A"Is he coming today?" Peter asked for the twenty-third time since noon meal. Patience was never his long suit and right now his boundless energy was making it difficult to sit still in the hard chair. He was supposed to working on his history, but at sixteen he'd much rather be on the practice field than trapped inside, reading musty old tomes about the Children's War.
"Today or tomorrow." Philip answered without looking up from the ledger he was filling with careful, tiny lines of inked numbers that had to add up at the bottom of the page. Accounts were his least favorite job, but it was the most important to get right. Lord Fury wasn't a man who suffered fools easily, and he'd put his trust in Philip when he'd made him the Overseer of Mons Tueor. Lands, manors, people … all fell under Philip's purview. His talent lay in organization, using the knowledge he found in old tomes and musty libraries to ensure those who looked to Lord Fury for protection had the chance not just to survive, but to flourish. Tenants who ate enough worked harder, soldiers who shared the wealth of conquest fought harder, and thanes given opportunities became more skilled.
"Should I bathe now? If he arrives before dinner, I might have time to ask him and I should look my best, don't you think?" Peter was standing now, pacing from bookshelf to bookshelf, not even pausing to glance out the window. Usually, he sat on the pillows where he could see the northern most edge of the training area; this time of day, Master Quartermain had the guard running drills. Like most young men, he had dreams of being a knight, maybe even becoming the King's Paladin one day. But Peter was different; his talent had manifested at a young age, and his intelligence made him the ridicule of all his peers. Even adults of his town shunned him, a sad truth about the chosen. Only among others who understood, knew the isolation of being unique, could they find acceptance.
"Peter." Philip sighed and carefully tucked his quill into the hole in the desk to avoid any stray ink falling on the precious vellum. "We have spoken of this before. You know my feelings on the matter and my advice. It's time to make your own decisions; you'll soon be invested with your own position."
"Philip, you know Nick the Furious thinks I'm still too young to know what I want. I'm sure he'll say no. Then what do I do?" His voice was verging too close to begging; as an heir to the largest holding in all the Midlands, Peter had to learn that Tarians never begged, nor did they whine. In answer, Philip simply stared, staying silent. Soon Peter's footsteps faltered and he dropped into his chair, ducking his head and going back to pretending to study. With the slightest shake of his head, Philip went back to work, reading through the various papers and transferring the information into the larger ledger. They were losing too many sheep to an overpopulation of wolves near the border with Stark's lands and the Mill at Dugan's Creek was underperforming again. Time for a surprise visit; he penciled in a notation to add that stop to his planned trip over the plateau.
Those were small annoyances. Overall, Tueor was thriving, according to the numbers in front of Philip. He liked he had a hand in that, could return the years of support that his Lord had given him. He'd heard the stories of other thanes pressed into service in the guard, even the most bookish given a sword and forced to fight. Not Philip; Philip had been chosen by Lord Stoner, taken from the small home he and his mother had been reduced to after his father's death and brought to Tarian Castle where he met Nicholas Fury, the man who would become his friend and the next Lord of Tueor. Within six months, Philip began to train separately from the main guard; he was given unlimited access to the libraries of all the manors and quickly became skilled in unique forms of combat more suited to his new role. On his 18th birthday, his gift had been the keys to Coul Hall, his father's ancestral home. In two years he'd made the small manor and surrounding lands profitable again, fixing years of neglect. Since then, he'd taken on more and more responsibility, proving over again that the trust he'd been given had not been misplaced. Now, at 28, he was in charge of the whole, and he took his job very seriously. Many called Philip Nicolas's left hand – the right was reserved for Maria Hill, chosen only a year after Philip. The two had trained together, and now Maria was the Head of all of Tueor's guard.
