Captive Hearts

A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 20

Author's notes: Very early on in the story, I was asked why I chose to use fairly modern language settings for our characters. Rest assured, it was very deliberate on my part, as we shall see in this chapter. More explanations and author's notes at the end. Enjoy!

John did not have much time to recover from his ordeal in the dungeons. There simply wasn't time. The Gaaldinian king was due to arrive in two days and everyone in the castle was in a frenzy to finish all preparations before the royal guest arrived.

Throughout the day, John was dragged from one task to another as he received hasty instructions from Billy, Lady Hudson and the Lady Mary on the proper etiquette necessary to conduct himself in front of His Most Tedious Majesty, as John had come to call Monseigneur's brother in his mind.

Because, really, this was all an exercise in tedium. Everything had to be rehearsed from the proper way to approach the King to the way John had to bow in front of him; from the way the King was to be addressed to the way he may reply when addressed by His Majesty.

He had to mime the silly, fawning movements that Billy and the Lady Mary showed him for special occasions; he had to be taught the proper table manners; he had to rehearse certain bits of tête-à-tête with Lady Hudson just in case his conversation was required to entertain the royal personage who would doubtless be interested in him. Apparently, his accent was so thick that Lady Hudson could not understand a word he was saying half the time. He took all the lessons in stride and without complaint, silently relegating them to the back of his head where they would never be recalled into service.

He just could not pay proper attention to these inanities when his mind was busily engaged elsewhere.

He had not seen or heard from Monseigneur since last night which, he told himself, was really quite a blessing. It was fine- more than fine!- if the man had decided to leave him alone from now on. After all, what was there to be said between them after the incident in the dungeons? There were no words capable of shaping John's thoughts and feelings with what nearly transpired between them in that ghastly chamber.

There were no words for the occasion, but John did think and feel deeply about it. The memories were incessantly upon him, in fact. He couldn't get the events out of his mind and was tortured with the tiniest details that would arise, unbidden, to grip him at the most inopportune moments: the feel of long, white fingers trailing down lightly, teasingly over the side of his face, his chest; the feel of warm, firm lips crushing against his own; pale eyes made of fire and ice that could impale and caress at the same time. The novel sensation of a man's slightly stubbled cheek and chin scraping against his.

And words, words, always his words as though Monseigneur were breathing them for the first time against his ear: Your captive heart is mine…

It was the words wrapped in the velvet rasp of Monseigneur's voice which, more than anything else, had the power to strike at John and leave him breathless with outrage. And with helpless, blind arousal— heedless of who had stoked it to life— which did nothing but add to the fury he felt toward the man and at himself.

Because what kind of a deviant was Monseigneur, really, to subject him to this kind of treatment? And indeed, what kind of a deviant was he, John, to endure Monseigneur's treatment and feel desire for the manmore than a righteous sense of having been wronged?

Whatever he was feeling was not normal, let alone right. It was unholy, unclean, as black as sin. It stood against every belief he had ever been taught to uphold. He was sinning just by recalling Monseigneur's touch without feeling the appropriate amount of revulsion. To be sure, he felt quite bit of disgust, but not enough. His emotions were conflicted, his indignation heavily tainted with an answering lust, an unnatural longing for more. Oh, so much more than Monseigneur's kiss.

This was what it meant to fall from grace. He was now truly infected by Monseigneur's special madness.

As a soldier, John had seen the depths to which men could descend when deprived of certain necessities for a long time. Honor and pride be damned when the body was overcome with urges that needed satisfying. But somehow, these five years after losing Mary, he had scraped through. He had thought himself capable of rising above sheer animalistic needs. And for Monseigneur to take that conviction away from him now was nothing short of terrifying, enraging.

Why did he have to be attracted to a man? Why this man, in particular? Why now? Was he really so starved that he could set aside his usual preferences to feast on something exotic and unusual when it presented itself?

As a test, John tried to think of Mary. He tried to conjure her golden radiance every time his treacherous thoughts threatened to turn to the events in the dungeons, but the memory of Mary was insufficient under the onslaught of that dark desire that was now so firmly entrenched in his gut, awakening without fail whenever he thought of Monseigneur. Worse, it was unworthy of him to defile the sacred memory of Mary by trying to conjure her as a shield against this particular demon. After a while, he could not bear to think of Mary together with Monseigneur. It was indecent, obscene.

