Blades still do not sit easily in Francis' hand, even after seven years of this daily routine.
At the start of it, he had lacked both condition and cushioning calluses, ending each session with his palms torn and muscles aching, and later, once he had become habituated to its rhythms, the unchanging patterns became numbing to both mind and body.
Now, whenever he draws sword from scabbard, he remembers the clamour and stink of combat, the sun-bright warmth of arterial spray splashing against his skin, and how sickeningly simple it can be to end a person's life.
Nonetheless, he practices his drills with the same diligence as he ever did in Lutetia and the bloodied and battle-churned mud of the fields around Argentoratum. He blocks and parries the thrusts of invisible enemies with a zeal equal to the days when Signors Ricci and Silvestri called out their critiques on his every move – 'Focus! You are here to fight, not take in the sights!'; 'I think His Highness must be wearing his lead boots again this morning. Move those feet!' – and sent regular reports of his progress on to the king.
Without a physical opponent to test himself against, he feels his bladework is becoming sloppy, his reflexes dulled, but no Devan sword master will take him on as a pupil, fearing charges of treason if he were to be injured when they sparred. Alfred and Madeline are as ignorant of the sword as Francis ever was when first he arrived at his father's home, and cannot aid him.
"I don't know why you bother with it, anyway," Alfred has often said in the past. "You know better than I do that warfare's changing. You'd be better off honing your skills with a pistol again. Your aim's gotten terrible."
Francis is certain that Alfred's advice, for once, is perfectly sound, but these rhythms have become as much part of him as his own heartbeat.
And, somehow, they feel just as vital.
-
-
Francis' daylight hours were given over to his tutors, his evenings to assigned readings. For the most part.
Despite all of his fanciful dreams of court life in Lutetia, Father's home was a silent, solemn place. He threw no parties or balls, and attended those of others solely when he was duty-bound to do so for political reasons. The social epicentre of Lutetian high society had shifted in recent years from the palais impérial to the opposite bank of the Sequana and the far smaller château de la douairière, in which Francis' half-sister, Isabel, had taken up residence following her marriage.
Very occasionally, Father would host small gatherings which Francis was ordered rather than invited to attend. Even though he had tired of reading about ambushes and infiltration, phalanxes and fortifications quite some time ago, if the decision had been his to make, Francis would have chosen to continue his studying.
Father's guests were invariably army officers – Magisters, Dux, and Legates – and their conversation was invariably of a militaristic bent. After dinner, they would retire to one of the drawing rooms to drink brandy, and talk of training, strategy, and rising tensions along the border with Germania.
They drew Francis close, tapped at his chest with a finger or the stem of their pipes, and waxed lyrical about the great battles they had fought in when they were his age, their eyes growing misty with nostalgia. It had been the making of them, they always said. They wouldn't have become the man or woman they were today if they hadn't been tempered in the crucible of war.
As he'd never before had the opportunity to hear their like first hand, Francis had found such tales strangely fascinating at first; intrigued by how the attrition of years could grind all the harsh edges from memories full of fear and blood, polishing them until they shone.
Their interest soon palled, however, as Francis became more and more acutely aware of how ghoulish it was that they could smile and even chuckle over the thought of such carnage and slaughter, simply because they happened to emerge on the winning side.
After being subjected to six long months of them, these tête-à-têtes now nauseated Francis. Father served more elaborate meals than his typical wont when entertaining his officers, and the rich food sat very uneasily in his stomach when combined with the thick pipe-smoke curling deep in his lungs, and a low voice in his ear, purring about the great glory to be found in butchering strangers in the name of the Empire.
Nevertheless, he still smiled and pretended pleasure to hear it, because Father was always near at hand, his ears keen and eyes ever watchful.
-
-
All of the personal correspondence Francis takes delivery of has been penned by Maman and chronicles the latest happenings in Augustodonum in such exhaustive detail that it's almost akin to having experienced them firsthand.
As his siblings are just as eager to hear such news as Francis himself, he has taken to reading these letters aloud whilst he, Madeline, and Alfred drink their digestifs in the rose drawing room after dinner, in order that they can enjoy them together and thereafter dissect any gossip they contain down to its bones.
So used is he to this state of affairs that he doesn't bother to look closely at the one envelope that had arrived in that afternoon's post, addressed to him and not his title, until the very moment he is poised and ready to open it.
Maman's hand had not written the directions, and the postmark is Roman.
