Captive Hearts
A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story
By
Nana
Chapter 37
Special Thanks: To wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up) for her excellent and perceptive beta, as always. Happy Birthday, my dear!
And to PlumpPushu, my French connection, for her lovely translations.
More author's notes and translations at the end.
"The heart wants what it wants or else it does not care."
- Emily Dickinson
Months ago, when John was still a newcomer at the Lair, the Lady Molly had told him a strange story from an ancient, far-off land where people worshipped many gods, not just one.
"Once upon a time," Molly had said, "there was a woman— the first woman ever created, in whose person each of the gods had bestowed a special gift. In fact, her name, Pandora, meant 'the all-gifted.' To this peerless creature the gods assigned a special task: the guardianship of a particular box that was never, ever, to be opened.
"Instantly, Pandora's curiosity was piqued. 'What lies within the box?' asked she upon receiving it.
"'T'is not for you to know,' answered the gods enigmatically before they went on their way, leaving her with the heavy chest. So she went about her daily tasks as best she could— she was a good weaver— but her mind would not leave the box alone; her thoughts were constantly upon it. Every so often, she would look up from her loom and gaze longingly at the thing. 'What can the contents be,' she mused, 'to warrant such secrecy?'
"The more she looked upon the beautifully crafted box, the more convinced she was that it contained something valuable. It flattered her that the gods would entrust her with something so obviously important. She meant no harm and she certainly did not intend to steal whatever was inside. She only wanted to take a peek. Besides, she told herself, no one would ever know."
At this point, Molly had broken off her narrative to ask, "Are you alright, John?"
John had cleared his throat and said hastily, "Yeah, I'm alright."
"It's just…your face—"
"No, no," John had said, flushing an angry red. "I just…remembered something. It's nothing. Pray continue."
"So Pandora finally managed to open the box," Molly had continued, "and guess what was inside?"
"Nothing good," John had muttered, more to himself than to Molly.
"Exactly!" Molly had said. "It turned out that the box contained all the evils that would plague the world and mankind. As soon as she opened it, every imaginable woe and illness, pestilence and strife, burst forth from the box and flew into the air— a torrent of bad wind that spread throughout the world— too much and too quickly for Pandora to do anything to stop their escape. By the time she managed to shut the box, only one thing remained within it. 'Let me out,' it said to her, 'let me out so we may have a remedy for all the troubles unleashed.'
"It turned out to be Hope. Pandora let it out and watched as it fluttered away," Molly had said as she wound her story to a close. "So that was how the world came to be evil, at least according to the early peoples to whom the myth belonged."
Molly had paused before she continued: "Though to be fair to Pandora, I hardly think anyone would be able to resist such a temptation, wouldn't you agree, John Watson? I think the gods deliberately placed that box in her care knowing that she would open it."
"Like Eve," John had murmured absently. He did not know why he had said it— his thoughts had been far away, going back in time to his first days with Monseigneur when he had watched the man burn with fever and his hand had made mischief by lifting that damned mask from Monseigneur's features. All the while, Pandora's words had echoed in his mind: No one will ever know…
Oblivious to John's thoughts, Molly had given him a pleased smile. "True. Very true," she had said. "Anyway, the moral of the story is, as long as Hope is abroad, Man can ultimately triumph over any evil."
John had been silent for a moment as he digested Molly's words. "I thought that box contained all the evils in the world," he had finally said.
"It did."
"Then Hope must be evil as well," John had argued, 'if the gods decided to place it with all the other evil things in the box."
His little paradox had left Molly floundering for an explanation. "Well," she had finally said. "I suppose Hope can be cruel, the false kind especially, but how can we know how things will turn out in life? It is not for ordinary mortals to know. That is perhaps why, no matter what happens, we must never lose hope."
John had not bothered Molly with his opinion and he had merely given her a vague, noncommittal reply. How could he possibly make her understand what he knew of life when they belonged to separate and opposite worlds? Molly was young and idealistic, raised alongside royalty all her life and sheltered from the world's wayward influences as befitting a proper lady. She could afford to shut herself in the ivory tower she had built out of her romance books and dream of true love. John, on the other hand, was a soldier. He had fought in bloody conflicts and he had lost friends along the way. He had never known his family and whatever chance he had of building one was taken from him when he had lost his wife and child. He had accepted very early on that for men like him, life was hard, short, and fundamentally unkind. Ruthless practicality was an asset while hopes and prayers were flimsy barricades to shield oneself from the reality of things.
After Mary, he had learned his lesson: He could not afford to wrap himself in dreams and set his hopes too high, knowing they could be dashed any moment.
This was precisely why Monseigneur was dangerous; so very dangerous.
John had known it from the moment they met. He knew it now as he watched Monseigneur take a leisurely bath after the morning joust and he knew it every moment in between. Monseigneur was dangerous because, despite everything that had happened between them, he had the power to make John hope and yearn for something that was quite impossible. If John were not careful, he was afraid he might very easily forgive him.
The man was an utter bastard. He was also temptation personified— specifically and diabolically designed to ensnare John's soul. John could think of so many incidents in the past months when Monseigneur had pushed him to the brink, yet John found he could wipe away Monseigneur's many trespasses with just the memory of how he had looked the last time they made love— Monseigneur's face open and naked, his eyes wild and alight with the shock of realization.