Yet something had to be done; otherwise, John thought he would perish from want. Lying alone on his divan that night and taking advantage of Monseigneur's absence from the bedroom, John let down his defenses enough to give himself pleasure— quick, rough, brutally wonderful. But the relief was temporary. So temporary. The emptiness returned as soon as John's sated body had settled down to normal.

With the emptiness came resentment, anger. This, thought John, is all that man's fucking fault!

He glared at the direction of the bookcases, willing the bastard to appear before him and thinking which choice insults he ought to hurl at Monseigneur's head when he finally made his appearance. But Monseigneur did not come, and John woke up the following day to find his bed had not been slept in.

So he really was avoiding him. Odd though, that Monseigneur would relinquish the use of his quarters instead of having John thrown out of them.

Well, to hell with him, thought John grimly as he got dressed. He was annoyed at having to remind himself that he was the victim here. After what he had gone through, he was not going to spend the rest of his day moping after the man. It was just completely, utterly sick.

Lestrade arrived later that day, giving John a most welcome distraction. He was accompanied by Donovan and a sour-faced Anderson. And bags upon bags of items collected from the forests around the garrison.

"Well, John, it's good to see you again," said Lestrade cheerfully as he finally came upon him in the line of people who had gathered to welcome him back. He laid a heavy paw upon John's shoulder. "See how much inconvenience you've cost us on top of having a garrison to close down. I daresay we made quite a sight, indeed: some of Gaaldine's finest and battle-hardened soldiers skipping through wood and glen with bags, plucking off all the white flowers we can find, not to mention stripping quite a bit of the trees of their bark. And of course, all the mushrooms and fungi you would ever desire."

John smiled, amazed that he would ever find Lestrade a sight for sore eyes. "The garrison's been shut down then?" he asked.

"On its way," said Lestrade as they moved into the grand hall. "It will take another fortnight but it's in good hands. It will still be there when I get back. I can't wait for it to close down entirely when I've been summoned by royal command to be here for a few days to wait upon the King."."

John raised his brows at that but said nothing. He had gleaned from previous conversations that Lestrade was the King's man before he was assigned to serve Monseigneur, after all.

Lestrade was looking around him. "Monseigneur is busy?" he inquired, noting the absence of his lord.

"Yes, well, you know how he is," remarked John off-handedly. Something of his resentment must have shown in his tone, for Lestrade glanced at him briefly before looking away again.

"Right. Anyway, it doesn't matter," said Lestrade, moving on to talk to Lady Hudson at greater length. "I'm sure he's busy with his own preparations for meeting His Majesty."

Donovan and Anderson filed past John as they trailed after Lestrade, with Donovan casting him a sly glance from the corner of her eye. John stared back at her with a bland equanimity he was far from feeling.

Suddenly, he hated Monseigneur for proving the rumors, and Sally Donovan, right.

Apparently, Monseigneur had enough time to spare that evening to sit down with Lestrade for supper. Minus everyone else, including John.

John raised his brows and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he sat within the merry circle of people headed by Lady Hudson in the smaller dining room where they had taken their first breakfast. Beyond the door, John could hear the warm, cheerful bustle of the nearby kitchens.

To hell with him, he reminded himself as he passed Billy a small basket of fresh bread, warm and fragrant from the ovens. After all, who would want to be sitting in the chill formality of that drafty dining hall, having to talk to an equally icy Monseigneur and eating from dishes which have cooled after their long trek from the kitchens? Poor Lestrade, having to endure all that and missing out on the laughter and banter of this tightly knit, delightful company before John.

They ate heartily, exchanging stories and listening to Anderson talk expansively of the many curious things he had seen in his campaigns with Lord Lestrade. The man was insufferably full of himself, but even John had to admit that his accounts of garrison life were quite amusing. Was that what had drawn Sally Donovan to him?

John glanced across the table at Donovan to find that she was actually looking at him with a speculative gaze. John could almost imagine a pair of antennae on her head, twitching, as she stared at him. John looked away, firmly suppressing a derisive snort and focusing instead on the lively conversation around the table.

If he had hoped to beat a hasty and clean retreat after supper, John was to be proven sadly wrong.

