my light is gone."
"Je suis désolé, ma Bohémienne. Allow me to make it up to you."
"No," the woman replied. "But you can buy me a drink."
"But of course." Francis quickly gathered his things together. "Feliciano, Herakles, do you care to join us?" The young man scrambled up.
"Thank you, big brother Francis!" he exclaimed.
The man with the cat did not move.
As quickly as they had arrived, the artists, their models, and their admirers packed up and left. Arthur did not watch them go. He had far more important things to do, and none of the departing group interested him. They were a lazy, lecherous group of people. Perhaps they had talent, great talent, but that did not compensate for their lifestyles. They toyed with people's minds and feelings as if they were simple playthings. Nothing they said could be trusted or believed. Their words were false, tricks so they could gain what they wanted. That was all. Arthur glanced at the rose beside him. And yet, they seemed to have a special sort of freedom. They came when they wished and departed when they were through. Not a single thing to tie them down in one spot. Despite himself, he began to wonder. To travel anywhere he wanted, to live without rules with someone who adored him. What would it be like, that life? To be completely unfettered from the burdens of the world? To need only love to make it through the day?
"Rubbish," Arthur thought. "Romantic, nonsensical rubbish."
He still had not read Angelique's letter. A pang of guilt struck him hard. His fiancée deserved better. He unfolded it. Angelique had drawn little seashells and fish in the margins. How sweet. Arthur liked that about her; she could be so clever and enthusiastic. It was a good kind of cleverness and creativity she possessed, too. He sighed. "Thank goodness I remembered this when I did," he told himself. "Who knows what I would have done if I had not."
Dear Arthur,
I hope you are doing well. Everyday I think about you. You never leave my mind, even when I am sleeping. Do you think about me often? I hope so. I am marking the days until our wedding on the calendar you gave me on your last visit. The number is growing shorter and shorter, Arthur! I am so excited!
I went swimming yesterday. Are the waters in England very cold? I will miss swimming in the sea if we live there. I bet the fish are not as brilliant or as colorful as they are in my home. I drew you some of the ones I have seen recently. When you come again, I will have to show them to you. You have to be very still, and they will swim right up to you. They might be a little frightened of you, but if you stay close to me, they will come by because I am their friend. I hope we will not be in England for so long that they forget me. That would make me so sad, Arthur.
I have been writing to your sister. She is very nice. I am sending her this letter and a recent photograph of me for her to send to you. I thought it might get to you sooner that way. I had hoped the picture would make a nice birthday present, but I guess when you get this, your birthday will already have happened. Happy Birthday Arthur! I learned a new song recently, and when we see each other again I will—
"Come on, both of you, break it up!" Køhler's loud voice interrupted his reading. The corporal and his sergeant were struggling to keep two men from ripping each other's throats out. One was a small blond man; the other was Francis.
"Coward!" the small man shouted. "I demand a duel!"
"I can fight you now, you hot-tempered dwarf. Just how strong are you without your guns?" Francis said.
"Strong enough to defend my sister's honor! You insulted her!"
"I tell you I had no idea she was twelve!"
"How could you not see? Or do you keep your eyes in your pants?"
"Basch, please, this is not necessary." For the first time, Arthur noticed a young, pretty girl with long blond hair in braids standing close to the small man. Her gaze flitted nervously from her brother, to Francis, to the two soldiers.
"Listen to your sister, Zwingli," Francis remarked with a leer. "You might want to give her a nice reward when you get home. The way you protect her, it looks like no one else will get a chance."
Zwingli broke from the sergeant's grip with surprising strength and speed. In an instant, he leapt on Francis, knocking him to the ground. The girl was roughly shoved out of the way. The two rolled in a mess of tightly wound limps, kicking, punching, and biting each other with some difficulty. Neither showed any sign of backing down. Arthur watched with a strange sense of morbid interest.
"That's enough!" the sergeant shouted as they tried pulling the men apart. "Where is Oxenstierna?"
"I don't know, sir," Køhler said.
"Find him then. Stop it, both of you," he told the still snarling men.
