The Road is Made by Walking, Chapter 4: You got to reap just what you sow.
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 "Further On Up the Road" by Eric Clapton.
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It was August's first joust the next morning, and the Queen Regent had warned Wille in no uncertain terms that he was to be at the tournament grounds on time for his cousin's introduction or he would regret it. Wille personally didn't understand why August even got to participate, considering he'd only arrived at Linköping after the tournament had started, but the Queen had decreed so, and no one would dare deny the Queen.
So Felice got up extra early to get her hair done and her outfit perfectly arranged, and they made their way to the tournament grounds just as the event began. And within thirty minutes, they were all sweating like pigs.
"Goodness, I can't believe how hot it is today," Felice said, dabbing at the humid skin of her cheeks with her fingers before Fredrika handed her a fan. She opened it and started fanning both herself and her lady-in-waiting. "I wish we could have known the order of the matches before we got here. It's too hot to be sitting here waiting."
"Here." Wille absentmindedly handed her his handkerchief so she could dry her face. "It shouldn't be much longer, I don't think." He nervously swept his gaze over the entire track. They'd found out when they arrived at the tournament grounds that August was going to be facing Herr Mårten on his first joust, and now Wille couldn't sit still.
"You'll see him when he's introduced, Wille," Felice said, laying a hand on Wille's knee, which had been bouncing up and down distractingly. "You don't need to hold your breath."
Wille stilled his leg. "Sorry. It's just—" He sighed. "I just wish I had a way to tell him that I'm rooting for him, you know? That what happened yesterday doesn't mean I'm on August's side; I'm just obligated to humor him because he's family."
"I know." She patted his knee comfortingly. "Maybe there's something we can..." She trailed off midsentence.
When Wille turned his head in her direction to check why she'd grown quiet, he found her looking intently at his handkerchief, which she still held in her other hand. "What? What is it?"
Felice met his gaze and grinned.
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"August! August! August!" the people in the stands chanted.
Maddie made a face as August and his retinue entered the jousting track in something of a processional of pomposity. Walter, visibly nervous, commented: "I asked some people around yesterday and they said they'd never seen him lose a joust."
"Thanks, Walter. I definitely needed to hear that right before I face off against the man," Simon said flatly. He was feeling pretty jittery himself.
Henry patted his shoulder, but the gesture wasn't terribly comforting, considering Simon was wearing his armor. All it really did was make a clanging sound. "It's alright, man. Defeat him, and you'll be the first to see it."
Simon opened his mouth to say something along the lines of "Sure, it's that easy!" but was interrupted by Stella approaching them, accompanied by another woman. Simon vaguely recognized her as the lady-in-waiting of that woman who had been sitting with Crown Prince Wilhelm the previous day.
"My liege," Stella said, exaggeratedly solemn. "This is Fredrika, Lady Ehrencrona's lady-in-waiting. She says she has a message for you." Stella's eyes lingered maybe a little too long on the other woman's face— she probably thought he hadn't noticed, but he definitely had.
"Herr Mårten," Fredrika said, in tandem with a respectful curtsy. "My lady hopes you will wear this as a token of support." She handed him an expensive-looking embroidered handkerchief.
Simon stared at it in utter befuddlement. "Why would she want me to do that?" he blurted out. He hoped Lady Ehrencrona hadn't gotten the wrong idea the day before, because he definitely hadn't been flirting with her in any way.
Alarm overtook Stella's countenance. "What my liege means," she said, delicately taking the piece of cloth from Fredrika's hands and then shoving it hard into Simon's, "is that the lady honors him with her request." She gave him a glare that either meant "Do not embarrass me in front of this beautiful angel" or "It'd be extremely rude to refuse a request from a noble lady of such high status." Simon wasn't sure which of the two options it was— maybe it was both— but either way he was left but no choice but to keep the thing.
That didn't mean he had to be all dutiful, though. He'd never kowtowed to the nobility, and he wasn't about to start now. "I'm just confused," he said, frowning. "Your lady and I have hardly exchanged a sentence in all of our brief acquaintance." He shook his head. "I don't even know her name."
