The Road is Made by Walking, Chapter 2: Sang you the song that I heard up above.
PG-13, A Knight's Tale AU, Wille/Simon, romance/humor/drama/jousting-if-I-can-pull-it-off.
With the country at war and the King leading his troops on the battlefield, his regent, the Queen Mother, institutes a series of knightly tournaments to boost the people's morale, much to the chagrin of her younger son.
When one of the participating knights passes away, his starving, ragtag bunch of servants, led by a minstrel with the voice of an angel, impersonate him in the contest with the hope of winning some gold. Eager to write his own fate, and with the age of gallantry slowly coming to a close, this self-made knight may win not just the favor of the public, but also the heart of a prince... and the title of legend.
Note: Chapter title from the song "Crazy on You" by Heart, which was on the soundtrack for A Knight's Tale but does not play in the movie.
Note 2: TW - brief mention of an attempted sexual assault in a character's past. Nothing is described; the character just hints at it being part of their backstory, but just in case... take care of yourselves, folks.
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"How come he gets to ride the horse more often than the rest of us? If anything, I should get to ride the horse more than anyone else because I'm the only one here who's—"
Maddie, sitting comfortably on horseback, groaned loudly. "Henry, if you say you're a noble one more time, I swear I'll get down from here and shove—"
"Does that mean I get to ride the horse, then?" Walter asked dimly, thankfully interrupting Maddie's threat.
"I'm just saying!" Henry defended himself, hands in the air in surrender. "We're all doing this together, right? So we should all get equal time on the horse. It's only fair."
Simon sighed. He'd been feeling melancholy since they went around Bjärstad on the way to Linköping, and he really didn't want to be breaking up his companions' arguments. "Funny how you only care about fairness when it's affecting you, Mr. Noble," he said, but there was no heat behind it. He was just tired.
"And Mads gets the horse more often than the rest of us because he has weak ankles," he added. What he meant was Maddie gets the horse because she's a lady, but of course that would mean outing her to the other two, which Simon would never do. Plus, she might punch him for calling her a lady.
Henry pouted. Pouted, the giant infant. "I could have weak ankles, too."
"Oh my God," Maddie groaned once again. She pulled the horse to a stop and got off, walking around it just so she could glare at Henry. "Are you honestly—"
She was cut off again, this time not by Walter, but rather by a barefoot, blonde figure wearing what looked like a burlap sack, and seemingly nothing but a burlap sack, jumping in front of them from one side of the road to the opposite and disappearing with a rustle into some nearby bushes.
The four of them (and the horse) jumped back in fright. Walter might have squealed; they were all too disturbed to make fun of him for it.
"Was that... a naked woman?" Maddie asked, breathless from the scare.
"It's a witch!" Walter exclaimed from where he was, hugging their horse's flank. He started making the sign of the Cross on himself over and over again. "Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum..."
"She's not a witch," Simon said, rolling his eyes. "She's probably just in trouble. We should check on her, see if we can help."
"Well then," Henry intervened, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. "Allow me to do the honors—"
"Easy, Romeo." Simon pulled him back by the collar of his tunic. "If she truly is in trouble, the last thing she needs is some man leering at her. I'll go."
He veered off the road and in the direction of the bushes the woman had disappeared into. "Wait, why does he get to go? He's a man just as I am."
Simon looked back over his shoulder at his companions. Walter was peeking at him over their horse's mount. Maddie was holding Henry back by the arm. She was the one who spoke. "Don't you ever get tired of complaining?" she said. "Trust me, she does not need to worry about any libidinous behavior from him."
Simon had to chuckle because it was true; Henry just didn't understand how.
He made his way to the bushes and carefully peeked through. On the other side, the blonde woman had just finished readjusting a sheet of burlap fabric— not a sack but made from burlap sacks, it seemed— around her naked body. "Um. Excuse me, miss... are you perhaps in need of some aid?"
She looked at him over her shoulder, her blue eyes piercing. "Does it look like I'm in need of aid?" she retorted, then turning around to stare at Simon with a no-nonsense stare and her hands on her hips.
Simon was caught off-guard by her defensiveness to his earnest question. "Well, I can't help but notice that you're wearing as a garment a piece of fabric that is meant to be used to transport root vegetables."
The woman smirked at him. "What? Are my ankles getting you flustered?"
He let out something between a scoff and a laugh. "Believe me, madame, when I tell you that you're very much not my type," he said. "And my blessed mother did raise a gentleman."
One delicate blonde eyebrow arched up at his words, and Simon briefly wondered if he'd said too much. Her stare made him feel like she could see right through him.
Before he could stick his foot further into his mouth, however, she shrugged and leisurely walked past him, back toward the road where Maddie, Henry, and Walter were watching everything as if it were a theater play.
"I do not need any aid, good sir," she said, flipping her blond hair over her shoulder. "I am simply promenading."
"I don't know what that means," Simon admitted, following her. He saw Henry ask the other two something in a low tone Simon couldn't parse, but from Maddie's shrug and Walter's head shake, he figured they had no idea what that meant, either.
