Captive Hearts

A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 6

Author's Notes: The development of this chapter is in line with comments made by Skeptic7 and Witchy12 at AO3. They raised some good points about John's captivity and the way this issue is or can be handled during medieval times (Skeptic7 asked whether it would have been much simpler for Monseigneur and Lestrade to just propose an employment contract to John). I thought it necessary that this issue is addressed in the story before we get any further, and what follows will certainly shed light on Monseigneur's actions in subsequent chapters. Thank you for your views. I believe they will help strengthen this fic, and I greatly appreciate your feedback. This is my take on the conundrum that is John Watson's captivity. Please see more author's notes at the end.

"I mean to have him," drawled Monseigneur.

At those words, Lestrade let out a breath as though the wind had been abruptly knocked off his sails.

"My lord," he said, his tone suddenly quiet, cautious. "I am asking you to reconsider your tactics in...acquiring John Watson. Not this way. Not by curtailing his freedom when we do not have any reason to. This is a mistake. Please."

"Oh?" said Monseigneur, coldly. "And how do you propose to have him stay on? Have you got any ideas?"

"By asking him, as a courtesy," said Lestrade. "Should that not be the first thing we ought to do? He may not be an ally now, but he may not remain an enemy for long either. Of his own volition, he may want to stay. Besides, he has been nothing but honorable. We do not treat men of honor this way, as though he were a slave, when he is, in fact, not. We do not treat even our enemies this way. We shouldn't."

Monseigneur did not appear to have heard the rest of Lestrade's words.

"By asking him!" he scoffed, shaking his head as he stared at Lestrade in disbelief. "Have you gone mad? Have you seen the man, Lestrade? As in really seen him? Do you know what he is?"

Lestrade said nothing, but his jaw was set in a grim square.

"He's a Highlander, Lestrade," said Monseigneur, emphasizing the word. "He's not just Angrian, he's an Angrian Highlander. You, as a Gaaldinian general, ought to know the implications more than anyone else. Considering they are our closest neighbors, Angrians have had contact with us all throughout history. There are people originally from Angria who have lived in Gaaldine all their lives and even serve in our armies, but all of them, without exception, are from the Lowlands. Need you ask yourself why?"

Lestrade fell silent and looked down at his boots. He could feel a lecture coming on, and there was no stopping Monseigneur once he launched into one of his monologues.

"The Highlanders are almost a race set apart from Angrian Lowlanders. They don't usually mingle," the man continued. "Highlanders keep to themselves up in the northern mountains. They have their own customs, and as you have seen from John Watson, their own system of healing. If Mycroft should ever succeed in winning the Angrian queen over to his side, you ought to ask her what her biggest headache is in terms of governing her people, and without a doubt she will say it is the Highlanders, so notorious for their disobedience.

"These people are not to be trifled with. They come from the poorest regions of Angria, but they are its best and fiercest fighters. That is why Angrian monarchs could not afford to antagonize them, because they are the country's chief defenders. You wonder why brother Mycroft would want to try negotiations with Angria first: it's because he knows we will get a handful of John Watson and his ilk if we go to war with them, and the blood spilled on both sides may not be something he will want staining his hands.

"These people are as proud as Lucifer and deeply attached to the sparse patch of land they call home. They are not easily uprooted. Dangle a bit of money or the promise of a little comfort in their lives, and you will be lucky if they merely spit on your face. These people are wolves, not dogs that you can tame by throwing them a bone or two. I'm deeply surprised that I have to tell you all of this, Lestrade. You ought to know better."

Lestrade was not easily deterred. "With all due respect, my lord, this is precisely the reason why I am recommending a different tactic when it comes to handling John Watson," he argued. "The man clearly values his honor and dignity, as he has every right to be. Take these away from him by forcing him to do anything he doesn't want to do, and no good can possibly come out of it."

"And how shall we make him say yes?" said Monseigneur. "I shall not be refused. Nobody says 'no' to me, not even the King, my brother. Not for long, anyway. And John Watson is not going to be the first man to do so. I have no interest in making any offer to the man when it is obviously going to be turned down."

"But you cannot force him to stay on as your doctor- or for whatever purpose- if he is unwilling," persisted Lestrade with exaggerated patience, as though he were talking to a petulant child denied a favorite toy. "My God, can you not see the danger this man presents? He knows his poisons as well as their remedies. He's the very man who can make life short and painful for you if you should want to proceed in forcing him to stay."

