APH: Chardons aux lys
Title: Chardons aux lys
Characters/Pairings: Scotland, France, England (Scotland/France, some France/Jean d'Arc) mentions of other nations involved in the Italian Wars and other historical figures
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Violence (and disrespect towards the dead)
Summary: War of the Holy League; The Italian Wars. (1513) In which France falls out with the Pope and the dramatic power-shift in Europe leads him to believe he knows exactly what he wants out of it, even if that means the spectacular destruction of his longest alliance.
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9th September 1513; Northumberland (England)
It was over.
And as dusk settled over the battlefield Scotland managed to pull himself up out of the carnage; he shouldered the deadweight of another foot soldier’s arm off his back and raised his head.
White on blue flags fluttered feebly amongst the ruin, and the splintered ends of pikes stuck up everywhere at odd angles, like so many broken twigs growing out of armoured bodies and blood-stained grass. The rampant lion standard lay in tatters and everywhere around him his people lay dead upon the hills of England, a graveyard painted earthy red.
His breath caught in his throat, the cold spreading out from somewhere deep in his chest right down to his fingertips. He narrowed his eyes, trying to adjust to the shadows; to wrap his mind around what had just taken place.
The air stank heavily of cannon fire. Scotland rubbed his dirt-streaked face with his gauntlet to try and disperse it but it lingered, along with the voice in his head, the one that called out feebly,
How did this happen?
His legs felt numb. And when he turned to look behind him he found out why; at least three or four dismembered knights lay piled upon him, crudely stacked and blank-eyed with death.
Three hours they had fought. And in three hours they had…
“James!” the nation called out, and was surprised to find his voice hoarse from breathlessness. He dug his fingers into the dirt, already thick with congealed blood and pushed, dragging himself across the field as he squinted out into the semi-darkness. “Oi, Jimmy boy! Give yer old man a hand, would you?”
His only answer was silence. Scotland ignored the dread and ploughed on, his muscles screaming as he bent his leg and slid forward once more. He tried again. “This ain’t funny, lad. You and I are going to have a long talk about this you hear? Yer military tactics suck balls, and I have half a mind to take you over my knee and wallop y -”
He stopped, hand outstretched to the open palm in front of him, its fingers curled up like a dead spider. He caught the colour of the turquoise stone in the fading light, the thick veins of pale blue still standing out against the gold ring on the middle finger, even though it too, was smeared red with blood.
It was severed, attached only to the wrist by the barest sliver of skin. Scotland’s stomach dropped somewhere down to his feet and just kept going, down, down…
He swore. “God and all his bloody, fucking angels…”
“I expected you to know better,” the person behind him said flatly, and Scotland barely had time to blink before England’s shadow descended out of the darkness behind him.
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12th October 1511; Newhaven (Scotland)
It had taken four years and more coin than he had cared to count, not to mention the blood and sweat of the many shipwrights Scotland had asked of him, but at last it was finished, and as she was launched from her dockyard France could not help but watch and think that there were fewer things as magnificent as the Great Michael.
“Mon dieu Écosse, he murmured, pulling away from the thick oakwood sides and admiring how the bronze cannons glinted in the light as she pulled out into the harbour. “She must be the biggest warship in all Europe.”
Scotland grinned, and he had never looked more handsome, more proud in his moment. “Aye,” he agreed. “Ain’t she a beauty? Just listen to her sing.” He closed his eyes, the wind pinking his cheeks as they whistled through the sails and across the polished deck, all two hundred and forty feet of her.
She was a grand lady, France admitted, but she had cost him a bomb. He had admitted his surprise when Scotland had come to him with the initial plans to build up his navy, for the other nation had never put much emphasis into extravagance and getting him to spend a pretty penny was like trying to squeeze blood out of a stone. But here she was, and the Mary Rose was of no contest. Oh but England must have turned absolutely green, he thought with no small amount of delight.
“Your king has certainly outdone himself,” he remarked, “in pulling you out of the dark ages.”
