Thanks to Cèline for betaing this for me . I love you, my dear.
Chapter TwoIt was well beyond noon of the following day when Draco woke up. At first he did not know where he was and it took him a while to gather his sleep-scattered wits. His head felt muzzy and his limbs were weak. He held one hand up in front of his face. The fingers trembled, but he could control them, and although his bones felt hollow, the chills were gone.
Tentatively he sat up and gazed around his brother's tent. It was compact enough to be borne by a sturdy packhorse when dismantled, and its size was made even smaller by Lucius's untidiness. Of Lucuis himself there was no sign. The crumbs of a finished meal were strewn on a crude trestle near the tent flap and Lucius's jousting helm sat among the debris together with a sheathed long dagger. On the floor beside the pallet was a stone jug of wine, a beaker of milk, and a shallow wooden bowl containing a chunk of bread and two slightly wizened apples.
His appetite surged fiercely, but there was an underlying sensation of nausea that warned Draco to be moderate. He drank the milk, ate half the bread and one apple, and leaving the rest for later, gingerly tested the ability of his legs to support him. He wobbled like a newborn lamb, but at least remained upright. His bladder twinged and he glanced around without success. Amongst all the flotsam of Lucius's life, there did not appear to be a piss-flask.
Draco went to the tent flap and pulled aside the mildew-stained canvas. It had ceased raining and a smoky-white sun was poking through the bank clouds somewhere west of noon. He had been in no condition to take notice of the camp last night, but he was sure it had increased in size. There seemed to be more tents now, larger and finer, some with coloured stripes. There were carts and wains, there was noise and bustle, and he did not think it was due to the drier weather enticing people from their shelters.
The hucksters were out in force, the pie-sellers, women with trinkets and lucky sprigs, a man with two trained apes on slender chains, Whores, beggars, a chirurgeon barber with his tooth puller's pincers on a cord around his neck. A monk walked into view and Draco took an involuntary back-step, a cold fist squeezing his entrails. The cleric's tonsure needed shaving and his habit was old and filthy. The walk was in fact more of a lurch. Disquieted, but not surprised, Draco realised that the man was drunk.
Once the monk had blundered from sight, Draco felt safe to move, but not out into the swarm of activity; his balance was not steady enough for that. Instead he made his way slowly around to the back of the tent, which faced open grassland.
Two bay pack ponies were tethered beside a nondescript gelding. Draco reasoned that they must belong to Lucius, for grazing with them was his own emaciated black horse. He waded further into the meadow, glanced around and relieved his bladder. Then he approached his mount. The stallion was too busy devouring the lush spring grass to pay him much attention. Draco ran his hand over the prominent ridges of the ribs beneath the harsh, dull hide, and grimaced to himself.
Behind him, hooves thudded on the soft ground and he turned to see Lucius draw rein and dismount in one fluid movement from a handsome golden-dun destrier. In contrast to yesterday's image of a degenerate sot, Lucius was groomed to perfection, his mail shirt glittering beneath a shin length split surcoat of blue linen, embossed in yellow thread with the Malfoy family device of three spearheads. He wore a richly tooled sword belt from which hung his scabbard, and the hand not controlling the destrier rested confidently on the braided leather sword hilt. Grey eyes narrowed, fair hair wind-blown and bright, this was Lucius the warrior knight, and Draco could only gape in astonishment and not a little disbelief at the transformation.
"Awake at last," Lucius said curtly. "You've missed most of the day." Removing his hand fro his sword, he tethered the stallion to a wooden stake knocked in the ground and commenced unsaddling him.
"You should have woken me."
"I tried." Lucius flashed him a wry glance: "I broke my fast; James Potter helped me to don my armour and we had a detailed conversation within three feet of your bed, and you did not so much as stir…Easy, lad, steady." He smoothed the dun's sulky golden hide for a moment before unbuckling the cinches on the double girth. "I even touched the beat in your throat before I left to make sure you were still alive."
