Captive Hearts

A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 10

Author's notes: Advanced Merry Christmas! Thank you so much for all your wonderful feedback. You guys always make it feel like it's Christmas whenever I hear from you. I hope you will enjoy this chapter. Just a brief warning to say the drama will be pretty heavy midway through it. Please see more author's notes at the end.

"You can't leave, John," said Monseigneur, "because you've seen my face."

Lestrade turned sharply to look at John, eyes wide, startled.

A white, surprised silence as John stared at Monseigneur, dumbfounded. Of all the things he was expecting from the man, he had not expected this.

But of course, John, Monseigneur's gaze said.

Of course, John should have known that the man would know. At the time, he had been delirious, but then, if he had remembered the feel of John's hands on him, how on earth would he have missed this?

Still—

Lie, goddammit! A part of his mind yelled at him, but too late. Everything that needed knowing was written in volumes in those few, stark seconds of nothing. And on John's face.

Too late, John opened his mouth to deny it all, but Lestrade was already saying in a horrified voice, "No, no, John, no…!"

Lestrade was upon him instantly, hands closing like a vice on his shoulders, shaking him hard. "John, you bloody idiot! Didn't I say you can't look at Monseigneur's face? Didn't I tell you it's for your own sake? Why? Why did you do it?!"

For another moment, John could only stare at Lestrade, mouth open and no words coming out. Fucking hell, John, why can't you just fucking lie?

Finally: "I…I only meant to wipe his face." Even as he said it, John could feel himself doing a mental eye roll. Is that really the best you can do?

Monseigneur voiced his thoughts for him: "Pathetic. The next thing he'll be saying is he doesn't know what he's done, exactly."

"Idiot!" repeated Lestrade, thrusting John away savagely. He turned to Billy and roared, "How is this possible? I told you not to let him out of your sight for a single moment!"

Billy was white as a sheet, and like John, his voice was quite gone.

"Too late now," murmured Monseigneur.

John watched, fury gradually taking hold of him, as a corner of Monsiegneur's mouth tilted up in a triumphant smirk.

"So I've seen your face," John said defiantly, shrugging. "So what? It's not the end of the world."

"Oh, but it is, in a way, John," said Monseigneur conversationally. "Lestrade, tell him what the penalty is for a commoner to peer into the masked faces of royalty, uninvited."

"Death." Lestrade's voice was a low, hoarse rasp.

John gave a scoffing laugh. "You can't be serious," he said scathingly. "That's utter bullshit, is what it is!"

"It's a royal decree in Gaaldine," Monseigneur said.

"Oh, yeah? Well, in case you need reminding, I'm not from Gaaldine, and I'm not your subject," argued John hotly.

"And a cat may look upon the King, or the Prince, is that it?" Monseigneur replied. "It matters very little, John. You're the King's subject now. And you're mine the moment you lifted this mask to look at my face."

John shook his head vehemently. "No."

"Yes."

"No!" John did not know what he had in mind, exactly— a menacing step or two towards Monseigneur with the intention of putting his fist into his smug face, perhaps. He did not get far. Between one breath and the next, he was on the ground, his arms held in a painful grip behind him as Lestrade leaned his weight onto his back to press him down.

"John, what the hell do you think you're doing!" hissed Lestrade in warning as John shouted a garbled, Angrian curse. He felt Lestrade digging his weight in further on his back, crushing him to the ground, and through his gathering rage he recognized the futility, the indignity of engaging in a scuffle with Lestrade in front of this bastard, and willed himself to stop struggling after a minute or so.

"Let him up," said Monseigneur impatiently.

John was hauled unceremoniously to his knees. Lestrade's hands were like steel, biting into his flesh, pinioning his hands securely behind his back. John watched Monseigneur approach him leisurely, stopping just in front of him to gaze down at his glowering features with cold imperiousness.

"Is this how you treat someone who saved your life?" John bit out.

"John, John, John," chanted Monseigneur, his voice a soft lullaby as he reached out with one dark-gloved hand to cup John's chin almost tenderly, tilting his face up the better to look at him. "That's the only reason why you're still alive right now."