"Promenade?" the woman asked, stopping on the road right in front of their little caravan. "To amble, parade, roam, stroll... so many words for something I would much rather not be doing on this day nor any."
"Did you run into ruffians? Thugs?" Walter asked, likely already running scenarios in his head where they were equally robbed by large, bloodthirsty criminals.
"Yes!" the woman said in a theatrical manner. "My very soul was ransacked by an entitled cur who made haste with the fruit of all my labor, the materialization of all my effort, the embodiment of my identity." She said this very dramatically, spreading her arms wide open as she spun in place. Then she dropped them unceremoniously. "But no. I did not literally run into ruffians or thugs."
"Who are you?" Maddie asked, mainly curious but also a little amused.
"My name is Stella Anckarsvärd," the woman revealed. "You may have heard of my work, except, oh— no, you haven't, because most of it has likely been burned in a hearth by now, and whatever survives will probably be published under a man's name." She emphasized the word "man" like it was offensive.
"What kind of work?" Maddie further asked. Simon wondered if she was just eager to finally get to talk to another young woman her age after months of being surrounded by men, with the solitary exception of their former mistress.
"Well, my chef d'oeuvre is titled A Dialogue Between Lust and Duty," Stella disclosed with a proud smile. "Hexametric poem. But I also write prose of different kinds. Truly, I will write anything I feel like. In fact, for a few pennings I can write anything you need, from decrees to warrants, deeds to patents of nobility..."
Henry raised a hand. "I'd like to hear some more about your lust poem, please." Maddie shoved him, muttering something about keeping it in his breeches.
"Did you just say patents of nobility?" Simon questioned, perking up. Perhaps this weird naked woman in the burlap sack could be the answer to his prayers.
Stella gave him a look, again, like she understood exactly what he meant even when he tried not to make it obvious. "Why, yes, I did," she said with a smile like the cat that ate the canary. "But before we get to what I can do for you, I should have the pleasure of knowing who I'm talking to."
"Uh... we are..." Simon drew a blank for a brief moment. He couldn't very well just give her his name— he didn't know her from Adam; what if she swindled him? She'd be a loose end that could get him in trouble— so he just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"I am Herr Juan Martín de Santa Ana," he declared with as much loftiness as he could muster. "And these are—" He signaled toward Maddie, Henry, and Walter and immediately blanked once more. "—um, my servants."
"Thanks for the introduction, boss," Maddie said with a scoff. Simon cringed internally. He knew he would hear about this later.
For all he tried, Stella saw right through his pretense, once again. "Right. And I'm Queen Kristina. Or— oh, even better: I'm Cleopatra. No no no, wait— I am Artemis the hunter, goddess of the wild—"
"All right," Simon said, annoyed by her mocking attitude. "I guess you don't want to do business with us. We'll be taking our leave, then." He gestured with a nod of his head to his three companions for them to start down the road again. No one was riding the horse.
"You're headed to Linköping, I'm guessing?" The question came just as they started to leave the burlap-clothed figure behind. "They're only allowing a limited number of participants. They must be able to prove a noble lineage for four generations on either side. And they'll be checking your patents of nobility."
The four of them— five, if you counted the horse— stopped in unison.
"Well, damn it all," Henry said. "Even I can't produce patents for four generations in my family."
"What do we do?" Maddie asked.
"Seems like we need her," Walter concluded.
Simon let out his breath in a huff. The four of them turned on their heels— the horse didn't because horses don't work that way— to face Stella again, much closer than where they'd left her. She was obviously waiting for them to halt in their tracks if the smirk on her face was any indication.
"Listen, gentlemen and— gentlemen," she said, conciliatory, but the brief stumble did not go unnoticed. Simon and Maddie exchanged a glance. "If you can get me some decent clothes, shoes, and maybe food to sustain me until we arrive at Linköping, I will be more than glad to provide you with the patents you so desperately need."
They still hesitated. Then Henry cracked his knuckles like he was planning to get in a fight and said, "Don't worry, all. I'll make sure to put the fear of God in her and dispel any notion she might have of possibly conning us. Just give me one moment."
He marched the five or so paces that separated them from Stella. "No, you listen," he said, about to talk some big game. "We'll accept those terms because you are obviously in need of help and we are good and pious men. But if you even think of seducing us into giving you more than we've agreed to—"
"Please," she said patronizingly, "you are so not my type."
And right then, because Henry's piety and bravado had been nothing but hot air, his entire attitude changed. "Oh?" he said with a smarmy smile. "And what, pray tell, does this supposed type of yours have that I don't?"
Stella scoffed— or perhaps she was just swallowing a laugh, Simon figured. "It's more like the other way around, really." She patted Henry's cheek condescendingly and walked past him.
When she reached Simon and Maddie, she leaned close to Maddie's ear and said, not quietly enough for Simon not to hear it, "I won't tell anyone." Before Maddie could say a word, Stella kept walking past them, approaching Walter, who was holding the reins to their horse.