Draco approached the horse. It threw up its head and its hooves danced a drumbeat on the soft meadow soil. Lucius grabbed the bridle and frowned a warning at his brother. "He's trained to fight. Unless he's familiar with your scent, he'll savage you." A grim smile curved Lucius's lips. "Needless to say, he's never been taken as a prize in any tourney. No one wants him. Once you are well, I'll give you the grooming detail so you can become accustomed to each other."
"Then you're letting me stay?"
"Do I have a choice?" Lucius said irritably. Relaxing his grip on the bridle, he returned to unsaddling the horse and cast a ferocious look from beneath his brows. "But you will work for your bread, or here won't be any."
Draco swallowed the sudden lump of emotion in his throat. "Thank you, Lucius," he said huskily. "I promise I won't be a burden to you."
"Did they not teach you at the priory never to make vows you could not keep?"
Draco's face twisted with revulsion. "They taught me nothing but fear and hatred."
Lucius deposited the saddle on the ground. His expression was thoughtful as he unhitched his sword belt and removed the gorgeous surcoat. "Have you strength enough to help me take this thing off?" He gestured at the mail shirt.
Giving the dun a wide berth, Draco came to his brother. Lucius crouched over, arms extended, and like a snake shedding its skin, began to wriggle out of the heavy garment. Draco laid hold of the sleeves, then the body, and helped him pull it over his head.
Consisting of thousand upon thousand of individually riveted iron links, the mail shirt was an item of great value, coveted by every fighting man. Only the rich and fortunate could afford one. Draco knew that this particular hauberk had once belonged to their father before being presented to Lucius as the means by which, as fifth son, he was to make his way in the world. Draco wondered what it would feel like to bear such weight, to fight in it.
Red faced, panting slightly, Lucius straightened and took the precious garment before Draco dropped it. As he rolled it into a cylindrical bundle, he glanced at the young man. "Who was Brother Riddle?"
Draco went cold. "No one, a monk." His belly churned. "Why do you ask?"
Lucius shrugged. "You were taking in your sleep."
"What did I say?"
"God knows, half of it was in Latin. You were reciting the Credo, but more as if you were defying someone than in duty to God. And you kept gibbering about skeletons coming out of the walls." Lucius's eyebrows rose and three creases pleated his forehead. "You yelled at this Brother Riddle that you wished you had killed him when you knocked him down the stairs."
Draco shuddered. "He's the sub-prior at Cranwell."
"And?" Lucius prompted.
"And he lusts after novice monks," Draco said woodenly.
There was a telling silence. Lucius fetched a ragged square of linen torn from an old shirt and began to rub the horse down. "Could you not have reported him to the prior?" he asked at length.
"He covered his tracks too well, picked his moments. He was high in authority, second only to Prior Dumbledore, and I was a known troublemaker. Whose word do you think would carry the most weight?"
Lucius worked with purposeful strokes and a grim mouth. "Did he touch you?" he demanded after another long pause, his voice quiet and hard.
"On the dorter stairs, going down to matins. But before that there had been the beatings. He derived pleasure…carnal pleasure from the use of the birch." Draco shuddered. He could still feel the sting of the strokes on his naked back, could still see Brother Riddle's lust-congested face as the scourge rose and fell, rose and fell. "I punched him in the eye and he fell down the stairs into two other novices. If they had not been there to stop his fall, he would have tumbled all the way to the foot and broken his neck." He spoke without expression; it was the only way he could maintain control of his raw emotions. "My wrists were tied; I was beaten and thrown into the cells. They held me there for three days without food or water. It is not difficult to see skeletons dancing out of the walls when you think you are going to die."
Lucius ceased work on the stallion, the rag clenched in his fist, his grey eyes filled with disgust and fury. "The sons of whores," he said through his teeth.
"Not all of them were like Brother Riddle. Many of them feared him, but they did not speak out against his rule because he was so senior a monk. To have defended me would have brought trouble down upon their own heads."