"Well, John Watson, so here you are," said Sally as she sidled up to him after their group broke up for an early night.

"Yes, here I am," John said quite pleasantly. "Surprised to see me still alive after a week in the Lair?"

Sally smirked. "I don't see him inviting you to the ole grand table for supper. Has your novelty worn off so quickly?" she asked.

"He does let me out of the dungeons every once in a while to cavort among the living, if that's what you want to know," parried John smoothly as he grew annoyed.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. So far he had successfully hidden the ring of bruises around his wrists from view with the cuffs of his long shirt, but one could never be too careful around an Amazon.

Really, thought John in irritation. What's with the woman and her need to sink her sharpened claws into him, always, when it came to Monseigneur?

Unless…

Unexpected epiphany suddenly hit John as he continued to hold Sally Donovan's gaze.

No, he thought, looking Sally up and down in a new light.

What happened between you and Monseigneur, Sally? John wondered. As far as I can understand of your situation, you owe Monseigneur your freedom. You're no less a captive to his whims as I am. Did you think perhaps that he might have saved you from a lifetime of slavery because he was interested in your personal charms? Were you so foolish as to have shown your thoughts, perhaps even voiced them? Had he stung so much when he spurned your advances, so much so that you've found yourself trying to retaliate at any given opportunity ever since?

John's thoughts were uncharitable in the extreme. He knew they were unworthy. He tried to banish them as quickly as they had entered his mind, but not quickly enough. Sally saw the change in his eyes, perhaps even saw the brief flash of pity, and a cold haughtiness settled in her dark gaze.

"Whatever it is you're thinking, the answer is no," said Sally shortly, drawing her dignity about her like a cloak.

"I'd say the same about what you're thinking of me," muttered John, thinking it wise not to pursue the matter further.

Sally let out a silent breath of laughter and relaxed her stance a bit. "I suppose I was laying it on a bit too thick," she conceded.

John let his shoulders slump slightly. "Why all the hostility?" he wanted to know.

"Because he's a freak, that's why," answered Sally bitterly. "It's like he can read people's minds. It's not right. I don't like it. Back where I came from he would have been branded as a witch. He gets on my nerves as he does everyone's. Except yours, maybe."

John gave her a tight, noncommittal smile and declined to comment. Instead, he nodded at the direction of the doorway where Anderson's lanky frame loomed, shoulders hunched a bit as he stared at John a bit resentfully. "Go on," he said. "Before he starts to get the wrong idea about us."

Well, you're quite wrong, Sally, my lass, thought John dryly as he watched her go. He does get on my nerves, though not in the usual way. Which is why I'm bloody damned.

According to Lady Hudson, Glasstown was not a day's ride away from Elderidge. If one were to start the journey early in the morning, one would have arrived at the Lair by late afternoon.

Still, His Majesty's entourage was late. It was already well past suppertime when the royal coaches started arriving. Dressed in his uncomfortable new clothes and standing outside in the courtyard along with everyone else, John glanced at Monseigneur's stiff back as he stood beside Lestrade and knew that he was deeply, deeply annoyed.

His Majesty arrived in an impressive coach bearing his coat of arms, surrounded by an army of servants. Almost before the coach had stopped before Monseigneur and Lestrade, several servants were placing a small flight of steps in front of the coach's door, ready for His Majesty's descent.

The door of the coach was opened, and instead of a man coming out, a dog— unnaturally huge and slightly mangy, dark brown all over— loped out. John was struck by the hound's features- its face and muzzle were dark, as though it were wearing a mask, just as surely as its owner was wearing one. It made for Lestrade as though it knew him. Which it probably did.

"Baskerville!" exclaimed Lestrade, reaching down to scratch at the dog's large head even as Monseigneur let out an exasperated, "Oh, for God's sake! Must you bring that blasted beast with you everywhere you go?"

The king finally emerged, holding a walking stick in one hand. He descended the small steps gingerly with the aid of a servant as though they might give way at any moment.

He was a tall man, taller than Monseigneur, magnificently dressed in well-cut clothes of rich scarlet and gold and pale ivory, glittering with jewels. A dark hat was perched carefully on his head and a flowing black cape was slung across his shoulders, elaborately designed to conceal his tendency towards heaviness. In the same manner as the mask on his face was designed to conceal his features.