“Is that what they’re callin’ it?” Scotland drawled, caressing the stern as lovingly as one would a woman. France raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I was going to let you take all the fun out of the Renaissance, did you?”
France responded with a carefully measured shrug, propping his hands up on the quarterdeck and leaning over the edge to watch the three-hundred-strong crew milling about. “Oui, it has put you back on the map. I’m impressed.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye, gauging Scotland’s reaction.
“I wasn’t aware I had disappeared so far into the arse cracks of history,” Scotland said amusedly, coming up behind him. He nosed along the shell of France’s ear, smiling widely against his hair. “But impressin’ you…ach, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
France cocked his head thoughtfully. “I could always use extra hands in my Italian campaign…I know how good you are with your hands,” he added candidly and tilted his head sideways to kiss the corner of Scotland’s mouth, but the other nation pulled back, lips turned down into a frown.
“Let me get this straight…I’ve finally made some semblance o’ peace with the runt after two hundred years and you want me to blow it all for a disastrous date in the Mediterranean?”
“Bien sûr,” France replied without hesitation, and turned in his arms to lace his fingers at the base of Scotland’s neck. “Why with this belle dame on our side, the Holy League will certainly think twice before they ever double-cross me again.” Anger rose like poison in his voice at that, but in the space of a second it was gone. He smiled beatifically.
Scotland gave him a long look. Then he grunted, but it was neither affirmation nor decline. He raked his hand gently through France’s golden hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “Who you do think you are?” he demanded gruffly, “The face that launched a thousand bloody ships?”
That was almost as good as an ‘I’ll think about it’ and he would take it however it came to him. “You have been following the Renaissance,” France noted with satisfaction, and kissed him soundly, the Great Michael rocking with the force of the open sea beneath them.
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9th September 1513; Northumberland (England)
“I didn’t want to do this you know,” England said, in the mild tone of someone who hadn’t, but had somewhere along the way gained appreciation for his efforts and come to enjoy it. “It had nothing to do with you.” He paced up and down by Scotland’s head, his cloak billowing in the chill. When he next turned to look down at his brother his face was puckered with contempt. “But that’s never stopped you before has it?”
Scotland didn’t reply, his own mouth pulled down hard at the corners as he shakily brushed his fingertips over the severed hand lying directly in front of him. The fingers were hard and calloused from years of training with a sword rather than from the chill and stiffness of death, which still had not quite set in. He rubbed at the blood that came away on his palm, wiping it on the grass. He didn’t look up. England sighed and ran his hand down his face.
“You couldn’t just leave world enough alone,” he muttered and went on cuttingly, “Whatever next, James? Are you going to jump off a cliff just because that frog tells you to?”
Scotland’s head snapped up. “Shut yer fuckin’ mouth runt,” he growled, temper flaring. “What, suddenly you’re the innocent party in all this? You invaded him first Artie and you’d do bloody well to remember that. Of course France asked me -”
“Oh he asked you,” England exclaimed with deliberate sarcasm, sidestepping over the body when Scotland made a lunge at him with his outstretched hand. “And here I was thinking you’d become his lapdog. Back out of this war if you know what’s good for you Scotland,” he warned. “Or you’ll lose more than just your king.”
“Shut up!” Scotland snarled, awkwardly poised on his hands and knees above the princely corpse sprawled between them as though that alone would prevent England from defiling the body. His throat felt thick, a million disconnected thoughts already whirling through his head. It was not supposed to be like this. The young king stared up at him with dead eyes, his face already mutilated beyond any immediate recognition. There was an arrow sticking out of his slack, open mouth, the fletching already spattered red from the slit across his neck, crude flaps of skin leaving his throat wide and exposed while what remained of his life bled out of him.
Scotland covered the monarch’s eyes with his hand and pressed his forehead to his brow, gritting his teeth hard enough to crack. “Shut up,” he hissed again. “Or I’ll come right over there and break yer scrawny legs even if I have to drag myself.”
England clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shook his head. “You know if you actually followed through on your threats I might actually believe you one day. But leaving your king wide open, Scotland? I honestly did expect you to know better.” He flexed his wrist, adjusting his armour thoughtfully. “If this is all the wine-bastard has going for him then I’m sorely disappointed. You were barely a distraction.”
“Aye, I didn’a expect you to understand,” his brother remarked, stroking the crown of his fallen king’s head now without really knowing what he was doing. He didn’t look at England. “Never were much good at makin’ friends or keepin’ them were you, Artie? Let me tell you then, when you’ve got an alliance -”
England laughed. “Good god, is that what he said? Oh, James,” he shot his brother a scornful look. “He’s leading you by the nose and you don’t even know it.”
Scotland thought that if he ground his teeth together any harder he would bite his tongue at any given moment. England squatted down beside him. “Look,” he said, “it’s over. You had your chance. Don’t you think it’s time you picked the winning side?”
His brother’s mouth crooked up cruelly; he spat at England’s feet.
“I’ll take my chances.”
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18th May 1513; Palais du Louvre (France)
“You received the envoy I hope?” France asked him, no sooner than Scotland had arrived across the Channel and made his way to Paris. “The money, the arms…? The soldiers? Those are important, you will need those.” He walked quickly down the pristine halls, heeled boots clipping the tiled floor with every long stride as he wrung his hands thoughtfully. Scotland walked at his shoulder, eyes fixed upon France with interest; god if he didn’t look resplendent in blue, and even if he did have a tendency to want to worry his nails with his teeth when he was fretting he couldn’t help but feel that those leggings did very well to accentuate the curve of his -
“Are you listening Écosse?” France demanded, whirling on him with his hands on his hips and eyebrows raised. Scotland looked back on him, the picture of innocence.
“‘Course I’m listenin’,” he said. “Just admirin’ the view is all, don’t get yer knickers in a twist. Everything’s going to be fine.” France pursed his lips.
“Mon grand,” he said, his tone like spun-sugar, as though he were speaking to a witless child. “I don’t know if it has escaped your notice, but your uncouth bully of a brother is hell bent on invading me again. I’ll need to renew our alliance -”
That grabbed his attention. “Renew…?” Scotland repeated in disbelief. “As in… bloody hell Francis, his queen is married to my king, what do you want me to do?”
“I expect you to come to my aid,” France said, simple as you please and turned to continue down the corridor. “Now come, I need to talk to you about the captains I sent…” He broke off when Scotland reached out and grabbed his hand, effectively pulling him back into place and nearly throwing off his balance. His brows drew down, forming lines of irritation between them. “Quoi?”
“My people don’t want war,” Scotland told him seriously. “England and I are at peace and I’d really prefer it to stay that way if it’s all the same. Not that it’s all flowers and sunshine mind you but whatever the hell it is, it’s working out. I can’nae…”
“But for how long?” France replied coldly, trying and failing to shake Scotland’s grip off. “We have a pact, cher, one that is nearly two hundred years older than your agreement with Angleterre. You know the one,” he went on with a distant half-smile and a pointed raise of an eyebrow, “it’s only masquerading as a peace treaty while your king marches up and down the borderlands blasting that overlarge cannon you like so much and veritably asking for it.”
Scotland sighed; he could not deny it. “Francis…”
“I’m not asking much,” the other nation remarked primly, “just make your brother see red a little.” He ghosted his free hand under the curve of Scotland’s jaw, eyes lowered fetchingly to half-mast in such a way that it was rather difficult to look anywhere else. “You always do that so well. Besides, I believe ma reine has already tried to persuade you, non?”
Indeed, Scotland could not remember another time when he had flushed all the way to his ears in the presence of royalty, but Queen Anne was a proud insistent woman, and he had not known what to do but to take the fancy gold and turquoise ring she had presented him from her jewellery box and try not to bluster when she had called his king her champion, imploring them both into battle with the English and handing him a neatly sealed letter that carried the strong smell of perfume.