It was but a fraction of time, yet at that moment, pausing on the brink of orgasm with his lover buried deep inside him, John had been sure that Monseigneur was in love with him. That had been enough to send him over the edge. Then Monseigneur had wept as they lay together, spent: the final proof of surrender. Wrapping his arms around Monseigneur's prostrate and immobile form, John had thought incredulously: Mine. Oh my God, he's actually mine.
It was frightening how the knowledge had made him so happy; whole and complete like he had never been in his entire life.
And even now— even now that John knew differently…
I still want him, a treacherous part of John acknowledged miserably as he watched Monseigneur settle back in the warm, fragrant waters. I want this man to love me. Only me.
Impossible.
Just as I am, the dreamer in John interjected rudely, seemingly deaf to the practical voice shouting warnings in his head: Impossible, impossible, impossible…!
And on my own terms,he silently added to himself.
God, he was so fucked.
John could swear that he was not an unreasonable man, but that was before he met Monseigneur. He knew he was being extremely foolish, but his treacherous heart had made its decision and there was nothing he could do to stop it from wanting Monseigneur. John knew that all his life he had been drawn to danger and nothing was more dangerous than this man soaking in a bath of lavender and herbs just a few feet away from him.
John knew he'd done well so far, but it had taken everything in his person to turn away when Monseigneur had bared himself yet again to John's scrutiny. John was proud of that little victory; he was proud that he could stand his ground and show the bastard that he was not willing to let things slide just because Monseigneur had flashed his long, hot body in front of John. Against his heart's desires, John would show this man that he was not going to come running at a crook of his finger. If it was mental warfare Monseigneur was seeking, John would make sure to put up a good fight.
Still, it was not easy.
After his bath, Monseigneur called John to him. Stretching a hand out, Monseigneur said, "The rings."
John blinked. He was steeling himself for yet another verbal spar and it took him a moment to understand what Monseigneur was asking for. Quickly, he pulled out a small pouch from his leather bag and emptied its contents onto Monseigneur's open palm.
"The sapphire is for stomach ache," explained John, describing the medicinal powders he had put into the hollow cavities of the rings the night before, "and the ruby is for emergent cases when you suspect poison and you need to throw up."
"Or if I need to dodge a meeting with my brother," said Monseigneur, giving John a small smirk, his pale eyes filled with cool mirth as they swept over John's face.
John drew in a breath and looked away quickly.
He was being tested. He knew it. He knew that look— lazily caressing with a kind of satisfied, unspoken intimacy that John had only ever seen in Monseigneur after they'd had sex. It was the kind of look that John secretly hungered for, but it did not fit here, now, in this situation. After his earlier rebuff of Monseigneur's advances, John would have thought the man might be mad at him, which meant this—whatever this was— was nothing more than one of Monseigneur's tactics. John was having none of it.
You could have had me, John thought grimly— a reminder to himself as much as to Sherlock. You could have had me on my knees before you if only you did not push me away.
"Here," he heard Monseigneur say, and John looked back to see a new ring in Monseigneur's hand. It was silver, simple yet elegantly designed with Monseigneur's wolf crest. John could feel his heart clench painfully as another wave of deeply conflicting feelings passed through him.
Steady, John...
"Take it," drawled Monseigneur, his voice hardening as John continued to gaze uncertainly, almost suspiciously, at the thing. He dropped the small but heavy ring onto John's hand. "It contains the antidote. We haven't got a lot of it left so don't lose it."
He's angry, John thought, almost relieved. Good. Damn good.
Monseigneur abruptly turned away from him to speak to Lestrade in a clipped tone: "Let's not keep His Majesty waiting. God only knows what kind of tirade he might launch, given the present state of his nerves."
Then, to John's surprise, Monseigneur continued: "And I want John armed with a sword and dagger at all times."
Temptation personified, John reminded himself. Try as he might, he failed this time to keep from feeling pleased.
It was three days before the royal wedding, and Glasstown was alive with happy anticipation. It was also bristling with heightened security and nowhere was it more obviously manifest than in the King's palatial residence.
Guards decked out in gleaming chest armor and colorful liveries were posted everywhere. Making his way through His Majesty's gardens, John could see a couple of them trailing a respectful distance behind their small entourage before Monseigneur dismissed them with a few, curt words.
John himself was feeling the novelty of wearing a sword again after so many months of going without. The weight of it felt familiar and reassuring against his right hip. He could remember his first days in Gaaldine without his sword and it had felt as though he were going about inadequately dressed. The dagger that Lestrade had given him was safely tucked away in his surcoat.
John was surprised to see so many people milling about, some in clusters, others by themselves, all of them elegantly dressed and obviously waiting to have a word with His Majesty. It was as though they had arrived in the middle of a garden party. Without exception, everyone turned to gape at Monseigneur as he strode past, oblivious to their stares and their hands going up to shield gossiping mouths.
John turned to Lestrade, who merely rolled his eyes and shrugged, as if to say, what else is new?
Lestrade himself was having more success with the crowd as he graciously nodded and returned greetings. Then there was John, who could feel curious eyes going over him and hear murmurs erupting as they walked past.