It was a strange mask. John was used to Monseigneur's black mask either of velvet or satin that stood in perfect contrast to his pale skin. His Majesty's mask was flesh-colored. It blended so smoothly into his features that for a moment, in the soft gloom of late evening, John had thought he was not wearing one at all.

"Now, now, what way is this to be greeting thy sovereign?" chided the king in a pleasant voice as he stopped before his brother. "I trust that thou art in excellent health, my dearest brother."

Monseigneur gave a soft grunt and declined to answer more fully. His rude demeanor gave the King pause, eyes carefully fixed on Monseigneur for a second longer than necessary before he extended a hand encrusted with rings for Lestrade to kiss. "And my Lord Lestrade, t'is always a felicitous occasion to see thee, mon cher ami (my dear friend)," he said, his tone noticeably warming.

"It has been a while, your Majesty," answered Lestrade.

With the initial pleasantries behind them, Monseigneur turned unceremoniously to march his brother down the line of people waiting for him.

"You know very well the ladies, of course," he said quite shortly as Lady Hudson and the Lady Mary curtsied gracefully before the king. "I hope you remember young William, Lestrade's nephew. In fact, there's hardly an unfamiliar face here, except perhaps John Watson."

It took a moment for John to realize that he was frowning at Monseigneur's brusque introduction. This was the first time John had seen him since the episode in the dungeons and the man was not even looking at him as he pointed him out to the King. After a moment, John tore his gaze away from Monseigneur to bow briefly before the King as he had been taught. He straightened back to find himself being carefully scrutinized by a pair of deep blue eyes, deceptively mild.

Leather, thought John fleetingly as he gazed back at the King and his flesh-colored mask. Seen at this proximity, he looked like a person scalded, with no eyebrows. It was a bit disturbing.

"Ah yes," murmured His Majesty. "Your Highland healer."

Then, to John's surprise, the king suddenly asked in Angrian, "Ciamar a tha sibh, John Watson (How are you)?"

John glanced uncertainly at Monseigneur, who stood just behind the King and who only rolled his eyes briefly heavenward, unimpressed.

"Tha... gu math, tapadh leibh (I...am well, thank you)," answered John cautiously.

The King smiled. "He says he is well," he said to nobody in particular.

A murmur of admiration from the crowd and a bit of sycophantic handclapping. For the first time since their encounter in the dungeons, Monseigneur looked straight at John, fixing him with an intense stare: Don't get taken in, John. Not this easily...

John frowned back at him, uncomprehending.

The King's next words did much to clarify things.

"Oh no," said His Majesty airily as he waved away the applause. "It was nothing at all. It is all done for the sake of mine future wife."

Then, voice dropping so that only those closest to him could hear, he sighed and muttered, "God only knows what else is to be expected of me upon this marriage."

Something about John's expression seemed to flatten and grow distant as he caught the dry, cold words, tinged with a little distaste. Monseigneur almost smiled with satisfaction. He turned away, hands behind his back, and trudged back to the castle with his royal brother by his side.

Dinner was a long and torturous affair. It was never anything otherwise when his brother came to visit.

Monseigneur could hardly sit still as the King droned on and on in Gondalian by his side. It was fortunate that Lestrade was at the receiving end of most of his brother's grating chatter and the lively music was loud enough to drown out his words.

The King was only staying for the weekend and he was hardly exaggerating when he said he only brought with him a skeleton crew of servants and courtiers. By that, of course, he meant a retinue of no less than fifty persons ranging from his private secretary and some gentlemen of the bedchamber to his lute players.

Bored and growing increasingly restless, Monseigneur cast a glance down the long table, his gaze unerringly resting on John who, at that particular moment, was just about to look away from him.

He would have wanted to tell John not be too obvious, that he was under observation from the very moment his brother had arrived, but he could not do so without risking further, unwanted attention from the King.

Already, he had seen his brother cast a glance or two at John as supper was served. Seemingly harmless, curious glances, but Monseigneur knew better. There was hardly any doubt in his mind that the King was already piecing together the puzzle that was John Watson and what he was doing here.

And John's looks were not helping at all. They were smoldering with rage and resentment, as though all John wanted to do was pointedly ignore Monseigneur only to find that he couldn't do so. Monseigneur, who knew the reason behind the dirty looks, could perfectly understand John's motivations. The king, who knew nothing, merely saw the looks as smoldering.