The clatter of hooves on the cobblestones made Peter perk up; Philip sighed and nodded. There was no way he could keep Peter's attention now. "Go. Meet them," he said. He'd have to go as well, but not before he sprinkled sand on the page to set the ink, leaving it open to dry. Pushing back the heavy wooden chair, he felt the familiar ache in his fingers, and he clenched his hands into a fist, willing away the bone deep throb. All in his head, that's what the clerics told him. This was nothing but phantom pain from too many days spent clutching a quill and bending over books as they dragged out ancient tomes to back up their claims. But Phil had read more than they had, Tarian's library far more expansive than the largest of the monasteries. Knowledge was power; unfortunately, many believed the Men of Letters who taught that the distant past was dangerous, to be avoided. In one of the oldest books, pages cracking with age, he'd read of those like Maria and Peter and the others, people with abilities and, yes, even magic. The word made a charge spark between his fingers and the ledger; soon, he'd need to find a way to bleed it off, run out the energy before he hurt someone, but for now, he needed to greet the returning party.
As he left the room, the household bustled, and he was proud to see the way the stones gleamed from washing, and the hearth scrubbed free of ash and smoke, the fire burning efficiently under the stone arch. He'd just had the tapestries depicting the tale of the first Lord of Tarian's great battle against the Hydra restored with vibrant colors, and they hung now in places of honor in the entryway. From the smells wafting through the corridors, fresh bread was cooling and the slabs of beef were roasting. All was prepared. He arrived at the right moment, just as the entourage pulled to a halt in front of the long flight of stone steps that lead to the main doors. A moment of relief flowed through him to see them all hale and hearty; the roads were dangerous, growing more so lately with the Red Knight encroaching across the river and Tarleton harrying them from the West. Even their own court was full of plots, ambassadors vying for influence, and King Donaldson was weak; he was the least of his brothers, too willing to be led rather than lead.
"Philip." Maria swung down from her horse, handing off the reigns to a groom. "I hope you've got May working on one of her wonderful meals. Too many days on the road with hardtack; I've been dreaming of her cherry tarts and waking up hungry."
"Oh, come now, I now you like jerky," Philip joked as he watched them all for telltale signs of trouble. Maria's dark eyes were ringed by shadows, her traveling gear at least three days gone with wear and slept in. Petite and slim, Maria might pass for a lady of the court, if she ever wore a dress or knew how to sew a stitch. No, Maria's gift wasn't in the arts or home, she was a great leader, a brilliant strategist and a fighter of excellence. Few would argue with her battle plans and even less would dare call her a lady to her face.
Lord Fury swung his leather clad leg over the saddle and dismounted, his long leather coat split in the back for riding. His dark skin made the signs of his exhaustion harder to see, but Philip had long ago learned to read his benefactor and friend. He was favoring his left knee as he dismounted and made his way up the stairs. Tired. Worried. Something had happened at court. Philip grounded the spark that slipped from his forefinger into the hilt of his dagger, letting the metal carry the heat away. "There are baths awaiting and I saw a side of beef with May's special sauce. And a new pastry to try, something she called a dough circle. Smacked my hand when I tried to steal one."
"Hot water." Maria smiled at him, the dirt of the road shading her cheeks and forehead. "I could scrub for days."
"As always, good job, Philip," Nicolas clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "My study in thirty. We've much to discuss."
Maria winced, bath becoming a quick wash and change now; she followed Lord Fury into the hall. There was bad news, Philip knew, and no time to waste. He saw the grooms off to the stables with the horses, gave orders for the belongings to be brought up, and spoke to the other knights and guard, ensuring they had food and comforts after the journey. As he hurried back inside, something heavy and hard settled in his chest, the bloom of worry taking his breath away. His leather jerkin couldn't protect him from the charge that sizzled up his arm, nowhere to go but into the skin beneath. There was time for a detour to the armory where the whetstone was already scarred with blackened slashes burned in the shape of a human hand. Better exhausted than bristling and on edge.
…..
"The King is enamored of this new visitor." Nicolas stalked around the chamber, ignoring the warmth of the fire in his need to pace. "I can hardly make him listen to me. He banned me from his chambers because he said I was a harbinger of gloom."