He rather uncomfortably felt as though he were carrying a private love note between the two and could not even begin to ponder where she got off saying such things. But his king, he had no doubt, would take it as a maiden’s plead and be thrilled at the prospect of battle. Certainly he thought himself as chivalrous as the knights of old.
He worked his jaw slowly, scanning France’s face with his eyes. The Hundred Years War was not even a century behind them; in retrospect he thought France was probably rather fed up with being invaded. He didn’t blame him. After what England had done the first time round…
It was persuasion enough, all the jewels and maidens be damned. He curled his fingers around France’s wrist, pulling the hand away from his face.
“Take the Michael,” he said seriously and France’s eyebrows climbed all the way to his hairline at that, all pretence of annoyance forgotten.
It was something Scotland could momentarily revel in. He squeezed the other nation’s hands; they were soft, perfumed and carefully manicured - and at any other time he would have teased him raucously about it.
“You’ll be wantin’ to take that cannon you’re always harpin’ on about while yer at it,” he went on. “Michael’s a beauty and she only deserves the best. Blow the English right out of the water for me, eh? I’ll take care of the rest.”
France’s mouth was moving in wordless disbelief. He shook his head a little. “She’s your biggest warship -”
“Aye and a fat lot of good she’s going to do me on land,” Scotland replied with a snort. He framed France’s face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across his cheekbones. “You just do me a favour and keep yer pretty little head down. The last thing we need is anyone seizing vital regions around these parts.”
The corners of France’s mouth tugged upwards into a rueful smile. “Why mon grand,” he drawled. “Are you worried about me?” Scotland returned the expression with a faintly reassuring smile of his own.
“You said it yourself,” he retorted. “Some alliances are older than others.”
France ‘hmm’ed thoughtfully at this and curled his fingers over Scotland’s, pushing his hands down and folding them together between them. “Indeed they are,” he mused and smirked a little from under his lashes, “Mon champion.”
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9th September 1513; Northumberland (England)
England kicked him in the face. Scotland’s head snapped to the side with a crack that sounded awfully like his jaw fracturing but the white hot pain was gone almost as instantly as it had come.
“Your ability to heal as quickly as you do has never ceased to amaze me,” his brother observed. “A shame the same can’t be said for your temper, or your manners.”
Scotland coughed and grinned sharply, showing bloody teeth. “Well aren’t we noble. It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it Artie. How’s Portugal these days? You fucked him yet? Or are you too afraid he’ll find out yer balls still haven’t dropped?”
That time he got England’s boot right in the eye. The pain was enormous, and colour bloomed in front of his vision in bursts and sparks, but Scotland only laughed. It was a triumphant, ragged sound, but worth it all the same to see England’s face darken like thunder.
“At least he fights his own battles,” his brother said waspishly and added weight to the statement by bringing his foot down flat on the corpse between them. Scotland stopped laughing. England went on, leaning in closer, “He doesn’t take the coward’s way out by sending cannon fodder into the fields while he idles around in his ivory tower playing the waiting game.”
He pushed down harder against the king’s chest and sneered. “You weren’t even a distraction.”
There was a sickening snap then, the sound of ribs breaking like branches underfoot. The body shuddered spasmodically.
And Scotland saw red.
He bellowed an incomprehensible string of curses in Gaelic and lunged at England, wanting to crush his leg with his bare hands for desecrating his king’s body and he had no right, he had no fucking right -
Yet either he was still too sluggish from the battle or it was just that England was faster (the runt had always been faster but now he was stronger) but whatever the reason was he didn’t see it coming until England took a hasty step back and grabbed at the fallen king’s sword.
By then it was too late to react. England drew his arm back and hit him over the temple with the hard edge of the scabbard. Then when Scotland reeled backwards he slammed his heel down on his fingers. There was another dull sound as he felt the bones in his hand splintering and the other nation gritted his teeth so hard against the pain the tendons of his neck bulged; he was sure by now that his face must have been near purple with rage.