"Show them no fear or discomfort, John," murmured Lestrade in a low voice. "Game faces on, now."
John nodded as he continued to feel eyes upon him, assessing him and fastening onto his consciousness like the pricking of so many tiny pins. He could perceive very little surprise in the collective gaze of these strangers and he realized uneasily that they already knew him: Monseigneur's new man. He'd often heard Lestrade say that word travelled fast within the Gaaldinian royal court and here he was now in the thick of it. All of a sudden, he was immensely grateful for Lestrade's presence beside him.
Ahead of them, Monseigneur abruptly checked his stride as his brother came into view farther down the flower and shrub-lined path. It was almost as though he had been taken by surprise.
The King was magnificently robed in red and black velvet, and he was not alone. Beside him stood a tall, slender lady and, for the first time, John found himself looking upon his own queen— the woman whom every Angrian soldier had sworn his life to protect and uphold.
Much had been said about the beauty of the Angrian queen. There were poems and ballads written about her, spread far and wide by travelling minstrels. Taking in his first sight of her, John could not really be certain whether the poems were accurate: her face was veiled against the hot summer sun and she stood a cool arm's-length away from her would-be husband, keeping close to her ladies.
The Angrian ladies were more of an open book as they glanced this way and that with small, bird-like movements, taking everything in. Amused, John surveyed them, huddled together as though expecting an attack. Compared with the bright colors that Gaaldinians favored, the ladies from John's land wore dark, somber garments, the cut and design of which were several years out of date. Angria's capital, Dùn Èideann, was not far off from the borders of Gaaldine yet it was suddenly clear to John just how isolated and out of touch they were from the rest of the world.
The ladies-in-waiting also brought with them that familiar touch of bleak Angrian winter in their demeanor and shuttered faces. John knew that pinched expression well enough; he must have looked exactly like that when he first came into Monseigneur's service, examining everything with narrowed eyes and an expression typically reserved for viewing tubs of rancid fat even while he secretly enjoyed himself with the novelties of Gaaldinian life. It was clear that no matter how terribly impressed they were with Gaaldine and its opulent court, the ladies were not going to give these Gaaldinians the satisfaction of knowing what they felt deep inside.
It would be interesting to see how long they could maintain this masquerade, John thought wryly. Already, one of the ladies— a small woman with pale, washed out features and flaxen hair— had let her guard down by looking at him very strangely; so very strangely indeed.
As though she had seen a ghost.
John frowned and looked away from her as they made their reverence to the royal couple: Monseigneur with a nod of the head and a slight inclination of his shoulders; the rest of them with a sweeping bow.
Before John could straighten up, he heard the Monseigneur address the Queen of Angria: "Ah, we meet again, my dear sister."
John almost laughed. What is he doing?
If Monseigneur meant to intimidate, he had succeeded: the Angrian ladies hurriedly crossed themselves while the queen drew herself to her full height. "Good morning," she said stiffly, her lilting accent— albeit of the Lowlands— striking a familiar note to John.
"Sherlock—" the King began, a note of warning beneath his placid tone.
"And here I thought it's bad luck for the bride and groom to meet before the wedding," continued Monseigneur nonchalantly. The corners of the King's mouth turned down ever so slightly in displeasure as Monseigneur's words filtered through the murmuring crowd.
John stared at Monseigneur's rigid back. What the hell. That was exceptionally rude, even by Monseigneur's standards.
A moment passed as the King glowered silently at his brother. Then, he replied with as much grace as he could muster, "that is reserved for the wedding day itself, as you very well know. There's nothing wrong with meeting one's intended days before the wedding, even if I forgot to mention the fact to you in my summons."
John stared at the King then back at Monseigneur, intrigued. Something was going on between the two; something else was being said in between the lines.
"A perfect coincidence, I'm sure," Monseigneur ground out.
The King turned to his bride and laughed. "I am sure I know not what he means, my dear," he said easily. "Forgive us, but my brother and I sometimes indulge in riddles; it's a little game we like to play. However, this is an excellent opportunity for you to meet Monseigneur's entourage."
Sweeping Monseigneur aside with his gaze, the King made a graceful gesture at Lestrade. "My lord Lestrade, my dear," he said, "is a dear and loyal friend of mine who has proven himself invaluable to my brother and myself."
John watched as Lestrade made a small, stiff bow. "Your Majesty is too kind," Lestrade murmured, and except for the stern set of his jaw, his face was serene and placid. To the queen, he said, "your humble servant, Madam."
Whatever happens, be like Lestrade, John said to himself, impressed.
The Angrian Queen merely gave a small nod at Lestrade's direction.
"And this," said the King, waving his hand with a flourish, "is John Watson, Monseigneur's healer from the Highlands."
The buzz of voices in the hot, still air was suddenly loud in John's ears.
The queen regarded him with more interest. "He is Angrian, Your Majesty?" she said incredulously.
Before John could bow and murmur his greetings, the queen's attention was suddenly diverted to a scene behind her. "Goodness," John heard her say in raised tones. "What has happened to the Lady Harriet?"
It was one of the queen's ladies—the little blond woman, sinking into the arms of her alarmed friends as she fainted. Instantly, cries of dismay were raised all around and, much to John's surprise, he heard Monseigneur cursing.