"Do you mind if I ride the horse for a little while? Thanks!" And before Walter could agree or object— this seemed to be a pattern with her, Simon was coming to learn— she grabbed the leather cord from him and lifted herself on the horse, sitting side-saddle.
"Oh, come on! It was my turn!" Henry complained, rushing to follow before she could get too far ahead. Walter hurried at his heels. Simon and Maddie brought up the rear.
"So how did you come up with that fake name so quickly?" she asked to start the conversation.
"It's not fake." He wasn't going to elaborate, but Maddie threw him a disbelieving look. "Alright, so it's..." He paused to rethink how he was going to phrase this, then gave up with a sigh. "So you know how Henry loves to say that he's the only one among us who comes from a noble family?"
"Whaaaat? I have never heard such a comment from him," Maddie said sarcastically. Simon chuckled at her antics.
Then he winced pre-emptively. "It's... not technically true." Maddie stopped him with an arm across his torso and a shocked stare. Simon knew what he was thinking. "No, I'm not a noble. Not by the Swedish definition of it, anyway— it's a bit of a long story."
"Well, we have a while before we get to Linköping and you can't leave me hanging like this after bringing it up yourself," Maddie declared authoritatively. "So get to talking."
"Fine, fine." Simon linked his arm with hers to get her walking again. "So, you know how my mother was born in the West Indies?" Maddie nodded. "She is the daughter of a Spanish man and a native woman from the area known as Venezuela. The town she's from was founded by the Spanish and became the seat of the governor of Venezuela, but the Crown ceded it to the Germans just a few years later. The governor fled to an island called La Española where he continued working for the Crown. As compensation for giving away his town, the Crown gave him the title of hidalgo."
He sighed. "His name was Juan Martín de Ampiés, and the town he founded in Venezuela was called Santa Ana de Coro." He paused, knowing that what he was about to say might change Maddie's perception of him forever. "He was my mother's father."
"What!" she exclaimed, much as Simon had expected. "Then what the hell are you doing here in Sweden instead of across the ocean, living in a manor and having people like us take care of your estate?"
Simon shook his head. "That's not how it works. Hidalgo is the lowest title of nobility in Spain, and it is not passed down automatically to one's offspring. It doesn't come with any land or monetary prize. I think they're exempt from taxes, but my grandfather died like three years after that, so it didn't do him that much good," he finished with a shrug.
"My mother remained with her mother, who taught her how to read and write, and everything she knows about healing. After my grandmother's death some years later, my mother traveled to Spain, hoping she might get officially recognized as Ampiés's daughter. She never was. She left Spain in search of a better life, but it was hard as she was looked down on wherever she went. When she came to Sweden, she met my father, and they fell in love. And, well, my sister and I were born. So that's that."
"I can't fucking believe it," Maddie said, stunned by this turn of events. "Should I start calling you Herr Simon, then?"
"Don't you dare," Simon said, scrunching up his nose as if in disgust. "Actually, the correct form of address would be Don Simón."
"You are so full of it!" Maddie exclaimed, bumping him with her shoulder, but she was laughing as she did.
"I'm teasing, I'm teasing," Simon conceded, sharing in her laughter. The mirth died down slowly, and it was then that he spoke again. "That's where the name comes from, I guess. It was my grandfather's. Now you know."
"I think it's rather sweet," Maddie said, leaning into him affectionately. "It's a way to reclaim what was denied to your mother all those years ago. You could've come up with something stupid, put on the spot like that. But you thought of something that has meaning."
"Thanks," Simon acknowledged with a small smile. He appreciated Maddie's support because he kinda felt like a hypocrite. But if she thought it was sweet, then maybe he shouldn't feel guilty about it. "Let's just hope it doesn't come back to bite us."
"From your lips to God's ears!" With a sudden burst of energy, Maddie pulled at his arm and picked up the pace so they could catch up with the others.
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Wille watched the landscape pass by as the carriage made its way to the tournament grounds at Linköping.
"Penning for your thoughts?"
He started, turning to look at his best friend and immediately feeling guilty for ignoring her after she'd traveled all the way out here just to accompany him to the tournament. He shook his head. "It's nothing. I'm just sorry my mother dragged you here just to ensure I make an appearance. I know you don't enjoy jousting any more than I do."
Felice gave him a pained smile and exchanged a cautious glance with her lady-in-waiting, Fredrika, who was sitting on the opposite side of the carriage car. Wille wasn't stupid; he knew she was worried about him.
"It's okay; at least I enjoy spending time with you," she said, her smile a little more solid this time around. "And who knows, I might find myself a husband, after all," she said, fluffing her hair up in a jokingly vain manner.
The gesture made Wille laugh. "Well, as long as it's not me," he said, amused. "Because you know that's precisely why my mother invited you. She's still hoping someday soon we'll discover our secret passion for each other."
"Oh, believe me, I know. My own mother shares her delusion," she confirmed, shaking her head. "They'll figure it out eventually. I just hope my mother doesn't move on to your cousin as the next best get. He's not coming to this, is he?"