“What are you doing?” England demanded once he had caught his breath, gripping the bloody sword in a white-knuckled fist as he put all his weight into pinning his brother’s ruined hand to his monarch’s equally broken breastbone. His words echoed emptily in Scotland’s ringing head.
“James,” he called out and there was something exasperated to his tone now. He hadn’t been talking about their scuffle. “James, be honest. What did you hope to gain from this?”
What did it matter what he’d have gained, Scotland thought, his ears buzzing. The concussion was spinning circles around his consciousness. There was no chance of ever getting it back now anyway.
“I wanted…” he began thickly, but England cut him off.
“God and the King man, when was the last time that French frog ever stuck his neck out for you?” he wanted to know.
Scotland couldn’t answer him. He tried, and even managed to open and close his mouth a few times, but he found any and all instances escaping him. The sharp pain in his hand was almost unbearable now. “Well if you’re going to go around takin’ every bloody eye for an eye,” he retorted after an uncomfortable silence but England just shook his head and sighed.
“Well it’s not as though this is the end,” he remarked, drawing the sword from its sheath in one smooth, languid motion. “This doesn’t have to drive a wedge between us. Margaret is still Henry’s sister when it comes down to it. Her son will rise to take the place of your ill-begotten king.” He examined his reflection in the flat of the blade. “Blood as they say, will tell.”
Scotland attempted to move his fingers. He managed to draw himself halfway up on his knees. “Ha,” he breathed. “Now you’re just pullin’ shit out o’ yer arse. If you think just because that lass is a relation of yer crown that this means everything’s going to be a fuckin’ bed o’ roses between us, you’ve got another thing coming.”
England frowned. “An alliance -”
“Say whatever the hell you want, runt.” Scotland levelled him with a dirty look. “Some alliances are worth more than others.” England stared at him.
“Indeed,” he said at last, brows drawing together in some semblance of haughtiness. His eyes ran across the length of the weapon in his hand again; he wrapped his fingers around the grip and tested its weight with a low-arced swing. Then he fisted the hilt, the tip of the blade levelled and pointing downwards.
“More’s the pity,” he added, moving his foot and stabbing the blade in a fierce, downward thrust over his brother’s palm, the bloody steel biting through skin and bone and the dead king’s heart to sink into the thick, muddy soil underfoot.
And the rampant lion of Scotland, lying broken upon the flowers and fields of Flodden, roared.
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17th September 1513; Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer (France)
France leaned against the window, eyes fixated in the direction of the port. The Michael was moored there, yet to see action while England’s boorish king was making himself at home just north in Calais.
He’d been here a month since late August, and already two cities had fallen. Switzerland had driven him out of Milan and almost out of Italy entire, but Spain had been quick to fall in to take his place. The traitor, France seethed. How quick people turn on you when they don’t quite fancy you winning the game. He would have to regroup, though he did not revel in having to face the Swiss mercenaries again and everything would be a lot simpler he thought sullenly, if England was not so insistent on being an invasive busybody.
“There you are, you worthless frog.”
Speak of the devil. France huffed and ran his hand back through his hair. He turned around and fixed England with raised eyebrows. “Sourcils,” he replied amiably with a half-smile. “Have you still not learnt how to knock?”
England closed the door behind him. “I’m not here to mince words,” he said flatly and returned the smile somewhat cruelly, “but my king wished me to convey this gift to you, seeing how he has no use for it any longer. Why, it’s just about ruined. But I’m sure you’ll appreciate it much more than he would.”
He proceeded to unfurl a blood-drenched surcoat with unnecessary flourish, much to France’s disgust. “You are utterly tasteless Angleterre,” he replied and inwardly recoiled when England draped the folded garment over a pristine armchair. The blood had dried so long ago that it had gone from red to brown and the stench was otherworldly. He pressed his sleeve over his face and glowered a little. England went on smiling.
“My queen only regrets that she could not send the head,” he went on, “but you see it would be rather difficult to ship the body all the way from York just to make a point.”
