The Road is Made by Walking, Chapter 3: Takin' care of business, every way.
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 "Takin' Care of Business" by Bachman-Turner Overdrive.
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"You lied."
Stella scoffed, dodging people as the group made its way to the sword ring in a hurry. "I wouldn't necessarily call it lying. It was more like a slight omission—"
"Don't start with the synonyms now. It's not going to help your case," Simon arrested her argument, or really lack of one, before it really got going. "We're all sorry for what you've been through, but if you're going to be traveling with us, you should've given us a heads-up. We could've all been in danger."
She sighed. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry." She sounded genuinely apologetic, at least. "I promise that's the only dark secret in my past," she added, which sounded maybe a little too definitive and led the other four to stare at her suspiciously. "What? I mean it."
They decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now.
Simon put on his helmet just as Stella raised her voice to get the attention of the crowd. "Behold! Here be my lord, Herr Juan Martín de Santa Ana—"
"What are you doing, woman?" the tournament official in charge of the sword fight asked as he approached them, matching their pace.
If Stella was bothered by the incredulous inflection of the man's question, she didn't show it. "Why, announcing my liege before his match, of course."
"Too late. He's already been introduced," the man said, signaling for her to get to the side of the ring with the rest of the audience.
She let out an indignant huff in response. "Well, fine, then. It's your loss." She grabbed Walter by the scruff of his tunic and pulled him in that direction none too gently. "Show these fools how it's done, Herr Mårten!"
"Herr Mårten receives first, out of ten blows by sword!" the official announced just as Simon stepped foot into the ring, Henry and Maddie stopping behind him, just at the entrance. He didn't even have time to get a proper hold on his sword when his opponent was already rushing at him.
One swing hit him in the chest plate. "Strike!" A second one hit him on the shoulder when he tried to dodge. "Strike!"
"Why are you just letting him hit you?!" Henry called out frantically.
"He caught me by surprise!" Simon growled back without looking back at him; he had to keep his eyes on his opponent to be able to dodge his next slash. He thought he heard Maddie let out a cackle, but couldn't be sure, as he was too busy blocking his opponent's next attack with his sword.
Once he put his full focus on the fight, he was able to keep from getting hit again. In the end, his opponent only struck him twice in ten attempts, and he was pretty sure he could do better when he went on offense.
His half of the match started at a slower pace, with him and the other knight circling each other cautiously. When Simon finally went at him, the man blocked the swing. He tried again and was blocked once more. Same for his third strike. Then he sacrificed one more to swipe the man's sword forcefully to the side.
The gambit paid off as the knight stumbled with the momentum of the swipe and Simon moved behind him, hitting him on the back with the blade. Before the man could turn to face him again, Simon swung at his shoulder and struck. Then the other shoulder. Then at the top of his head. Then his upper arm.
The officer in charge gestured toward him. "By a score of five strikes to two, the match goes to Herr Mårten!"
"Yeeeesssss!" he heard Maddie scream from the back, then right in his ear as she, Stella, and Walter rushed into the ring to congratulate him. Henry did the same, but not before pausing briefly to exclaim "I taught him that! I taught him everything he knows!"
Maddie helped Simon take off his helmet, then Stella grabbed one of his hands and lifted it in the air. "Behold my lord Mårten! Like tendrils of lightning jumping among the cumuli, he has traveled the entire continent to grace us all with his magnificence! A fighter among fighters! A knight among knights! We are mere ants swept up in his trail of honor and glory!"
The crowd was silent. Deadly so. Whether that was because they didn't approve of a woman doing the job of a herald, or because they didn't understand what "cumuli" meant, they couldn't be sure. What was certain, though, was that not a single spectator knew how to react.
Until Maddie took her thumb and index finger into her mouth and whistled so loud that it grabbed everyone's attention. "Mårten!" she screamed loudly, and that's what really roused up the crowd. Soon enough everyone was cheering and clapping, and waving banners and ribbons and waving down at them from the rafters.
Simon grinned. Yeah, maybe he could get used to this "honor and glory" thing.
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Herr Mårten easily won two more sword matches and made it to the final. Although his opponent was very good, he destabilized him with a side swipe, then swung blow after blow to his back until he fell to his knees. Simon raised his sword above his head for a final downswing but didn't even get to take it, as his opponent let go of his sword in defeat.
"You're the champion!" Henry shouted in his ear as they celebrated.
"Yeah, of the sword," Simon noted. "This isn't going to be viable unless I'm tournament champion. The prizes are better in the joust, and the recognition greater."
"Letting your newfound fame get to your head a bit?" Walter asked as they left the ring to head to the lists. He was scheduled to joust next.
Simon shook his head. "Listen, I can go back to singing the scriptures after this if I have to. But you guys could use the connections to other knights, right? Isn't that what Henry is always saying? Well, it's more likely we'll get people's attention if I stick to the joust."
Henry slapped him in the back, which only resulted in a metallic clang, as he was still wearing his armor. "Don't pin this one on me, Mr. For-the-People. You know you're enjoying this way more than you thought you would."
Simon did not dignify that with a reply.
He won his first joust of the day fairly easily, and he did win the second one as well, though he did not walk away unscathed: his armor's chest plate now sported a crack running right down the middle, and they had no money to pay to repair it.
They went 'round to several armorers, asking if they could have the plate repaired and pay them back later after winning. The responses they got ranged from grunts to laughter to invectives. Finally, when they came to the fifth or sixth blacksmith they talked to, they still didn't get service, but at least he gave them a lead.
"Try the ferress," the man said, nodding his head in the direction behind the five of them.