Maria was seated next to him; Philip listened quietly, understanding the anger behind the furrowed brow. The cycle had begun again; the King chose a favorite, seduced by bright eyes, smooth lies, and lips that told him what he wanted to hear. Lavish gifts would follow, then positions of authority, titles, other people's lands given to the favorite's family and friends. Soon, the new one would flex his muscles, pushing for his own agenda, capturing the King's ear. The last had been Lady Frost; she'd ruled court with her icy demeanor, cutting off those who had supported the King's father, replacing them with younger nobles who followed her every word. The King had dressed her in diamonds and made her the largest landowner in the country. Her fall had been swift; as easily as a favorite rose, so too did they come to an end. The true power of the country lay in the noble houses and the Lords who ran them. Wise Kings courted them; foolish ones did not last long.
"The infatuation won't last." Maria was right. As soon as the King needed them, he'd come groveling back to his Lords. "Prince Loki may be more skilled at manipulation than the others, but the King will lose interest eventually."
"Loki has plans within plans, mark my word." Nicolas finally sat, leather coat splaying out around him. "I have a feeling that this first feint is just to lull us into placidity."
"An Asgardian plot?" Maria asked. Of all their allies, the Kingdom of Asgard was both the most mysterious and the most long-standing. Few people visited and King Odin made no secret of his belief that the problems of the Midlands weren't his troubles. Yet, they had never actively been aggressive, sometimes sharing knowledge and aid.
"Our woman inside Odin's court says that this position was a kind of punishment for the prodigal heir. He's a silver tongued devil who enjoys stirring trouble," Nicolas said.
"So daddy sent him here?" Maria snorted and poured a glass of wine for Nicolas first then herself second. Philip shook his head no when she offered. "Odin thinks highly of us, it seems."
"I dare say Odin simply does not think of us at all." Philip had studied the history of their neighbors. "If Loki is plotting, I would imagine he is working with another faction within the court or …"
"Indeed." Fury agreed. They didn't need to speak their fears out loud; after too many nights of speculations with only innuendo and rumor to work from, facts remained elusive. And yet, they were convinced another power was in play, moving behind the scenes. Reports of attacks on the outlying holdings, farmers telling of misshaped men who carried unusual weapons, and beasts in the night that ripped animals to shreds and stole children from their beds. Skirmishes on the border with the Red Knight's forces that came immediately upon the heels of forays by Tarleton's yellow clad warriors. The room quieted, Nicolas staring into the flames as if looking for answers. Philip looked askance at Maria; her eyes widened and she gave a tiny shake of her head. She didn't know either, but Nicolas's worry was obvious.
"Tell us," she encouraged. "We cannot plan until we know."
With a sigh, Nicholas spoke. "Prince Loki has asked the King to make an alliance with his royal house of Asgard. He has offered aid in our fight against the Red Knight."
"This seems a good thing," Philip said, caution making him chose his words carefully. Anything suggested by Loki was to be suspected. "Assuming Loki can deliver on his promise. They have never offered military help before."
"True, but that is the least of our worries. As the King has no heirs, he has chosen my house for the honor." Fury swirled the wine in his glass, and Phil knew the news was only going to get worse.
"Milord, I will, of course, do my duty." Maria's eyes darted to Philip; she was the oldest female heir and thus the logical choice despite the knowledge that she was indispensable as the leader of Fury's armies. Still, he was probably one of the only people who knew her heart on the matter, knew how much an alliance would cost her in matters of the heart.
"It's not you, Maria," Nicholas said with a slight smile as if amused by the thought of the aloof Prince meeting her. She couldn't hide the way her shoulders sagged with relief.
"Darcy is barely sixteen." Philip couldn't imagine Lord Nicholas agreeing to send the vibrant young woman into an arranged marriage. He also spared the Asgardians a quick jolt of sympathy if such a union took place; Darcy would be running the court in a matter of weeks. "If the proffered husband is young himself, perhaps a lengthy engagement?"
"It is Prince Loki who offers his hand," Nicholas looked directly into Phil's eyes. "And he has asked for you."
The lump in his throat stopped his breath, and he felt the energy rise so quickly he couldn't contain it. Books blew off the table, a chair flew across the room to clatter against the stone wall, and the fire sputtered, showering sparks onto the hearth. He clamped down on his emotions, turning the flow back on himself, letting it burn inside of his chest.