"I'd not have stood by and let a grown man abuse innocents with his perversions," Lucius growled, and turned his head aside to spit. "Did you escape or did they let you go?"
"The preceptor, Brother Snape, came to me on the third morning with bread and water. He freed my wrists so that I could eat and 'forgot' to lock the cell door behind hi. Brother Snape disliked me because I would not obey the rules, but he liked Brother Riddle even less. He thought that if I disappeared it would be better for all concerned, particularly the health of the priory. I begged and stole my way from Cranwell to London, then worked my passage across the narrow sea on a Rouen-bound wine galley."
"Christ, I'd like to have an hour alone with those monks and a honed gelding knife," Lucius muttered.
Draco plucked a stalk of grass and shredded off the seed head. "I couldn't go to our brothers at Wooton Malfoy. The monks would have concocted some tale more believable than mine, and I'd have been beaten senseless; you know what Reginald's like. Even if he agreed to keep me for the sake of the blood tie, he'd be constantly rubbing my nose in the fact that I'm the youngest son, born to a near-heathen and of small consequence, I could never live the live of a retainer at his hearth."
"So you came to me instead," Lucius said wryly.
"You didn't opt for Reginald's hearth either." Draco wandered over to the black horse again, and stroked its dull hide.
Lucius raised a pained brow, indicating agreement without making a comment that would draw him into deep water, and untied the dun. "I'll graze this one a distance away," he said. "Two stallions in proximity will only lead to conflict and your nag would likely be killed if they were to fight." He shook his head in censure. "I know you had a difficult time, Drake, but whatever my straits, I would never let a horse of mine descend to that condition."
Draco reddened at the rebuke. "He isn't mine. I've only had him for three days."
"Then where did you get him?"
"I found him."
"You found him?" Lucius's tone registered disbelief.
Draco twisted a handful of the coarse mane around his fist. The horse butted him affectionately in the back. "I was walking through a forest near Domfront when I came across a traveller sleeping beside his fire." He shivered at the memory. "But the fire was cold and the man was dead. He was old; I think that God must have taken him as he slept, for there was not a mark upon his body. His horse was tied tightly nearby and frantic with thirst, I watered him at a nearby stream, then I said a prayer of his master and took that which he no longer needed- his cloak and shawl for warmth, the cold gruel in his cooking pot, the knife from his belt, and the horse." Draco released the hank of hair and smoothed out the kink that his grip had made. "He's only young, I looked at his teeth. No more than four or five years old. He'll prove useful once he fills out."
"Remains to be seen," Lucius said without attaching any real meaning to the words, for his thoughts were upon all that Draco had endured to reach him.
"I know he will." Draco's voice quivered with the force of his determination. "And so will I. Lucius, I want you to teach me. I need…" The voice tore. "I need to armour myself."
A lump of pity and rage filled Lucius's throat and he had to swallow before he could speak. "We'll start as soon as there's more meat on your bones," he said huskily. "You're not up to swinging a sword yet."
Draco nodded agreement, but when he looked at Lucius, his grey eyes were ablaze. "But I will be soon."
Lucius returned the nod. "Yes, soon," he said gruffly. Certainly the lad possessed the grit it took to become a jouster, probably the aggression and recklessness too, but the price of such moulding came high. He crossed the space between them and slapped Draco across the shoulders to dispel the dangerous burden of emotion. "I've never had a squire before."
Draco smiled wanly. At least he had been accepted. Lucius might just as easily have substituted the word 'millstone' for 'squire'. He had never had an attendant before because he could not afford one. "I'll pay my way," Draco promised. "I can suing and play the harp. I can also read and write, if anyone should need the services of a scribe."
"Oh, there's always need for a song and a scribe," Lucius declared, his tone still over-jovial. He squeezed Draco's shoulder again, then returned to his horse and led it further into the field.
Draco followed at a safe distance. "Do you always wear your surcoat and mail when you do to practise?" he queried.