Fredrika certainly didn't seem offended on behalf of her lady. Instead, she smiled. "My lady said to tell you, you may use the name you'll find in the handkerchief." She curtsied deferentially once again, then turned to leave. Though not without smiling and bowing her head at Stella, who watched her go with not-at-all-disguised interest. She stood there with her mouth half-open until Maddie poked her on the side with a knowing smirk.
Curious, Simon unfolded the handkerchief, looking for whatever it was that Lady Ehrencrona wanted him to see. And then his hands stilled. There, in the corner, embroidered in fine blue thread, was a name that made Simon's stomach do joyful flips. A name that made the corners of his mouth quirk into a delighted smile.
Henry moved closer so he could read over his shoulder. "'Wille'?" He frowned. "I don't get it."
Simon shook his head, astounded. Honestly, he didn't quite get it, either— but oh, it was happening, alright.
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Maddie pinned the Crown Prince's— Wille's— handkerchief to the collar of Simon's tunic and he felt its warmth envelop him like a mantle. When he rode, he rode steady, his aim true.
On the first lance, both Herr Mårten and August scored torso hits.
"I can't get any air in," Simon gasped as he got to the end of the track and was met by Henry and Maddie. Maddie hurried to loosen his armor a little so he could breathe properly. "He hits like a battering ram."
"Yeah, well, he probably maneuvers just as well as one," Henry said as Maddie finished her work. "He aims too high. If you roll your shoulder back, the tip of the lance might just glance off."
"Yeah, only on one shoulder. If he hits me on the other one, I'm done for," Simon retorted, pointing to his shield.
"Well, I can't solve all your problems, now can I?" Henry shot back, throwing his hands in the air. Simon rolled his eyes and shook his head.
As they guided Simon and the horse to the opposite side of the track, they caught sight of one of August's squires pulling a large splinter from between his chest plate and shoulder guard. August didn't look happy; in fact, he looked quite irate. That couldn't be good for Simon.
"Hey." Henry drew Simon's attention away from August. Simon readied himself for some sort of annoying commentary, but instead what he got was, "You did good. Just do the same next time, and you'll beat him."
Simon looked down at him with his mouth half-open in surprise. Who was this man, and what had he done with the real Henry? "Thanks. I'll try."
Henry nodded. "But," he added with a shrug, "just don't let him hit you. You have to score more points than him somehow."
Simon groaned, now for sure annoyed. "You keep saying that like it's so easy!" he said, lowering his visor.
"Good luck," Maddie said before she and Henry quickly got out of the way. Simon had to ride; August was already galloping down his side of the track, even before a tournament officer waved the flag.
On the second lance, the tip of August's weapon did indeed glance off of Simon's shoulder. Only Herr Mårten scored a torso hit. A tournament officer marked a second point in Herr Mårten's score.
If glares could kill, the sneer August directed at Simon would've obliterated him. Even from the opposite end of the track.
There was little time for conversation as the two were barreling down the track again with nary an adjustment. Simon only needed another torso hit to win the match, so that's where he aimed, his gaze fixed on the tip of his lance. Unfortunately, this meant he wasn't paying attention to August's.
The lance smacked him right in the face, sending his helmet flying back. And suddenly, in the daze of the strike, Simon's mind found itself transported somewhere else. Somewhere in his past; a time he hadn't thought of in many, many years.
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"Simón!"
He'd always been of just average height for his age, perhaps a little shorter, but in this dream— this memory— adult men towered over him so much that he had to slip between pairs of legs to get through the crowd. How old had he been then? Seven, maybe eight?
"Simón, dónde estás?"
He finally made it to the front of the crowd and looked around, finally spotting his family some two meters to his left, on the other side of the stocks.
"Ah, there you are! I told you not to let go of my hand or you'd be swept away. There's so many people here!" His mother lifted him so he could crouch on top of the stocks and be able to see the parade above people's heads. "Everybody wants to see the knights."