Francis' fingers tremble a little, and his breath quickens. It has been so very long since he was last sent a letter of a more intimate nature – the sort that he would want to savour at his leisure and, most importantly, in perfect solitude – that he had never thought to consider the possibility of receiving one.
Thanks to his father, he and Giorgia had parted on such poor terms that Francis had been quite convinced that he would never hear from her again. But here in his hand, surely, is the evidence that she does not curse his name even now, and that he has not been forgotten. Who else in Roma would want to write to him?
"Is it a love letter?" Alfred asks, breaking through Francis' reverie.
"No," he answers immediately. "Of course not. It's..."
Flustered, he cannot think of any other reasonable explanation for his hesitation, and Alfred and Madeline exchange amused glances in the resulting silence.
"I can't imagine what else would make you blush like that," Alfred says with a horribly knowing smirk. "Well, whatever it is, you'd clearly prefer to be on your own with it, so Maddie and I'll make ourselves scarce."
He offers Francis an exaggerated wink, and Madeline exhorts him to, "Tell us all the juicy details later," before both take their leave of him.
Francis listens to their retreating footsteps carefully, and as soon as they've faded from earshot, he raises the envelope to his nose in the vain hope of catching some vestige of Giorgia's scent clinging to the paper.
All he can smell is the usual miasma of a long voyage: dust, sweat and perhaps a faint hint of sea spray.
That disappointment is compounded by yet another when he finally extracts the letter and discovers within its first line that it had not been written by Giorgia, after all. The feeling is short-lived, however, as it soon becomes clear that not only is its author Prince Feliciano, but, better yet, that he and his brother, Lovino, fully intend on paying a visit to Deva if Francis would be kind enough to extend them an invitation to do so.
Giorgia, Feliciano and Lovino had been the only rays of light Francis had had to sustain him through the dark days he had spent in Roma with his father, but he'd believed his connection with his cousins was just as thoroughly severed as that he had once shared with Giorgia.
The Emperor himself had seemed to think quite highly of Francis, and certainly encouraged his youngest sons' friendship with him, but Francis had expected that his father would have done his level best to discourage his half-brother's 'misguided' partiality after what happened in Germania.
He had expected to never be allowed to keep company with his cousins again, but perhaps his uncle might care for him still, despite whatever poison has lately been dripping in his ear.
-
-
Francis had been residing in Lutetia for almost eleven months when he received his first invitation to visit Isabel.
He duly presented the gold-edged card to Father and asked his permission to accept, even though he anticipated nothing less than an unequivocal refusal in return.
Father barely glanced at the card, which seemed answer enough, but as Francis started to turn away from his desk, he surprised him by saying, "She has been asking to make your acquaintance from the very moment she heard of your arrival, and I've grown tired of hearing the same damn question every time we meet. You may take four hours for yourself that night, but if your studies suffer at all as a consequence, you will not be allowed that privilege again. Do you understand?"
"I understand, Your Majesty." Francis kept his voice steady and his expression serene, just as Father preferred, but his heart soared like a bird that the cage of his ribs could scarcely contain. "I will not disappoint you."
His life had become so thoroughly circumscribed by the high walls that enclosed the palace grounds that the prospect of a quiet family dinner with his half-sister, her husband and their children, was one that he looked forward to with far more excitement than he'd ever felt in anticipation of attending even the grandest gala events in Augustodonum.
By the time that his carriage was rattling down the gravelled driveway of the château de la douairière, however, most of that joy had turned to dread.
He had pulled his 'finest' out of storage several days ago in preparation of this night, and although the time the clothes had spent airing at his window had rid them of the mustiness and stink of mothballs that had clung to the fabric, he does not feel entirely comfortable wearing them,
They were the very height of fashion when he'd purchased them in Augustodonum, but they may well have been several months out of date by Lutetian standards, even then. That detail, he imagined, would not escape his half-sister's eye, nor would the strange patina that now covered the leather of his boots, despite Father's servants' best efforts at scrubbing it away.
He felt, for the first time, like a poor relation; come begging at Isabel's table for scraps. Scraps of what, though, he couldn't quite be sure.
-_-_-_-_-_
-
His arrival was met not by the butler of footman, but the princesse herself, who somehow managed to stand tall, proud and regal as she awaited him despite the two small children who were trying their hardest to hide themselves beneath the voluminous skirts of her midnight blue dress.
Francis had worried that he would not recognise her, but he could see in an instant the echoing traces of the eleven year-old-girl he once known in her adult form.