They all turned to look over their shoulder and were met with the back of a woman with curly dark-brown hair pulled back into a mid-length braid. They couldn't see her face, but she had a hammer in her hand which she was using to hit something metallic.
"A woman?" Henry asked, skeptical.
"Well, I wouldn't do it," Stella intervened, "but that has nothing to do with my sex and everything to do with me believing that the pen is mightier than the sword." She paused for effect. "Or the hammer, in this case."
"It's not like we have many options," Simon said, starting toward the female blacksmith's pavilion, "so might as well try."
They made their way to the opposite pavilion where the woman was working. "Excuse me, miss?" he said. "We're looking for someone who might repair my armor..."
The woman only stopped hammering long enough to say "I don't work for free."
Simon was taken aback by the bluntness. "I'm sorry, I wasn't going to suggest that you..." Then, something about the response fell into place for him. "Wait... Sara?"
The hammering stopped abruptly.
The woman turned to look at them— at him— over her shoulder. "Simon?" He saw her face go pale when her eyes locked on his own. But it was, indeed, his older sister. What the...?
"What are you doing here?" he asked, stunned by the unexpected sight. "Why are you not in Växjö? And are you— you're a blacksmith? Where is your husband? Sara, what is going on?"
"I don't— I'm— I can explain if you'll just let me get a word in edgewise!" she exclaimed, and Simon recognized her agitation as being similar to the kind that used to befall her back when they were children and she became overwhelmed.
"I'm sorry— I'm sorry. You're right," he said, moving in to wrap his sister in a tight hug. "I'm just surprised."
"I understand," Sara said, reciprocating his embrace. She squeezed him tightly; they hadn't seen each other in nearly a year by this point. "It hadn't even occurred to me that I might see you here."
Their reunion was interrupted by Walter clearing his throat. "Um... Simon?" The two pulled apart to find the other four staring at them with expressions ranging from surprise to befuddlement. "Mind explaining what's going on?"
"Uh, right," Simon said. "This is my sister, Sara. She lives in the south with her husband— or she did, last I knew, at least." He turned back to his sister. "Is he here as well? Why are you forging horseshoes?" He pointed at the one she still held in grippers.
Sara shook her head. "He's dead."
Simon's heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach. "What? When? How?" Once again he was asking too many questions at once, but he was distraught. Sara's husband had been a good man. One who had genuinely loved his sister and treated her well.
"Just over two moons now he took ill," Sara explained. "He went fast."
"I'm so sorry." He hugged her again. As he pulled back this time, he asked, "But Sara, why didn't you tell us? We would've sent for you, brought you back home."
Sara shook her head again, much more emphatically this time. "No, Simon, that's not what I want!" She hugged herself. "Too long already I've been a burden on you and Mamma. I don't want to go back to that."
Simon frowned. "That's not true, Sara. You did your fair share of work at the farm. You tended to the horses."
She groaned. "Mamma let me tend to the horses because I liked them more than most people. And it was still frowned upon. It was the bare minimum and you know it."
"So you can take up more tasks, then. You can help the farmhands. You can assist Mamma with her healing. There are plenty of things you can do at home if you want to take on more responsibility." He sighed. "But you can't be traveling about by yourself, and you definitely can't be a blacksmith."
"Excuse you?" The two turned toward Madison, who had spoken. "What is that supposed to mean, she can't travel on her own?" Her arms were crossed and she sounded offended— which, now that Simon thought about it, made a lot of sense, given her circumstances.
"And why can't she be a blacksmith?" Stella intervened, a hand on her hip and an eyebrow arched delicately. "I mean, I cannot fathom why anyone of any gender would want to work such a grueling occupation— I have delicate hands, I could never— but if that's what she wants to do, there's no reason why she shouldn't."
"My husband, God rest him, taught me everything I know," Sara said. "I'm really rather good at it if I do say so myself."
Now it was Simon's turn to groan. "No, don't make this about her being a woman, because it's not," he said, addressing Maddie and Stella. "Of course women can travel on their own or become blacksmiths if that's what they want. But let us not delude ourselves that it's not dangerous."
He sighed, turning to Sara. "And you're my sister, and I want you to be safe. Plus, you just lost your husband. You should be with family right now."
Sara remained determined, steel in her gaze. "What I'm doing is dangerous? How about pretending to be a knight so you can participate in the tournament?"
All five of them, even Henry and Walter who had— rather smartly— remained silent up until now, went "Shh!" nearly in unison.
"Sorry," Sara said in a whisper, even though the volume of her apology made no difference. She continued in a regular tone. "But someone has to point out that you're being a hypocrite here, Simon. You don't think I want you to be safe? Of course I do, but I wouldn't stop you from doing this if it's what you truly want."
"She's got a point, Simme," Maddie said. It was unnecessary, really; Simon knew he had no response for that, even though he wouldn't admit it.
"And you can't joust with a broken armor," Stella noted, "so it seems to me like we kinda need her."
"I'll repair your chest plate," Sara said, tugging the protective plate out of Simon's hand. "Just... let me show you that I can do this."
Simon took a deep breath, then exhaled heavily, knowing he was cornered. "Alright. Only because this repair is urgent. But we'll come back to this conversation, you hear me?"
"Yeah, yeah," she said, but she was grinning. She stepped forward to give him a loud kiss on the cheek, then turned back to her forge and got to work.
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Wille didn't want to make it obvious that his attention wasn't on their scintillating conversation, but he was pretty sure Felice had figured it out from the way his gaze kept wandering to the ends of the jousting track.