Simon watched as the armored men rode horses down the road, flanked by bannermen and waving at the crowd as they passed. "Pappa, can people like us become knights?" he asked innocently.
It was Sara who replied from where she was sitting on their father's shoulders. "Don't be silly, Simon. You have to be a noble to be a knight. We're not nobles."
Simon made a face at her. It wasn't like he was invested in it or anything; Sara had always been more interested in knights than he was because they rode horses. "You don't have to call me names," he retorted, sticking his tongue out at her. "I don't want to be a knight, anyway. I just want to have people applaud me like this."
His father shook his head, though he seemed amused. He ruffled Simon's hair with one hand. "Then I think you're better off sticking to what you're best at, son: singing scriptures for the Lord."
Simon frowned. "But I only get to do it at home, and the only people who applaud are you three." He turned to his mother, hoping against hope that she'd have a differing opinion. "Mamma?"
She just smiled warmly and carded her fingers softly through his curls. "Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar," she said.
Traveler, there is no road. The road is made by walking, Simon mouthed to himself. "What does that mean?"
"It means you write your own fate, mi vida," she told him wistfully, "so don't let anyone tell you what you can or can't do."
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Simon didn't fall off his horse, but it was a small comfort, considering August needed two points to win and that's exactly what he got.
His entire team ran out to help out— even Sara, who had been watching from the stands. With his head still pounding and his ears still ringing from the hit, he could hardly focus his vision but when he did manage to look up, it was to see August stop near them on his way out of the track and use the broken end of his lance to pick up Wille's handkerchief, which had come unfastened when Simon lost his helmet.
August lifted his visor. "You should work on your posture, Herr Mårten," he said with a smirk. "I hope we joust again in the future... when you're worthy." Still looking incredibly smug, he nudged his horse into a trot, headed for the exit.
Henry looked like he was about to take a swing at the man (if he weren't on a horse, that is), but he managed to hold back. Instead, it was Maddie who put out there what they were all thinking— although in words rather than with her fists. "Fuck you, you stupid, smarmy—"
"...And that's enough," Stella declared, pulling her back and covering her mouth with one hand.
Maddie squirmed away from her hold. "What? He is!"
Stella nodded solemnly. "He is, indeed. But he is also royal-adjacent, and the Royal Guards are literally right there." She let out a huff. "Just go tend to Mårten, alright? That is where you're needed. Go."
Maddie did as she asked, but very reluctantly. Stella stayed and clapped for August— sarcastically, if such a gesture was even possible. "Well done, my lord. Great work."
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Wille tensed up as soon as he noticed that August was making his way to the central booth, the handkerchief Wille had sent Herr Mårten on the broken tip of his lance like he was presenting some sort of evidence he didn't want to touch with his hands.
"Cousin," he said haughtily, "I believe this is yours." He smirked as Wille stonily grabbed his handkerchief back. "You should be more careful where you place your items from now on. Some with loose morals and looser hands might filch them to make a profit out of selling such finery."
Wille bristled at the suggestion that simply because Herr Mårten's wealth was more modest than theirs, he must be a thief. But at the same time, he couldn't very well tell August that he'd sent Herr Mårten the handkerchief as a token of his support.
"I'm sure it was just an honest mistake," he said in the end, jaw clenched.
August's smirk only widened. "If you say so." He took off at a trot to get ready for his next joust. He was, after all, the odds-on favorite to win the tournament, and even the championship.
He sat back down with a sigh, exchanging a disappointed glance with Felice. She patted his forearm comfortingly and tried for an optimistic smile. "Look at it on the bright side," she said. "He did ride with your token."
Wille looked down at the handkerchief he held in his hands and the corners of his mouth crinkled up almost unbidden. Herr Mårten had accepted it, hadn't he? He'd seen the name embroidered on it and still chose to wear it as he rode. Wear it on his body. Near his heart. That had to mean something, right?
His stomach fluttered with hope and anticipation.