“And what an example it is mon petit chou,” France said sarcastically, his words somewhat muffled. “Cher Seigneur, take it away and burn it or it’ll linger around the castle for days. Really Angleterre, if you wanted to give me an article of clothing I’d have been just as happy with your underclothes.”
The smile left England’s face almost immediately and he reddened, spluttering incomprehensibly for a few minutes before he heaved in a breath and exclaimed, “You have no idea do you?”
France narrowed his eyes a little. “If I say ‘oui’ are you likely to go away and take that filth with you?” he asked. “Pray tell me, sourcils. I know you’re dying to lord it over me.”
England wadded the surcoat into a ball and threw it at him. He caught it on reflex but threw it down almost immediately after, his face puckered in mild horror.
“The next time you get my brother to bleed for you,” the other nation said, “you had better hope he fares better than the average moving target.”
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18th September 1513; Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer (France)
Scotland healed a great deal faster than any other nation France had encountered; he was as resilient as those weeds he called flowers, hardier than any thistle and just as prickly.
He had the gall to smile at France the moment his ship pulled into the harbour, and though it was a little crooked and worn the expression held its usual warmth. Coupled with the faded swelling of a blackened eye and the fact that his arm was in a sling, he looked a right sight indeed.
France pressed his lips together until they thinned, bloodless, into a white line.
“Well yer lookin’ right as rain,” Scotland observed aloud once he had landed. His left hand hung limp in its trappings and the other nation noted the raw pink skin just under the knuckles; the stab wound was clean, though the joints looked uneven and with luck, England had said to him darkly, Scotland would never swing a sword again.
The other nation caught him staring. “What, this?” Scotland asked and flexed his arm a little. “It’s not as bad as it is ugly, honestly. Been havin’ an arse of a time tryin’ to do everythin’ right-handed but it could be worse eh?”
France found he had no room for patience. Something hard had caught in his throat. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. Scotland raised his eyebrows.
“This is a friendly port o’ call ain’t it? You can’t be expecting me to head up to Calais with a supply ship can you? They’re up to their eyeballs in Englishmen.”
It was then that France realized that the hard feeling that was choking him up was beyond irritation, it was rage. “I don’t know what to expect of you,” he spat, “seeing that I had to wait until Angleterre showed up flinging blood-stained articles of clothing and gloating to my face that you took over thirty thousand men to the border and lost a further nine thousand in battle. Mon dieu Écosse, what were you thinking?”
A shadow flickered over Scotland’s face and came back to settle there. “Did it work?”
“Did it -” France looked at him wide-eyed. “Cher…”
“He knew what he was gettin’ into and damned the consequences,” the other nation replied, looking down and a little to the side, his mouth turning down hard at the corners. “He was a good kid; bit o’ a lousy show-off though.”
“Non,” he said tersely and looked close to wringing his hands a little. “Non, you do not just damn the consequences, mon grand. Taking ridiculous, unnecessary risks like exposing your king is -”
“Aye I fucked it up royally,” Scotland grumbled darkly, and refused to look at him. “Yer not the first to tell me that. Look, the point is it worked didn’t it?”
France crossed his arms over his chest. He did not like the way Scotland was putting emphasis on those words; he liked it even less that there had been no point to the venture; that this hadn’t been quite what he had in mind when he had renewed the alliance and the Holy League would run him out of Italy within the year and he would not let that happen.
Scotland looked uncomfortable; he tilted his head and ducked down a little to France’s eye level, trying to look at the expression on his face. “Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, look. It’s not the end of the world. I found myself a new king, didn’t I?”
“Un enfant,” France exclaimed. “Who cannot walk nor talk, let alone run a kingdom!” Which ruined his campaign in the long run; a king barely out of the cradle could not agree to the terms of their alliance without consulting their regent; and as luck would have it in this case that regent was only the sister to the King of England. It spelled all sorts of consequences, ones which France was not ready to deal with. “Why?” he wanted to know, quite ready to just bury his face in his hands and bemoan its ruin. “Why?”