"I wasn't practising. I was seeking an employer." Lucius had uprooted the tethering stake. Now he knocked it into the ground at the new place and secured the stallion. "Most of us have patrons- greater lords for whom we fight. There are very few knights who take to the field alone. Individuals are more open to attack, always the first to be picked off. It is best to fight with someone to watch your back."
Draco tried to look knowledgeable. "Did you find a patron?"
"Indeed I did." Lucius's eyes gleamed. "Although I should say 'we', since I went a-wooing with James Potter. We've been accepted into the retinue of Geoffrey Duredent of Avranches for the duration of the tourney. Twenty percent of any prizes from captures go to him in person, and another twenty into the chests for the ransom of Richard Coeur de Lion from the hands of the German Emperor. The rest is ours. Geoffrey has promised to feed us at his board on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. We have fought for him before; he's an open-handed patron."
Draco absorbed this, together with Lucius's enthusiasm and felt a glimmer of anticipation spark through his veins. "Aren't there any individual contests?"
"On the Thursday." A warning note entered Lucius's voice. "Only the best knights run head to head, some would say the most foolish. It takes great skill, long hours of training for both man and horse, and you have to be able to afford to lose. You only have one attempt at success. If you fail you cannot regroup your loss unless you have another horse and the balls to go back and try again. Most don't." He smiled sourly at his brother. "Minstrels paint bold and glorious word pictures of tourneys, but they do not sing the truth." He wiped his hands down his chausses as if disposing of the subject. "Are you hungry?"
Draco nodded. His stomach had digested the milk, bread and apple in short order, and was now ready to be refilled.
"Good," Lucius said briskly. "There's a stream at the foot of this field. I'll lend you my spare clothes and you can go and scrub the filth of the road from your body. We're eating at James Potter's family fire, and that's a privilege worth using soap for. It was James's wife and daughter who came to care for you yesterday, Lily and Harry. James looked after your horse."
Draco had vague recollections of a small, competent women with lines of laughter at her mouth corners, and of a girl with a clear green stare, and a shining plait of black hair.
"James and I usually fight together as a team," Lucius aid as he led Draco back to the tent to find the replacement clothes. "He has no great stature on the field, but few men ever get past his guard. His wife is the daughter of Thomas Grindlewald of Stafford," he added with a little shake of his head, as if at some misfortune.
Draco's ears pricked with interest. "Stafford and his son are patrons of Cranwell Priory."
Lucius stared at him. "Thomas of Stafford a patron of monks?" he said in disbelief. "Pigs might fly!"
"Oh, it's all kindling and no fire," Draco replied as they entered the tent. "He's like Reginald. Pays lip service because it is essential for every man of standing to be thought of as generous and godly even when the opposite is true. He didn't take a crusader's vow, he paid silver to Cranwell instead – and half of the coins were clipped."
"I can believe that. I doubt Grindlewald has a single generous bone in his body."
Draco looked curiously at Lucius. "What is his daughter doing on the tourney circuits?"
Lucius rummaged among the debris scattered around the tent and found a linen bag fastened with a braid drawstring. "She fell in love with James Potter, who was a penniless knight recently employed by her father, and ran away with him rather than marry the man chosen for her. There was a huge scandal at the time, but you wouldn't remember, you were little more than a babe in arms when it happened."
"No, I don't"
"James took me under his wing when I first joined the tourney route as an aspiring champion with more dreams than good sense, We've watched each other's back ever since, shared the triumphs and failures – of which there have been many. There's a clean shirt and some linens in here." Lucius thrust the bag into Draco's hand, delved again, and came up with a crumpled but reasonable tunic of sage-green wool. "First town we come to, we'll find you some fabric for new clothes." He bundled the tunic on top of the bag, together with a leather jar of liquid soap. "Go on, get you down to the stream."
Draco made his way slowly down the field. His legs were aching anf there was a gentle throb of renewed weariness behind his temples, but at least he was free, There was fresh air on his skin and the grey clouds had thinned to show streaks of blue between. He had a place in the world of his own choosing, and the wherewithal to climb fortune's ladder.