Wille almost laughed again. If there was anyone who detested August more than he did, it was Felice. Sadly, the feeling was not reciprocated, as Felice's rejection only seemed to ignite August's designs on her further. If it were not for the fact that Baroness Ehrencrona had her sights set on Wille for her daughter, August and Felice might have already been betrothed.
"Second cousin," he corrected— quite unnecessarily, as Felice knew the distinction very well. "And I do not believe he is in Linköping today, although that is not to say that he won't arrive later in the week."
Felice let out a most unladylike huff. "If God were to hear my prayers, his carriage would get stuck in quicksand before that could happen."
That prompted even Fredrika, who had been following the conversation quietly, to laugh. "Be careful what you wish for, my lady," she commented. She'd been by Felice's side for so long that she was familiar to Wille as well, and her input always welcome. "It seems like tempting fate to elevate such wishes when we're riding in a carriage ourselves."
"Oh, pish posh. It's a five-minute ride," Felice replied, but the tone was affectionate. Fredrika was more than just her lady-in-waiting; she was a dear friend. "Look, we've arrived. Safe and sound, too."
Wille glanced out the window again and saw that, indeed, they had arrived at the tournament fairgrounds. A tightness started coalescing in the pit of his stomach as the carriage slowed to a full stop.
Their driver opened the door to the carriage. Wille was expected to exit first, then offer a hand to the women— and he didn't mind doing that, of course, but something in the back of his mind held him in place.
"Um, just give us a few more minutes, please," he said to the driver, who nodded and closed the door back up.
"Hey," Felice said, laying a hand on Wille's arm in obvious concern. "What's going through your mind, dear boy?"
Wille sighed. "It's just... this whole thing." He gestured to the tournament edification outside the carriage window. "It's all so fake. My brother's out there putting his life on the line, and my mother decides to put on a jousting championship? Who does that? It's like she doesn't even care if he dies."
"Has she said that?" Felice asked, frowning.
"No," Wille admitted grudgingly. "She says she is worried about him, but that someone has to take care of his people while he's away. Which, fine, I'm sure people are having fun, but these tournaments are a fantasy land, a poor facsimile of support for our armies. It's not real."
Felice seemed momentarily at a loss. "Maybe..." She bit her lip briefly. "Maybe this is the way she copes with the worry, you know? She can't go out there and physically keep him safe, but this? This she can do. This she can control."
Wille scoffed. "Yeah, I can buy that it's about control." He didn't mean to be spiteful, but he couldn't help it. He took a moment to settle his agitation. "The thing is... Erik is her golden child, and even then, she puts the well-being of the kingdom over his. Can you imagine how much worse it would be if it were..."
Understanding dawned on Felice's face. He wished she would just tell him what she was thinking because he wasn't sure he himself understood where he was going with this. "Is this about Erik or about not wanting to be king?"
Wille groaned. "Both, probably?" He truly wasn't sure where the line was drawn, if there was any. "It's just— the longer he's away, the more I worry about him, and the more worried I am about him, the more I'm reminded that if anything happens to him, I'll be king."
He looked at his friend somewhat desperately, lifting a hand to his mouth so he could bite his thumbnail. The pity in Felice's gaze was obvious.
"Alright, let's go spend some time at the fair while we can before tomorrow, then?" she eventually offered. "I know how much you enjoy that. It'll be fun."
He was hesitant. "Last time I did that, someone put two and two together and figured out that I'm wealthy. That was bad enough. I would much rather not have people gawking at me if I can help it, thanks."
"Well, that's why you have me, isn't it?" she declared with a conspiratorial smile. "I'll pay for everything, and then they'll just gawk at me instead. You just stay near Fredrika— I'll say you're my servant. What do you think?"
Wille chuckled. "I've never played the role of a servant before. Not sure I can pull it off."
"Valet?" Felice offered cheekily.
He scrunched up his nose in playful rejection. "I don't think I even know what the difference is between those two."
"Driver, then," Felice tried again. "Last offer."
Wille exchanged a glance with Fredrika, who was watching this turn in the conversation with an amused smile on her face. He rolled his eyes at his best friend, affectionately. "I'll just wear my cowl and stay to the side. Let them assume I work for you; you don't have to confirm anything."
"Done!" she readily agreed, grinning brightly at him. "Let's do this!"
Wille laughed, her enthusiasm contagious. He knocked on the window of the carriage for the driver to come lead them out. He still wasn't sure about this whole championship idea, and one day at the tournament fair wouldn't change his mind about that, but at least he could have fun with a friend.
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Simon watched, tension on his shoulders, as the tournament officials gave Stella the side-eye. His sister, Sara, had always said that horses could tell when a rider was anxious— he just really fucking hoped this damn horse didn't throw him off just because he was worried the officials would send Stella, and by extension him, on their way just because she had the audacity to be a woman.
The man with the page cut looked down at the papers Stella had handed him, then at her. "...And your master couldn't get a real scribe?"
Simon had to give Stella credit: only the slightest tightness in her mouth belied her outrage at the insinuation that she couldn't perform the duties of such a position simply because of her sex.