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Wille was standing in for the Queen in the booth behind the stage where the awards for the tournament were being handed out, and Simon had to try really, really hard not to stare. Mainly because he didn't want to be a creep, but also because August was standing right next to him. He was probably already suspicious after he found Simon carrying the Crown Prince's handkerchief; no need to give him more ammunition.
"Your Royal Highness, may I present today the Queen's champions," a tournament officer announced, gesturing to him, August, and the three men standing on Simon's other side. Simon kept his gaze on the awards on the table in front of him, and not anywhere else, so focused that he inadvertently tuned out the first two awards.
"For the long spear on foot, Herr Johan Cedercrantz of Vegeholm."
One of the Lord host's daughters came forth and handed a small chest, presumably full of gold coins, to the winner of the spear event. Cedercrantz bowed to the Crown Prince, then turned to wave at the crowd.
"For the sword on foot, Herr Juan Martín de Santa Ana."
Simon heard his crew, all lined up behind him, cheer and clap. He tried not to cringe at how badly the officer butchered his (fake) name and instead stepped up to the stage to receive his award from the Lord host's daughter. She handed him a solid gold statuette of a knight on horseback that would keep them fed and participating in the championship for quite a bit longer.
As he returned to his spot, he couldn't help himself: his eyes immediately searched for Wille, only to find Wille's gaze already on him as he clapped, beaming. He was too far for Simon to hear, but he thought he saw him cheering— a most unbecoming gesture for a prince, but somehow very fitting for Wille.
Simon smiled back.
He knew his cheeks were flushed, but had to play it off as he turned to wave at the crowd. It was expected, after all. But all his elation fizzled into nothing when the tournament officer spoke next.
"And for the mounted joust and tournament champion... Herr August Horn, count of Årnäs."
August stepped up to the stage, where the Lord host's daughter handed him what looked like an armor's chest plate, except made of solid gold. Simon tried to bite back his irritation, but he was only human. The smirk on August's face as he returned to his spot pushed his restraint too far.
"You might want to acquaint yourself with the flat of the track," Simon said, keeping his gaze on the crowd rather than speaking directly to August, "for the next time we meet, I am certain to unhorse you."
August sniggered. "Please, Mårten. Surely you can see the writing on the wall." He turned his head and looked down at Simon— and Simon was keenly aware that August had to look down to speak to him. "You have been weighed on the scales and found wanting."
With one last sneer, August walked away, leaving Simon fuming. He spun on his heel and, without even one last glance at Wille, stomped off in the opposite direction, shrugging off his team's congratulatory hugs and shoulder pats.
"Just keep winning the sword," Walter said, a spring in his step, "and we'll be rich!"
"I won't compete in the sword anymore," Simon declared as they crossed the threshold out of the jousting track.
"What are you talking about?" Maddie demanded, surprised to hear him say that. "It's your best event!"
"I won't do it," Simon reiterated. "It's tournament champion or nothing."
He stalked off, wading between the crowd of tournament goers and leaving the others behind to exchange glances in confusion. Frankly, they didn't need to understand. He was the one taking the risks out there, so it should be up to him, and him alone, to decide what he wanted to do.
And what he wanted to do was to show all these entitled rich people, especially August, that one didn't need wealth or an ennobled last name to be a champion.
Or, well, Herr Juan Martín de Santa Ana would show them.
...Fuck.
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The knight's head came off with the swing of the ax. The gold statuette of the knight, that was.
Simon handed the head— with a little bit of shoulders; more like a bust, really— to Vincent. "There. That should be about ten 8-mark coins," he said, prickly. He would be true to his promise, but that didn't mean he was happy to be paying ransom to these scoundrels.
Vincent showed the gold piece to Nils, and the two decided without words that they agreed with Simon's statement. "Pleasure doing business with you, my lord," Nils said, though his face made it seem like he meant the exact opposite.
