Captive Hearts
A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story
By
Nana
Chapter 28
This chapter is dedicated to Fallen-SaintSam, entirely beloved friend and truly an inspiration.
Special Thanks: To Sher_locked_up, my Beta extraordinaire.
More author's notes at the end.
And if I've built this fortress around your heart,
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire,
Then let me build a bridge, for I cannot fill the chasm,
And let me set the battlements on fire.
-Sting, "Fortress Around Your Heart"
"Oh," breathed Monseigneur.
John licked his lips. "Sherlock, I—"
He got no farther than that before Monseigneur's mouth was upon his in a bruising kiss. Those lips crushed against his felt lush, familiar. Welcome.
A low moan— his or Sherlock's?— and John surrendered his mouth to Monseigneur's questing tongue.
Oh God, this.
John had never realized how much he'd missed this slow plundering of mouths; an ungentle, wordless battle waged by tongues. Until now, he'd never really known how much he'd craved for this.
In the quiet stillness of the Queen Mother's rose gardens, with the moon as sole witness, a moment of magic.
It could not have been more than a minute, yet they were both panting when they broke apart, as though the kiss had made them forget how to breathe.
"John." Monseigneur's voice was a low rumble of sound, thick with emotion. "You've chosen me then. After everything that's happened. And all the while I thought you'd fly from me."
"Oh, like the way you did?" John said, laughter in his voice. "Anyway, does this look like I'm running from you?"
"You've run after me," said Monseigneur. His face was in shadow, but John could detect a subtle change in his voice. What it meant, he wasn't sure.
Not knowing how to answer Monseigneur's question, John asked one of his own, "How did you know her name was Mary? I don't think I ever mentioned it to anyone."
A pause as Monseigneur tilted his head, then he said, "No, you didn't. And your unwillingness to say the name was what gave it all away. It may not have been an entirely conscious act on your part, but in a household with six Marys, you've successfully managed to evade ever calling anyone by that name. Lady Hudson is easy enough to circumvent, and you've taken to calling Mary Turner "antaidh" if you needed to address her at all, but Mary the Younger. Now there's your challenge. Of course you could have called her Lady Hooper as befitting her station, but nobody ever calls her that. Your reasons for giving Molly her nickname were both chivalrous and purely personal, the personal aspect easily overlooked in favor of your obvious gallantry. Nobody realized what the name meant to you, but then nobody was looking for that one clue to your person except me."
John bit his lower lip as he gazed at the enigma before him. "Amazing," he finally said. "Just bloody amazing."
Monseigneur said nothing, although John thought he detected a faint twitch of the man's lips to indicate that he smiled. Monseigneur dipped his head fractionally until their foreheads touched, but John kept his head down.
"The answer is no, by the way," said John softly. He suppressed a smile of his own as he felt Monseigneur freeze ever so minutely.
"No," John repeated, carefully. "You can't ask me to cut Mary out of my heart. She's there to stay. She's a part of me, Sherlock. You'll just have to deal with it."
"Now why would I ask you to do that?" said Monseigneur, voice was so soft it seemed almost on the point of melting. "I don't care who peoples your heart so long as you acknowledge me to be its rightful sovereign."
The kiss that followed was different: forceful, possessive. It was exactly the type that John had found alarming; exactly the type that he couldn't get enough of, now. He felt hands, sliding down his chest, his back.
"Sherlock—!" a startled groan of protest as John felt Monseigneur's hand brush lightly against the hardness between his legs. Now this felt different. Entirely different from everything that came before. He made to push that maddening hand away but Monseigneur merely flattened his palm against John's developing erection, the better to feel him. All of him.
"Now," said Monseigneur, reveling in the sudden hitch in John's breathing. "You're ready for me now, aren't you, John?"
Mouth only a scant inch from John's ear, Monseigneur said in a voice low and rough with renewed authority, "We can't risk anyone coming upon us like this, can we? Certainly not one of my mother's people. Back to your room then, John. You will unlock your door, and then you will undress and wait for me in bed. Go now."