"My master is a magnanimous man to allow me this small measure of utility as penance for Eve's loss of Eden," she said, honeyed words dripping so thick that she might as well be a thespian in addition to a writer. "I am truly blessed by the trust he puts in me. Now, if you would please take a look at my master's patents—"
"What kind of names are these?" the man interrupted her as he read the patents.
"Hmm?" Stella asked, appearing for all the world like she was completely unconcerned by the question. "Oh, they're Spanish names. My master is descended from a long line of Spanish nobility. Why, his great-grandfather was a scholar and an advisor to Emperor Charles himself—"
"Fine, fine, you don't have to tell me his every ancestor's life story," the man said dismissively. He rolled up the papers and handed them to the official sitting beside him. "Let us know which events your Herr Mårten will compete in."
Stella let them know Simon would be competing in the joust and the sword, they were assigned a bracket for the competition, and then they were on their way.
Because there were people around, Simon had to stay on the horse; Stella walked beside him, occasionally patting the animal. "You did well," he told her. "I can't believe they didn't outright reject us because it's unheard of for a woman to present a knight's patents."
Stella shrugged, unbothered. "What can I say? I am good at what I do." She winked at Simon. "If you're willing to part with some of your winnings, I could act as your herald. Introduce you to the crowds."
"Are you sure you'd want to do that?" Simon asked. "Not that I doubt your abilities; I'm sure you'd be just as good at it. But I don't want to put you in a position where the audience might throw rotten vegetables at you. I've heard of such things happening."
Stella shook her head. "Well, I'll just have to give them a reason to put their tomatoes to better use, don't I?"
"Hey, Vincent!" Simon heard someone yell in the background. Stella noticeably tensed.
"Is everything okay?" he asked, slowing his horse's walk as Stella looked over her shoulder, appearing to look for the source of the call.
"Yes, everything is fine," Stella said, but she wasn't looking at him; she'd turned her body completely around and was now walking backward, her attention elsewhere.
Simon pulled the horse to a stop. Stella nearly tripped but held onto the horse's bridle to keep herself upright. "I'm going to get something to eat if you don't mind," she said giving the horse a couple more pats. "I'll see you later, with the others."
She disappeared into the crowd before Simon could even say a word. He was confused by her sudden mood change but figured there was nothing he could do to help until she came to him with a problem.
He clicked his tongue to get his horse moving again and continued on his way through the fair, humming under his breath a song he'd learned in childhood.
"Hmm hmm... A generation lost in pace..."
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"...Wasn't life supposed to be more than this? In this kiss, I'll change your bore for my bliss..."
Wille had spent so long at the fair that he'd missed Felice's return carriage, and now he had to head for Linköping Castle, where he'd told her he'd return after they split up earlier, on foot. He was about to start the short walk there when he heard the person singing. It was a beautiful voice, and it prompted him to stop and sweep his gaze over the crowd in search of the source, but it was only when he found it that his breath was stolen away.
"...Let go of my hand, and it will slip on the sand if you don't give me the chance to break down the walls of attitude..."
The song came from a man riding a horse through the crowd. He had sunkissed brown skin, windswept dark curls, and from what Wille could see, equally dark eyes. Wille's gaze swept from the collar of his green tunic up his neck and to the sharp angle of his jaw. He was reminded of the marble statue of David at the Florentine Town Hall when he was there with his family, nearly a decade prior, for a celebration of the Duke's birthday. Never before in his life would he have fathomed a mere mortal could be as exquisite as a work of art. Perhaps the man was as angelic as his voice.
But it was more than just his features; it was also his posture— back straight, shoulders squared, eyes fixed ahead and showing no concern for the oafs who, every few meters or so, called out to him to "Go sing at church if you want to so badly!" Utter fools. Did they not understand the gift they were being given?
And yet, the man paid them no heed; he just continued singing his heart out. Wille couldn't help but smile.
"...I ask nothing of you, not even your gratitude..."
Wille's arms prickled with goosebumps at the power of his voice. As entranced as he was, he was unaware that he was stood just outside a corner, his cowl allowing full view of his face, until the man's gaze met his. He was surprised for a second, and then there was a flicker of recognition in his expression, stare framed by a troubled frown. Then he turned his horse right in Wille's direction.
Mortified at being caught staring, Wille ducked into the corner behind him and scrambled to come up with an alternative route to the castle. He didn't live in Linköping; how was he supposed to figure that out on his own?! All he knew at the moment was that he didn't want the man to catch up to him. It was irrational, he knew— it's not like he'd done anything wrong!— but his racing heart, reacting purely on instinct as it was, wouldn't hear of it.
He turned into an alley and went up the stairs of a building overlooking a plaza, thinking that higher ground would allow him to plot a route to the castle, but when he looked down at the plaza, he found the man on the horse right there.
Heart in his throat, he came back to ground level via the building's inner stairs, hoping the man hadn't spotted him. He turned down a perpendicular street, in the direction he was somewhat positive led to the castle, as he thought they'd driven down it on their way to the tournament fair.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw over the rooftops the tower of the Linköping Cathedral, which was just across the road from the castle. But then he heard the clip-clop of horse hooves behind him, accompanied by a "Hey!" that made him freeze.