John felt Monseigneur's eyes take in every bit of his features, finally resting on his mouth, his thin lips curled back in a feral sneer. He would have spat at the man's masked face if he could, but his mouth was suddenly too dry.

"Why fight me so hard, John?" asked Monseigneur softly. "Am I really so repulsive that you'd rather choose to go back to your empty life in Angria, soldiering for some worthless lord who can't even feed you properly and regularly? You've no family to hold you back, you're currently without a master and you're not accountable to anyone back in the mountains that you call home. You'd like to think you're in command of your life but in truth, you're nothing but a bit of leaf fallen off a tree to be blown this way and that by the wind. Such a waste of ability and talent when you can make better use of your time by serving me. At the very least, you'll never be bored."

Nothing from John, except for his harsh breathing.

"In olden days I might have considered maiming you just to make sure you'll never be able to run away from me, but these are more enlightened times. Nevertheless, a royal decree is a royal decree, and everyone stepping foot on Gaaldinian soil is bound to it," said Monseigneur. "I'd rather not kill you, but I shall have no choice if you continue to refuse my overtures. You may be good at what you do, John, but you're not irreplaceable. There will be other healers who will leap at the opportunity that's already in the palm of your hand and that you're so intent on throwing away. Throw it away then. Throw your life away, as well. Consider this the last time I am making an offer. You can choose death, or you can choose to serve me, but if you choose me you must swear on your life that you will devote yourself utterly to me. No lies, or I will know. I'll give you an hour to consider. If you should persist in stubbornly refusing me, then this is the last time we'll be seeing each other. Goodbye then, John, in case we don't see each other again."

Monseigneur let go of John's chin and turned away towards the heavens once more, a strange, shrill whistle emitting from his lips. "I've yet to consider Billy's punishment," he said to Lestrade while waiting for Azrail to descend. "Should anything else happen within the hour that it will take John to make his decision… should I find that he's somehow escaped your clutches, Lestrade—"

The threat behind his words could not be misunderstood.

"It won't happen, my lord." Lestrade's voice was firm.

"See to it that it does not," said Monseigneur, his voice cold.

Azrail finally descended with a grand flapping of wings. "Ah, mon couer," said Monseigneur, voice changing effortlessly into a liquid purr as he held out his gauntleted hand towards the hawk. "How I've missed you."

Lestrade swore heavily, shoving John roughly away from him the moment Monseigneur had gone. He made his way to Billy, who was now openly weeping, and decked him so hard that the boy fell to his knees.

"Imbecile!" snarled Lestrade. "It's just as well you were able to hold off the tears in front of Monseigneur, because God help me, if you let fall a single drop in front of him, I will kill you myself!"

John got to his feet, shaking his head violently as though to clear it. 'Leave the boy alone!" he said. "It's not his fault."

"Damn right it isn't," said Lestrade, rounding back on John, hands clenched into fists. "If it were left to me, I'd gladly murder you both right now. You're in a fine mess, John. So what's it to be? Shall I call on the camp executioner now to sharpen his axe? "

It happened so fast. It barely registered to John that he had lunged at Lestrade until they were both rolling on the ground. Fury was making it difficult for John to reason things out logically. He just needed to do this— hurt someone, kill someone if he could. He would prefer that it was Monseigneur, but if he could not get to him then Lestrade would have to do.

John managed to get a savage punch across Lestrade's jaw before Lestrade sent a fist smashing against his kidney.

"You're a good fighter, John. I'm sure you'll be quite lethal if you have a knife right now, but I'm. Not. A general. For nothing!" Lestrade growled, never relenting as he punctuated his words with punches strategically aimed at John's kidneys, his ribs. His blows were quick, brutal, methodical: bang, bang, bang, bang! "And right now, I have had it with all of you! Monseigneur included!"

He hauled John away to gasp and cough, clutching at his side. Lestrade sat up, and when he spoke again, his voice was weary, "What is the fucking matter with you, disobeying my command like that?"