With a final brush of his lips against John's ear, Monseigneur pushed him away, leaving John to make his way slowly back to his room, his steps staggering, a bit uneven, as though he were drunk. When he paused to look behind him uncertainly, Monseigneur was gone.
He could not remember climbing back to the terrace of his room, but he must have done so. Next thing he knew, he was doing exactly what he was told: sliding the deadbolt from his door. His hands were shaking.
He couldn't believe this.
He couldn't believe that this was actually, finally happening. Excitement warred with the usual crippling uncertainty as he took to pacing in front of his bed, the covers neatly turned down for the night.
God, he couldn't deny that he wanted this. He'd known somehow that this was going to happen, the natural endpoint of his arrival here. Had he not felt it the entire time? The delicious sense of anticipation, of satisfaction that bordered on triumph at seeing Monseigneur again after he'd left him at the Lair.
Journeys end with lovers meeting.
John glanced at the open, inviting bed, heaped with pillows, and saw his nightshift lying there, waiting for him.
Undress. Right.
He had to…
He shivered as he pulled his shirt off over his head and felt gooseflesh start over the skin of his arms. It was not even cold in the room. The enormity of what he was going to do, of what Monseigneur was planning to do with him, finally sank in as he took off his trousers.
Oh God.
For a moment, John sat on the edge of his bed, stunned as he stared at his bare thighs, his legs; coarse, ungainly things that they were.
What was he doing?
What was he thinking?
He shivered again as though somebody had doused him with cold water. He thought about diving back into his discarded clothes then and finally decided to don his nightshift instead. Meanwhile, his panicked mind assaulted him with arguments.
Jesus Christ, John, seriously. What the hell? One mad moment in a rose garden with that man and you've fallen right under his spell like a young whelp bewitched for the first time.
John bit his lip hard and tried to shut out the voice of reason, but it wasn't quite finished with him yet.
Now that you think of it, everything just fits too perfectly, doesn't it, John? Right down to the roses. Oh God, the roses ought to have been the giveaway. He does love to be dramatic, doesn't he? How wet behind the ears can you be to fail to see right through his act? He's led you by the nose all along, all the way here. He's whetted your appetite by all that drama to the point that he has but to snap his fingers and you'll come flying to him without a single thought that this— all of this— may very well be a trap…
John looked up sharply at the sound of the door opening. He'd forgotten the door.
He watched, aghast, as the door opened a fraction and Monseigneur slid into the room, noiseless as a dark shadow. Monseigneur closed the door and slid the bolt home, then turned to rest his back against it for a moment, his gaze already proprietary, gloating as it settled on John who continued to sit, seemingly paralyzed, on the edge of the bed.
Monseigneur stalked over to him the moment he caught the look on John's face. He said firmly, "It's too late now, John. There's no going back. You've already made the decision to be mine."
Before John could think to move, Monseigneur was upon him, leaning his weight into John as he pressed against him, between his legs. One hand was on his shoulder to restrain him, the other sliding to catch at the back of John's head, roughly tilting his face up for Monseigneur's mouth, as though that was the solution to everything.
John broke away from the kiss to gasp, "Wait. Sherlock, just. Wait. Hold on for a bit—"
"No," growled Monseigneur. "We've tarried long enough. This is the longest I've ever waited for anyone and I am done waiting, John. I am done. This thing between us, it's now or never."
"Answer me this first," said John, drawing in breath raggedly, the light in his eyes clear and fierce. "This. All of this. It's pure textbook romance, isn't it?"
Monseigneur said nothing and merely stared down at John, his fingers still bunched into John's hair at the back of his head.
"The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption," continued John, betrayal gradually seeping into his voice. "Kisses in a rose garden in the moonlight. Everything has been planned down to the smallest detail— layer upon layer of your schemes— until you have me wrapped around your finger. How much of this is real, Sherlock?"
Monseigneur's smile, when it finally came, was an unexpected, warm caress. "Well done, John," he said softly. "Oh, well done."
He bent to capture John's mouth again with his, and when John turned away, outraged, disgusted, hands clenching tight against Monseigneur's chest, Monseigneur said, "So you saw through it all at the very last moment. Congratulations. I was wondering whether you'd be this easy to win over, and once again you've proven me wrong. You're definitely worth it, John. Worth the wait. Worth all the planning."