Father's first wife had been a Luisitanian princess, and Isabel had inherited her mother's dark hair and olive skin, though not her soft and delicate features. Her nose, like Father's – like Francis' – was long and her chin shared the sharp angles of his.
Her eyes had nothing in common with Father's, or with the beautiful woman whose portrait still hung in Father's study. They looked almost amber in the pale light of the lamps hung around the château's front door, and their expression was as warm as their colour.
She pulled Francis into a tight, lavender-scented embrace before he'd even finished alighting from the carriage, and then attempted to spin him around as she used to when they were both children together.
"Look how tall you are now, mon cher!" she said, laughing when her efforts came to naught. "And so handsome, too! The last time I saw you, you had a little snub nose like a piglet, and a head covered in ringlets to match!"
She took a step back from Francis, her gaze sweeping up to appraise the current state of his hair. Her mouth pinched closed afterwards, which made her opinion on the appearance of his fuzzy scalp abundantly clear. Thankfully, she was kind enough not to voice it.
"We have so much to catch up on," she continued smoothly. "But first, I must introduce you to your nephew and niece. Come" – she deftly untangled the children's hands from her dress, and urged them forward – "say hello to your Uncle Francis."
The children – a little boy of around four years of age, and a girl who could be no more than two – blinked up at him suspiciously and said nothing.
"This is Francis," Isabel said, nodding towards the boy. "Named after great-grandfather, just like you. And this is Marianne, named after no-one in particular. I just liked how it sounded!"
Neither Marianne or little Francis reacted to the sound of their names.
Thinking that they were perhaps intimidated by him towering over them, Francis knelt down, and then offered them both an awkward bob of his head, which was the best he could manage by way of a bow without toppling over.
"Bonsoir, Francis," he said, smiling at his namesake, and then to his niece, "Bonsoir, Marianne."
The children's response this time was instantaneous. Little Francis raced away like a hare to hide behind his maman once more, and Marianne's tiny mouth opened on a wail so loud and full of feeling that it would put a professional opera singer to shame.
Isabel laughed again, patted both of her children consolingly on the top of their heads, and then extended one hand to Francis to help him to his feet. "They're just a bit shy at the moment," she said. "They'll warm up to you soon enough once they get to know you."
"And I very much want to get to know them, so I hope four hours will prove long enough to achieve such a thing. I'm afraid I can't stay any longer tonight," Francis said apologetically.
Isabel's mouth contracted again, and her grip around Francis' hand tightened almost to the point of pain. When she spoke, however, her voice was just as blithe as before.
"Do you really think I'd be content with just one evening of your time?" she asked. "Ah, no, mon frere, you will not escape that easily. I intend to ask Father to make this a regular appointment for you, no matter how much you might object to it!"
-
-
The newly completed ballroom is brilliant in what Francis' feels to be the truest sense of the word: jewel-bright and shimmering with light and reflected light all the way up to the highest point of the vaulted ceiling. It's like standing in the centre of a briolette cut emerald.
It had seemed a shame to mar the pure clarity of its beauty by inviting people to enter it, but invite them Francis must, or so M. Jansen had insisted.
Francis had thought that his personal touch was welcomed, that the noble families hereabouts had appreciated that he entertained them with quiet dinners where they were the only guests and they could converse on more intimate terms. To the contrary, he was informed that the previous incumbent of his position had arranged parties and balls and reviews near weekly for the high society of Eboracum, and the good people of Deva had been expecting that he would do the same for them.
Governor Russo, to hear his secretary tell it, had been a virtual saint amongst men, and had left Francis with the very loftiest of standards to live up to.
Not wanting to disappoint in his new role as he has so many others, after six months of residency within it, Francis threw the doors of his palace open wide for the first time and entreated all of Highgate and a good portion of Eastgate to step inside.
He has never hosted such an occasion before, but his many years at Maman's side had taught him by example how to do so with aplomb. He smiles despite the scuff of boots and clatter of heels across the satin-smooth polished floorboards; laughs despite the glasses carelessly set down on lacquered tables and sideboards where they will doubtless leave a sticky residue of split wine that eats into the varnish; and pretends complete absorption in some of the dullest conversations it has ever been his misfortune to endure.
It seems unlikely that the Devan nobility is composed of inherently less interesting people than that of Roma, Lutetia or Augustodonum, but they are afflicted by the misfortune – through no fault of their own – of being démodé.