"You're not…my superior officer," wheezed John.

"And I have no wish to be. I have no use for a soldier who cannot even obey the simplest command," snapped Lestrade. "There is no other way to see this, John. No matter how you're going to turn it around, the fact is you've brought this down on yourself. Pleading ignorance of our customs has never stopped us from executing outsiders who dared to look at the faces of Gaaldinian royalty, unsanctioned. Whether you like it or not, you've lost your freedom, you stupid fool. Now it's only a matter of deciding whether you get to lose your life as well. I don't think you're the type to have a death wish, so why this stubborn refusal to submit to Monseigneur?"

John lay on his side for a moment longer, panting heavily. Then, incredibly, he began to laugh— a soft, giggling sound with a hint of hysteria somewhere in it— as a thought occurred to him, his honest answer: Because I like it. I like defying him, provoking him at every possible turn. I get off on it.

It was so twisted, so unlike him that he had to wonder for a moment where it came from.

Through the painful throbbing about his bruised ribs and kidney, he saw Lestrade raise incredulous eyebrows. "Oh, you think this is funny, do you?"

John did not answer. He badly needed to ask Lestrade about Monseigneur's… tastes, so evident by his disturbing actions towards him that John had to wonder whether Lestrade and Billy were being deliberately oblivious, but he could not frame such an explosive idea into words. Instead, he asked, "What's with the fucking mask, anyway?"

"It's an ancient tradition, John," said Lestrade. "Only those closest to them know what they really look like."

"But you've seen his face, haven't you?"

"Yes. And now so have you. That knowledge ties us all to him. We're in the same boat now, John."

John shook his head. "It's a stupid tradition," was all he could think to say as he slowly, painfully sat up.

"It's a useful one," corrected Lestrade. "It's meant to protect their identities and to shield them from the scrutiny of the public and from enemies."

"Oh, that tactic is working well, is it?" asked John with biting sarcasm. "It didn't stop him fromgetting poisoned, did it?"

"You were there to stop it," Lestrade said. "But Monseigneur is right. There will be others who will be more than willing to take your place if you persist in your pigheaded ways."

"Oh, I can just imagine them queuing for the slot," said John. "Must be a short queue though, if you're all pouncing to take me in on such short notice. Very discriminating of you. You hardly know a thing about me—I'm nothing but an unpolished soldier with a little knowledge of herbal medicine, yet you would allow me this kind of access to His Royal Pain-in-the-Arse—"

"Well, now I'm not sure if you're being truly or falsely modest, or if you're just really clueless as to your own worth," remarked Lestrade dryly. "And by the way, it was Monseigneur himself who allowed you near him. I wouldn't have taken this kind of risk with a stranger. I'm not mad, after all. But Monseigneur has yet to read people wrong. I don't think he read you wrong, John. You ought to be flattered."

Beats of silence as the two regarded each other warily from across the stretch of dusty ground.

"I can't serve someone I have no proper regard for," said John finally.

Lestrade regarded him oddly for a moment or so. "You're pulling my leg, is what you're doing right now," he finally said.

John could feel the hot color creeping up his face. "No, I'm not!" he lied, glaring at Lestrade.

Lestrade shook his head, as if to say John was not fooling anyone other than himself. "You will need some time, then," he said. "We did not have the luxury of starting off on a better footing. You barely know us, and what you have seen so far may have fed your prejudice against us, but I am imploring you, John, to make use of your head and not die for some hazy, misguided principle. We're no longer enemies here."

"And you think that serving him is a better alternative to dying?"

"Yes, of course, it is!" Lestrade burst out, patience wearing dangerously thin. "Is it not quite obvious?"

"I can't imagine how you can endure him after the way he's treated you and Billy," said John. "How can you possibly bring yourself to serve somebody like him?"

"Because Monseigneur is a great man," declared Lestrade, finally getting to his feet. "And I would like to hope that someday, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

Silence for a moment, then John asked softly, "Is it worth it, serving him?"