But could he be blamed? They'd arrived late at the tournament grounds because it took too long for Fredrika to carefully do Felice's hair in the most stylish, complex coif every day. By the time they got there, they'd missed several jousts already. It definitely wasn't a good look for him.
"You know, they'll announce him when he's due to joust."
Wille's eyes snapped back in the direction of his best friend, who was watching him with amusement in her expression. "What? Who? I'm not looking for anyone."
Felice's smile turned into a smirk like she didn't buy his pathetic attempt at denial one bit. "Mm-hmm." She exchanged a chuckle with her lady-in-waiting. "I'm sure this newfound interest of yours in jousting has nothing to do with the dashing knight from the other day."
"What? No!" Wille scoffed, internally cursing himself for being so transparent. "I just want to keep informed of what transpired in the competition before we got here. You know that Mamma will be disappointed we arrived late."
Felice had to concede that one. "Still, if you were searching for a certain knight... well, it would make sense, really. The man is quite nice to look at." Fredrika giggled from where she was sitting on Felice's other side.
Wille sighed, frustrated by her insistence. "Felice, that's not..."
"Your Royal Highness." His grousing was interrupted by a knight leading his horse down on the track. "I wanted you to know that I intend to win this tournament in the name of His Majesty, King Erik."
"No, I shall!" said a different knight leading his horse in the opposite direction down the track.
Wille didn't respond. Tournament competitors had been doing that since they arrived, and it made him want to bolt. They thought they were being so complimentary, pretending they were doing this for his brother rather than for money and fame. Truth was, if they cared so much about honoring his brother, they'd be at the frontline fighting alongside him, rather than here, playing pretend.
"Your Royal Highness," came another voice, but this time it was not a knight down on the track, but a young herald standing in the booth beside Wille. His features suggested ancestry from the Far East. "My liege, the count of Årnäs, humbly requests that he may join you for the afternoon."
Felice's face soured like she'd bitten into a lemon. Wille's would have, as well, except his mother would scold him for it if she found out.
"Yes, he may," he conceded, wishing he could say no. He couldn't even if he wanted to, though; he couldn't just refuse family. He looked over his shoulder at the tall, dark-haired man that made his appearance at his response. "You couldn't ask me yourself, August?"
"The herald has to earn his keep, now, doesn't he?" August said as he moved to the front of the booth, past his herald. "That will be all for now, Alexander." The herald bowed and moved to stand near the back of the booth.
"Good afternoon, cousin," August said as he took the empty seat next to Wille. He leaned forward so he could talk past Wille, his mouth quirking into a smarmy smile. "And to you, my lady. Always a pleasure to see the most beautiful woman in all of Sweden."
"August," Felice greeted in return, though it was more of a grimace than a greeting. "How come you're here, instead of leading your company against the Russians?"
"I accept nothing but the best of the best into my companies," August replied, arrogant as ever. "They are well-trained and can handle matters without requiring my presence. Every once in a while, I must come back to tend to my various businesses. The Queen herself asked me to participate in her championship— it's only right that someone from the Royal Family win the royal championship, don't you think?"
Wille fought the urge to smash his face against the palm of his hand. Erik couldn't leave the fight even for a day, but August got to come back whenever he wanted because of his businesses? God must be laughing at him, for sure.
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On the east end of the jousting track, Simon peeked at the central booth from behind a corner of the stands. The man from the cathedral was sitting there, along with another man in fancy clothing, an elegant lady wearing a hat, and another woman who appeared to be her lady-in-waiting.
So. The handsome stranger who complimented Simon's singing was, indeed, a noble.
"Ooh, has someone caught your eye?" Stella asked, coming up behind him to catch a glimpse over his shoulder.
"No, it's nothing," Simon said quickly, turning away so she wouldn't guess. It's not like he hadn't admitted to himself that he preferred— both emotionally and physically— the company of men over women, and unlike others in that predicament, he wasn't ashamed of it.
And he wasn't exactly keeping it to himself, either. His mother and sister knew, and he counted himself the luckiest that they stood by him rather than shunned him, as most other people would. Maddie knew as well, mostly because she was like him; they bonded over it when she first joined Herr Ector's employ. Henry and Walter didn't know, but that was mostly because the topic hadn't come up in any sort of serious context, and considering how dense they were, he didn't expect it to come up anytime soon. They hadn't even figured out that Maddie was a woman, after all. But if they ever asked, he wouldn't lie. He never wanted to lie to people he trusted and cared for.
But he'd only just met Stella, and he didn't know yet if he could trust her, despite her assurances that she'd come clean to them about all matters of her past. So he didn't think they were close enough for him to tell her about his romantic predilections just yet. The problem was, though, that she appeared to have guessed.
"Oh, come on!" she said teasingly, throwing an arm around Simon's shoulders and turning him back in the direction of the booth. "I want to know who's caught your fancy."
Simon sighed. "It's not like that." Seeing that she wouldn't be deterred, he figured he could at least make it seem like his interest was mere curiosity. "It's just... That man. I know him."
Stella's gaze swept over the occupants of the booth until it stopped on the man Simon had pointed out. And then her teasing smile fell, her expression turning aghast like she was looking at an apparition. "Simon..." she said, dismayed. "Simon, that's the Crown Prince."
"What?" Simon could feel his cheeks pale. He got out from under Stella's hold. She couldn't be right, obviously. Why would the Crown Prince be walking undercover around town, praising random knights for their singing? It made no sense. "That's not possible." But Stella would know, wouldn't she? She was a noble. She was bound to have met the Royal Family once or twice.