Londinium had struck Francis as being charmingly old-fashioned when first he arrived in Britannia and spent a week rejuvenating from his travels there, but Deva is positively antiquated in comparison. His guests talk of events in Gallia that happened weeks before as though they happened but yesterday, ask his opinions of plays he watched so long ago that he has forgotten all but their name, and earnestly pontificate about the upcoming plots of serialised tales in the periodicals that Francis has already read in their entirety.
Although the desire to point out the holes in the misguided theories they put forth is almost overpowering, Francis bites his tongue.
He bites his tongue and longs for better companions, but his family has abandoned him.
Even though Madeline has years of lessons in elocution and etiquette behind her, and countless exclusive soirees that Maman had arranged to try and help her feel more at ease in company, she can still be almost painfully shy around strangers, and never more so when faced with large crowds of them. Francis had caught sight of her in the rose drawing room earlier, but as she had been not only talking quite animatedly to dark-haired and bearded young man, but looked quite eager to continue doing so, he had not wished to disturb her.
If Madeline's desertion can be forgiven, the same cannot be said for that of his brother or cousins. Lovino and Feliciano have disappeared beyond Francis' ability to trace, though his attempts to unearth them had been both careful and thorough. Alfred, on the other hand, had made no secret of either his hiding place or his wish to be left there in peace, having found himself a sizeable group of likeminded young men and women who are just as keen to while away the evening playing billiards as he.
Francis' own wish is that he could be free to join any one of them in their diversions, but his need to be thought of as just as good a host as Maman has ever been is stronger, so he smiles and laughs and waits for the night to end.
-
-
For a month or so, the evenings Francis passed in Isabel's company were much the same as the first they'd shared: a light meal eaten with Louis, little Francis, and Marianne, and then, after the children were put to bed, even lighter conversation over a game of chess or glass of cognac.
As Francis returned to the palace after each of these weekly excursions both clear-headed and sufficiently refreshed by the break in his otherwise entirely scholastic schedule that he felt he could devote even greater consideration to his studies, Father soon started to not only tolerate but even encourage them.
Following this sea-change in his opinion, the ambience of Francis' visits to his half-sister slowly changed.
At first, there was simply one more guest at dinner – someone close to Francis in age and station, and invariably as vivacious in speech as they were in appearance – but time wore on, the number of visitors increased, and they would often forgo food completely in favour of cards or parlour games.
Isabel presented each of them to Francis with all due propriety, exchanging no more than their names and titles as they bowed to one another, but later, in some secluded corner and behind the shielding mask of her fan, she would share whatever gossip she knew about his new acquaintances and ask him in a whisper whether he had noticed the elegant curve of this lord's calves or that lady's décolletage.
And, for a good many weeks, Francis had had to admit that he had not noticed anything of the sort. Before leaving Augustodonum, he could never even have conceived of such a fundamental change in his own nature, but before leaving Augustodonum, he could never have conceived that his life would become so cloistered, either.
Most days, he exchanged no more than a word or two with Father or his tutors that weren't related to his lessons, and suddenly being surrounded by the warm press of strange bodies and the constant chatter of strange voices was so overwhelming to his senses that he could scarcely gather enough of his wits to speak himself, never mind fully appreciate the fine figures of his companions.
Thinking that Isabel might perhaps be insulted enough to stop issuing him invitations altogether if he divulged his concerns, he kept them to himself.
Or, at least, he attempted to, but his discomfort must have been obvious to Isabel all the same, for as end of the year drew near, her gatherings grew quieter once more, despite the lively celebrations that the season would usually demand.
"I have a delightful young gentleman for you to meet tonight," Isabel told Francis on what was to be his last visit before the fortnight-long festivities of Yuletide began, and his half-sister's calendar became too crowded with other commitments to accommodate him. "Just lately arrived from Roma, and pining for it dreadfully. I'm sure you'll be able to make all thoughts of home fly clear from his mind, though!"
"Perhaps," Francis said, feigning a struggle to remove his gloves that demanded his full concentration so he could avoid having to see the hopeful expression that was doubtless gracing Isabel's face.
The last 'delightful young gentleman' who dined with them had found him something of a bore, and took no particular pains to disguise it, as had the 'lovely young lady' of the previous week. Francis had begun to fear that he'd forgotten the art of conversation entirely.
"He's the son of a Marchese who is a particular favourite of the Emperor," Isabel continued, undaunted by his noncommittal reply. "Very handsome, of course, and very charming. He's already become a great favourite of mine, himself, and he's not yet been in Lutetia a month!"