Monseigneur smiled. "Yes, he is capable of that, and probably so much more," he said. "But he won't do it. Not to me."

"Oh?" said Lestrade, eyebrows raised. "And how do we know so much of John Watson that we know what he is capable or incapable of doing?"

"I just...know him," said Monseigneur slowly, pensively. "He won't be able to do it. Otherwise, as he himself has pointed out, he would have plunged his sword into me already during our first encounter. A man of honor will find his hands tied by his high principles, even when facing against his enemy- just as yours are. And I have an idea about him that might further explain this restraint, but it needs to be tested. As of now, there is...insufficient data."

Lestrade's mouth was set into a grim line as he shook his head ominously. "This is folly, my lord," he said. "Dangerously folly."

"Let's make a game of it, shall we?" proposed Monseigneur, a glint of light entering his eyes. "Try to convince him. We can make him stay on for a few days more to handle my recovery. Let's see if you can work your particular charms on a Highlander. Tempt him, persuade him. I shall do the same, in my own way. Let us see who between us will emerge the better tempter."

"My lord-"

"The game is on, Lestrade," said Monseigneur with finality. "Now go find your nephew. I need to speak to him."

While Monseigneur and Lestrade were deep in their discussion of John Watson, the man himself-accompanied by one of the armed guards outside Monseigneur's tent- was stomping across camp, looking for Billy.

People paused to stare at him and wonder at his heavy, burring accent as he asked whether they had seen the boy. Everyone seemed to know who Billy was, fortunately, and he was pointed to the direction where he had gone.

Billy was, in fact, engaged in his favorite pastime as John finally spotted him in a clearing almost outside the garrison walls. In one hand, he had on a gauntlet, and he was watching the skies. High up above, a bird of prey glided effortlessly in the clear air.

"Ah, John, sir," Billy said, catching sight of John as he approached. He nodded a dismissal at John's armed escort who trailed after him.

"I need my old clothes back," said John shortly, already shedding the coat of grey wool and handing it to Billy. "Where are they?"

"I brought them to the washers," said Billy, eyes wide as he looked at John. "Though to be honest, the washers all think they're better off used as rags. Are your new clothes somehow unsatisfactory, sir? If they are, I can get you-"

"It's not that," growled John. "They're simply not mine. I want mine back."

"You're upset," observed Billy, a note of distress entering his own voice as he took in John's glowering features.

John nodded and said curtly, "Good observation there, yeah."

"I wouldn't be too upset, if I were you," Billy advised earnestly. "Monseigneur always exerts that kind of effect on people whom he meets for the first time. The more important the person is to him, the worse it gets. He'll find a way to test people and get under their skin and see how they'll take it."

John stared at him.

"After his first week of service to Monseigneur, my lord uncle told me he was reduced to begging the King to take him back," Billy continued with a laugh. "And as for me, I cried my eyes out the entire first month when I started serving under him, and that was two years ago."

John looked away and shook his head in disbelief. "How...why would you even want to continue serving him then?" he asked, bewildered.

"He's our Prince, sir," said Billy, his tone carrying no trace of rancor. "Our lord and master. We do not-cannot- take his actions into account the way we do ours. He is above all that."

"Well, thank God he's not my prince," muttered John under his breath.

"I know he may have been harsh. He may have said some things to anger you," Billy said serenely, "but he's also the one who commanded my lord uncle to summon you when he fell ill."

John turned to stare at Billy in surprise.

"Yes, he did," continued Billy. "I was there the entire time. He told my lord uncle, 'fetch our captive healer'-I'm sorry, but we didn't know your name then- 'he will know what to do with me'. That was the reason why you were taken to his bedside. My lord uncle would not have done so, if the decision were his to make alone. So you see..."

John shook his head. That doesn't mean a goddamned thing, he told himself firmly. All it means is that he's scared to death of Anderson's ineptitude, as who wouldn't?

Before he could say anything else, Billy put two fingers to his mouth and emitted a high whistle.

"Ah, I still can't do it the way Monseigneur does it," said Billy, shaking his head. "She'll never be able to recognize it."