Instinctively, John moved toward the lady even as people rushed in, calling for some ale to be brought over. He was stopped by a hand biting into his arm. Turning around, John found Monseigneur just behind him, his hand gripping John's arm and his pale eyes wide with alarm and fear.
"Don't," Monseigneur said.
"Sherlock." The King was suddenly at their side. "Let him go and attend to her; unless you want people to talk."
Monseigneur suddenly released his hold of John and turned to his brother. "This is all your doing," he growled in a low voice that only John and the King could hear. "Mais ne pouvez-vous pas faire appel à un de vos propres physiciens pour être à son service?"
John stared at Monseigneur as he suddenly lapsed into Gondalian.
The King refused to oblige his brother in kind. "Yours will have to do for now," said the King with finality, placing a hand on John's shoulder and steering him away. "Come then, John. Help her, please."
John's prospective patient was already coming to by the time he bent down to attend to her. Amid much fan flapping and murmurs of concern, John reached out a hand to touch her damp forehead before bending down to peer at her eyes, blinking and quickly turning red as tears gathered. Her breathing was quick, erratic, as was her pulse beneath John's callused thumb.
"John…?" she breathed as John stared at her blankly, a slight frown creasing his forehead.
Her voice was eclipsed by Monseigneur's deep baritone, edged with impatience: "Well?"
John withdrew his hand from the lady's wrist and straightened up. "She'll be alright," he said. "She probably just had too much sun."
Monseigneur shot the King a look: Satisfied?
For a moment, it looked to John as though Monseigneur might take hold of him yet again to haul him away, but before anyone could move, a goblet of ale appeared and was passed to the lady. Monseigneur turned to Lestrade and said curtly, "You and John may take your leave. Now."
From his icy tone, Monseigneur's message could not be clearer: Get him the hell away from here.
If Lestrade had questions, he knew well enough not to ask them. "Your Highness," he said, bowing formally before he ushered himself and John from the royal presence.
When they finally marched out of earshot, John released a breath and said, "What was that all about?"
"The devil take me if I know," said Lestrade shortly, "and it's not every day that Monseigneur is caught off guard. As you can plainly see, he didn't like it."
"Caught off guard over what?" asked John, puzzled.
Lestrade gazed at him searchingly. "Do you know any of those people from Angria?" he wanted to know.
"No." John's answer came back more sharply than he intended. "Why would I?"
Lestrade shrugged. "They seem to know you," he said, "or think they know you. Hell, I didn't know the sight of you can be so overwhelming, John."
"That's insane," said John, not amused by Lestrade's attempt at levity.
Lestrade made to wipe at his face, his familiar gesture of frustration. "Come on," he finally said. "Let's get out of here. I've got to attend a meeting, but you're free to go around town, if you like. Keep that sword close to you."
John watched, stunned, as Lestrade pulled out a heavy pouch and counted out a few gold coins before handing them over to him. "Will that do?" he asked.
John stared at the coins in his hand. "Yeah," he finally said.
This was really turning out to be a morning packed with surprises.
"You won't be needed until the late afternoon," said Lestrade. "Make sure you get back to the castle then. We will probably—"
"Lestrade!" accosted a voice behind them, and Lestrade turned around and did a double take.
"Well, if it's isn't the two Sebastians!" Lestrade said to John, his voice curiously flat.
The two men approaching them were tall, and there their similarities ended. One was dark-haired, with an overbearing chin and an insolent smile. He was richly dressed and soft as putty, like a pampered house cat. John figured he'd never worked a day in his life. The other one was strongly built, ruggedly handsome, his light-colored hair cropped close to his head. John could easily tell he was a soldier from his gait and bearing, not to mention a thin scar running down the side of his sunburned face. His gaze was hard, intense, and fixed upon John's person in an unsettling way. Instantly, John knew he was being sized up the way rivals would in a tournament.
Lestrade addressed the dark-haired fellow first. "My lord Wilkes," he said, his tone unenthusiastic. "I did not realize you attend His Majesty's garden walks."
Lord Sebastian Wilkes let out a loud, braying laugh. "That's what cousins are for. Fancy meeting you here as well, Lestrade," he said, his gaze turning sly. "Has his Majesty introduced you to the Queen yet, or are such introductions not appropriate in public?"
"I am here on Monseigneur's account," returned Lestrade evenly, his voice cool.
"Ah, Monseigneur. Yes. Speaking of the devil…" Wilkes broke off to eye John more closely and his thin mouth stretched widely into a crooked smile. "What? Is this him?"
Lestrade's expression darkened but he quickly made the introductions: "Gentlemen, this is John Watson, Monseigneur's healer from the Highlands. John, this is Lord Sebastian Wilkes, cousin to the King and Monseigneur; and this is Sir Sebastian Moran, one of our most decorated warriors. I didn't see you in the tilting yard earlier, Seb."
Sebastian Moran shrugged— a lazy roll of the shoulders that belied his set, watchful stance. "I was summoned here, same as you, my lord Lestrade," he drawled. He nodded to John and said, "I saw you fight in the behourd at the garrison, sir. Impressive. Very impressive. Will you be participating in the swordfight demonstrations after the wedding?"