As if on cue, Henry sidled up to them, having finished getting their horse ready. "Who're we talking about?" He was munching on something that looked like chestnuts. He snuck a peek past the corner of the stands and toward the booth. "Oh, yeah, that's the Crown Prince," he confirmed, speaking with his mouth full.
"Oy, that's disgusting!" Maddie exclaimed, hitting him on the arm with the back of her hand. As Henry stepped back, grumbling about being mistreated, Maddie took his place beside Simon. "Why are we talking about the Crown Prince? I thought you didn't like the royals."
"I don't," Simon said, almost by reflex.
"Simon says he knows him," Stella revealed, giving Maddie a look like hinting that there was more to the story than just that. Simon glared at her.
"I don't know him know him," Simon tried to qualify, though he didn't even know why he even needed to. It was none of their business who he talked with. "It's just that he's..."
"...the man from the cathedral?" Maddie finished the sentence for him. Simon had told her about the encounter, of course. He needed to tell someone or he would burst. "Simon. What are you doing?"
Simon groaned. "Nothing! I've done nothing. We talked once, and it made me curious. That's all!" He shook his head. "And if we ever talk again, there's nothing wrong with that, either. It's perfectly acceptable for two men of our stature to be friends. I'm a knight. It would almost be expected for him to interact with me at some point."
Stella scoffed. "Friends? Is that why you were gaping at him like he's the first ray of sunshine after a grueling winter?" And yeah, alright, Stella definitely knew. No point in pretending anymore, he figured.
Maddie shook her head. "And need I remind you once more: you're a fake knight. And he's the fucking heir to the throne. I'm certain your friendship"— the emphasis did not go unnoticed— "would be highly frowned upon, and that's putting it mildly."
She hardly needed to say it. Simon knew it more than anyone, after all; he'd spent his entire life decrying the nobility for thinking themselves superior and looking down on the populace when it was them who wouldn't survive a day without the people's hard work. He knew there could be no equal rapport between people of such disparate backgrounds, nor should he want there to be. He should want nothing to do with the man— the Crown Prince.
And who was to say that there even could be any kind of rapport between them, whether it be true friendship or something else? They'd only talked once; Simon couldn't even begin to guess whether the prince shared his inclination toward those of the same sex. Perhaps Simon had only imagined the spark he felt between them. The earnestness of his admiration. The warmth in his honey-brown eyes as he smiled that small, shy smile.
Perhaps it had been so long since Simon last enjoyed that type of companionship from a man that he'd grown desperate, seeing things that weren't really there.
"Yes, I get it," he mumbled, pushing past the girls toward their horse, double-checking the height of the stirrups even though Henry was more than capable of getting it right. He heard Maddie sigh, but apart from that, she uttered not one more word.
"I don't know," said Stella, approaching him from behind again. "I'm rather fond of stories about star-crossed lovers." She leaned in and spoke close to his ear. "Just don't get caught before I have the chance to write it."
She pranced away to steal chestnuts from Henry while Simon closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the horse's flank, wondering why he did this to himself.
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Wille found himself contemplating whether flinging himself off the booth would be rude and/or insane, or whether it would be perceived as self-protection. Frankly, he was leaning toward the latter, because anybody looking in on him could probably guess that if he had to listen to August for one more minute, it would kill him.
It wasn't so much that he didn't care much for jousting. No, it was more that August had launched into an explanation of the rules of the sport ("One point if you break the lance between the waist and neck. Two if on the helmet, but that's very difficult...") without anyone even asking. Oh, in theory, he was doing it for Felice's benefit, as surely such a delicate young lady would not have been exposed to such violent events growing up. And if Felice was able to tune him out while still nodding and smiling at the appropriate moments, then God bless her, but Wilhelm had to sit between them and he could feel his soul shrivel up with every second that passed.
"...and of course, three points if you unhorse your opponent." August puffed out his chest in a manner completely devoid of irony. "I should note that I, myself, have never been unhorsed."
The smile Felice gave him looked for all the world like it was nothing but genuine. "Well, what a coincidence, my lord! Neither have I." It was Wille's turn to snort inappropriately; perhaps they were both bad influences on each other.
August looked for a beat like he didn't know how to take that, but before he puzzled together how to respond, came a call from down on the track: "Crown Prince Wilhelm."
Wille turned to look, ready with the usual platitudes he'd been giving every other knight since he arrived at the booth, but the words promptly fled his mind at the unexpected sight of the knight from the cathedral, the one he'd been looking for all morning, on his horse in front of the booth.
Wille's mouth started quirking up unbidden, just a reflex from standing in the man's presence once again, but then he noted the knight's stony expression. He replayed the words in his mind and realized why: the knight was now aware of his identity, and clearly he wasn't happy about being deceived in their earlier meeting.
There was more than just anger in those deep-brown eyes— hurt, too, if Wille was not simply imagining it— and it filled him with dismay and shame. "No, please, Herr Cantor... just Wilhelm to you, if you'd rather."
At his side, August frowned, staring at him with surprise and suspicion. But Wille had eyes for no one but the knight in front of him.
The man's resolve only sharpened. "I'd rather not." The lack of any style of address at the end of that sentence spoke volumes of what he thought about Wille's request. It also made August's frown deepen.
Before he butted in, Felice intervened, probably in an attempt to defuse the obvious tension. "Will you win the tournament in the name of His Majesty, the King, my lord?" She meant well, but Wille suspected, from what little interaction they'd had so far, that the knight wasn't the kind to appreciate such banality.