"Sherlock," grated John in warning. Soon he would be furious. Already, his hands were turning to hard fists against Monseigneur's chest, ready to throw him off, to pound into him. "You're playing dirty. You're not being fair!"
"My dear John," said Monseigneur, restraining John as best he could. "Make no mistake: everything is fair in love and war."
"Get off me!"
"Except you've got it wrong," continued Monseigneur, his words clear, incisive. "You've got it all wrong, John."
He felt John's fists waver ever so slightly against his chest. "Wrong, how?" John bit out.
"Manipulation was there, certainly," conceded Monseigneur, "except you've mistaken my motives. This isn't just a ploy to get you to submit, John. This is courtship. Hasn't anyone ever made love to you before, you idiot?"
Monseigneur stared down at John's wide eyes and murmured, "Apparently not."
"You…you're...what?" said John, dumbfounded, unable to believe his ears.
"Ah, my poor innocent," said Monseigneur, shaking his head. "Do you mean to say that all this time, it's never even occurred to you that I was courting you?"
John's mouth worked silently for a few seconds. He had been struck speechless by Monseigneur's declaration. Monseigneur watched him for a moment in silent amusement, feeling John's fists loosen in irresolution on his chest before he finally took pity and claimed John's mouth with his, softly now, as he felt the last of John's resolve fall away like a discarded garment.
Ah, to be able to taste the very first, real moment of John's surrender. Exquisite.
"This is all real, John. Everything that I feel for you," murmured Monseigneur against his mouth.
Never easily convinced, John turned his mouth away and asked, "Why are you doing this? Courting me?"
Monseigneur leveled him a look; this stubborn, delicious man. "Haven't I made myself clear in the dungeons, or have you forgotten already what I've told you?" he asked. "I want your heart, John. It's mine."
John's mouth thinned ominously. "My captive heart, so you said. What do you plan to do with it?"
The answer is easy enough, John thought bitterly. He'll cut it out of my chest and throw it away, or crush it to a million little pieces and dabble with the bits the way he does with things for his damnable experiments—
Monseigneur's answer came as a complete surprise to John yet again: "I've been reliably informed that I don't have one. Yours will just have to do for me, then. Mon cœur."
The words took Monseigneur by surprise as well. It was only after he voiced his declaration that Monseigneur realized that perhaps he meant every word of it, too.
John, half sitting, half lying down on the bed, cushioned against the small mountain of feather pillows as Monseigneur leaned over him, telling him impossible things. He told John about how he had waited for him, time and again throughout these past weeks: that first time, when Donovan had knocked John out with her boomerang, a very close call. Monseigneur, with the poison already starting its slow, deadly work deep inside his body, had gone personally to see John in the tent that held him and his Angrian compatriot. Such disappointment to find him still unconscious, and a deep-seated worry that Sally's boomerang might have inflicted a far graver injury to John than initially thought.
Then there was that time Monseigneur was recovering, when John had insisted on his honoring Lestrade's promise to set him free. That one-hour ultimatum Monseigneur had set for John to think things over had seemed more like an eternity as Monseigneur sat in his tent, a book propped before him and unable to read a single word from it.
After that, the episode in the dungeons— those endless minutes when John had stood at the threshold of the door, merely looking in and not making the mistake of entering...yet. And now, after another bout of agonized waiting, when Monseigneur was fairly certain that he'd lost John, here they were, suddenly. Finally. Could John really not understand the torture he'd put Monseigneur through all these weeks?
Monseigneur could see John about to lose the fight and give in; still, he clung on tenaciously to a thread of doubt as he said, "You made your mother summon me here, after scaring her like that with your terrifyingly long embrace. That didn't look at all like you're admitting defeat."
"Believe you me, I did, but I wasn't going down without a fight," said Monseigneur. "I made you chase me, John; I made myself the lure. I wasn't sure you'd bite though. But at that point, I was desperate enough to try anything. I figured I had nothing left to lose, if I'd lost you already."
There was silence for a time.
"You're an idiot, do you know that?" John said rather tentatively, and Monseigneur knew then.