Lestrade quickly stepped in as John glanced at him uncertainly. "That will depend on Monseigneur's plans," he said. "We're still awaiting word from him."
"I'd love to have a round or two with you," said Moran, running an appraising glance at John. "I've been meaning to, back in the garrison, but then Monseigneur left so suddenly."
"Monseigneur is Monseigneur. We all know how he is," said Lestrade easily, a hand already on John's shoulder, ready to lead him away.
Lord Wilkes was not yet finished though. Grinning, as he eyed John up and down, he said, "so this is really him. Monseigneur's Highlander."
Turning to Lestrade, he continued in a perplexed tone, "Je ne réussis guère à comprendre son raisonnement."
"Et que comprenez-vous pas, Monsieur?" queried Lestrade, almost growling.
"Lui, visiblement. Est-il le nouveau jouet du moment de Monseigneur? Et sérieusement, pourquoi?"
For the first time that morning, John saw Lestrade struggling to control himself. "Celui-ci comprend tout aussi bien le Gondalien, Monsieur Sébastien," he said through clenched teeth.
Lord Wilkes turned to regard John, surprised. John looked back at him steadily with lowered brows and unsmiling mouth, arms crossed over his chest. He had not fully understood what had passed between the two men, but he'd made out some of Lestrade's words and the tone in which he'd said them, and John knew that they were talking about him and Wilkes was not handing out any compliments.
Behind Wilkes, Sebastian Moran added in a bored tone, not bothering to mask his words in Gondalian, "and he's got a sword to him, my Lord. We all know there's no telling what Highlanders can do. It's quite possible that he won't bother with trivialities such as rank and hierarchy; he just might go ahead and run his sword through you."
There was an almost comical moment when Lord Wilkes looked stricken. "Kidding. I'm just kidding," he finally said, laughing it off. "Jesus Christ, can't anyone take a joke anymore these days? Say, I've got a party planned for this evening. You ought to drop by, all of you."
"Isn't it too early for that, my lord?" asked Lestrade disapprovingly.
Wilkes threw up his hands, feigning shock. "My dear Lestrade, I know not what you mean. It's not that kind of a party at all," he said. "Not yet, anyway. Be sure to come. I bet my cousins will be there as well. Not sure about the bride though. Perhaps it would be best to keep her away as the Woman might also be there. You know, that Exinian princess that Monseigneur is currently keeping all to himself? It will be quite a show. I'll be expecting all of you, yeah?"
With that, Wilkes walked away, chuckling to himself.
"Prick," Lestrade muttered as they watched him go.
"The kind who can't even piss right without anyone taking him in hand," Moran said, perfectly deadpan.
For the first time that day, John actually found himself laughing together with Lestrade. Moran glanced at him, thin lips stretched in a small, sardonic smile.
After a moment, Lestrade collected himself. "Right. Anyway, are you going on to the Great Hall, Seb?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good, then we shall go together." Lestrade turned back to John. "I'll see you at the castle before nightfall, then, John."
Just like that, John found himself alone with a sword by his side and a pocketful of coins to do as he wished. The day was still early and the whole of Glasstown awaited.
After three months with Monseigneur, John savored the first, giddy taste of freedom and suddenly found that he did not know what he ought to do next.
"I really don't know what ails you, brother mine," complained the King as soon as they were alone. It had not been easy to extract themselves from the crowd in the gardens and it took well over an hour before Monseigneur could give vent his anger in the privacy of the King's chambers. "You asked me to help you out and I thought I did an excellent job."
It was true. Given that the Angrian nobles accompanying the Queen were all marred in one way or another by a violent and tragic past, Monseigneur had not been able to narrow down on the person he needed to seek out within their ranks. In desperation, he had turned to his brother for help but, as always, Mycroft's idea of aid was to extend Monseigneur a double-edged sword.
"You planned that to happen!"Monseigneur accused, pacing the entire length of the King's study.
"If you mean that I knew the Lady Harriet would have a swooning spell upon seeing John Watson then you are quite mistaken," replied the King, "although you must admit it answers your question directly, does it not?"
He watched his brother restlessly prowl the length of the room and sighed. "For God's sake, Sherlock," he said. "Of all the people in the world, why must you want John Watson?"
"Who is she?" Monseigneur demanded.
"The Lady Harriet has been a lady in waiting to the Queen since she was sixteen," said the King. "It is her right as the wife of the Duke of Isley, who was the Queen's distant cousin, now deceased. She herself came from an ancient clan of illustrious Highland warriors who were the hereditary rulers of the Hebrides before they swore allegiance to the Kings of Angria. In exchange for their loyalty and service, they were given the Dukedom of Rothesay and were allowed to keep their ancient title of Lord of the Isles. Unfortunately for the Lady Harriet, her father, along with her young brother, perished in an accident while negotiating a peace treaty with some of the Highland clans in the mountains many years before. Now the title stands vacant. As a woman, Angrian law dictates the Lady Harriet cannot succeed to the dukedom and as her husband left her so little, she is now dependent upon the Queen's charity. She has a young son who may be able to claim the title as an adult but there are several ambitious Angrian nobles who are eager to claim it as their own."
"Do you know the name of her dead brother?" Monseigneur's voice was barely audible.
"I don't, but I think we can safely hazard a guess." The King looked at Monseigneur meaningfully.