John, look away. Just look away, thought Monseigneur. But a part of him was taking perverse pleasure out of the realization that John could not look away from him in the same way that he, Monseigneur, could not leave the man alone with his eyes. It felt strangely gratifying to realize that John was far from being unaffected by what had happened between them. Because Monseigneur definitely could not say he had emerged from the experience unscathed, it was just as well that John had not, either.

Remembering those few, stark minutes when he had lost control of himself in the dungeons, Monseigneur could feel his gorge rising within him yet again. One moment he had been perfectly in control and the next moment, he had...slipped. He had lost his focus completely and bungled a procedure that should have been carefully calculated and coordinated. And all because of a few choice words from John.

He knew he should never have kissed John. Not when neither of them had been ready for it.

He remembered again the feel of John's lips beneath his and how much it had taken him to wrench himself away from them; those endless minutes when he had paced outside the dungeons, trying to calm down and get a hold of himself. He remembered the feel of his hands pressing hard against his burning face; the mask he had on had been quite useless- it could not contain his humiliation. And then John had gone, leaving him all alone. He had gripped the edge of a table for a long time, overcome with helpless rage at himself, at John. He had always prided himself in being able to keep his mind apart, distant, divorced from feelings. And this man had proven him wrong.

He had been wrong about John.

How could he have been so wrong about John!

Monseigneur suddenly emerged from his reverie to realize that the King had asked him something. Carefully, unhurriedly, he removed his gaze from John's direction and glanced at his brother, all the while thinking furiously what he had just been asked.

Rooms...he was asking something about rooms...

Monseigneur shrugged. "I care not which ones you use should you find the usual arrangements not to your liking," he said indifferently. "I am sure I shall have no choice but to accommodate your wishes, anyway."

The King's voice was an appreciative murmur: "The very soul of generosity, as always. Gramercy (thank you)."

A pause before the King asked delicately, "Perchance (Perhaps) thou would wish to tell me what thou art thinking right now, Sherlock?"

"Oh, I wish I can, though I am sure that I know not what my own thoughts can be," replied Monseigneur lightly as he drank his wine. "And do stop with the Courtspeak. It's driving me insane."

At last, there was a bit of time after supper when the King could engage in private conversation with Monseigneur and Lestrade. It was not something that Sherlock was looking forward to.

"You ought to have stayed in town for James' ordination as bishop," said the King, lapsing into more natural-sounding phrases in Gondalian as soon as they entered the suite of rooms that were allocated to him as his study whenever he came for his visits. "Splendid affair, of course. No expense spared. You know how the Moriartys are when it comes to their celebrations. Considering you're thick as thieves with him for several months running, everyone had something to say about your absence."

"I was ill," answered Monseigneur briefly. "Haven't you been reading my dispatches?"

"You're not fooling anyone, you know," said the King softly.

"Then how about this? I think it's a perfect sham that the Pope would elect his own nephew to the post of cardinal," said Monseigneur shortly. "Considering that I am fairly outspoken of my views, wouldn't you say it was all for the best that I stayed away?"

The King fixed him with a surprised look. "So you've been fighting with him?" he asked. "Was that the reason why you kept away?"

"Why? What did you think the real reason was?" said Monseigneur coldly. " Let's just say we're no longer friends. The name James Moriarty means absolutely nothing to me now. Why don't we change the subject and get on to your concerns? That's the reason why you're here, isn't it? Tell us what has been weighing on your mind urgently enough to necessitate this visit?"

True to his expectations, the King seemed to deflate a little into his chair. "The date has been set," said the King, his voice curiously flat as he rubbed his face with his hands. "I am to be married in less than three months' time."

"And what of the Angrian Queen's perceptions?" asked Monseigneur, sitting across from his brother and propping his legs on the edge of the table. "Does she find it agreeable to be married to you on such short notice?"

"I hardly think she has any more say in it than I," retorted the King, lifting his head from his hands to glare at Monseigneur. "She- Anna Thea- declared that the date is of little import so long as a wedding takes place. Through her ambassador, she...she has made it known that she wants children, before it's too late."