Vincent instead turned toward Stella, who was hanging back by their tent. "The goddess Victory shines upon you, my lady," he said, a sticky, creepy smirk on his lips, "so that you may never need to sell your clothes to feed yourself again." He eyed her up and down. "However disappointing that may be to all warm-blooded men in the vicinity."
Stella scoffed and stepped up to him, getting right in his face. "I cannot wait until I write my memoir and describe in excruciating detail what an ugly, crooked, tiny little prick you have."
Vincent bore down on her. "Yeah? Want me to show you how not small it is?"
Stella smirked at him, not backing down for even a second. "Go right ahead, if you're so intent on your own public nudity. Just remember: I was naked for a day. You will be naked for eternity."
He growled at her. "Why, you ungrateful little wench—"
"All right, that's enough," Maddie said, forcibly getting between them before Stella started clawing at him like a tigress. She addressed both Vincent and Nils. "You've got your gold. Now take your leave."
As the summoner and the pardoner walked away, Simon turned to his sister, who was busy petting their horse. "Sara, how much of this will cover the cost of fixing my armor?" he asked, showing her what was left of the statuette.
"None of it," she replied absentmindedly. She gave the horse's neck some vigorous rubs. "What's his name?"
Walter shrugged. "We just call him 'horse.'"
Sara frowned. "How rude. You wouldn't want others to go around calling you 'man' or 'person,' would you?" Walter looked like he didn't particularly care if they did. Sara gave the matter some thought for a few seconds, either way. "I think we should call him Rousseau. He looks like a Rousseau."
Simon snorted. "When have you ever been to France to know what Rousseaus look like?"
It was Sara's turn to shrug. "Maybe it's just how I imagine Rousseaus look like, then." She turned to her brother, finally answering his question. "I don't need you to pay me for fixing your armor, Simon."
He shook his head. "You put in so much time and effort, on top of the cost of materials," he noted. "You should be compensated for it, even if you're my sister."
"I don't want your gold," Sara insisted, determined. She stepped away from the horse— Rousseau— and came to stand near her brother, arms crossed. "I just want you to acknowledge that I'm a good armorer."
"I don't have any problem doing that," Simon said, surprised that his sister would ever doubt it. "You did a great job with my chest plate. It held just fine against August's blows, and that's no easy feat."
"But it's still not your armor. Sir Ector was bigger than you; it doesn't fit you correctly." She put her hands on her hips. "I don't want your words, Simon. Let me make you a new armor. I can make it so that it won't even feel like you're wearing any."
He laughed, caught off-guard by the offer. "I can't pay you for your work by piling more work on you, Sara. That's not how it works."
"You wearing my armor in the championship will generate word of mouth, which will bring more business," she argued back, and Simon had flashbacks to when they were kids and she would railroad his every argument with facts before he even knew what was happening. "And you can take me to Stockholm with you. You said I shouldn't travel alone, so who better to escort me than my brother and his friends?"
Feeling like the conversation was getting away from him, he asked, "Why do you even want to go back to Stockholm, anyway?" It's not like she wanted to reconnect with their father, or like they had so many good memories there that weren't tainted by everything that led to their parents' separation.
"I can get more work there," Sara said simply.
Simon just stared at her, initially a bit stumped, then swimming in dread at having to crush his sister's plan for her future. "Sara... I'm sorry, but it's not safe for you to work as a blacksmith. Not on your own, and especially not in Stockholm where you don't have any family to lean on or any support system."
He sighed. "We still have more than enough time to get to the next tournament. Tomorrow morning we'll head back to Bjärstad so I can drop you off with Mamma at the farm before turning north toward Gävle."
"You can't just order me to go back. I refuse!" Face red with outrage, she spun on her heel and stormed off, eventually getting lost among the crowd.
Simon watched her go. He wasn't worried about her leaving on her own; all her belongings were still in their tent. But he despaired over having hurt her. He loved Sara and only wanted her to be happy, but he felt this was something he had to do for her safety. He could only hope that someday she would understand.
He tossed what was left of the golden statuette to Walter. "See what you can get from that," he said with a heavy sigh. "We should all head to bed early tonight. We'll need to be on our way to Bjärstad before dawn."