"No." The word changed as the sound passed his lips, weighted down with command. Maria snapped up straight in her chair, hands curling around the arms, and Nicholas's head turned. Philip's thoughts turned to books, words running through his mind's eye - a line of poetry, a mathematical formula, a verse of an old hymn.
"No." Phil repeated, taking a deep breath to slow his heart down. Minutes passed before he felt he could speak normally again. "I'm sorry. Of course, if you deem the match necessary, I will do as you command."
"It could be good for you, Phil," Nicolas said quietly. "Our contact is convinced Queen Freya has abilities and Loki may as well; the Asgardians may be more open and accepting."
Ability. That was the common term for it. Philip's earliest memories were of his parents teaching him to hide what he could do to avoid suspicion. No one ever uttered the word magic, too scared of the Men of Letters and their condemnation to even whisper the possibility. That was the stuff of legends, those old tales told to children. Magic wasn't real.
"And I could report what I learn back to you." Part of being an heir was forming alliances; they all knew the day might come when they were called upon to make an advantageous marriage. But Philip had become complacent over the last few years as he grew older, too busy with his studies and his work to think about the possibility. To imagine that Loki would pick him, a scholar and a clerk as much as anything else, didn't make sense.
"Yes, that's true. I imagine you'd be an expert on Asgard within a few years." Nicholas, as ever, kept his face impassive in the way that served him well at court. "And I must say that Prince Loki is handsome. Charming too, don't you agree, Maria?"
"Tall, slim, dark-haired." Maria didn't have as stony as face as Nicholas; her dislike of the prince was evident. "Arrogant with an ego the size of the ocean. Oily and too good with words. But many young men and ladies of court speak highly of his sexual prowess. Two and three at a time …"
Philip's face flushed at the thought; given his own lack of experience just the mention of the marital bed gave him pause. At heart, he was an idealist, holding out for a love match; few knew how much he enjoyed the tales of the bonded, but he convinced himself he was happy with his life the way it was. He hadn't had time for a relationship in the last few years, and he could honestly say he had not been upset when his earlier attempts had ended without so much as a moment of upset.
"How long would I have?" Calculations unspooled in Philip's head. "I have to make adjustments and find a replacement …" He spun to a halt. "You have no intention of such a match," he accused Nicolas. "Odds are, Loki hopes to gain information about our strengths and weaknesses and who better to know? He believes he can seduce me into telling him, expecting I'll be glad for his attention since I'm old and on the shelf."
"Not to mention that your absence would weaken the whole structure of the holding," Maria added. "And you are neither old nor on the shelf. You are quite handsome, and many have set their cap for you. You are just terribly choosey."
"Thank you." He returned her smile; he could count on her to cheer him up even if he didn't really believe her words. His hair was already starting to thin and he needed lenses to focus on some pages of script. "But how are we to avoid the King's directive? If he wishes a marriage, he will have one."
"Ah, yes, well it seems I have yet to receive the official writ. We had to leave so suddenly after the news of the accident at Cage House that the King's message didn't get delivered. Thankfully you handled that with your usual efficiency. I'm sure the messenger will get re-directed here eventually." Nicolas did so enjoy the clandestine parts of his job. "Three days at the most before we must deal with the King. Too bad I've already made a contract with another party that takes precedence."
"What?" Maria demanded.
"What?" Philip asked at the exact same moment. Lord Nicolas always played his hand close to his vest, but to agree to an engagement without telling them? It took a second for the answer to come to Philip. "One of your contingency plans, I take it?"
"Indeed." Nicolas responded, settling back and steepling his fingers in front of his face. "What do you know of Barton Manor?"
"That tiny holding?" Maria was even more surprised. "They applied to you for protection two years ago; an attack left them Lordless and in dire straits, if I remember correctly."
Lord Nicolas raised his eyebrow, encouraging him to provide the information he had. Philip was never sure if this was a test of his talents or Nicolas letting someone else do the research so he didn't have to.