He knew that the fight was gone from John.
"A brilliant one," amended Monseigneur, moving in swiftly now to claim what was his.
It was a night for kisses, this time deep and harsh from Monseigneur, allowing no further resistance. He broke the hungry kiss long enough to growl, "Disobedient to the last, aren't we? I told you to undress, John."
"Yes, well, this...this is one way of undressing," said John, sounding a bit breathless, dazed, looking down at his nightshift, in hopeless disarray. His eyes looked dilated and dark in the soft candlelight of the room, his thin mouth red and swollen from Monseigneur's kisses. He looked perfect.
"And cheeky as ever," observed Monseigneur, lips trailing down to nip lightly at the junction between John's ear and jaw. "Do you enjoy my punishments so much that you're always inviting them upon your head?"
A scoffing laugh from John, quickly turning into a soft, incoherent cry as he felt the first, sharp graze of teeth against his skin. He arched his neck, a clear invitation, even as his hands tightened on Monseigneur's back, his nape. Monseigneur smiled a secret smile against John's neck, licking away the small hurt he had inflicted. He'd never realized John could be so responsive when he wasn't fighting him. Monseigneur could hardly hold back his excitement at finally having this man beneath him, pliant and unresisting, welcoming.
John shuddered as he felt Monseigneur run the tip of his tongue down the length of his neck, pausing to suck a sharp kiss at the junction of neck and shoulder.
There will be marks there tomorrow, John thought indistinctly. He's marking me as his. All over. God.
Those beautiful, hard hands roaming over his nightshift now clenched themselves into the soft material, and John felt the cloth giving way, buttons unpopping from their loops, as Monseigneur dragged the shift roughly up and over his head. Except for his linen braies covering his loins, John would be completely naked.
"Off," Monseigneur whispered before he leaned down to trail his mouth over the newly exposed skin of John's chest; so unexpectedly soft, that mouth, and eager.
"People would say this is wrong," John said, breath shuddering out of him as Monseigneur's mouth moved lower down to his chest.
"This is between us, John," Monseigneur said, undeterred as he moved over John's body, smoothly serpentine. "What does this have to do with other people? However…"
A sharp gasp from John as Monseigneur suckled at a nipple until it pebbled roughly in his mouth, feeling John's body heave under his as the first, faint tremors started deep in John's body.
"Does any of this feel wrong to you, John?" whispered Monseigneur, withdrawing his mouth from John's moist, heated skin. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
A groan from John, desperate, lost. "No," he finally said, closing his eyes.
"No, what?"
Fucking tease…!
"Don't stop," said John hoarsely, hands catching at Monseigneur's head, bringing it down once again onto his chest. "Please, I want…I want…"
Yes, John, Monseigneur thought with deep satisfaction. Want me. Always. Nobody but me.
Monseigneur could feel his own body tightening as it reacted to John's needy responses, could feel the heavy hardness down in his loins. Soon. For now, his own needs would have to be voluptuously deferred as he gradually took possession of this man, so wild at heart, so full of need for him that could no longer be hidden.
Of a sudden, John's hands came to life as they clasped hard around Monseigneur's body. Monseigneur realized just in time what John planned to do and resisted the savage pull of that compact, muscular body as it sought to pin him underneath John. They tussled on the bed for a moment, their breathing heavy, the only sound in the silent room.
"I want to see you," said John, panting.
"Soon," purred Monseigneur.
"Now," insisted John, his voice hard, demanding.
Monseigneur realized that John meant to have his way. There was no denying that the stubborn man would end up getting anything he wanted if he bent his mind to it. He was scared, unsure of things, and he was trying to compensate by taking control of the situation; overcompensating, in fact.
And Monseigneur could not let him have his way. Not this time.
There was a heavy grunt of surprise as John felt Monseigneur slide a hand to cup his erection firmly through his braies and squeeze. Hard. Instantly, John froze, not daring to move another muscle. There was no telling what that hand would do next, what it was capable of.
"Patience, John," Monseigneur murmured darkly, hand unrelenting as it started to rub slowly, tantalizingly, over that hot bulge of flesh. "You first. I want to see all of you. Lie back down, that's my good John."
