Captive Hearts
A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story
By
Nana
Chapter 9
Author's notes: Thank you so much for your lovely reviews, as always! They never fail to please and inspire. Please see more author's notes at the end.
Monseigneur's long, leisurely bath gave John some time to recover his composure. After a while, he managed to successfully quell the irrational panic building deep inside him, and he found that it was quite possible to look at the man without cringing whenever he was addressed. Now, face carefully arranged into neutral lines, he watched as Billy helped Monseigneur into his clothes- his vestments, upon which he may proclaim to the world his rank and stature as Prince of a realm. His body armor of authority.
John watched with forced calm as Monseigneur's pale flesh was gradually swallowed up and encased in a luxurious carapace. If anything, this exerted a pull over John the same way as the sight of Monseigneuer, standing naked in front of him, did.
Like the man himself, Monseigneur's clothes were anything but simple, yet they gave off an aura of subdued stylishness, beginning with the black undershirt made of sumptuous silk. Then, a form-fitting middle garment that accentuated the lean hardness of Monsiegneur's torso — a gipon, deep aubergine in color, with long, tight sleeves. Over the gipon went the knee-length outer garment called a cote-hardie.
John was not familiar with this kind of extravagant fashion-layer after layer of such beautiful fabric, each covering the other so that one may only see a few, tantalizing inches of further riches that lay beneath. The ubiquitous woolen tunics with their loose folds worn over homespun and, occasionally, linen— which would already be quite a splurge on his part— had been part of John's daily attire for as long as he could remember, and he had never thought to give his clothes more consideration than they merited so long as they served their purpose of keeping him dry and warm. Thus, what he was seeing now seemed unreal, as remote from his ordinary life as the moon was from the earth.
There was nothing loose about Monseigneur's garments at all from the waist up- the cote-hardie had a low neck, and complex sleeves with edges embroidered in silver thread that extended to the elbow in front and hung in tapered and elongated flaps at the back, exposing the gipon's purple sleeves beneath them. The sober black of the cote-hardie was relieved by a row of tiny, silver buttons up front. It molded to Monseigneur's form and set it to perfection, highlighting his broad shoulders and trim waist, his long neck. Below the waist, Monseigneur's garment flared into a full skirt reaching to his knees, open at the front from which one could see black breeches so tight that they molded to his calves and legs like stockings, or a second skin. Dark leather boots on his feet and a black cape slung with artful carelessness over his shoulders and fastened in place with a silver brooch completed the picture of delectable elegance.
And of course, there was the mask.
That damned mask covering his face, looking slightly filthy with erotic mystery. As if Monseigneur wore it deliberately to mock John and expose his weakness for everything that it signified: an irresistible secret and a provocative tease, all wrapped around the person of this man.
Done with dressing up, Monseigneur turned his head to flick a glance at John's direction, as if to make sure he was watching. John sighed as something inside him grimly acknowledged that he was losing this fight. There was no denying it. He was deeply fascinated by the enigma that was this man. With the sense of impending defeat came exasperated confusion.
Sweet Jesus, what was the matter with him, to be so affected by the sight of this man, dressed or undressed? It did not bear contemplation. It was just...he had never realized that dressing up could be such an absorbing task. A ritual far removed from the drab and mundane idea of clothes being only one of life's bare necessities. It was quite a revelation to see dressing as an art form in itself— the results could be lavish, supremely pleasing to the eye as well as being perfectly sound in function, if one had the right clothes. Gradually, John was awakening to the realization that Monseigneur could take a dull, everyday task and transform it into something interesting and new. Something more than usual. Special.
A disturbing realization, made all the more disturbing by John's suspicion that Monseigneur had planned it this way, just as he had planned that goddamned bath and his nakedness, with the idea of having John as witness, whether he liked it or not.
Monseigneur was showing off. Just for him.
John could feel goosebumps breaking out on his skin at the very idea.
Of course it's not for you, he snapped at himself, irritated. It was a stupid thought. Never in his life had he thought himself self-centered, that everything revolved around him. Certainly, that was Monseigneur's idea of himself, but not him. Not John Watson!
He's doing this for his soldiers, thought John, watching Monseigneur's every graceful move around the quarters as he continued to discuss some business with Lestrade. To let them know that everything's back to normal, that he's alright. He must stop the rumors before they get out of hand.
Monseigneur and Lestrade were having supper out. John was going to stay in with Billy.
The quarters were suddenly empty and strangely peaceful as soon as Monseigneur stepped out, and Billy was keeping his silence, not even so much as looking at John unless John was directly addressing him. John stared at him for a while, wondering yet again what could possibly be wrong with him, what Monseigneur might have said to him to upset him so. Did it have anything to do with him? Perhaps Monsigneur thought Billy was being too friendly with somebody he ought to regard as their captive? In the end though, John decided that Billy would impart the information himself when he was ready.