"Barton Manor, formerly Frasier Hall. On the border between the Midlands and the Hills of Argoth. Fairly wealthy until Edith Fraiser, only heir, married Harold Barton; Lord Barton was a man who relied upon violence and intimidation to rule. Two sons … Charles and ... Clinton." He had to drag the names out of his memory. "Lady Barton's life ended in a suspicious fall, and Lord Barton died from exposure. Riding home drunk, he fell from his horse one winter night." Standing, Philip crossed to the bookshelves and pulled down a recent set of maps; laying it open on the table, he pointed out the location. "Lord Charles wasn't much better, but then the disappearances began, farms furthest out feeling the brunt, culminating in the raid two years ago. Eyewitnesses reported soldiers who weren't men but skeletons with little flesh led by a tall man in a green cloak and golden helm." The stories had been catalogued and added to the growing stack of unexplained events. "The manor house was partially destroyed, many of the long-term retainers killed, and Lord Charles disappeared."
"What of the other son?" Maria asked.
"Left just after his mother passed to seek his fortune elsewhere." It was a common story of second sons, especially of smaller holdings. There was plenty of fame and gold to be had fighting in various disputes and wars. If Philip had learned one thing in his studies, it was that humans always found ways to hurt each other over the smallest of differences. "Probably so far away, he hasn't heard the news …" And that's when he understood Lord Nicolas' plan. Rather than speak his suspicious aloud, Philip waited for confirmation.
"Sir Clinton Francis Barton is returned and open to the idea of a union. His lands are in shambles and he needs someone with a firm hand and good skills at managing estates to help put them in order, along with a healthy infusion of gold to see it done. In return, he has agreed to become one of my Thanes and heirs. I'm confident you can handle the reconstruction of Barton Manor as well as continue your work for the rest of the Holding, just from a different location. Besides, it's long past time you began to train others to be your aides. I'll need you in the days ahead."
For the second time in the conversation, Philip was taken aback. His day had begun worried about mills and sheep, and now he was engaged to a man he'd never met. Knowing more about the situation he'd be walking into helped – he had the holding on his list to visit this year – but the tight knot of worry didn't abate. He tried to remember more about the youngest Barton, but nothing came; genealogy records did little more than list children and birthdates, and Philip couldn't dredge that number out of his memory. No matter how young or old, he'd been a mercenary for at least 10 years or more and that left a mark on a man. Despite what the bards sang, war was no romantic endeavor; Philip knew all too well the smell of blood and the groans of the wounded. Too many sons returned broken men, unable to participate in polite society. And yet, Lord Nicolas was offering Sir Clinton a position in his family.
"The new Lord Barton is … skilled?" Maria was the one to raise the question. All of Fury's heirs had talents and abilities, ones he thought strengthened the family's position.
"I believe Philip is quite fond of the tale of the Crimean Pirates and the Archer." Fury stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. "He asks Sal to play it often enough after dinner."
"Clinton Barton is the Archer?" That knot in his chest dropped into lower regions of his body and warmed him enough that he tugged the edge of his jerkin lower. Oh, yes, he did enjoy that tale of the exploits of a blonde-haired hero, especially the part where the Archer dressed as a pirate to infiltrate Captain LeBeau's crew. So much so that he had memorized sections of it to repeat in the middle of the night. But he needed to not let his mind wander to those solitary moments with nothing but his imagination and his own hand too long; at least he could position himself behind stacks of books to hide his less than scholarly interest and splay his fingers on the heavy table so the energy grounded into the wood. "I thought that only a story."
"Sources seem to confirm that fact. And he's returned with three very interesting Thanes and a retinue of battle-tested warriors who fought under his command." Fury didn't have to expand on that statement; they all three agreed a war was coming, and far too few people capable and experienced in dealing with the realities of the fight. "We will meet one of those Thanes soon. I have invited Barton to send an envoy to conclude the negotiations, and I believe she'll be arriving today."
The smallest sound of rock bumping against rock and all three of their heads went up, senses on alert. Nicolas's study was high in the central white tower, but there were always ways to overhear. Silence for a few beats and the slightest intake of breath from outside the window.
"You may as well join us, Peter," Nicolas said. No response for a few seconds, then a hand appeared on the side of the window sill, a dusty and dirty Peter Parker right behind it, swinging into the room and dropping on to the floor. His brown hair was wild and windblown, his feet bare despite the crisp autumn air. "Tell me the Lady Darcy is not out there as well."