"If you're strong enough," said Lestrade grimly.

He turned wearily to a sniffling Billy. "Well, that was a fine way to go, nephew," he said. "You've worked your arse off for two years and you just kissed your precious position goodbye in a few minutes of thoughtlessness. I am sure your lady mother, my sister, will be pleased to have you back in total disgrace, if Monseigneur is generous enough to simply let you go. So how did it happen?"

Billy managed to pull enough words together to narrate the brief interview yesterday, when Monseigneur had summoned him and grilled him relentlessly over the tiniest details involving the moments of his delirium. In no time at all, he had fished out the lapse in Billy's judgment when he left John unattended for less than five minutes to fetch Monseigneur's nightshirt.

John closed his eyes as he listened to Billy's account, couched in quivering, frightened tones. So Monseigneur had not really known of his transgression until he had deduced its possibility from Billy's account. He had thought that perhaps Monseigneur had been aware of his lifting that bloody mask off his face, when in fact, to Monseigneur it had all been speculation with hardly any concrete proof...until he had unwittingly provided it. Christ, he should have just stuck to lying his head off.

Well, too late now.

This isn't real, a part of his mind whispered. None of this can possibly be real...

John opened his eyes and stared off into the distance, at the green hills beyond the garrison, gently rolling away as far as the eye could see. They looked real enough. The throbbing pain in his side where Lestrade had punched him felt very real right now. He was going to die unless he agreed to Monseigneur's proposal. That must be real, too.

John continued to sit there on the ground, feeling the day getting warmer as the sun climbed higher in the heavens. Barely mid-morning on a fine spring day. Hardly an appropriate day to die when everything around him was fresh and green, new and alive…

Lestrade gave John a few more minutes to collect himself, then walked over to him and extended his hand. "I know that Monseigneur has made a liar out of me, but I swear to you, John, that you shall have my full support if you should choose to stay with us," he said. "You may count on me to do everything that I can for you. Just say that you will stay and look at things differently from another angle. You will be surprised to realize that it's really not the end of the world. Perhaps it might even be accurate to say that it's the beginning of a new one."

John looked at Lestrade's outstretched hand vaguely, as though everything were a dream. "I think it's safe to say your word accounts for very little when it comes to anything concerning your master," he said softly, without heat.

Lestrade flushed a dull, angry red. "You will find that it has its uses elsewhere," he said, his voice clipped.

John finally shook himself out of his reverie. He took Lestrade's hand, let the man haul him to his feet.

"So, what's it to be, then?" Lestrade asked.

John gave a heavy, extinguished sigh. He nodded as he made up his mind at last. "Take me to him," he said.

They found Monseigneur in his quarters, sitting by the table cluttered with glass instruments, a book held up before him with the fingers of one hand.

He looked up just as the trio entered, his gaze instantly fixing on John, who seemed to be looking everywhere except at him.

"So it's not goodbye then," he drawled, lowering his book.

Lestrade cleared his throat and whispered, "Kneel, John."

"That won't be necessary," cut in Monseigneur, shutting the book in his hands with a snap. "Not when he's obviously reluctant. There will be enough time to arrange a formal ceremony where John can take the Oath when we get back to the Lair. By then perhaps he will be willing enough to go down on his knees in front of me without coercion."

He stood up in one fluid motion and approached John with the slow, leisurely prowl of a panther. "I'm rather curious as to how Lestrade finally managed to convince you, John," Monsiegneur said, glancing at the dirt on John's clothes. "The usual way, Lestrade?"

"Quite, sir," said Lestrade laconically.

"Hmm," murmured Monseigneur, gaze fixed on his general's bruised jaw for a second, "and I'm sure those bruises were meant for me. Extraordinary that he managed to get a punch in."

"And he packs a powerful punch, my lord," added Lestrade with rueful amusement.

A twitch of Monseigneur's lips before he brought his full attention back on John.

"Well, now, John," said Monseigneur, his voice soft. "How shall we go about this?"