He glanced at her for the first time since he got there, and spoke confidently: "I'm going to win the tournament for myself, my lady." If he weren't being deliberately contrary, Wille might have smiled. There was something about the self-assured manner with which he carried himself that he found magnetic.
August scoffed, finally choosing to enter the conversation. "How uncouth," he commented. He leaned back in his seat. "To say nothing of being utterly disrespectful. And who might you be?"
For the first time, the knight seemed to stumble. "I am, um..."
August's frown turned into a smirk. "Is your name 'Herr Um,' sir, or have you just forgotten what it is?" There was scattered laughter from the people around them, as well as some knights passing near them. Wille wanted to turn around and glare at everyone; he felt terrible for the man.
The falter didn't last long; the knight promptly squared his shoulders and met August's gaze steadfastly. "Juan Martín de Santa Ana. That is my name."
August scoffed. "Well, that's a mouthful. No wonder you forgot." There was more laughter, and Wille's grip tightened on the arms of his chair. Not for the first time in his life, he wished he wasn't a prince, or even a noble or a wealthy person, so that he could react like he wanted to react rather than how propriety deemed he should act. Because Herr Cantor— Herr Mårten— did not deserve the way he was being treated right now.
Not that that concerned August in the least. "Also, I think it's very sweet that you're wearing your grandfather's armor. Honoring your elders is truly a lost virtue in this day and age."
Herr Mårten refused to look away, which only made Wille admire him more, but his cheeks were reddening, and his jaw clenched. He was embarrassed, clearly, and angry about it.
"And is that a shield?" August continued his incessant barrage of disdain. "Perhaps you can use it as cover in case it rains. Can't imagine that it will be as useful in the joust."
That was the last straw for Herr Mårten. He glared at August and, perhaps more aggressively than necessary, willed his horse to gallop toward the opposite end of the track, not without meeting Wille's gaze one last time, and not in a pleased manner.
Unbelievably frustrated, Wilhelm turned to August and spoke, between clenched teeth and in a low tone to avoid others eavesdropping: "That was completely unnecessary."
"Why? It's not like he matters," August retorted, which only made Wilhelm even angrier. How could he say that about anyone, let alone a fellow knight? But August seemed to anticipate that response. "Oh, please, cousin. Those country knights, they may have titles, but a title doesn't award class. I know your bleeding heart, but you'd do well to associate with people closer to your own stature. He's hardly better than a peasant."
Wilhelm wanted to scream at him that he wasn't better than any single person in this tournament arena, even peasants. Wanted to tell him that the way he treated people with such condescension may make him less than them, actually, and that titles and money were not the markers of personal worth he thought they were. But he couldn't make a scene, and Erik would disapprove of him antagonizing a member of their family and one of their greatest allies— and giving Erik any extra problems in the middle of a war was the last thing he wanted to do.
So he stayed quiet and hated himself for it. He could only hope there was something he could do for Herr Mårten to make him see that he wasn't the same kind of person August was, that he didn't judge people based on their wealth or peerage, and that he really, truly, wanted to get to know him more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life other than his brother's safe return from battle.
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The anger and humiliation of what happened at the central booth gave way to nervousness about Simon's upcoming joust. He tried to calm his jitters by listening to the herald announce his opponent, but the introduction was so dull that it wasn't helping any.
"...the youngest son of Baron Hieronymus Berger of Gräfsnäs. My lords, my ladies"— He bowed to the people seated in the central booth, and Simon saw a few of them nod at him in return— "it is my greatest honor to introduce my liege, Herr Jakob Gripenstedt."
The knight on the other end of the track, already on his horse and wearing clearly expensive black armor, with his helmet on and his visor shut, nodded at the crowd. The audience applauded the introduction, but it was halfhearted. It had been efficient and by-the-book but lacked enthusiasm.
Simon had a feeling that was about to change as Stella stepped up to Gripenstedt's herald, clapping. "Very good job, colleague. Herald school taught you well." To the man's credit, he didn't seem offended by the quip, merely confused as he walked out of the track and let her take center stage.
Much like the other herald, she stepped right up to the central booth and addressed the nobles sitting there. "My lords. My ladies." She curtsied. Then she spun around, her billowy skirt twirling around her legs with the movement. "And everybody on this side, not sitting on a cushion!"
The people on the stands— regular townspeople, for the most part— remained quiet at first. Whether that was because they did not expect a female herald, or because they were not used to being addressed at these events, Simon couldn't tell. Still, it only took a second or two of silence before they realized they were being addressed at this event and erupted into loud cheers and applause.
Stella looked entirely too pleased with herself as she magnanimously quieted them down so she could continue speaking. "I know this is highly unusual in that I am... incredibly captivating," she said, delighted when people laughed at her fakeout. "And a woman, of course. Don't see many of us as heralds these days. Or ever."
She grinned as everybody hung onto her every word. "But you see, that is why today you will witness a life-altering event. Today, no matter who you are— your sex, your race, your lineage, your wealth— we are all equals this day."
Simon was too far away to see what the stuffy blowhards in the central booth looked like as she said those words. She qualified it promptly, however: "Equals in the miracle that is standing in the presence of my liege. And let me tell you, as a woman, I am the best person to introduce you to him, for I can testify to God's truth, and it is this: my lord, Herr Mårten, is not just a knight... he is a hero."
The crowd hushed, entranced. Beside him, Maddie was waiting amusedly for the payoff, Henry was frowning in confusion, and Walter was looking a bit green around the gills, probably worried about Stella getting them in trouble with one of her fabrications. Probably wise, but Simon couldn't bring himself to feel that way, curious as he was about what she was going to say now that she had the crowd in the palm of her hand.