Scotland shrugged; he smiled a little lopsidedly, green eyes stark against the colourful standard of bruises, a testament to the beating he had taken.
“Some alliances are older than others,” he repeated those fateful words France had parroted back to him all those months ago, when the question of aid had been idle, and the outcome hadn’t felt like so heavy a burden. “England can do to me what he bloody well likes but that won’t change a thing.” He leaned down and looked directly into France’s eyes.
“I know exactly what I’m fighting for.”
There was an intensity to his eyes, one that spoke very little of diplomatic relations and when France backed up a step he did it without being wholly aware of doing so, until Scotland did the same thing himself and stared after him, then he opened his mouth as though he were either going to repeat it or take the whole thing back.
France did not understand; he did not want to. And he certainly did not want to hover around to find out either. He did not think he could handle it on top of everything else.
It went beyond the alliance.
But he was not prepared for it and he doubted he would ever be. It brought back memories that he had thought to have put behind him; of lilies and farm girls in armour, of great sieges, the word of God and her devotion; and how she had burned at the stake for her love of him.
“Then fight,” he said at last, when he felt sure the words would not tumble out of him in such a way that he would embarrass himself. “But not for me.”
And he walked away, leaving the other nation to wonder at his retreating back with incredulity.
-
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-
[End]
A/N: Because I was inspired by discussing this pairing with moonlighten and it led me to want to do some historical fic on how the Auld Alliance imploded and fell apart, successfully ruining the France/Scotland relationship for the first time around until the subsequent Union of Crowns (1707) and how it all came back together ever after.
England stabbing Scotland in the hand is supposed to be symbolic of the weakening of the Scottish Crown - it's supposed to be his dominant hand, he never quite uses it the same after that, even after he heals right up. |D
Auld Alliance: The ancient alliance between Scotland and France; at 700 years old it claims to be the oldest in the world, even though it faded into history around the 16th century as a military alliance, culturally they do seem to be still pretty much in love with each other. |D
War of the Holy League: A major part of the Italian Wars. Long story short, initially it was everyone against the Venetians (ie. Spain, France, HRE and Switzerland etc) but then France fell out with the Pope and everyone turned against him to try and boot him out of Italy instead orz.
Anglo-Scottish Wars: The conflicts between Scotland and England in the 16th century, most of them going on the same time as the Italian Wars stated above. Because England still hadn't given up in annexing Scotland. |D
Battle of Flodden: The major battle mentioned here, when James IV of Scotland invaded England in fulfillment of his alliance with France. England had invaded France, so France renewed the Auld Alliance, and so Scotland was bound to defend France against English invaders. But the battle was a complete disaster. James IV was a military amateur in comparison to England's commanders.
The Great Michael: You know how big this ship was? Bigger than Nelson's HMS Victory. It also had the biggest artillery gun ever for a warship (Mons Meg, a medieval supergun). Sadly she was sold to the French after the disaster at Flodden and rotted to pieces, never to see battle. What a waste.
The Mary Rose: During this time period Scotland and England were having an arms race to see who could build up the biggest Royal Navy. And for a while Scotland was actually winning - he built all the biggest ships and England spent a lot of his time just countering them. The Mary Rose was Henry VIII's answer to James IV's Great Michael. She was eventually sunk by the French in a harbour battle a few decades later.
Queen Anne: Anne of Brittany was a queen consort of France. She is remembered as a proud, haughty woman but nonetheless the richest in Europe at the time. She was known to keep a jewellry box filled with gems, and would often give random ones to her guests. She also wrote a letter to James IV, imploring him to "take but three steps onto English soil and break a lance for my sake".
Margaret Tudor: Sister of Henry VIII and wife of James IV of Scotland. Because of their marriage England and Scotland were experiencing a peaceful, prosperous period, but Scotland threw that all away by saying he would fight for France orz. France also later got worried that she would cause the Auld Alliance to be broken off, as she was mother to the infant James V and would rule as regent in his place for as long as she remained unmarried.