John finally brought his eyes to meet Monseigneur's. "Before anything else, I've got two conditions," he said, his voice surprisingly steady.

Monseigneur's eyes widened fractionally as he exhaled a soft, disbelieving laugh. Even with the mask on, John could almost see his raised eyebrows. "Cheeky as ever, aren't you? You think you're in a position to negotiate for conditions?"

"First, let my companion go," said John, speaking as though he had not heard Monseigneur. "I don't think there is any need for you to detain him any longer."

Monseigneur stared at him for a few seconds before he said, "And the second condition?"

"There's no need to punish Billy for my actions," said John. "I take full responsibility for all of this."

A soft gasp behind him. Billy.

John watched as Monseigneur flicked a look at the two men behind John. Nobody seemed to be breathing.

"I shall…consider it," said Monseigneur at last.

John could almost hear a collective breath being let out.

"Now then, John," said Monseigneur, hands linked behind him as he made a slow circuit around John, taking him in from every angle. John could feel the hairs on his nape stand on end as he endured Monseigneur's scrutiny. "Your pledge. It may not be anything formal but it is no less binding. Lie about your intentions and I shall know. There will be no false promises, no instant 'yesses' with your fingers crossed behind your back. Once you pledge yourself to me there is no going back, do you understand?"

Silence from John, the conflict inside him still raging in the shadows that chased each other in his eyes. But he lowered his gaze and finally said, "All right."

Monseigneur stopped in front of him again. "Look me in the eye when you say it, John," he said, his voice a command.

John pinned him with a look so intense it was almost a glare. "Yes," he said, his voice firm.

"Swear on your life and to God that you shall serve me and be faithful to me. Only me. For as long as I deem it necessary."

"I swear."

"Your loyalty is mine," declared Monseigneur. "You will never find it in your means to harm me. You shall serve my interests to the best of your abilities, always. You will never betray me."

"Yes. I swear it."

"Very well then, John."

John watched, throat suddenly constricting, making swallowing difficult, as Monseigneur slowly lifted his hands towards his masked face.

Oh, hell. He's taking off his mask…

John felt his gaze slide away at the last minute, his heart in his throat, suddenly not sure that he was ready for this, ready to look at Monseigneur's unmasked face. He was right in thinking that this was the one act that would ultimately seal his fate and link it forever with this man's.

"Look at me, John."

He would really prefer not to look right now, but there was nothing to be done. He had already gone this far, had sworn an oath of allegiance to this man. He had given himself over to him. No turning back now.

After a moment, John lifted his head, peering from under his brows almost shyly at Monseigneur's unshielded face.

He looked just as John remembered him from the other night: the thick dark brows, the slanting, pale eyes that were a darker shade of blue right now, dancing with cool amusement and satisfaction as Monseigneur returned his gaze. Those high, chiseled cheekbones, the straight nose, that unique mouth, stretched ever so slightly in a smile. A face not easily accessible to others and to whose owner he was now bound.

Silently, John looked back and took his fill of those extraordinary features, and found, to his amazement, that he had not turned to stone. He was still the same John, not struck dead, or blinded by Monseigneur's visage as he had half-expected. The same John, yet forever changed.

Monseigneur tossed the velvet mask carelessly on the table and said quite casually, "I thought I was never going to be rid of that blasted thing."

Author's Notes: The informal oath that Monseigneur made John take is based on a Medieval Knight's Oath of Fealty to his lord and master. Normally, a vassal will swear allegiance and pay homage to his lord in a commendation ceremony, which was designed to create a lasting bond between a vassal and his lord. To take an oath was a very solemn proceeding; it was an appeal to God, by which a man called down on himself divine punishment if he swore falsely. More on the ceremony in future chapters. (Source: Medieval Life and Times)

Hepzibah at AO3 asked about the tradition of wearing masks by royalty as depicted in this fic and whether it has any historical basis. There is none, as far as I am aware. It's actually based on a scene in a favorite film of mine whose title I cannot reveal at present because I will be lifting some more details from it. It will be revealed in the end, though. Thanks for your patience! ^_~