"I could stand here and list the dozens, hundreds, of the Tzar's men that my liege has righteously slain in the name of His Majesty, the King."
Alright, now even Simon started to get antsy. He'd never fought in the war nor did he intend to, and the idea of him ever doing anything in the name of the King was, frankly, laughable. But he figured Stella's job was to really sell it. Him.
"I could name the many, many children— babies— my lord has protected from rotten malefactors who would spirit them away from their mother's breast for no genuine reason but their own evil purposes."
Walter cringed so hard at the public mention of breasts, he nearly curled in on himself. Henry's frown deepened so much that he nearly looked like one of those tiny dogs the Dutch nobles seemed to love so much. Maddie let out a bark of laughter and continued listening, entirely too entertained.
"I could tell you the stories of all the damsels he's aided when they had no one else protecting their virtue," she added last, softening her tone. "But the truth is, you only need one. And if you take any single thing from this I have told you today, I implore you, let it be this: my lord Mårten saved my life. And thus, I can personally, intimately, substantiate the goodness of his spirit, for I would not be standing here before you if it weren't for him."
Simon smiled. He supposed that one was true... for now, at least. He still had to scrounge up the money to pay her pursuers.
Stella's energy grew rousing as she built up to the finale. "So without further ado, I give you the slayer of Russian legions! The protector of childhood innocence! The rescuer of damsels in distress." She took a hand to her chest in a semblance of gratitude. Simon didn't doubt that she was thankful for his help, but he was pretty sure the gesture was more for the benefit of the audience.
"A knight who can trace his lineage to El Cid Campeador himself!" Simon winced. He appreciated the reference, however false it was, but her pronunciation was atrocious. "The one! The only! Herr Juan Martín de Santa Ana!"
The audience roared. Simon, surprised by the ferocity of the reaction, waved awkwardly. Stella curtsied to the crowd. "Thank you, thank you! If you liked this, wait until you read my books."
That was when Walter finally gave in to his apprehension and ran to pull Stella to the end of the track where the rest of them were.
"What the hell was that?" Henry asked.
Stella shrugged, unconcerned. "Just wanted to try something different."
"About time, if you ask me!" Maddie chimed in as she helped Simon onto the horse.
As he secured his helmet over his head, Stella came over and kissed their horse's muzzle, giving the beast some neck rubs for good measure. She grinned up at Simon. "I got their attention. You go win their hearts."
Simon nodded and lowered his visor.
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On his first lance, Herr Mårten scored a hit against Gripenstedt's shoulder. On his way back to his end of the track, Wille thought the knight snuck a peek at him, but he looked away so fast that he could've been looking at anyone in the booth, really.
He said something to his herald, who was walking alongside the horse, and then the woman looked up at the booth and bowed her head respectfully at Wille. And it was definitely directed at him, no two ways about it. So maybe Herr Mårten had mentioned him, prompting her to look? That's what he hoped, anyway.
On the second lance, both competitors scored torso hits. Gripenstedt, in particular, looked like he'd taken a hard strike.
In the booth, Alexander, now standing at the top of the stairs beside August's chair, hummed under his breath. "I've never heard of this Gripenstedt, but his technique is perfect." August concurred with that assessment. "This Mårten, though. His technique is primitive, and he has no style of any kind. But he's fearless."
Wille, whose ears had perked up at the mention of Herr Mårten's name, had to ask. "What do you mean, fearless?"
August explained that splinters from the broken lance could penetrate the visor, and most knights tilted their heads up at the last minute to avoid having their eyes damaged. It had the downside that they lost sight of their opponent. But Mårten didn't look away as other knights did.
Felice leaned in to speak in Wille's ear. "It also takes a lot of courage to step up to sing solo in front of an audience that might hate your performance or heckle you." She had, after all, some experience with choirs.
Wille smiled, proud even though he barely knew the man. "A cantor on the track as in life."
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As Simon was returning to his end of the track after the second lance, Gripenstedt, heading the opposite way, signaled with his hand that he wanted to confer with Simon about something. Simon slowed to a stop, willing to hear him out.
His opponent opened one side of his split visor so they could speak face-to-face. Simon lifted his own. The man was younger than he expected, maybe a few years older than Simon himself, and handsome. Intellectually, Simon knew he was a noble, but his features accentuated that fact, for they were definitely aristocratic. He was also breathing heavily, seemingly in pain.
"Herr Mårten..." he started respectfully. "I'm injured. I'm afraid I cannot continue. But I've never not finished a joust before." He paused for a second as if trying to get through a flare of pain; Simon was immediately empathetic. "I should like to withdraw honorably."
Simon was surprised by the admission but heartened by the request. From what Henry had explained, withdrawing from a tournament while mid-joust, especially when wounded, was considered a sign of cowardice. Simon thought it was a fucked-up tradition and hated to have to uphold it, but he also sympathized with Gripenstedt's desire not to have that mark sully his name for the rest of his life. It wasn't fair.
So he nodded, and on their third lance, they both lifted their lances vertically into the air, signaling a draw. And then Gripenstedt withdrew.
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.
"Why would Mårten do that?" Alexander wondered out loud once the white banner was hung over Gripenstedt's shield. "When Gripenstedt is hurt?"
August shook his head. "I can't even fathom a reason. He should've taken his chance to win this joust."
"He shows mercy," Wille said in awe, feeling even prouder now. He'd already known that Herr Mårten was special on the day they met, but now he was even more certain of it. It wasn't just any competitor who would agree to do something like this.
"Then he's soft," August said with a scoff, his haughty inflection still grating on Wille even after years of knowing him and being forced to interact with him at family functions. "One should always play to win. Mercy is weakness."