John swallowed hard, his face flushed, as he subsided reluctantly back on the pillows, body still tense. Face burning and eyes fixed firmly on the canopied ceiling of the bed, he made no attempt to stop Monseigneur from sliding the linen braies down his thighs, his legs. God, it felt good, and it was frightening. Absurdly, he felt like a virgin bride on her wedding night, anticipation mingling with something very much like terror.
"Oh, John."
Monseigneur's rapt intonation finally sent John's eyes snapping back to Monseigneur's face. The mask did much to conceal the expression of his eyes, but Monseigneur's mouth was another matter entirely: he was smiling in pure delight as he gazed down at that part of John he had just uncovered. John's erection was fully hard by then; shorter, perhaps, than Monseigneur's, but thick and rosy.
"Beautiful," breathed Monseigneur, and John felt shy pleasure and something ridiculously close to pride mingle deep inside him. He'd never thought of himself as that before and yet something in Monseigneur's captivated demeanor told John that he meant what he said.
Monseigneur lifted a hand to glide experimentally along that thick shaft, from base to tip, sending a jolt through John. Reflexively, his hand shot out to close around Monseigneur's, but it carried with it no opposition, was not even aware it had a mission.
"Show me how you like it," whispered Monseigneur.
It was really a bit too much, that dark, sinful voice. Almost before he knew what was happening, John found his hand guiding Monseigneur's over his length— the clinging touch of five fingers that he liked best, wrapped around his cock, a slow slide at first, gradually speeding up; the little squeeze near the tip.
"Yeah, like that," John said a little breathlessly after just a few strokes as Monseigneur quickly caught on. "God, just like that."
"John." Monseigneur was not as unaffected as he seemed, for his voice had slurred just a little, so that John's name came out all soft, like a rush of wind: Zhuhn.
Just like that very first time they'd talked to each other in the tent, after Monseigneur's fever had subsided.
Just his name on Monseigneur's lips, and John felt close to coming.
Monseigneur must have sensed it too, for he quickly pulled his hand away from John's hardness.
"Too soon," he murmured. "I've not even undressed yet."
John flushed, staring as Monseigneur reached out with a hand to unbutton his cote-hardie, as he peeled off layer after layer of clothing right there in front of John. Those clever fingers worked impatiently over the rich fabrics, tossing them carelessly from him. All the while, Monseigneur's pale gaze never quite left John's face. Watch me, John, his shielded eyes seemed to say. Only me.
Candelight bathed Monseigneur's pale flesh, turning it into shades of flickering gold, as he did away with his purple silk shirt. John felt himself stir as he watched those long, supple fingers glide down the length of that lithely muscular body to work on black trousers.
John had seen him naked before; he knew what Monseigneur's body looked like. The man had, after all, bared himself to John in one memorable occasion, but he'd never seen it like this, never when Monseigneur was aroused. John looked at him now and felt his mouth go dry, felt all his earlier fears return with a vengeance.
Monseigneur caught his look and said indulgently, "You need not worry, John. Let me handle this for now. There will be nothing uncomfortable for you this first time, I promise."
After a moment, John nodded, reassured. He looked away from that hard length and slipped his hand against Monseigneur's nape as the man bent down to kiss him lightly on the mouth. Back to familiar territory. Against Monseigneur's lips, John said, "You've not finished undressing yet."
He meant the mask of course, but Monseigneur stayed his hand as John reached up to strip him of his last garment.
"No," said Monseigneur, voice almost a growl as he moved his face away.
"But—"
"That shall be your punishment for failing to heed my order to undress," said Monseigneur, lips stretched wide in a wolfish smile.
"You bad man," muttered John, beginning to smile himself. "You enjoy inflicting your punishments, don't you?"
"As much as you enjoy taking them," said Monseigneur. "And I know you find the mask…irresistible. A challenge. It arouses you, does it not?"
John reached out to touch the black velvet around Monseigneur's eyes. "Yes," he found himself saying.
A long, white finger on his lips. "Enough talk," murmured Monseigneur. "I'm going to kiss you now."
John stared at him blankly, a little uncertainly. Hadn't Monseigneur been kissing him since this entire exercise began?