They had an early supper of mutton and onions cooked in beer, and afterwards, Billy brought out some books just to prolong their state of non-communication. The books were Monseigneur's, beautifully bound and ranging in subject from falconry to discourses that were entirely unfamiliar to John. Most of the volumes were also in Gondalian— that slippery, sliding language that John could barely make out by hearing, let alone by reading.
For a while, John contented himself with staring at the pictures in the books, very few and far in between, before giving up. He made a slow circuit about the quarters, taking in Monseigneur's things that had barely registered with him during the hectic hours of Monseigneur's illness.
There were more books and papers. Strange instruments of a kind John had never seen before. Monseigneur's swords and weapons. His armor. John stared at his sword and remembered the way it had gleamed in the rain, just the other day.
Just the other day, when he had barely known Monseigneur.
And now…
What was to become of him now, in the hands of this man? God help him.
He eyed the flap of the tent surreptitiously. He could make a run for it, if he really wanted, to hell with all the consequences.
But he couldn't, his primary reason being Alec.
He refused to consider the other, terrifying idea that perhaps now, it was quite possible that he wouldn't. With or without Alec.
The supper with the soldiers did not take long— only two hours, at most.
Monseigneur returned with a swirl of dark silks, instantly setting off a flurry of activity inside the tent. Clearly, he was fatigued from his little excursion, his temper short and frayed at the edges. He was wearing Lestrade down with more instructions for an endless list of duties around the garrison.
A few minutes of this scene and John arrived at a decision. Quietly, he stood up and, slinging his medicine bag over his shoulder, asked leave to make more medicine.
"Whatever for?" snapped Monseigneur.
"You're still not fully well," said John, the very embodiment of reason. "Off to bed with you."
He departed with Billy at his heels, not bothering to take in Monseigneur's reaction.
For this particular draught, to be taken at bedtime, John decided that adding some of the mushrooms he had found in the forest with Sally should do the trick.
Monseigneur had undressed and indeed crawled into bed by the time John and Billy returned. There was no stopping his mouth though, as he continued his verbal onslaught. Lestrade bore it all with resigned patience.
"What's this?" asked Monseigneur, breaking off from his tirade and eyeing the cup that John was holding out to him suspiciously.
"It's your medicine, what do you think?" murmured John. "I'm not waiting until you have a relapse, what with you getting out of bed so soon."
"I'm not taking it unless you do," said Monseigneur, casting John a sly look from the corner of his eye.
John sighed. "Fine," he said, raising the cup to his lips and taking a mouthful of the bitter fluid before handing the cup over to him.
Monseigneur's face screwed into a look of disgust as he took his first sip. "You've been feeding me this last night?" he asked John.
"Force-feeding," corrected John. "The entire cup now, please."
"No. Two more swallows and that's it," said Monseigneur shortly.
John shook his head but said nothing.
Lestrade, taking advantage of the momentary lull in Monseigneur's speech as he drank his medicine, launched into reports of his own, only to pause a few minutes later as Monseigneur yawned.
Lestrade cleared his throat, and continued, "We will need my lord's signature on the papers by tomorrow, and..."
"Fine." Monseigneur yawned again.
He turned abruptly to John, pale eyes alight with sudden and complete comprehension. "That was rather clever, John," he said, voice already slurring. "I didn't know you have it in you. Just wait until tomorrow, as soon as I...I..."
John raised his brows at Monseigneur's heavy-lidded glare, not at all daunted by the man's words. He watched as Monseigneur finally closed his eyes and breathed out a deep sigh.
He was asleep within minutes.
"What did you put in his medicine?" Lestrade demanded, coming over to look closely at Monseigneur as he lay on his pillows, mouth slightly parted as he breathed quietly, rhythmically in deep sleep.
"A few mushrooms to take away melancholia and aggressive behavior in some people," said John, shrugging, already yawning himself. "He'll feel all better tomorrow, and I thought we can all use some rest ourselves for tonight."
Lestrade could not hide his grin.
John wasn't sure if it was the effect of the mushrooms, but that night he dreamt of Mary.
His Mary.
They were walking along the edge of the woods near home, hand in hand. A slow, leisurely stroll that John never wanted to end. They didn't say anything, but then they didn't need to. The light from the afternoon sun caught in Mary's golden hair, on her smiling face.
Gladness suffused John's heart- that incredulous joy unique in dreams when we see a loved one long lost suddenly restored to us.
But John should have known it was all too good to be true. By the end of the trail, John could feel Mary's hand slipping away from his grip.
"No. Don't go," John gasped, realizing what was happening. What always happened in the end when he dreamt of her. Reflexively, he tightened his hold over her, but her hand was suddenly like air, passing through the solid flesh of his closed fist and fading into nothing.
Because that was what Mary was.
A ghost.
John woke up gasping, felt the familiar pain lashing at his heart. Five years- an eternity, and the pain was still fresh-a living wound-deep inside him.
A moment of disorientation before John finally remembered where he was. He bolted upright to sit up from his sleeping mattress on the floor, the blankets strewn about him.
Monseigneur's bed was empty.