"It's not possible," Monseigneur burst out angrily. "John is a simple Highland soldier; one of several thousands, in case you've not noticed—"
"Who just happens to be able to read and whose demeanor is clearly that of a high-born warrior," finished the King. "Don't bother lying about his literacy. Dimmock has told me everything."
"It's a coincidence, nothing more," Monseigneur said dismissively.
The King tilted his chin towards his brother, and Monseigneur felt his hackles rise immediately at the gesture, familiar since childhood and heralding a scathing lecture.
"What do we say about coincidences?" said the King.
"Don't presume to give me a sermon, Mycroft," snapped Monseigneur. "I'm no longer a child."
"Good," said the King, his voice clipped. "Then I expect you to do the right thing and let John Watson go. Do it as graciously as you can before he's snatched from you."
Monseigneur shook his head vehemently. "No. He's mine."
"Would he agree with your pronouncement?"
"Whether he agrees or not is not—"
"Why don't you just ask him?" said the King. "That would be the simplest way. If he says he belongs to you then we don't have a problem in our hands. If he says no and he happens to be the long-lost scion of a great Angrian noble house and a relation of the Queen's—"
Here the King broke off to look at Monseigneur with something close to pity. "Do you really think you can keep John Watson captive? I hardly know what to say. Your blind arrogance is simply breathtaking," Mycroft said. "Although I will admit that I understand your predicament; more than you can possibly imagine. The heart wants what it wants or else it does not care. Take it from me, though: it is hard enough when both parties are willing. The sacrifices involved are horrendous, not to mention the consequences should you be discovered. Surely even you would appreciate the precariousness of your situation. When everyone finds out that you've been keeping him, possibly against his will—"
Monseigneur shook his head. "No," he said.
"No?"
"John is not unwilling. And no, it's not to your advantage to have John Watson removed from me," Monseigneur replied, "at least, not until after the wedding."
"Why not?"
"That was the reason why Anna Thea agreed to your proposal of marriage, was it not, brother dear?" said Monseigneur, his tone deceptively gentle. "Because she does not have enough trustworthy allies among the unruly Angrian nobility? Imagine how it will be if this 'long-lost scion of a great Angrian noble house' suddenly turns up right before the wedding to tip the scales back and your bride realizes she just might have an alternative apart from marrying you."
The King's voice was suddenly very cold: "Anna Thea is not going to risk a war between our two nations. Not then and certainly not now."
"Won't she, if she has someone like the Lord of the Isles to back her up at home?" countered Monseigneur. "Besides, I see you've not succeeded in getting the woman to trust you even now."
"There will be time for us to get to know each other better once we are married," the King replied, entirely without conviction.
"Good luck on that," Monseigneur muttered.
"You may not believe this, Sherlock, but we are on the same side," Mycroft said, exasperated. "To keep John Watson as your captive is not going to do you or the man any good. It is neither right nor honorable, and if the man does not want you then it will only be a matter of time before you break him into pieces. Remember Redbeard."
Here Monseigneur stopped pacing. For a moment, he stood still, so still and forlorn in the middle of the room. Then, in a desolate tone that Mycroft had not heard him use in a very, very long time, he said: "What is it about the situation with John that you cannot understand? It will kill me to let him go."
The King sagged into his chair. "Oh, Sherlock."
Sherlock stared at Mycroft, looking a little panicked at the words that had just escaped his mouth.
"You do realize that we've got other, far more pressing, things to worry about," said the King. "Lest you've forgotten, there is that poisoner-"
"I've not forgotten," Monseigneur growled, "and that is another reason why we cannot afford to lose John Watson."
"So what are we going to do?"
"Time," Sherlock said. "I need more time to know what John thinks of me. Well, I know what he thinks now but I want to change that. I want him to—"
Here he bit his lip and looked away, unable to say it even now. Finally, he said, his voice hard, "will you give me more time?"
The King nodded after a moment. "There are still a few days," he said cautiously. "I don't see why John has to be informed of his past now. As far as I am concerned, everything that we have is still pure conjecture. I shall see to the Queen and her ladies, and the wedding will go ahead as planned. After that..."
The King made a gesture with his hands and Monseigneur smiled. He was not in the habit of thanking his brother and he was not about to start now. "I'm so glad we're finally in accord, Your Majesty."
After a few hesitant starts along Glasstown's roads, John finally decided to follow his instincts and head for the market place. One could never go wrong with that path, he reasoned, and he was not disappointed.
As he strolled aimlessly along the crowded markets brimming with fresh vegetables and fruit, poultry and meats hanging from hooks along the butchers' rows and exotic looking fish and seafood in various fishmongers' shops, John started as he recognized, or thought he recognized, a figure walking several feet away with dark and curling hair.
It was impossible to conceive of Monseigneur being here. He was in the castle, enduring a grueling day of wedding rehearsals, according to Lestrade. He could not be walking among the common crowd here, in a market, of all places! Yet the set of the shoulders and the gait of the person ahead of John seemed so very familiar.
Thinking he'd found some small purpose to his outing, John decided to tail the stranger as he continued to walk ahead, his strides lengthening. It was not easy catching up and the thick crowd obscured John's view. A glance away from that curly head was all it took for John to lose him.