Stella seemed alarmed by this. "No, no. Hold on," she said as she stepped up to Simon before he could go into their tent. "You have to go to the banquet. Dance, interact with other knights— that was the whole point of this."
Simon scoffed. "And have to stand there while August brags about having won the tournament? No way in hell."
"The Crown Prince will probably be there," Maddie commented from the side, where she was sitting atop a barrel. Stella pointed at her as if seconding that comment. Simon rolled his eyes at them.
"How come we're so interested in the Crown Prince lately?" Henry asked, bewildered by the out-of-the-blue mention. Simon didn't feel like explaining it to him that day. He'd figure it out eventually.
"We don't know that for sure," he said in response to Maddie instead, arms crossed.
"Maybe we can ask her," Walter said and pointed in the direction none of the others were facing.
The four turned around in tandem to see Lady Ehrencrona's lady-in-waiting approaching them. Stella took a step away from Simon and quickly and not-at-all-surreptitiously ran her hands through the ends of her hair, which had gotten a bit disheveled in her earlier intensity.
"Fredrika!" she exclaimed, surprised but gleeful. "How lovely to have you visit us again."
"Thank you," Fredrika replied with a flattered smile. "That's so sweet!" She nodded politely in greeting at the rest of them, then addressed Stella again. "I was sent to inquire as to the color of the tunic Herr Mårten will wear to tonight's banquet."
Maddie frowned. "His tunic?"
Fredrika nodded. "Yes. His greatest supporter should like to dress to match," she said. Simon did not miss the careful, gender-neutral way she phrased it, and his traitor heart responded accordingly by beating wildly against his ribs.
"Oh yeah," Henry said with a wicked grin, clapping Simon on the shoulder. "Get it, Mårten." Walter gave him an approving thumbs-up. Simon fought the urge to groan out loud and smack his face into his palm. He didn't need any rumors about him and Lady Ehrencrona starting because his squire and bookkeeper couldn't keep their big mouths shut.
Stella stepped forward. "Well, I'm afraid to inform you that my liege won't be attending—"
"Herald, please do not give out any information about our upcoming plans that are not finalized yet," he interjected in a burst of panic. It was one thing to quietly avoid the banquet and a whole other thing to still refuse to go when Wille himself was requesting his presence. Because that's what was happening, right? He wasn't just imagining things.
Stella pinned him with an indignant stare, brows perfectly arched on her forehead, her entire posture clearly calling him out on his bullshit. Still, when she spoke, it was with the deference required of this pantomime of nobility they had to pull off. "Of course, my lord."
Simon swallowed hard but nodded. "Page, please inform the lady of the color of my tunic for tonight."
Maddie was clearly not expecting to be called on. "Right." She looked briefly at Simon's current clothes, quickly deciding that beige with streaks of dirt was not appropriate banquet apparel. Her eyes darted from side to side, perhaps looking for someone who might be selling fabric, before locking on something behind Simon.
"My liege's tunic will be a soft purple," she said, to her credit only the tiniest bit hesitant. "With lilac in a check pattern and, uh, wooden toggles."
Fredrika nodded at the description. "I shall pass on this information," she said with a smile. She curtsied at them with a smile and gave Stella a small wave goodbye before leaving the way she came.
Simon crouched and buried his face in his hands as he let out the loud groan that had been building up through this entire conversation. "This is going to be a disaster."
Maddie jumped off the barrel. "Speak for yourself. I can make something quite fashionable out of this fabric." She moved to touch the purple-and-lilac checkered fabric of their tent, already picturing the measurements she'd need in her mind.
"No, it's not that." He stood back up. "It's just... I can't dance."
Maddie guffawed. "What are you talking about? I've seen you dance! You're actually pretty good."
Simon shook his head. "That's village dancing. It's just jumping around and moving your body to the rhythm of the music."
"As it should be!" Maddie interjected, not looking at him but rather focused on measuring the length of the side of the tent with her armspan.