"She was waylaid by Aunt May for a dress fitting," Peter admitted as he ducked his head to avoid looking at the others.
"I see." The disapproving look was cold and deadly, yet Philip could see the glimmer of humor; Nicolas tapped his fingers together and remained relaxed. Crawling up walls and across parapets was an old habit with Peter; he'd been doing it since he was a child and took any height as a challenge to his skill. At least Philip had managed to get him to understand that the behavior scared others. No more flipping from one yardarm to the next, at least when strangers and towns people were in view.
"It's not fair to Phil," Peter burst out. Constraint wasn't one of his strong suits. "I know we have to, that's what being an heir means, but he's happy here and you don't even know this guy at all! He could be like Thane Wilson, crazy from war, or Thane Ross, a creepy old man."
"As a matter of fact, Lord Barton is twenty-four and he is mentally stable," Fury calmly countered.
"But … But Philip will have to leave and who will teach me and keep Darcy from running around in pants and make Jasper let me ride in the afternoons and …" The words came tumbling from Peter's mouth.
"Peter." Philip was just as calm as Nicolas, cutting into the flow; it was long past time for Peter to stand on his own.
"I had thought you ready to advance your studies at the University," Fury mused, and Philip had to work to keep his face impassive. "Philip tells me you are quite the budding scholar."
Peter eyes flew open and he held his breath for a few beats before he could respond. "I, yes, I would very much enjoy continuing. I have been corresponding with Professor Osborne, with Philip's permission." He could hardly contain his joy, bouncing on his toes, but managing to maintain a formal stance.
"Well then, that is settled." Nicolas pushed up from his chair. "Now, I believe the bathwater should still be warm enough to clean up before dinner. I'm famished." He nodded to them all, clearly aware he was leaving Philip to handle the fallout of the decisions as he exited the room; he was very good at dramatic departures.
"University, Phil!" Peter turned to him and threw himself at Philip, knocking him off balance and into the edge of the table. "You told him, didn't you? I know you did." He danced back and then remembered the rest of the conversation. "Oh. Phil. This marriage is bullshit! You shouldn't have to do it."
"It will be a new challenge and with you off to your books, this place will be much quieter." Philip almost sounded like he believed that.
"The Archer, though. Seriously, Phil, you'll know if it's him won't you?" Peter was back to prattling, moving in his own little dance around the room.
"I suppose so," he agreed; he hadn't really had time to think about it.
"The scar! You can see if he has the scar."
"What scar?" Maria asked, confused.
"In the story, the Archer is scarred by Captain LeBeau's cutlass, a crescent shape right long his hip bone. We know because the beautiful red head he rescues sees it later. Phil can check and see if it's there!" Peter answered.
So much for regaining his composure. Just the image of tracing a scar on the shallow part of the Archer's hip with his fingers? Philip was going to have to carry books around with him for the rest of the evening to hide the bulge in his trousers.
"Yes, Phil. You'll have to check and see." Maria said with a snicker as she tucked her arm in his. "But right now I'm hungry, and you can escort me down to dinner."
….
His shoulders ached from hefting the large river rocks up and over his head; the sun beat down on his already tanned skin, sweat trickling down his back as he reached for another despite the cool temperature. The wall never seemed to change, the same long expanse of rubble before them and the same rebuilt section behind. Fortifications were no good if they were in pieces, strewn about the landscape. Stonemason was a long way from his mercenary days, but it seemed that's what he'd become because Lord or no Lord, Clint couldn't protect the people of the small valley until he got this done.
"Watch the hands," Jessica warned when Clint nearly dropped a large stone, distracted by his thoughts. "I think you'd be better off working with the chinking in the state you're in." She tilted her head, black tendrils of hair escaping her long braid, and looked at him with her all-knowing green eyes.
"Thank you for your concern." Not for the first time, Clint wondered how he'd ended up surrounded by fearless women who felt the need to run his life. Jessica was a perfect example; she had been provoking him since the morning, pressing him during their practice session and now this afternoon. "But I can stack stones well enough."