Wille rolled his eyes. "It's just a sport, August."
"It's war games, cousin," August retorted like Wille's disdain for jousting had personally offended him. "And I shouldn't need to remind you that we are at war." He snuck a side glance at Wille. "Then again... you've always been soft yourself."
The comment irked Wille, but he had better things to focus on— like Herr Mårten passing in front of their booth as he made his way out of the track. He turned his head briefly in their direction and Wille, pleased heart beating in a lively tempo, smiled.
This time he was certain Herr Mårten had seen it.
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The group spent the night in their tent, emotions ranging from exhausted to buzzing. The four "men" slept on a large cot they'd rented because it was cheaper than renting several smaller ones, but they did rent a smaller one for Stella, which Sara now shared with her. Simon had extended the invitation for her to stay with them while they were in Linköping— he'd spent so much time away from his sister already that he wanted to keep her close; plus that way, he could make sure she was safe.
Most of them were asleep; Henry and Walter were cuddling on their corner of the cot as they often spread out so fully on the bed that their long limbs tangled and they ended up unwittingly all over the other, only for the morning to bring awkwardness and endless loud reassertions of their masculinity. But Simon couldn't sleep. Trying to lull himself down, he took a deep breath and let it out.
"Alright, that's it!" Maddie's feet, which were in front of his face, lurched, and when Simon looked down the length of the cot, he saw her prop herself up on one elbow. "This is the fourth time you've sighed in fifteen minutes. Will you please go to sleep already?"
"I'm sorry," Simon said. "I just can't stop thinking..."
"...about the Crown Prince?" she finished the sentence for him. Not that Simon had been about to say that part, but it wouldn't be the first time Maddie had seemed to read his mind. Sometimes he wondered if she secretly was a witch.
Simon groaned. "You needn't point out once more that the mere idea of getting involved with him is dangerous. I know it already."
Maddie's expression softened. "I'm not trying to upset you, Simme. If he truly does reciprocate your regard, then I will support you, royalty or no royalty." She shook her head as best she could in her position. "I just want to make sure you're not just interested in him because he's unavailable."
...Like Marcus, she implied but didn't say. Marcus had been his first and only lover— though he could barely be called that, really. Marcus had been a farmhand, working at the stables alongside Sara, and he and Simon had been friends, if a little flirty, for a while. But it was only when war broke out and Marcus decided he would quit the farm to join the fight that they came together in that way.
After he left, he sent a handful of missives to Simon, each one making more of the brief tryst than there really was to it. Simon didn't have any particular feelings about it; it had been fun, and being like that with a man— any man— for the first time was frankly thrilling. But he wasn't upset or broken-hearted when Marcus left. In fact, he joined Herr Ector's employ not long after, which meant even if Marcus came back to the farm one day, he wasn't likely to find him there.
It was only much later, when Maddie joined the traveling group, that she pointed out to Simon that maybe he'd only entered into a romantic liaison because Marcus was leaving. And the implication tonight was that this draw he felt toward the Crown Prince, of all people, came about precisely because such an affair had no future.
He shook his head. "I don't think so, Maddie. I never wanted Marcus like this. It was just... he was the first man I met who was like me, and I was curious as to what it would be like, what it would feel like to love a man. And he was sweet, and chivalrous, and safe. But there was nothing there, and it was wrong of me to let him leave without making that clear to him."
He sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees. "With Crown Prince Wilhelm, I don't know if he even is interested in me that way or if his preoccupation is merely platonic, but I still feel like I would do anything just to be in his presence."
"Like win the tournament in his name?" Maddie teased him.
Simon poked at her side in retaliation, drawing a poorly muffled squeal from her, as she was very ticklish. "No. But to show him my worth? That, I can do."
Maddie smiled. "Good," she said. "As it stands, you can't even call him by his name, anyway. It must always be Crown Prince or His Royal Highness. Never Wilhelm."
He rested his head on his knees, closing his eyes and recalling the smile the Crown Prince had given him that afternoon at the tournament grounds. "Then there will come the day that I shall call him by the name my heart sings to him every time he's near me. Achilles. Adonis. Apollo."
She laughed. "Love has blessed you with the gift of poetry. Is that it? Stella will take offense."
Simon chuckled. "Perhaps it was always in me, and he's just bringing it out."
Before either of them could speak, Walter let out a loud snore. Henry, still asleep, smacked his palm over Walter's face as if shushing him. Then Walter, also still asleep, threw his own hand back and cuffed Henry on the nose with his knuckles. The resultant "Oww!" mingled with Walter's mumbled "Geroff," but their limbs remained just as entangled as usual.
Simon and Madison exchanged a glance and laughed.
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During these types of extended visits, Wille and Felice enjoyed spending some downtime in Wille's parlor after dinner, before they headed to their respective chambers for the night. That night, they occupied opposite ends of the settle, Wille reading a book and Felice practicing some sketching, while Fredrika sat in an armchair to the side, working on her embroidery.
"I heard Herr August swear as he left the grounds today that he will win this tournament in the name of His Majesty, the King," she commented with a giggle, like sharing some big secret.
"Ugh, of course he did," Felice said with a disapproving shake of her head.
"He's won many tournaments," Wille noted without lifting his gaze from the page. "He wins them for himself; for the money and the fame. He doesn't do it for Erik." He tried to keep any sort of inflection out of his voice, but they'd heard him complain about his cousin enough that they surely could read the undertone of his words.