Monseigneur began to laugh quietly. Could the man really be this innocent? "Oh, John," he said. "Adorable John. Not on your mouth, of course."
Oh. Oh.
John's body tensed right away as the realization finally hit him. "Sherlock, wait—"
But Monseigneur's mouth was already on his stomach, smearing a hot, wet line down his navel. John only had time to put a restraining hand on Monseigneur's curls before he felt that talented tongue on his cock, licking at the crown before Monseigneur took the broad head into his warm, waiting mouth and sucked.
God, the delicious sensation of that wet heat engulfing him was new, incredible. John's head slammed back into the pillows as his hips bucked up instinctively, a wordless, strangled cry forced from his throat as all thoughts of protesting disappeared from his mind, to be replaced by more. Oh, more!
Monseigneur splayed a hand on John's stomach and held him down as the other hand wrapped itself on the base of John's cock, fingers working a slow slide up and down, just as John liked it, in time with the movements of Monseigneur's mouth on the very tip of John's shaft. God, those lips, wrapped around him, that cruel, velvet mouth, lined with sin. One sharp suck and that tongue gently rubbing against the underside of his prick, and it became too much, too quickly.
Barely five minutes into this alien kiss, and John was going to come. What would Monseigneur think?
"Sherlock—!"
The choked entreaty made Monseigneur look up from his ministrations. The warning signs were all there— on John's face, his rigid, trembling body. It had been a long time for him; he was unused to this. With a few more strokes, he was really going to lose it.
Monseigneur immediately removed his mouth from John and tightened his hold for a moment over the base of his shaft, pinching off the sensations.
"John," Monseigneur said, rising over him, dark as the night outside. John felt Monseigneur's fingers card through his hair, heard his softly murmured "hush" as John let out a small sound, perilously close to a whimper.
"Look at me, John."
His breathing rapid, uneven, John shifted his gaze back to Monseigneur, at that delicious mouth.
"You're worried," observed Monseigneur, the tone of his voice odd. "Worried about disappointing me. Oh, John."
The feel of those lips on John's, tongue licking into his mouth to tease his, and John tasted his own flavor and musk for the first time.
"You need not worry," whispered Monseigneur against his mouth. "It's going to be so good. It's all you'll ever want, all you'll be asking for."
At those words, John felt Monseigneur shift his weight, moving to straddle him.
"So good," promised Monseigneur, breaking the kiss and aligning himself against John's straining erection. "Here. Now."
It started out as one slow, lingering glide, then another. A hiss of pleasure, issuing from John's clenched mouth, as sensation flooded him.
"Can you feel it, John?" a quiver in Monseigneur's voice as his movements gathered speed and force, as the easy slide gradually took the form of shorter, harder thrusts. "Do you feel us, together?"
"Oh God," was all John could think to say. It did feel incredible. He could not seem to take his eyes from the sight of their cocks rubbing together in an urgent rhythm, held together by Monseigneur's hand.
"Look at us, John," whispered Monseigneur. "How we belong together."
The urge to thrust back came naturally enough, and John did, slowly at first, then gaining momentum as his confidence increased.
"I knew it," said Monseigneur, forehead bent so low that it was touching John's. "That first time I ever saw you, John, I knew immediately that we belonged."
John was already well past listening at this point. He lifted his head, took Monseigneur's mouth roughly with his, a play of tongues that mimicked the urgency of their lovemaking.
"Christ," choked John, feeling his body gathering itself in, coiling tightly as it reached that pinnacle of sensation. Monseigneur was already beyond words, forehead against John's, lips curled back in a snarl as he watched him with eyes dilated to midnight black, both of them not capable of anything other than feeling as they thrust and ground against each other, all restraint gone. At that moment, everything fell away and there was just the two of them, mindless of anything other than the man in front of him and the shared pleasure, brutally wonderful. Completion was just a heartbeat away.
Then everything shattered.
A sharp cry echoed in the still room at the first burst of ecstasy, answered by a deep growl of satisfaction. Different sounds from different throats as wave after fiery wave of release burned through them. A deep, cleansing flame, it felt to John, razing him to ashes so that he may be reborn, renewed— whole and unbroken.