"Aye, and you can second guess your decisions either way." That bit of the southern lands slipped into Jess's voice now and again, the farm still there despite her years of moving around. "You've done what had to be done. Worrying will gain you nothing."
"As if that would stop me," Clint glanced over at the other men and women working alongside them; the habit of keeping secrets was too ingrained to start sharing now. "I'm a responsible land owner now, remember? It's part of the job."
"Milord." The boy … Jace, Clint recalled … slid to a halt, panting from exertion. "Thane Romanov has returned and wishes to speak with you."
"Go," Jessica agreed. "I'll keep an eye on things here."
The walk back did little to ease his mind. Every ruined husk of a house he passed, the fallow fields and empty pens, were reminders of his failures. The burned out mill, blackened boards left in a haphazard pile, half of the waterwheel listing at a drunken angle, blocking the creek – he'd played there as a child, had made a nest under the floorboards where he kept all of his treasures in a tin box. His father never looked for him outside the manor walls, and the foundations of the chimney kept his spot warm enough even in the depths of winter. Every time he passed he thought about stopping, digging through the wreckage to see if the box was still there after all this time, but he didn't. Those days were gone, and there was no going back.
The manor wasn't much better; the family wing was nothing but rubble with boarded up windows and openings to try and stop the flow of the cold winds that whipped down from the mountains. The great hall had only four remaining buttresses, a good portion of the roof nothing but unplaned wood thrown up to keep the rain out. Gone were the stained glass windows that Michael Frasier brought home after the Battle of Trewleyn four generations ago. Soot crawled up the sides of the kitchen now; only the second floor of the guest and servant rooms had escaped the flames with all four walls and a roof intact. The place had never been perfect – his father had preferred to drink away any profit rather than invest it back into the land – but it had been home to a lot of families who had counted on their Lord to take care of them.
Natasha Romanov was waiting on the front steps, issuing some instructions to the groom; she nodded when she saw Clint approaching. For all Clint could tell, Natasha had been for a pleasure ride on a sunny fall afternoon; there was no flicker of how her reconnaissance had gone. Her red hair caught the light, her green eyes flashing up to his face when he came towards her. Petite, inches shorter than Clint, she still could quell a man with just a glance.
"You smell," she announced, wrinkling her nose at his appearance. He'd forgotten he'd taken off his vest, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt, and he was now dirty with sweat and mud.
"Welcome back to you too," he said, heading up the stairs and into the hall. Never one for pleasantries, that was Natasha; from the moment they'd met and she'd saved his inexperienced ass, something had connected between them. Not love or some kind of romantic bond like in those old stories, but the kind of link forged in blood and sweat and near misses with death. The fact that Clint preferred men was, as she had put it, a selling point. He'd never pressed her about why she mistrusted men, and she never asked why he passed coins to boys with unexplained bruises. There was no need; they understood each other perfectly.
"Wine for Thane Romanov." He grabbed a passing soldier and sent him off towards the kitchen. Another thing he had to do; find servants for the house. He'd had no time to think of anything beyond the immediate fortifications in case of another attack. Finding someone who knew how to cook more than camp food was also on that list.
They settled into the small space that used to be a storage room for the Steward's records and now served as Clint's makeshift study. Hardly big enough for a small desk and three mismatched chairs, the room was the best they could do. Clint sat down in his favorite chair, a worn wooden piece with curved sides and arm rests; it used to grace the groom's office down by the stables back when there was more than just stone walls and stalls. Clint had loved the Head Groom, loved the smell of horses and hay – it was another one of his best hiding places. The chair was smooth yet sturdy and made him think this ramshackle mess he'd inherited was worth the effort.
"Seems Lord Fury left court before Loki finalized the deal," Natasha began without preamble as soon as she had wet her throat with the sour wine. "The King is playing catch up, sending messengers scurrying out after him. I'd say Fury bought two or three days; Carol will arrive before nightfall."
Which, Clint knew, meant he'd be married to a man he'd never met and wouldn't for a good week or so more before he went to sleep. He'd sent his proxy with Carol, and she'd stand in his place at the ceremony. After that, just the consummation remained; until then happened, there was still room for the King to annul the union.