As Isabel was so soft-hearted that her definitions of both handsome and charming were expansive enough to encompass near every citizen of Lutetia, regardless of the degree that their countenance and behaviour resembled that of a toad, Francis did not entertain any great hopes for the Marchese's son.
Within less than an hour of making his acquaintance, however, Francis was convinced that Isabel had actually been doing Felice de Santis a great disservice.
He was not as striking as many of the men his half-sister had introduced him to – his features were well-formed and regular, but there was nothing in particular about his face that caught the eye and demanded further attention – nor was his wit as quick.
The one quality he possessed that all those other lords had lacked, however, was that he was slow to speak and eager to listen, and Francis, whose voice had of late been stolen from him, discovered that he thought that more attractive than any other.
-
-
Three days after he opened his home to the cream of Devan society, Francis discovers a Roman statue come to life in his conservatory.
The exquisite lines of the interloper's face and form are, admittedly, somewhat spoiled by the ill-fitting rags he has chosen to clothe himself in, but Francis is still able to maintain the illusion of marble-like perfection until the very moment he opens his mouth.
No Roman champion of myth would speak in such a forthright manner with a rough accent that Francis has hitherto overheard only in the Old Town district of Deva, where apparently air is in such short supply that every other consonant has to be swallowed down in order to conserve it
He cannot imagine one going by the name of Corporal Alasdair Kirkland, either, nor lowering themselves to join the Town Guard, who, according to M. Jansen, are thugs no different to the criminals they purport to police, save they alone are legally allowed to hit people with swords in the street.
The fallen hero gives him a sloppy salute, and then tries to excuse his trespassing by explaining that he's, 'investigating a murder.'
Captain Beilschmidt had already informed Francis of the body discovered in Old Town in her latest report, but the corporal's portentous glowering seems to demand a slightly more dramatic reaction than indifference.
"A murder?" Francis asks, pressing a hand to his chest.
The gasp, he has to admit, may have been a touch overdone, and the look of mingled horror and disgust the corporal gives him suggests that he suspects him of being deliberately mocking.
"Aye," the corporal says stiffly. "A young man was found murdered in Old Town, and he was in possession of a rose just like these. They're not something that's common around these parts, but my inquiries led me to believe that I might learn more in your palace, and so you find me now."
"How dreadful," Francis says, and though he strives towards a more neutral tone this time, the continued stoniness of the corporal's face suggests he has still fallen somewhat far of the mark.
"Are you aware of anywhere else nearby that might grow roses like these?" the corporal asks making a brisk gesture towards the rose bush he had been examining earlier.
Francis has seen very little of his new home town beyond the handful of estates, theatres, and museums in Highgate he has personally been invited to attend. Aside from a brief detour to watch the dancing in Old Town's College Square during some local festival or other, and his appointments with Alaina at her shop in Eastgate, he has yet to explore further despite promising himself on numerous occasions that he would find the time to do so.
This failure has irritated him in the past, but now, it somehow seems a little shameful, too. How can he expect to properly govern a town – a country – he barely even knows?
"I can't say that I've had reason to see much of anything hereabouts," he tells the corporal apologetically. "They're hardly rare flowers, though."
Judging by the corporal's incredulous expression, that does not hold as true in Deva as it does in Gallia, though, if that is the case, he does not confirm it, but presses on with: "The young man looked like he had noble blood. Might he have taken a cutting from this rose bush on a visit here? Or been given one?"
"It would help if you could give me a name," Francis says. "I entertain many guests."
"I don't have a name, but I can describe him. He was about twenty-five or so, about my height but about half my breadth. Tan skin, short black hair and beard."
Francis' heart flips over in his chest. He doesn't have a name, either, but he does remember a bearded man with black hair. And he remembers the roses.
He must to speak to Madeline at once.
"I can't recall having met anyone who looks like that here," he says, striving to keep his voice level and his words unhurried. He pulls out his pocket watch, glances at its face without seeing it, and then lies, "I'm afraid I don't have time to answer any more of your questions, Corporal. You can see yourself out."
-
-
Isabel told Father pretty lies about the time she and Francis spent together which left Francis free to fill his four hours of liberty in any way he saw fit.
He met Felice in the apartment he had taken near the château de la douairière, where they made love, traded jokes and talked of inconsequential things, and then made love again.
And for the two hours Francis was allowed in order to worship in one of the temples on the last day of every week, he now took an earthly rather than spiritual path towards the divine.
For the first since he moved to Lutetia, he could almost believe himself happy.