After what seemed a long while, John came back to himself to find Monseigneur collapsed on top of him, face tucked against his shoulder, his breathing harsh. Everything in the room seemed as before, only John knew something had changed forever between him and the man who'd taken him as his lover.
"John." There was movement at last from Monseigneur. He turned his wet, masked face to look at John. "Extraordinary John."
John smiled at him, a sense of deep, quiet contentment filling that empty place in his heart even as it raced away in his chest. He licked his dry lips and said, "You...couldn't have known all this about us, back when we first met. How could you?"
Monseigneur gave a tired shrug. "I did," he said simply.
"We were fighting when we first laid eyes on each other. You told me to surrender or die."
"And I knew the moment you knocked my sword out of my hands that I had to have you, one way or another."
"Why?"
Monseigneur said, "Because of what I saw in your eyes. What I see in them now."
John raised his brows as he stared at Monseigneur quizzically.
"How can I possibly resist, John," murmured Monseigneur, tracing an affectionate finger down the side of John's face, "when you look at me like that, with so much wonder?"
Author's Notes: The rose's many meanings and symbolisms date back to antiquity. Apart from its classical associations denoting love and beauty, ancient Romans placed a wild rose on the door of a room where secret or confidential matters were discussed. The phrase sub rosa, or "under the rose", means to keep a secret — derived from this ancient Roman practice.
In the postscript of his novel, "The Name of the Rose", Umberto Eco said he chose the title for his book "because the rose is a symbolic figure so rich in meanings that by now it hardly has any meaning left". (Source: Wikipedia). There is also a Medieval poem on courtly love called La Roman de la Rose (Romance of the Rose), again with themes portraying the intricacies of love and the object of that love (the lady was portrayed as a rose). I thought the rose and its allusion to the possibility of many meanings or of nebulous meaning also very aptly reflects Monseigneur's person and why he'd choose to woo John in a rose garden— the secrecy and the multi-layered, labyrinthine puzzle that constitute the man and his plans. Even the mask he wears is an allusion to the mystery surrounding him— how certain parts of him are closed off and inaccessible to others.
The phrase, "All is fair in love and war", is not a Medieval saying. It came much later, and can be traced to John Lyly's 'Euphues' (1578). The quote was "The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war." John Lyly was a Renaissance English poet and playwright. (Source: Wiki Answers)
Details of Medieval dress (Monseigneur's, especially) can be found in chapter 9. Linen braies would be the equivalent of men's underwear or undergarments during that time. Buttons were already in existence, but there were no buttonholes in clothes. Rather, loops were crafted into the clothing to hold buttons in place. (Sources: Wikipedia and Myths About the Middle Ages)
Antaidh— Scottish Gaelic for "aunt"
Mon cœur— French for "my heart"
Personal Note (June 30, 2013): Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews and messages of concern, my dears. Rest assured, the story is not going to be abandoned. Real life just intruded (and intruded really hard) for the past month or so. I hope to finish the next chapter really soon. For updates, please do check my tumblr (nana_41175). In the meantime, here is a little teaser:
When the warrior took me in his arms I felt the fire of pleasure…
—The Anglo-Saxon Elegy (VIII century)
John's blow sent Monseigneur sprawling back to fall in an ungraceful heap on the dusty ground, but he was far from finished with the bastard.
His hands were trembling as he grabbed at the man's rumpled collar and jerked Monseigneur around to face him. A red splotch surrounded the small cut on his cheekbone where John's fist had connected with his face. Soon it was going to turn into a bruise.
"You…fucking…!" John's breath hissed out through clenched teeth. He was so angry he could hardly breathe.
And through it all, the bastard was grinning, laughing that dark, rich laugh, low and soft.
"Yes," said Monseigneur, verdigris eyes wide, fixed on John's rigid face. "Go ahead, John. I know you want to. I want you to do it. Punish me. Punish me with kisses."
Aww, yiisss! Am back to writing Captive Hearts 30. As you can see, it's not a good idea (?) to enrage John, especially when he learns of Monseigneur's betrothal to a certain princess…