Nevertheless, the bird did descend from the bright blankness of the heavens after flying a graceful arc.

"Azrail," said Billy happily, extending his gauntleted hand up for the young hawk in a touchingly courtly gesture, the way he would offer his arm to a high-born lady. "Good girl."

Azrail descended with flapping wings and very daintily took her perch on Billy's gloved hand. He cooed softly as he tossed a morsel of raw meat for her to catch on her beak.

Despite his own recently ruffled feathers, John leaned in to get a better look at the hawk as Billy made his silly introductions: "John, meet Azrail. Azrail, John Watson."

She was a very pretty thing: the sleek, pale feathers of her breast were barred with black. Her folded wings were grey, tipped with black at the ends. White stripes adorned the sides of her eyes. John watched, charmed, as Azrail cocked her head an angle to give him a look as intensely curious as the one he was giving her through one bright, red-orange eye.

Billy continued, "She's a Northern Goshawk. Very recently just shed her juvenile brown feathers. You should have seen her while she was still a youngster- all tawny and small, with her eyes sewn shut, the poor girl. She didn't have it easy as well from Monseigneur, when he was training her. Yet look at her now. Monseigneur got her as a gift from his uncle, the King of Gondal."

"Azrail," said John. "The name sounds familiar."

"It's the name of the Archangel of Death," supplied Billy helpfully.

"Oh." John raised his brows briefly before lowering them into a heavy frown. Unsurprising, he huffed to himself.

Trust the man to resort to drama at every turn: Wolf's Lair. Azrail. John briefly wondered what Monseigneur would call his demonic black horse, the one that had chased him down that green field. And then there was the matter of Monseigneur's name. What could it actually be?

Not, John told himself yet again, that it really meant anything to him.

"If you'd want to catch a glimpse of Monseigneur's soft side, you should be here to watch him hawking," said Billy.

"Oh. He's got a soft side, has he?" asked John offhandedly, watching Azrail reach into her wing to scratch with her beak.

Billy smiled as he eyed Azrail tenderly. "Sometimes he calls her 'mon couer', or 'my heart'," he said.

"Well," said John resentfully, unable to resist digging in once again. "It just goes to show he doesn't have one of those inside his own chest."

He really didn't realize he was so angry. Angry and upset.

And disappointed.

The strange mixture of emotions merely added fuel to the fire, because now he was bewildered at himself for feeling them as well.

He had not really expected any thanks from the man for saving his life, although he had to admit he had felt some satisfaction when he got the diagnosis and treatment right. There was nothing odd about that- It was what doctors and healers lived for. But to be accused of being the cause of the man's malady! The man was a bastard to even suggest it.

He would need to talk to Lestrade and remind him of their agreement. He wanted out-the sooner the better.

Almost as if on cue, the man's voice sounded behind them a few minutes later: "Billy, go and attend to Monseigneur. He needs you."

"Yes, sir." Billy slipped a hood over Azrail's head and nodded politely at John before he moved away.

John turned to stare at Lestrade as the man stood a few feet away from him, hands on his hips, his face rueful.

"John, before anything else, let me just say Monseigneur was really grateful-"

John closed his eyes in irritation and shook his head. "Stop it," he grated. "Stop being his mouthpiece. He's not here anyway so there's no use in voicing this sort of sycophantic rubbish to me."

"You don't understand," said Lestrade patiently. "He's not an ordinary man, he's a Prince. He's-"

"Yes, I know, he's not accountable for his actions. How can a god on earth possibly be held into account by mere mortals?" John began, voice rising. He bit back the rest of his words with great difficulty. Lestrade did not deserve this verbal lashing. He ought to reserve it for the one who did, when they met up again.

"When can I and my companion leave, then?" he asked instead. "I've already done what you asked me to do, and more."

"We were hoping- and Monseigneur asked, specifically-that you can stay on for a few more days, until he's back on his feet," said Lestrade.

John exhaled an explosive breath. "I don't see how I can be of further service to him," he said flatly.

"He trusts you," said Lestrade. "Don't get thrown off by his words. He says things like that but means them very differently deep down inside. He improves on acquaintance, I promise. Well, most times, anyway."

John was having none of it. "The moment he's able to stand," he repeated Lestrade's words, his tone final.

Lestrade nodded.

"John-" Lestrade was having difficulty framing his next words.