He looked over his shoulder to see the man approaching, and he wondered if it was too late to play dumb.
"Yes, I'm talking to you," the man said as he reached him, and yes, okay, perhaps it was too late to play dumb. He also couldn't give in to his instinct to run— that might get him out of this predicament but also would be most undignified. He wanted to not talk to the man but also didn't want to make a terrible impression. Why was he feeling all these contradictory emotions?!
"Yes?" he asked, trying to play innocent.
"I saw you staring at me back there," the man accused him, none too gently. "What do you want with me?"
"Nothing," Wille responded, though if he'd been honest he would've said that he wasn't quite sure that was the truth. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I was just marveling at your incredible singing voice."
The man seemed caught off-guard by the admission, and his features softened just so, but not enough to completely erase the frown from his brow. "I recognize your expensive cowl from when you ran into me back in Kalmar," he said.
The realization that this man was the same knight he had smacked into back at the Kalmar tournament grounds was a shock, but it was his recognition of Wille's wealth that opened a crevasse at the bottom of his stomach.
This is it, he thought. This is where he starts treating me differently because of my status.
To his absolute surprise, instead of groveling as most people would, the knight narrowed his eyes at Wille. "Are you following me and my companions?" he asked. "Just because you're rich and can afford the travel doesn't give you the right to do that."
"I assure you I did no such thing," Wille was quick to reply, relieved that the reveal hadn't altered the man's behavior toward him, even if that behavior was currently hostile. "In fact, I'm in town for the same reason I assume you and your companions made the trip from Kalmar: for the Queen's championship."
He nodded respectfully. "Now if that was all you needed from me, please excuse me, I was on my way to the—" Don't say castle! "Uh, on my way to the cathedral to meet a friend. Have a good day."
He hadn't even made it a few steps down the street when the horse caught up with him once more, though rather than trying to stop him, the knight had it keep pace with him as he walked. He peeked down at Wille from his perch atop the gelding. "So you liked my singing, then?" he asked, rather casually compared to his accusatorial tone from earlier.
Wille bit back a smile. He liked this train of conversation much better than the angry one. "Very much."
"Huh," the knight said, smiling to himself. Wille had to remind himself not to stare. "Pardon my brief moment of vanity— I hardly ever get compliments on my singing. Usually, I don't do it outside the daily scriptures."
"Well, that seems a shame," Wille said as they approached the cathedral. "With such an incredible talent, you should be complimented unequivocally and often."
The man looked pleased, briefly, though that expression then gave way to curiosity. "Are you a noble?" he asked as they entered the church. "Who are you?"
"Would it make any difference, Herr Cantor?" Wille said, willing with every fiber of his being that it wouldn't. "Were I the poorest man or the wealthiest, my admiration for your abilities would not change." His steps halted in the middle of the nave, and he looked up at the knight, who had likewise come to a stop in front of him.
The man leaned forward in his saddle. "But I should like to know who to thank—"
"You desecrate the house of God!" came the vociferation from somewhere in the transept. A crowd of worshippers and clergymen parted like the Red Sea to let the bishop pass, and if glares could kill, the good bishop would've broken the fifth commandment already.
It was only then that Wille realized the knight had come into the cathedral on his horse. He saw exactly the moment this awareness dawned on the other man, for he started backing up immediately. A group of priests and deacons moved forward to push him out, as he apparently wasn't leaving fast enough for their taste.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wille saw Felice and Fredrika enter the building; they must've been waiting for him outside the castle and seen him go into the church. They both looked surprised by the commotion, then concerned.
The knight still leaned forward toward Wille, even if his horse moved backward. "Your name, good sir," he insisted. "Please."
"If you do not know who I am, Herr Cantor," Wille called out with a smile as the man got further and further away, "then perhaps it is best that it stay that way."
The rider shook his head but grinned at him. "Then I shall call you Helios, for I hope we can meet again just as the sun meets the sky with every sunrise." That was the last he got out before he was successfully herded out of the cathedral, and Wille watched, still smiling, as his figure disappeared from view.
Felice and her lady-in-waiting approached him, giggling. "What was that?" Felice asked, curious.
Wille shook his head. "Just a chance encounter, I guess." He was still smiling. He couldn't seem to stop smiling, and he could tell Felice noticed.
"Well," she said teasingly, "he certainly is a handsome one, isn't he?" Fredrika, standing just a step behind her, giggled as well. Wille's smile remained. It was the only answer he could give, even if he wanted to agree. And he did very much agree.
"I would've thought you, of all people, would show more respect to this hallowed building, Crown Prince," came the booming voice of the bishop from behind Wille, surprising him so much that he nearly jumped into Felice.
He turned around to face the man just as he continued speaking. "Of course, it is your brother, His Majesty, who is the leader of the faith, but you have to take some responsibility over your church as well, as it would fall on you to guard it and advance it should the worst come to happen—"
"I put my trust in God Almighty that it shall not be so," Wille interrupted. He tried to keep his temper in check because he couldn't very well sass the bishop of Linköping the way he did his own mother— his brother, the King, would have his head. (Not literally, but the scolding would not be fun.) But he was just so unbelievably tired of everybody acting like Erik was going to die tomorrow.