"Sir, do you really think you can handle both of them on your own?"
"Very well then. Køhler, take Zwingli to the prison. I will find Oxenstierna."
"Aye aye, sir." Køhler dragged Zwingli away, his sister following close on their heels.
"What a relief," Francis sighed. His clothing was a little scuffed and bit of blood rested at the corner of his mouth, but otherwise he was completely unharmed. "Am I free to leave now, sergent?"
"No," he replied. "You still caused a disturbance and made a lewd remark to a young girl." He pointed to Arthur. "You. Keep an eye on him until I return." Without another word, he bound Francis' hands with a short length of rope and departed.
A moment passed in silence. Arthur frowned at the artist. Francis took a deep breath.
"That was unexpected." He grinned at Arthur. "Allow me to introduce myself, monsieur. My name is Francis Bonnefoy." He bowed at the waist. "Please forgive me. My present condition prevents me from honoring you properly. What is your name?"
"It's none of your business," Arthur told him curtly.
"Oh." If Arthur had not known better, he would have thought Francis looked disappointed. "Can I not have the name of the last man I shall know before captivity?"
Well if he put it that way. "Arthur Kirkland, first lieutenant of the HMS Lincoln."
"Enchanté. Please, may I sit with you?"
"If you want." Arthur might have an easier time guarding him this way.
"I see you kept my rose."
"I just haven't thrown it away, you stupid frog."
"I see." Francis began to sing softly. His voice was low, rich, and lilting. Arthur found himself draw to the soothing sound. If he closed his eyes, he could easily be carried away. More than he already was.
"Will you stop that? It is annoying."
"You would prevent a man from singing in his last moments of freedom?"
Arthur regarded him curiously. "Do you really love freedom that much?"
"But of course. Freedom is the air I breathe, my blood, my life. It is the only way. I go where I want and do what I wish and love whom I love. I could not exist otherwise. It would be a torment. Do you understand how I feel?"
"I think so." Arthur remembered the stories he had read as a child. Pirates and tall ships sailing into the horizon with only the spirit of adventure to guide them. He remembered traveling with his family to the coast and spending hours at the beach just staring at the sea. He had wanted it, that life of excitement, danger, and exploration, sailing wherever the wind took him. Things had changed, but at least the navy had prospects. He would one day have everything his heart desired. But that had not been why he joined the navy in the first place. Arthur had wanted this, he truly did, but he could not deny that his ideal future was not his dream. It never had been. "No, I do know," he said quietly.
"I thought you might." Francis held out his hands. "I am afraid the sergeant tied the rope too tight. I cannot feel my fingers. Would you untie them, please?"
Arthur shook his head. "You are not going to get me that easily, damned frog."
"Non, of course. But as an artist, my hands are my most prized possession. I would hate to see anything happen to them."
"Oh very well." Arthur moved to undo the knot. "Promise me you will behave?"
The Frenchman's grin was wicked. "I make no promises, Anglais."
"Shut up." The knot was extremely easy for his deft sailor's fingers to work through. In less than a moment, Arthur pulled the loosened rope away. He looked up and found himself staring again into Francis' eyes. Only now, they were much closer. Arthur could see the shifting colors in the iris and the darkening pupil. Francis' breath was warm. His scent, wine, roses, and paint, filled Arthur's nose. If Arthur leaned forward just a little, he would feel Francis' beard on his skin. The warm, fluttery feeling in his gut returned; his heart pounded. "Too much, too much," he thought. Only it was not. It could never be enough.
"Arthur, when I said I was in love, I spoke the truth."
"Really? And who is the unlucky person?"
Those blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "I can tell you he is in the navy. He is not a commodore or even a captain. He is just a lieutenant." He slipped the rose into Arthur's hand. "You love me."
Arthur's cheeks burned. "If I do?"
"Then let me go." Arthur jerked away. Immediately, Francis reached out and pulled him close again. "Listen, mon amour, I am just an artist. They do not truly care whether I escape or not. Once things settle, we should meet. My friend Gilbert Beilschmidt has a place. It is bad, but he does remember to serve good wine. Come to me there, and we will drink and dance."