"Fury's smart, but we knew that." Clint sat his own glass down, the alcohol not of interest to him, his stomach already roiled with his thoughts. "His protection and money will go a long way towards shoring up the defenses here; I'm worried about the reports from the outer holds." Herds were thinning in the foothills, those sheep left to roam not coming home. It was starting again, Clint knew, his instincts for trouble honed by those years sleeping in snatches with an ear open.
"We're not the only ones. I had a very interesting conversation with Lord Stark's Head Guard Hogan. They have holders moving back to Stark Castle, claiming there are monsters in the dark on the moors. And Lord Richards is locked in his tower as usual, working on some new project that is consuming his attention, but he's sent his brother-in-law and wife on a progress to survey their boundaries. They know trouble is afoot." Natasha folded a leg under her, lithe and flexible. This was what she did best, mingling at court, knowing who to befriend and just how to get the information they needed. She blended well, at ease in an elegant gown as well as her leather jodhpurs, and had saved their lives over again with the smallest of dropped word, the most simple of body language read and interpreted.
"And the King doesn't listen, too caught up in Loki's lies." Anger. That's what he felt. Privileged and useless, squandering his power on sycophants while the people teetered on the brink of a fall. No use in going over it all again, though; Natasha already agreed with him about the danger.
"Four years older." Natasha's green eyes never left his face as she spoke. "In case you wanted to know."
He did, but he didn't. What difference did the knowledge make? Whoever Philip Coulson was, Clint had made his decision.
"Competent. Learned. Organized. Scholarly. Tough but fair. Fury's left hand. Those are the terms most often used to describe him. Then there are the rumors. My personal favorite is that he was created in Lord Stark's workshop, the perfect steward. Even more fascinating are the older whispers that his mother was more than just a healer and he inherited her power." She was teasing Clint, tossing out bits and pieces to get him to admit his interest. He might as well because she wouldn't stop until he asked.
"What is your opinion, Nat?" That earned him one of her rare real smiles.
"He may just be exactly what we need here. He's actively involved in Fury's properties and very good at his job. I'd hazard a guess he'll have this place running again much faster than we can imagine. But more than that, I've heard watching him and Thane Hill spar is a thing of beauty." She sighed a little; well-trained fighters were like poetry to her. "I can assure you, he's not ugly; one of the court bards has written an ode to his blue eyes. I could sing you a verse if you like."
"No, thank you." He had to smile at the notion; Natasha had no sense of tone at all. When they'd earned room & board in exchange for a few songs, Clint always had to do the vocals while she played. "Blue eyes, eh?"
"I hear he wears lens when he reads, which is quite often." Now she was going for the kill; she knew exactly what kind of man Clint liked over their years together.
"Yes, and he can beat me at cards, bake a cherry pie, and really wants an ex-mercenary with a lot of scars to top him," Clint rolled his eyes. "You don't have to sell him to me."
"True. All I will say is I am hopeful. And if the magic turns out to be true? More than hopeful, downright excited." She wouldn't lie to him. Not about this.
For a moment, he let himself believe all would be well.
…
"Are you going to faint?" Peter whispered in Philip's ear. "I'll get Darce to stand on the other side and we'll keep you up. No one will know."
He wasn't going to faint even though his stomach was churning and his knees felt weak. Not exactly how he thought his wedding would go; there had never been a tall blonde warrior standing next to him in even the most outrageous scenarios. Yet here he was, time of the essence, Nicolas, Maria, Darcy and Peter as witnesses. Jasper Stillwell was handling the paperwork; normally that would be Philip's job but he couldn't validate his own marriage contract.
"Philip?" Jasper asked, handing him a quill. Stepping forward, Philip saw Lord Clinton Francis Barton's already inked name and his hand hesitated, a small blot of ink falling on the page. With a deep breath, Philip signed his own. And just like that, he was married. The room spun slightly, and he suddenly wished he'd eaten some of May's amazing roast and forgone that shot of liquid courage he'd taken before coming here.
What's done is done, he thought. Tomorrow he had to begin planning for his move to Barton Manor. He started the list in his head even as he handed the quill back.