"But your advice is so appreciated, Father," he added, attempting to sound conciliatory. "I shall absolutely take it to heart. After all, it is incumbent upon me to aid my brother in making our faith stronger and greater than it's ever been." He smiled the fake, strategic smile he'd perfected over the years in countless diplomatic events and meetings with his family. "Heavens, even the equines want to be a part of it!"
Behind him, Felice snorted. It was her second unladylike gesture of the day. Perhaps Wille was a bad influence on her. Or perhaps the rules of being "ladylike" were just horse manure. Either way, the bishop glared at both of them and spun on his heel, headed back toward the back of the church.
Wille turned to look at his best friend and her lady-in-waiting, and the three of them burst into laughter in unison.
.
.
.
Herr Juan Martín de Santa Ana won his first joust of the tournament by breaking his lance on his opponent's helmet.
Simon celebrated with the others but it was short-lived. He was due for his sword fight in just a few minutes and his armor's shoulder guard was busted— the armor was too loose on him and that meant it bent weird when struck, but he didn't have the means to get it repaired by a pro or procure a new one. Not yet, at least.
Henry and Maddie hammered it to a point where it was usable without endangering his life, but the shoulder guard made it difficult to block overhead blows. That was problematic, but it was the best they could do on short notice.
"Come on, hurry! You don't want to be late, they'll call it a forfeit," Maddie urged, trying to get the other three to walk faster. Simon was seriously considering doing only the joust next time. It was tough doing two events so close together; he couldn't even mentally prepare before he was due in the ring.
"It's fine," Henry assured them. "We have half an hour. Should be more than enough to sign in and prepare— oof!" Before he could finish his sentence, he smacked right into someone.
It was a man, shorter and dark-skinned, who looked at Henry like he was smaller than an ant squished by the sole of his shoe. "Watch where you're going next time," he said, then turned to Simon. "Herr Mårten? My name is Nils, I am a summoner."
"And I am late to the sword ring," Simon said. "If you'll excuse me—"
"I'm afraid I must insist," Nils said, blocking Simon's way. "There is a matter I should like to discuss with you about Miss Anckarsvärd. I believe she's your..." He half smirked, half scoffed. "...your herald, is it?"
The summoner led them to a pavilion where they found Stella, and while she appeared unharmed, they had also bound her hands and feet and gagged her mouth. It took everything in Simon not to run to free her— a noble knight wouldn't show that kind of care for a servant, and the summoner, now accompanied by a taller blond man, would possibly start a brawl if they thought he was taking their captive from them without a negotiation.
So he willed himself to be calm and collected, and instead knelt in front of Stella, loosening the piece of cloth from her mouth so she could speak.
"There was more to your story of being robbed, wasn't there?" he asked calmly.
Stella looked ashamed and dodged his gaze; whether that was for lying by omission or for the chain of events that led her here, Simon couldn't tell yet.
"My mother was a daughter of nobility," she admitted, still looking down at the ground. Simon thought he heard Henry squeak somewhere behind him. "When she died, I remained a part of my stepfather's household, but he is a cruel man. One day he found my writing and decided it was good enough that he could make money from it, and so for years, he forced me to write stories and poems for him, under threat that if I refused, he would put me out on the streets, or hurt me, or worse. He would then sell them to printers under his own name."
She shook her head. "But it's my writing. I put all of myself into it, and I was tired of him stealing it from me. So when I wrote my Dialogue, I refused to give it to him. So he locked me up in the cellar and kept me there without food or water for days."
Simon swallowed heavily. While his own father had never hurt him or physically punished him, he could relate to feeling scared of someone who was supposed to take care of you. It messed you up.
"When he finally came into the cellar," Stella continued, "it wasn't to bring me sustenance. Instead, he tried to... he tried to..." Her eyes watered. Simon heard Maddie let out a sad, concerned hum behind him. He knew she was thinking the same as him: that he wished he could hug the poor woman, offer her some manner of comfort.
They couldn't, but Stella didn't linger in her pain for long. She took in a shaky breath, then let it out quickly, determined to skip over the issue. "I hit him on the head with a bottle of wine and escaped. Figured being on the streets of my own was better than living under his roof."
She glanced up and glared at the blond man. "But then he hired these two louts to bring me back," she nearly spat out. "They've been at my heels ever since. I haven't had a day's peace."
The blond man sneered at her, and the gesture irritated Simon enough to prompt him to turn toward him. "And who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Vincent, my lord," the blond man revealed. "I am but a humble pardoner. The lady here assured us that you, her liege, would offer more than her father is paying us for this work."
"Stepfather," Stella spit out venomously, her blue eyes cold as ice.
"How much is he paying you?" Simon asked.
"Ten gold 8-mark coins," Vincent said smugly. There were gasps from Simon's crew and an "Are you fucking kidding me?!" from Henry.