"But that's not what royal banquet dancing is like," Simon qualified pointedly. "High-society dancing is all... stiff, with rules and steps to follow, and everybody just does the same thing, and it's just... boring."
"Can't argue with that," Henry chimed in from where he was leaning against a stack of empty crates. "I never got the hang of it, myself. Stepped on a lot of girls' toes before deciding it was better if I just sat on the sidelines." He paused for a moment before smirking. "Or went outside to hook up with the ladies behind the bushes."
Maddie snorted. "Yeah, that never happened," she said sarcastically. Henry glared at her and flipped her off.
"I don't know anything about it, either," Walter said with a shrug. Like Maddie and Simon, he was also not of noble blood, and he wasn't even really good at "peasant" dancing like Simon was. "Maybe Stella can give you some lessons?"
Stella shook her head emphatically. "When I ran away from home, I promised that I would never again let myself be pulled back into the trappings of nobility. It's why I relish being a herald rather than the person being heralded." She smiled at Simon, the gesture tinged with guilt. "I'm sorry, Simon. I can't dance with you. But maybe I can give you some instructions?"
Simon pushed down another groan. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? He sighed. "Right. Not here, though," he declared and signaled to his team to follow him.
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"And one, and two, and three, and four," Stella counted while tapping the top of a barrel like a drum with a stick she had procured from God knows where. "And you end up same side when you do the quadrille."
Henry and Simon had, of course, ended the move on the opposite side of the stables from where they started, and they rushed to correct their positions completely off-tempo, which made Stella pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration.
"And one, and two, and three, and four. And Henry's the girl, though he doesn't know it yet."
Henry stopped moving abruptly— prompting Simon to smack into him when he didn't step out of the way in time— and glared at Stella. "I swear, if you were a man, I would so punch you."
Stella smirked at him, a hand on her hip. "Pretty sure I can take you, man, even in a dress."
Simon sighed. "You can brawl it out of your systems later, for all I care. For now, please, can we get back to the dancing? Because I don't know even one piece yet, and the banquet is just a few hours away."
"Fine. Let's move on to the next one," Stella suggested, getting her stick ready once again. "And one, and two, and one, two, three. And one, two, three. Now turn, turn, turn— no, counterclockwise— no, both of you counterclockwise— oh, Jesus..."
The explanation went by the wayside as the two dancers just ended up smacking into each other again. Walter guffawed from the sidelines. Maddie, who sat nearby working on Simon's tunic, snort-giggled as well.
"And one, and two, and three side steps on the bourrée. And three side steps on the bourrée..."
"The fuck's a bourrée?" Henry muttered under his breath as he tried to keep up with the tempo.
"The piece you're dancing, you moron," Stella replied, tapping the barrel energetically. "Forward now— and one, two, three, four. And one, two, three, four. And Henry thinks he's leading, but he's actually the— what?"
"The girl!" Maddie called out gleefully, causing Walter to crack up again.
"That's it!" Henry declared with a huff, stomping off to go sit on a stack of wood beside Maddie. "I'm done. See if you do any better with Walter as the butt of your jokes, instead." Walter's laughter cut off abruptly as he looked at Simon and Stella with wide eyes. You'd think Henry had just threatened to murder him or something.
That was the moment Sara came in, carrying a couple of sets of new horseshoes. "Wow, you guys are terrible," she commented as she walked past them to drop off her cargo in the rack with the other riding supplies.
"Oh, and you can do better?" Stella asked, twirling her stick in her hand like a baton.
"I can definitely do better," Sara retorted, crossing her arms now that they were free. "I've read every book I could find on nobility dances. I could probably recite the steps for dozens of pieces in my sleep."
Simon did remember that. She would've been his first option for a dance instructor, honestly, but when this problem had come up earlier, she had already left, and after their argument, he was hesitant to ask her now.
"You learned banquet dancing from books?" Henry asked, understandably skeptical.
Sara nodded. "Banquet dancing is all about patterns and repetition. I'm very good at that."