John waited, exasperation and impatience etched on his face.

Finally, Lestrade got the words out, "In the event that war is averted, would you consider it if we were to offer you the post of Monseigneur's private physician?"

John stared at Lestrade, not sure he had heard him right. The man's words had effectively robbed him of speech as he struggled to take in the idea. The very idea!

To look at Lestrade, he seemed completely serious. And grim. Say yes, said his eyes. Please.

John finally breathed out an incredulous laugh. "I can't believe this," he muttered.

"Will you?" pressed Lestrade, his voice urgent.

"No," said John, deliberately accentuating the "o" in the word. "War or no war, what I've done for the man may already be considered treason by some of my people. And after what has happened, I find it hard to believe that he would even think to ask me this. Did he put you up to it? Is he actually proposing-"

Lestrade closed his eyes briefly. "Monseigneur has nothing to do with it. The proposal came from me," he said, his voice dull.

Oh.

"Well, I hope he asks me," said John, very deliberately. "I wouldn't want to miss out on the opportunity of saying 'no' to his royal face."

"Even if it means a handsome, regular income?" said Lestrade. "Lifelong security? You need not be worried about material wants again."

"No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother."

Lestrade sighed. "John, please," he said quietly. "I meant it when I said we would give a lot to have somebody like you in our ranks. If war can be averted, if we can somehow manage to go around this entire conundrum-"

"I'm touched," said John tersely. "I really am. But guess what? We're not actually friends, sir. With no war, our paths are not supposed to cross. If war can be averted, I see no reason why I shouldn't just walk away from here. You'd have no hold over me."

A brief silence as the two men regarded each other.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to hope that the current situation holds out, then," Lestrade said wearily, straightening himself.

Something of his former self threaded its way into his voice as he continued, "As things stand, you're still our captive. My master will do with you as he sees fit. I'd check my tongue in front of him, if I were you, John. You couldn't possibly win over Monseigneur when it comes to trading barbs."

"I'll give him a run for his money," promised John grimly.

Quite unexpectedly, Lestrade smiled. "I'm sure you will," he said. "I'll be sitting back to watch the fireworks, then. It's time I take you back to him. He'll be wondering where you've taken yourself off to."

To look at Lestrade, it would be hard to guess what his thoughts were just then. Nothing pleasant, to be sure, as he thought back on Monseigneur's words and the heaviness of heart that accompanied his realization that Monseigneur had been right about everything, as usual: right about Angrian Highlanders in general, and John Watson in particular.

Most unsettling, how Monseigneur seemed to understand the man perfectly so early into their acquaintance.

Author's Notes: Medieval Scotland serves as the model for Angria. As a consequence of its geography, Scotland has two different societies. Mountains stretch from the center of Scotland to the north and west, marking the highlands; the lowlands are situated south and east of the country, rendering them more accessible to the influences of England, situated just down below. People living within these separate societies tended to stay tied to their own social groups. The Scottish kings were engaged in long struggles for power against their nobles, and control of the Highlands was especially difficult due to the forbidding and inaccessible terrain, and the fierce chieftains of local clans who maintained control over their own sections of land. (Source: An Illustrated History of Britain)

In medieval falconry, Northern Goshawks were the most prized of all hunting birds. Like most kinds of raptors (birds of prey), these hawks exhibit sexual dimorphism (in which the female is larger than the male), thus, most birds captured for falconry training are female. Most are captured while they are still juveniles, to facilitate ease of training. During medieval times, it was common practice to stitch the eyes of a hunting bird closed to lessen its panic around humans and to control its vision. All throughout its training and falconry career, a hood is slipped onto the bird's head while it is at rest to keep it calm and help acclimatize it to human surroundings.

Some very interesting expressions which originated from falconry terms:

Haggard: looking exhausted and unwell, in poor condition; wild or untamed (in falconry, it pertains to a hawk, caught from the wild as an adult and very difficult to train)

Hawked it up: Clearing phlegm from the throat (derived from the sound a hawk makes as it expels the indigestible parts of a meal)

To turn tail: To turn and run away, as Lestrade did in an earlier chapter (a hawk flying away)

Wrapped around his/her finger: to be held tightly under his/her control (derived from the leash of a hawk when secured to the falconer's fist)

Source: Wikipedia