"And if I refuse to pay for her freedom," he tested further, "you would send her back to that horrible man?"
"Of course, my lord," Vincent said without an ounce of remorse. "We have been working arduously for weeks to complete this mission, and surely you would agree that our efforts deserve proper compensation."
Conflicted, Simon huddled with the others in search of a solution. Maddie was, predictably, the first to come to Stella's defense. "You can't seriously be contemplating not helping her?" She shot him an incredulous look. "This maniac will kill her. You can be sure of that. And you'd be willing to have that on your conscience?"
"We can't afford it, Mads," Walter pointed out logically. "Unless you'd rather go back to having no money for food or travel and risking being found by your own chasers."
"I'm not in mortal danger," Maddie insisted. "I'd rather it be me than her."
"Excuse me, but do I have to be the one to remind you all that she lied to us?" Henry intervened, waving his arms to get everyone's attention. "She put us in danger! These men could've killed us to get to her, and we never would've seen it coming."
Maddie opened her mouth to argue back and Simon knew he had to put a stop to this back-and-forth before things escalated. "Alright, alright!" he said. Gesturing for them to wait there, he once again crouched in front of Stella.
"Please, Sim—" she started to beg, but caught herself in time to avoid using the wrong name. "Please, sir. If you help me, I shall be your most faithful servant. I swear on all that is holy, you won't regret it."
Simon bit his lip. "I don't have that kind of money."
Stella's strong front finally broke, crystal tears finally pouring from her eyes. And Simon knew, he just knew, that he couldn't leave her to her fate. He sighed. "Release her... and you'll get your money."
Looking back at his team, he could see that Henry and Walter were not convinced, but Maddie was smiling proudly at him. As Vincent moved to cut her bindings, Stella let out a relieved sob and mouthed "Thank you" at Simon. He nodded.
He didn't regret his decision, but it sure as hell meant that he definitely had to win the tournament now.
.
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Author's notes!—
Walter prays the Lord's prayer in Latin: "Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come..." His asking about ruffians and thugs is an homage to the movie Tangled, which is one of my favorites. Anckarsvärd is a real noble family in Sweden, meant as an early hint of Stella's noble origins. Speaking of, did you know Ehrenkrona is also a Swedish noble family? Hmm. O,O
Chef d'oeuvre means "masterpiece." Stella's work, A Dialogue Between Lust and Duty is suggestive of the premise of the poem Hercules by Georg Stiernhielm, the major literary figure of the Swedish Renaissance. He wasn't alive yet in the period this fic takes place, but you know... manuscripts have a way of getting around through time... Am I suggesting that Stella wrote Hercules and had it stolen from her, until eventually it landed in Stiernhielm's hands many decades later? I don't know, you tell me. ;)
The story Simon tells Maddie about Juan Martín de Ampiés is... mostly true. He was alternatively known as Juan Martínez de Ampiés or Ampués (because somehow Spanish conquistadors always seem to have different versions of their names depending on who you ask?), and I don't think he was actually granted the title of hidalgo, and I don't believe he had a child with an indigenous woman, but otherwise Simon's take on it is the real deal. (Juan's father, Martín Martínez de Ampiés, was indeed a scholar— a writer and military man.) The "West Indies," are, of course, the Americas— Spain did not recognize the name "America" for the continent until about two centuries later. La Española is known in English as Hispaniola, an island in the Caribbean that encompasses the countries of Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
Mårten is a Swedish form of Martin, just because I think the Spanish pronunciation of Martín does not come instinctual to the Swedish, so Mårten is the one that's going to stick. The song Simon sings is, of course, "It Takes a Fool to Remain Sane" by The Ark. The statue Wille compares Simon to is Michelangelo's David, which back then was displayed at the Town Hall in Florence (then its own republic), and has now been moved to the Galleria dell'Accademia. The Duke he refers to is Duke Cosimo I de' Medici, who ruled Florence at the time. The Linköping Cathedral is indeed just opposite Linköping Castle, which was a royal residence back then and is now the governor's residence.
A gelding is a castrated horse. The nave is central part of the church, as opposed to the transept which is the transverse part of the church (the "horizontal" bar to the nave's "vertical" bar in the church's "cruciform" shape). The "parting of the Red Sea" refers to the story of Moses and the Israelites escaping slavery in Egypt by literally splitting the water of the Red Sea. The fifth commandment in the Lutheran church is "Thou shalt not kill." Helios is the Greek god and personification of the Sun. The Swedish 8-mark coin didn't actually exist until about 30 years after this, but I needed a gold coin to distinguish it from the daler and that was the closest one I could find.
Next up: A new ally, an antagonist, and an undercover royal. Oh, and Simon and Wille being utter saps about each other because of course. ;)
Until then, you can follow me on any of my social media: on Tumblr (girls-are-weird), Mastodon (cpinillad at creativewriting social), Post (cpinillad), Spoutible (cpinillad), Discord (cpinillad), Bluesky (cpinillad at bsky social), and even on Threads (cpinillad). See you in the next chapter!