"So maybe you can teach them instead!" Walter interjected, excited like Sara's revelation could spring him out of dancing death row. Simon highly doubted this would get him out of having to dance even if Sara said yes since Stella steadfastly refused to dance.
Sara did not say yes, however. "Why would I?" was her response instead, her gaze fixed on Simon.
Maddie stared at him, too. "Perhaps there's something you can offer her in exchange, hmm?" she asked, making it very clear that there was a specific "something else" she was referring to. But Simon still hesitated. "Something she really wants?"
"Alright, fine," he gave in at her insistence, taking a deep breath before turning back toward Sara. "I'm... sorry about ordering you around. If you help me with this, you can come with us to Stockholm..." She grinned bright and wide. "...but we'll revisit the matter of you staying in Stockholm once we get there, yeah? I promise to try and understand."
"That's all I wanted. Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She ran to her brother and hugged him tight, which Simon promptly returned. She was smiling as she pulled back, and Simon was glad he could make his sister happy. "Now come on, let's get you ready to impress a prince."
He groaned. "Who told you?"
"You're not as subtle as you think you are," she said teasingly. Simon shook his head but let her have that; she did, after all, know him better than anyone. Then she tilted her head curiously. "You're going to do something about your hair, right?"
Simon lifted a hand to his curls, which admittedly had been frizzy and out of control for weeks— with the heat and the extra sweat from the stress of competing, it was no wonder. "Yeah, I might need some help with that, too."
Sara rolled her eyes at him.
After a few hours, and having pulled Walter to dance with them as well as they needed to even their numbers, they were all well practiced in the chestnut, the farandole, and the saltarello. The passamezzo still seemed to be giving Henry trouble, which Simon couldn't understand since it was basically just walking.
But whatever— Henry wasn't going to the banquet anyway. Simon was. And with all the dance pieces memorized and his new tunic finished, all that was left was to tame down the butterflies in his stomach before he went to see Wille. Hopefully, it would all go well.
.
.
Author's notes!—
"Simón, dónde estás?" means "Simon, where are you?" while "mi vida" means "my life;" it's a term of endearment for loved ones, especially children and romantic partners. The Cedercrantz family is a real Swedish noble family; it started with Johan Malmenius, a businessman and government official who was knighted under the name Cedercrantz in 1678. The knight in this chapter is not meant to be him, but rather I just used his name. Vegeholm is a real castle in Skåne, and it was indeed owned by the Cedercrantz family sometime after Johan's ennoblement, and until 1814.
The story of "The Writing on the Wall" is a biblical passage from chapter 5 of the Book of Daniel that is also known as "Belshazzar's Feast." The titular writing "Mene mene tekel upharsin" is interpreted in the passage itself to mean "numbered, weighed, divided." The "weighed" part of it is translated in the New International Version of the Bible as "You have been weighed on the scales and found wanting," which is what I've gone with, rather than the version used in the movie.
Rousseau in the show is named (I assume) after Jean-Jacques Rousseau, an 18th-century philosopher and artist that greatly influenced the Enlightenment movement in Europe. He was born in Geneva, but his ancestors did flee there from France, so Simon wasn't entirely incorrect in his reading of the name. Gävle is the capital of the Swedish county of Gävleborg, about a two-hour drive north-ish of Stockholm.
The quadrille, the bourrée, the chestnut, the farandole, the saltarello, and the passamezzo are all medieval or Renaissance dances. The quadrille, bourrée, and farandole are all French in origin. The saltarello and the passamezzo are Italian, and the chestnut is British. I won't describe them here, but click on the links to see examples of them on Youtube (or run a Youtube search if you're on FFN and can't see any links).
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Sorry it was a bit shorter than the others; I tried balancing them, but this is the way things shook out. The next one should be longer, hopefully... if I don't end up having to split it in two, that is... I get the feeling certain scenes are going to get real long. ;)
Next up: The banquet! And some other stuff, but let's face it, we're all really here for the banquet. xD
Anyway, 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!