"He said he's feeling so much better so he's gone to tend to Azrail. He says to let you sleep on, but you may go to him when you're ready. He says he wants to show you something," said Billy, who was preparing John's breakfast on the table. To answer the look on John's face, he continued, "Last night has been the longest I've seen Monseigneur asleep."
Curbing his curiosity, John silently got dressed and ate his breakfast. Stepping out with Billy, he found the open air crisp and bright with early morning sunlight. A welcome respite from the stifling confines of the tent.
The garrison hummed with activity all around them. John turned his head to stare as a tent was being dismantled as they passed. He glanced at Billy, but Billy was keeping his eyes resolutely on the path before them.
They found Monseigneur standing at a small clearing almost outside the garrison, the same location Billy had picked yesterday as he let Azrail out for some air. Today he had on a dark, fur-lined cloak, gauntlet covering his right hand and forearm. Like Billy yesterday, his face was turned toward the heavens, scanning it for a sign of Azrail.
Lestrade stood a few feet away. "John," he said, nodding, as John and Billy joined them.
"Well, well. Up at last, I see," drawled Monseigneur without turning his head, though John thought he heard a smile tucked into his voice. "Feeling very satisfied with yourself over that stunt you pulled last night, I suppose, John. Very clever, I must admit. Is that your way of telling me to shut up?"
"You're welcome," said John briefly.
This time, Monseigneur did turn around, a smirk on his lips. "Saucy, aren't we," he said. "I'm not taking any of your medicine ever again."
John was unperturbed by Monseigneur's words. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Admit it, you had a restful night, and you feel restored enough this morning to come out for some air. I will only repeat what I said: you're welcome. So, can I go back to my life now, please?"
"So, you've noticed," said Monseigneur.
"Yes."
John was a soldier, after all. He had noticed the garrison in the initial process of dismantling, and Monseigneur's instructions to Lestrade last night were suddenly making sense.
A moment more and something seemed to click in John's brain. "You...this is what you wanted me to see, by making me come here," he said.
"Yes," replied Monseigneur. "I thought we'd better have this conversation now. What possible use would it do us by delaying it?"
"What conversation?"
"Your fate, of course, John."
"Lestrade and I had a deal," John said, glancing at Lestrade as he stood, tense, a few feet away. "He gave me his word-"
"Most unfortunate," cut in Monseigneur. "His word is his, and his alone. It's not mine."
"You're not letting me go, then."
"Of course not."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because you're my antidote, John," said Monseigneur impatiently. "I can't have you going away when I need you here with me to solve an important case. My case."
"I've done all I can to help you," said John. "Any more and I shall-"
"Yes? You shall what?" said Monseigneur. "You shall be committing treason by helping the enemy? Look around you John, and think! Why are we decamping? We're not going to war, John, we're getting married!"
At John's open-mouthed look of incomprehension, Monseigneur clarified, "Well. At least, your queen is getting married. To my brother."
"What?"
"She finally gave in, John," said Lestrade from behind. "To avoid any bloodshed. She finally decided enough was enough."
"We received the happy news yesterday," said Billy. "We're going home."
"Right," said John, looking at them dubiously. "Farewell, then."
"You're coming with us," said Monseigneur, his voice flat. "I'm taking you home, John."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," said John, turning around and moving past Lestrade.
"Seize him," said Monseigneur, his voice cold.
John drew his arm roughly away from Lestrade's restraining hand and turned back to Monseigneur. "Give me one good reason why I should stay," he ground out.
"All right then," said Monseigneur, obligingly. "You can't leave, John, because you've seen my face."
Author's Notes: As with every period in history, a person's clothes during medieval times marked his status in society. In addition, the Sumptuary Laws during those times were implemented to "ensure that a specific class structure was maintained." These laws served to regulate the dress code of various classes by imposing rules on expenditures incurred for making clothes, depending on one's position in the social strata. Monseigneur's choice of clothes is lifted from fourteenth century (A.D. 1300-1400) fashions for Englishmen. (Sources: Wikipedia-English medieval clothing; and Gothic Review).
The mushrooms used by John in this fic are based on Psilocybin mushrooms, commonly called shrooms and magic mushrooms. Several genera of mushrooms fit this category, all of them containing psychoactive indole alkaloids which can induce psychedelic and antidepressant effects, as well as a sense of spiritual well-being (the strong narcoleptic effects of the mushrooms as I have depicted in this chapter are mainly my invention, although there are claims that yawning and sleepiness are indeed an after effect of taking shrooms). They have been used since pre-historic times, and many cultures used them in religious rites. Currently, they are used as a recreational drug, and there are reports claiming their efficacy in treating obsessive compulsive disorders (OCDs). Source: Wikipedia.
The phrase, "slightly filthy with erotic mystery" is lifted from the poem "Dreamers" by Ted Hughes (from his collection of poems, Birthday Letters). I found the following lines also (very aptly) reflect John and Monseigneur's relationship at this stage:
She sat there
Slightly filthy with erotic mystery.
I saw the dreamer in her
Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it.
That moment the dreamer in me
Fell in love with her, and I soon knew it.