John looked this way and that, muttering a bit ruefully beneath his breath, but the stranger seemed to have vanished in the crowd.
Well, so much for his little adventure, John thought as he tried to turn back. What was he even thinking?
That was when he heard his name being called by a very familiar voice, unmistakably couched in the thick accent of the Highlands.
"John! John Watson!"
John turned around sharply to find young Alec standing a few feet behind him, grinning.
The last time John ever saw Alec, it was in the garrison as John tended to his wounded shoulder before giving him his farewells as Alec was sent back to Angria.
Now he was here in the Gaaldinian capital along with several others, Alec told John as he led him down several alleys to a little alehouse. What with an upcoming royal wedding replacing the war they had all been expecting, masses of soldiers had been discharged from the armies of Angria until further notice. For months they had drifted before they finally decided to come to Glasstown to try their luck.
"So now you're mercenaries," John said as they entered the cool, dark interior of the house.
Alec laughed. "Hardly," he said ruefully. "We've not been able to get ourselves hired as everybody seems to be afraid of us."
That certainly rang true of the alewife, John was quick to notice. She was, thank God, middle-aged and homely. The hapless woman was obviously terrified but determined to stand her ground as two burly, fully bearded Angrian soldiers stood before her, legs spread and arms across their chests as they demanded to be served.
"But sirs, you just said you have got no coin to pay for the beverages," complained the portly woman bravely.
"Aye, but what of it?" demanded one of the soldiers whom John recognized as Stephen, the man who had followed them into the forest and who had run off when they encountered Monseigneur and his men.
"It's all right," said John quickly, stepping up to the alewife with his hand in his pocket. "Here, I've got…"
She stared at the coins along with the silver ring John's hand had fished out of his pocket. "You…that's…Monseigneur's…" She gazed at the ring then back at John, unable to believe what she was seeing. "You're Monseigneur's man."
"Uhm, yeah," John said, breaking into a pleased smile.
The alewife gazed at him with new eyes. "Well then, sir, I daresay the drinks are on us," she declared.
So they sat, huddled with their tankards of hard cider in a corner, speaking in the thickly accented Highland dialect that would have been incomprehensible to ordinary Angrians, let alone Gaaldinians.
What did one say to friends and acquaintances that one had not seen for so long? John wondered.
The man known as Stephen took care of the dilemma for him: "Well now, John Watson. Look at you."
Look at John Watson indeed. Three months ago, he was a grizzled, half-starved Angrian soldier who had gotten lost in the woods and captured by the enemy. Obviously, they had all given him up for dead. And now here he was, his hair cut short and his face shorn of the full beard Angrian men favored. He was richly dressed in a surcoat of Gaaldinian design, with a pocketful of coins and a good sword swinging at his side. The men took a good look at John, lips stretched into smiles which did not quite reach their eyes, and John could instantly tell that things were not looking good.
John cleared his throat and shifted rather uncomfortably in his seat. "So how did you blokes get here?" he said, changing the topic.
"We've been discharged, haven't you heard?" said the other man whose name John had failed to catch. "Half of Angria's fighters, laid off when the royal wedding was announced."
He spat out the words royal wedding like a thick blob of phlegm stuck in his throat. His accent was thicker than usual, slurred; as though he had passed the entire day drinking. And here John thought they had no money for drinks.
"Came down to Glasstown we did," said Stephen. "Thought there might be something for us here. First thing you know though, they took away our swords; said something about wanting no trouble from the likes of us when there's a grand royal wedding to celebrate."
The other man laughed. "As if we can't snatch a blade someplace in no time," he snorted.
John frowned.
"John can get us something," Stephen said, eyeing John the way Lord Sebastian Wilkes had done. "He's gotten himself a new master, after all. He can try to get us jobs, right, John?"
"Jobs, hell!" said the drunk man. "I'd not be getting a job from these people."
He leered at the alewife and her assistants who were ignoring the men as best they could. "Can't even get a decently pretty woman around here. I'd rather we all go back to Angria. That was the plan, anyway, after whatever we can get from the festivities. I'd not pass up a free meal, mind you."
There was a burst of laughter all around. John looked at Alec, who stared down fixedly at his drink. He had not spoken a word all throughout.
"Yeah, but John will be staying," Stephen persisted, nodding at him. "He's made himself quite a deal here. Wouldn't dream of uprooting himself now that he's got it all made. Why would he?"
A muscle twitched in John's set jaw; otherwise, he was silent and still.
"These wee Gaaldinians," muttered the other man, shaking his head, "soft as a babe's arse, all of them. Feh! What makes them think they can handle Angria? I'd not be having any of them. Hear me, ye? I'd not be having ye or anything of yours, not even this foul piss that ye're serving around here!"
At these words, he hurled his tankard across the room. It flew in an arc, spilling its golden liquid all over before it smashed into pieces against the wall. The man began to laugh as he saw the woman cowering behind her counter, but before he could continue with his insults, John was up from his seat, grabbing the man by his collar and hurling him down on the table.
"Don't you ever think to do that again," snarled John, pinning the much larger man down against the hard wooden slab. "Babe's arse or not, when it comes down to it, you're not fit to wipe any of these people's arses."