Felice put the paper down on her lap, her frown turning into a teasing smile. "He's a bit like Herr Mårten in that respect, then, don't you think?"
This time he couldn't help the scowl that immediately overtook his features at the mere suggestion. "They're nothing alike," he scoffed. "Yes, Herr Mårten also jousts for himself, but he doesn't pretend otherwise. He doesn't put on this act that nobility demands of him. He's real."
He wasn't sure why he felt so compelled to defend the defiant knight. They hadn't even talked that much. But Wille just felt so intrigued by him, this nobleman who didn't care for the royal family, this fierce warrior with the voice of a delicate angel. He was a study in contradictions, and he was fascinating.
Felice's expression softened and, as if reading his mind, she asked, "Is that why you're so drawn to him?"
Wille tensed up. He knew what she was implying, and it was a dangerous implication. All his thoughts about Herr Mårten were thoughts he could never voice out loud. He wasn't allowed.
"Felice..." he all but begged, willing without saying it for her to move to another topic of conversation. Any topic. He'd rather talk about his mother's undergarments at this point in time.
"What?" Felice said defensively. "I just mean that if you believe you and him have a connection, you should pursue it."
Wille marked his page with his finger and closed the book he was reading. His eyes burned holes into the leather cover, the golden lettering of La Poesia di Michelangelo glinting in the light of the fire.
"It's not like that," he insisted because he had to.
"Wille..." Felice leaned forward and rested her hand on Wille's wrist. "Dear heart, need I remind you that my family has a villa in Florence and we vacation there in the winter?" She gave a significant glance toward the book Wille was holding, which she had brought for him from Florence earlier in the year.
"Down south, it's completely normal for two men to love one another," she continued. "And Wille, everyone deserves to find their happiness, even—"
"Felice, can we please just talk about something else?" Wille implored, briefly peeking at Fredrika, who was staring down at her hoop with a slight frown, hands stilled. He trusted her— of course he did— but sometimes she forgot herself and let things slip. That couldn't happen with this conversation.
"Alright," Felice conceded, pulling back to her side of the settle. "But I hold hope that if Herr Mårten goes the distance and wins the championship, he may win something much more valuable than gold." Her warm gaze as she said those words made it very clear what— or rather, who— this "much more valuable" something was.
He didn't say anything to that, conflicted and bashful— he didn't even know if Herr Mårten felt that way about him. Or about other men, period. Regardless, the thought of encountering the man who had so captured his attention in every tournament all the way to Stockholm put a smile on Wille's face.
"Perhaps," he said. Perhaps if he didn't say it too loudly, he could have this, at least for a little while.
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Author's notes!—
Lots of notes on this one, so hold on to your hats:
Cumulus clouds (cumuli in plural) are the fluffy clouds of a sunny day; they don't often produce lightning (nobody would dare accuse Stella of being a meteorologist). They weren't named until the 1770s. Växjö is a city in Kronoberg, in the south of Sweden, some 100 km west of Kalmar. Chestnuts have been plentiful in Europe for millennia, but have waned in popularity due to being considered "food for poor people." The phrase "star-crossed lovers" was made famous by Shakespeare, of course. Am I implying that Stella wrote Romeo and Juliet, too? Well, I'm not not implying it...
The Gripenstedt family is a real Swedish noble family and Gräfsnäs is a small urban area in Västergötland which the family held in the late-18th to early-19th centuries. Hieronymus Berger was the first member of the family, ennobled Gripenstedt in the 1690s. Jakob Gripenstedt was a descendant of his, the father of Johan August Gripenstedt, a Swedish businessman and politician. They're not supposed to be the people in the fic; I just borrowed their names.
"Those tiny dogs the Dutch nobles seemed to love so much" are pugs, which became the official dog of the House of Orange-Nassau, a prominent family and eventual ruling dynasty of The Netherlands, around the time of this fic. El Cid Campeador ("The Lord Champion") is the nickname of Rodrigo "Ruy" Díaz de Vivar, a medieval Castilian knight and warlord. A fictionalized version of his life was presented in the Spanish epic poem El Cantar del Mio Cid ("The Song of my Cid"), one of Spain's best-known works.
Achilles was a Greek hero of the Trojan War and one of the central characters of Homer's Illiad. Adonis was a mortal lover of Aphrodite and often considered the archetype of male beauty. Apollo is the Greek god of the Sun, medicine, and music, among other things. (I like to joke that he's the Greek god of "everything but the kitchen sink.") A settle is a wooden bench with arms and a high back that was widely used in the 16th-18th centuries because, apparently, couches were not a thing during that period. (And why do YR fics always have me browsing chair information on Wikipedia?)
La Poesia di Michelangelo ("The Poetry of Michelangelo") is not a real book— well, it is, but it's a modern one (I'm talking like 1993). I just used that title for a fictional compilation of Michelangelo's poems, which are much less famous than his art or sculpture, but weren't actually published until after his death by his grandnephew. Many of his most romantic poems were written for a young nobleman called Tommaso dei Cavalieri, which is why I wanted Wille to read them. But it's also somewhat of a sad joke because the version Wille would be reading would've had all the pronouns in his poems switched by the grandnephew. Booooooo.
Michelangelo was, of course, a Florentine painter, sculptor, architect, and poet who died around the time of this fic, and is widely recognized as one of the world's greatest artists. During this period, Florence was well known for the widespread practice of same-sex relationships, similar to how it was in Ancient Greece and Rome.
Next up: August and Herr Mårten face off in the joust, plus all the satellite mini-dramas that come with that.
I'm submitting my Honours thesis in two days. Wish me luck! =) Meanwhile, 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!