The King sounded a bit overwhelmed at the mention of children, a bit overwhelmed that his future bride would be indelicate enough to lay the facts bare before him in such a manner. It was quite clear that he had not bargained for such a woman- any woman- when he had thought of acquiring Angria.

"Well that settles it, then," drawled Monseigneur. "At least she speaks her mind quite clearly. You won't be left in the dark with regards your husbandly duties. Best to just get on with it. Just close your eyes and think of Gaaldine on your wedding night."

The King stared daggers at Monseigneur, who ignored his look. Behind him, Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably. "If I may, Your Majesty," he said quite gently, "I am quite sure the Queen is a lovely woman. Once you meet face to face and you get to talking with her, I am sure it will all turn out right. She has yet to speak with you, after all."

Monseigneur raised an eyebrow at that. "Quite," he said dryly, removing his legs from the table and standing up in one fluid motion. "I'd wish her the best of luck on that. Now, if there is nothing else...?"

"There is," said the King wearily. "But there is no hurry. We can talk about it tomorrow. Good night, Sherlock."

Really, thought Monseigneur disgustedly as he left the King's apartments. If Mycroft had only intended to pour his heart out to Lestrade, he ought to have left him out of it completely.

But then he understood that a garrison was hardly a place for a king to be comforted by his favorite general and all-around best friend, and the Glasstown palaces, infested with courtiers and laden with intrigue, were even less so. These things required some privacy lest grave misunderstandings should occur.

What must be happening now behind those closed doors? Would Mycroft be weeping in Lestrade's arms just about now? If truth be told, Monseigneur could not quite imagine it. He simply could not imagine his brother capable of weeping. Unless it was to weep little droplets of ice.

At the thought of the King's favorite, Sherlock found himself suddenly thinking of John, of what it meant to have a favorite of his own.

And there it was again- that strange, hard twist deep in the center of his chest. An actual ache, whenever John turned up in his thoughts, which was happening more and more as the days went by.

No, he thought, frowning, feeling a wave of anger and confusion wash over him as he clutched at his chest. Impossible.

He had been reliably informed that he did not have one.

John may be a good healer but surely even he would not be able to conjure a heart from thin air.

Author's Notes: I have reserved Old English (or, at least, bits and pieces of it) for Mycroft's use as part of Courtspeak, or the stilted ways of speech used in Gaaldinian court circles whenever they're not speaking in Gondalian. I have often found it hilarious when historical romance novelists would insert words like "T'is" or "Aye" or "Nay" in an otherwise modern-sounding sentence just to add a bit of authenticity to their characters' way of talking. I do realize, though, just how difficult and awkward it is to use Old English convincingly in a historical romance. Here, I have decided to use the archaic forms of words to render Mycroft's speech highly artificial (and as a way of poking fun at historical romances). I hope I have succeeded. (Sources for Old English words: Medieval Faire and Medieval England- A Phrase Book. There is even an Old English translator at oldenglishtranslator . org . uk)

The Scottish Gaelic phrases are courtesy of scotgaelic . tripod . com.

His Majesty's dog, Baskerville, is fashioned as a prototype of the English Mastiff. Referred to by most kennel clubs simply as the Mastiff, it is a breed of large dog perhaps descended from the ancient Alaunt (an extinct breed of shepherd dog) through the Pugnaces Britanniae. Distinguishable by its enormous size, massive head, and a limited range of colors, but always displaying a black mask, the Mastiff is noted for its gentle temperament. The lineage of modern dogs can be traced back to the early 19th century, and the modern type was stabilized only in the 1880s. (Source: Wikipedia)

Nepotism, an interesting word. Derived from the Italian for "nepote" or nephew, it is used to indicate favoritism granted to relatives regardless of merit, with the Popes of the Medieval Ages being notorious practitioners. (Source: Wikipedia)

The saying "Close your eyes and think of England (Gaaldine)" is a reference to unwanted sexual intercourse - usually, it serves as advice to an unwilling wife when sexually approached by her husband, although it works just as well the other way around as in the case of Mycroft. Mischievously enough, the phrase sometimes has been attributed to Queen Victoria, although this is largely speculative and seemingly unlikely, as it is widely known that she had a very fulfilling and happy marriage to Prince Albert and their union produced nine royal children. (Source: Phrases . org . uk)