John leaned his weight in, imprisoning the man's elbows against his back and shoving him back down on the table with his fists as the man, cursing, fought to stand.
"For God's sake, that's enough, John Watson!" Alec cried as he spoke at last.
John abruptly let the man go, running a hand down the front of his surcoat as if to smooth it out. Instantly, the man sprang up from the table, snarling obscenities, ready to lunge at him. John stepped back and all of a sudden, there was a knife in his hand.
"Really. Enough," John bit out. "Get the fuck out of here."
It took a moment for the man to comply. He stared at the drawn knife in John's hand for long seconds before he shrugged and rumbled out, banging the door behind him.
Panting, John turned to the terrified woman behind the bar and said, "My apologies, Ma'am. We'll— I'll pay. For all of this."
The alewife was initially reluctant, but in the end, John managed to make her accept the coins given to him by Lestrade except two. These he gave to Alec and Stephen before realizing he had run out of money. His little disastrous excursion was over and he could hardly wait to take his leave.
Finally turning away from Stephen and Alec after he'd said his farewells, John let out a heavy breath as he fisted his trembling hands.
Bloody Christ, to think things had escalated like that so quickly; not that he regretted what he did. Still, the incident bothered him.
It bothered him to realize that he could be so different from his own fellow countrymen. If he had not realized it before, he knew it fully now: the way they regarded him as though he were a stranger. He should have known they would think and act like this, yet it had mortified him to witness something that would have been a typical drinking scene in Angria.
He had not realized that he had changed so much in three months, yet a changed man he was and he wasn't sure if he could— or would— change back.
Plagued by these thoughts, John made for the castle, unaware of the figure following him a few steps behind.
It was already well past dinner time when he arrived at the castle.
"John!" Another voice was calling his name, though John could not be happier to hear this one.
Molly came up to him in a flurry of soft skirts, her pretty face aglow with excitement. "Where have you been? We were looking all over for you during dinner. Anyway, have you heard?"
"I'm sure I haven't, my lady," said John, ignoring his stomach as it gave a loud, protesting growl.
Molly said: "We're to attend a masquerade ball this evening!"
Author's Notes: The myth of Pandora is ancient, appears in several distinct Greek versions, and has been interpreted in many ways (John's view of Hope as an evil entity and thus placed inside Pandora's box (or jar) by the gods is one such interpretation). In all literary versions, however, the myth is a kind of theodicy, addressing the question of why there is evil in the world. For more details on the various interpretations of the myth of Pandora, please visit Wikipedia.
I took a (great) liberty when I had Molly tell John about Pandora's story, which was a Greek myth. After the collapse of the Roman Empire, the Greek classical texts were lost for centuries. It was only during the late Middle Ages that European monks and scholars began to recover/rediscover the works of Aristotle and to translate the Greek classics into Latin. (see Wikipedia— the Recovery of Aristotle) Even so, the Church initially saw Aristotle's newly translated views as opposed to their own and the works were banned as forbidden books until Thomas Aquinas was able to reconcile the viewpoints of Aristotelianism and Christianity, primarily in his work, Summa Theologica (1265–1274). Given the collective mindset of the period, it would have been most unusual for Molly to have heard or read of Pandora, but I would like to think of Monseigneur as extremely unconventional and liberal in terms of education and his quest for knowledge— a dangerous trait during the times set in this story.
The designation Lord of the Isles is a title of Scottish nobility with historical roots that go back beyond the Kingdom of Scotland. It emerged from a series of hybrid Viking/Gaelic rulers of the west coast and islands of Scotland in the Middle Ages. Their territory included the Hebrides, (the isles of Skye and Ross), Knoydart, Ardnamurchan, and the Kintyre peninsula. At their height, they were the greatest landowners and most powerful Lords in Britain following the Kings of England and Scotland. In 1493, following an act of treason, the estates and titles of these rulers were forfeited and given to James IV of Scotland. Since then, the eldest male child of the reigning Scottish (and later, British) monarch has been styled "Lord of the Isles". Today, the title (including the Dukedom of Rothesay) is attributed to the Prince of Wales.
In lieu of ordinary water, which was unsanitary at the time and unfit for consumption, Medieval Europeans drank alcoholic beverages on a daily basis. Although the profession was later taken over by men, the original brewing profession was originally principally performed by women. These women, known as alewives, also brewed the majority of ale for both domestic and commercial use in England before the Black Death. They were allowed to run alehouses and to supplement their husbands' regular income without fear of social stigma. (Source: Wikipedia)
Translations:
Monseigneur (to Mycroft): Mais ne pouvez-vous pas faire appel à un de vos propres physiciens pour être à son service? (Can't you get one of your own physicians to attend to her?)
Wilkes: Je ne réussis guère à comprendre son raisonnement. (I don't get it.)
Lestrade: Et que comprenez-vous pas, Monsieur? (Get what, my lord?)
Wilkes: Lui, visiblement. Est-il le nouveau jouet du moment de Monseigneur? Et sérieusement, pourquoi? (Him, obviously. So he's Monseigneur's flavor of the month? I mean, why?)
Lestrade: Celui-ci comprend tout aussi bien le Gondalien, Monsieur Sébastien. (It just so happens he can understand Gondalian, my lord Sebastian)