The stream was lined with sedges and stood about ten yards wide at its broadest pint. A moorhen paddled frantically away from him in a race of silver droplets. Reeds long as jousting lances clacked and swayed together at the water's edge. Draco dropped the clean garments on a patch of lush grass on the bank and sat down. For a moment he rested, a glint of afternoon sunshine warming his spine. In the distance he could hear the shouts of men practising their art and the thud of a lance against a quintain target. He imagined himself astride a warhorse, a lance couched beneath his arm, a shield braced across the left side of his body. The smooth power beneath him, carrying him toward the moment of impact. The shock of steel upon wood, pressuring him back against the high saddle cantle. Cries of adulation for his prowess. As he set about disrobing, a faraway smile played at his mouth corners.
The water came up to his midriff and it was cold. Draco drew a shocked breath, his stomach clamping until it almost touched his spine. Shivers arrowed through him and his teeth chattered violently. Even had he been in the rudest of health with a surplus of meat on his bones, it was not the kind of day to linger over outdoor ablutions. He took the soap jar, tipped the contents over his head and body and set to with a will, scrubbing away several weeks of accumulated sweat and grime.
Beneath the pummelling his skin reddened. His eyes stung from the strength of the soap, and he squeezed them shut. He ducked his head in the stream to swill the soap away, then stood up, thrusting the water from his face and hair. Then, gasping with exertion and cold, he opened his eyes.
A young woman was approaching the stream, a stone water jar swinging from her hand. She appeared to be lost in her own thoughts, her eyes upon her feet, which performed intricate little skipping movements in time to the tune she was humming. Her head was bare; proclaiming her unbetrothed, still a child, although her figure bore womanly curves. A heavy plait of rich black hair secured with a green ribbon hung to her waist, and as she came closer, Draco recognised her as the girl who had fed him soup yesterday. This was Harry Potter, the daughter of Lucius's partner, at whose fire they were going to dine.
She crouched upstream of Draco and sank the stone jar in the water to fill it. Still singing, she raised her head, and her green eyes widened as she saw him standing there, naked with his modesty and hers protected only by the transparent distortions of the water. Droplets trickled down the fine dark line of his chest hair and disappeared into the stripe of fuzz below his navel. Her cheeks reddened and she quickly turned to the jar.
Draco wondered whether to speak or remain silent. It was not a situation for which he had any precedent. He decided that he would have to say something since he and Lucius were to be guests at her father's fire. "Demoiselle." He gave her the formal greeting, and thought how foolish it sounded,
She nodded shyly in return, and although her cheeks remained pink, she darted him another glance. "Are you feeling better today?" Her eyes travelled to the discoloured bracelets on his wrists then over the gaunt protrusion of his ribcage.
"A little." He cleared his throat. "It was kind of you and your mother to concern yourselves with me yesterday."
"On the tourney circuit, we look after our own." She stood up, the water jar overflowing. "Lucuis and my father have long been friends."
"Yes, he told me. Tonight we are to eat at your fire." In his own ears, his voice sounded stilted and awkward.
She hefted the jug and splashes of water darkened her gown. "I have to go, my mother needs this," she said.
Draco nodded. He was shuddering with cold and could think of nothing else to say. But their eyes held for a long moment, each examing with curiosity soething that was new and strange.
Abruptly the girl swung on her hel, water slopping over the neck of the jar, and made her way back to the meadow, her gait one-sided from the weight of the pot.
Draco waded to the bank. Shivering violently, he dried himself on the old strip of linen Lucius had given him for a towel, his belly churning with a mixture of anticipation, fear and hunger at the thought of the meal to come.
Yes, so, there you go.
Hey, that rhymes!
Cough. Anyway, REVIEW. Please.
:Gets on hands and knees and puts on puppy dog eyes :
Hee hee.
Love you all
Rye
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