This was insane. He should knock Francis off the bench. Arthur sighed deeply. "What should I do?"
"Wrap the rope around my wrists. Before they take me, I'll push you down. Act surprised, and they will not suspect you."
"Very well." He started to move the rose, but Francis' hand on his stopped him.
"Keep it somewhere safe. It suits you. Do you know what red roses mean?"
"Of course." A tremor raced through his body. "Romantic love." He swallowed hard. "Let's get this over with." He bound Francis' hands lightly, making sure the knots were loose enough for him to untie and escape with ease. "I do not know why I am doing this," he muttered. Francis' fingers were long, slender like the rest of him, with only the faintest hint of calluses. "You take care of your hands," he remarked.
"I told you, they are my greatest possession. You have a gentle touch when the situation calls for it, I think."
"Stop flattering me."
"You like it. And you do know why."
"Yes, I do." Arthur slipped the rose into the pocket next to his heart. The delicate thing would be crushed, but Arthur would take care of it as long as he could. Brigid had taught him how to preserve flowers; he would take care of this one for the rest of his days. How strange. How odd. Only a few hours ago, the world had been upright, neat, straight, and perfectly in order. Now everything was askew and covered with a warm pink tint. Part of Arthur's mind could not believe he was about to let a prisoner escape. What this what love did to people? Because Arthur was…in love with the creature in front of him.
He noticed two figures approaching. "They are coming. Act serious." Immediately, Francis pulled away. He cast his eyes downwards, looking very much the regretful perpetrator. Arthur sat up straight. If this were to go right, he would have to appear stern and disdainful. He stood to greet the two officers.
Accompanying the sergeant was one of the tallest, most fearsome men Arthur had ever seen. His features seemed to be carved out of stone, and his spectacles did nothing to soften his face. "So this is Oxenstierna," he thought. "Is it any wonder Køhler was relieved earlier?" He cleared his throat. "Well, gentlemen, here he is. I have to say he has been well behaved since you left." A corner of Francis' mouth tipped up. "Take him. I have had my fill." Was it Arthur's imagination, or was Oxenstierna watching him closely. Arthur feigned indifference.
The sergeant pulled Francis up. Suddenly, he pushed forward. His hands were free. Arthur fell to the ground. Francis jammed his elbow into the sergeant's stomach, who doubled over with a low groan and darted away from Oxenstierna's reach. He gave chase, but Francis moved surprisingly fast. Arthur watched, transfixed. The afternoon had shifted to dusk, and the sun cast shades of brilliant red into Francis' hair and made the gold shine brighter. He turned and blew a kiss.
"Au revoir!" he shouted and disappeared.
"Sergeant, are you all right?" Oxenstierna asked.
"Yes sir, I am fine." He took several deep breaths. "I was not expecting that. How did…?" he trailed off. "Curious." Carefully, he picked up the discarded rope and examined it. Arthur rose to his feet. Oxenstierna watched him, his gaze piercing and direct.
"This rope has been retied," the sergeant said finally. He threw it down.
Arthur said nothing; he did not need to. So this is what love does. He thought of Francis running free. Would he wait for him? Would his love grow, or would it pass to another? He touched the rose hidden inside his jacket. Francis did love him, of that he was sure. Arthur felt a burning sense of relief. Francis loved him.
Oxenstierna stepped forward. Arthur closed his eyes.
This was worth it.
"Lieutenant, you are under arrest."
Notes:
If anyone is interested, Brigid = Ireland, Sean = Northern Ireland, Andrew = Scotland, Emrys = Wales. Angelique is of course Seychelles, and I used the popular fan name of Mathais Køhler for Denmark.
Céad míle beannachta means "A hundred thousand blessings" in Irish Gaelic.
Arthur's brothers took him to Gilbert and Sullivan's HMS Pinafore. The song is "When I was a lad".
Bonus points for anyone who guesses where the name of Arthur's ship comes from.