James IV of Scotland: Along with a string of nobility, he was killed at Flodden Field by the English, in much the same way I mentioned in the fic. His clothes were sent from the battlefield to Henry VIII by his wife Catherine of Aragon, along with a letter saying she lamented that she couldn't send his head along with it. His body was severely mistreated and in the end was dumped in a mass grave. He was a great Rennaissance king and honestly his sense of chivalry was what got him killed. He just couldn't say no to France orz.
Henry VIII of England: Henry was still a young king during this period in history, charasmatic and powerful and intellectual, the first of England's kings to have had a great education. He was still married to Catherine of Aragon, the daughter of the Catholic Monarchs Isabella and Ferdinand of Castile and Aragon (Spain) and was at this stage, still a big devotee of the Catholic Church. He invaded France through Calais during the Italian Wars and occupied at least two towns in that area during the Battle of Spurs in August 1513.
lol history notes ftw. I'm pretty sure that's everything orz. I'll double-check tomorrow morning. |D
Characters/Pairings: Scotland, France, England (Scotland/France, some France/Jean d'Arc) mentions of other nations involved in the Italian Wars and other historical figures
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Violence (and disrespect towards the dead)
Summary: War of the Holy League; The Italian Wars. (1513) In which France falls out with the Pope and the dramatic power-shift in Europe leads him to believe he knows exactly what he wants out of it, even if that means the spectacular destruction of his longest alliance.
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9th September 1513; Northumberland (England)
It was over.
And as dusk settled over the battlefield Scotland managed to pull himself up out of the carnage; he shouldered the deadweight of another foot soldier’s arm off his back and raised his head.
White on blue flags fluttered feebly amongst the ruin, and the splintered ends of pikes stuck up everywhere at odd angles, like so many broken twigs growing out of armoured bodies and blood-stained grass. The rampant lion standard lay in tatters and everywhere around him his people lay dead upon the hills of England, a graveyard painted earthy red.
His breath caught in his throat, the cold spreading out from somewhere deep in his chest right down to his fingertips. He narrowed his eyes, trying to adjust to the shadows; to wrap his mind around what had just taken place.
The air stank heavily of cannon fire. Scotland rubbed his dirt-streaked face with his gauntlet to try and disperse it but it lingered, along with the voice in his head, the one that called out feebly,
How did this happen?
His legs felt numb. And when he turned to look behind him he found out why; at least three or four dismembered knights lay piled upon him, crudely stacked and blank-eyed with death.
Three hours they had fought. And in three hours they had…
“James!” the nation called out, and was surprised to find his voice hoarse from breathlessness. He dug his fingers into the dirt, already thick with congealed blood and pushed, dragging himself across the field as he squinted out into the semi-darkness. “Oi, Jimmy boy! Give yer old man a hand, would you?”
His only answer was silence. Scotland ignored the dread and ploughed on, his muscles screaming as he bent his leg and slid forward once more. He tried again. “This ain’t funny, lad. You and I are going to have a long talk about this you hear? Yer military tactics suck balls, and I have half a mind to take you over my knee and wallop y -”
He stopped, hand outstretched to the open palm in front of him, its fingers curled up like a dead spider. He caught the colour of the turquoise stone in the fading light, the thick veins of pale blue still standing out against the gold ring on the middle finger, even though it too, was smeared red with blood.
It was severed, attached only to the wrist by the barest sliver of skin. Scotland’s stomach dropped somewhere down to his feet and just kept going, down, down…
He swore. “God and all his bloody, fucking angels…”
“I expected you to know better,” the person behind him said flatly, and Scotland barely had time to blink before England’s shadow descended out of the darkness behind him.
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12th October 1511; Newhaven (Scotland)
It had taken four years and more coin than he had cared to count, not to mention the blood and sweat of the many shipwrights Scotland had asked of him, but at last it was finished, and as she was launched from her dockyard France could not help but watch and think that there were fewer things as magnificent as the Great Michael.
“Mon dieu Écosse, he murmured, pulling away from the thick oakwood sides and admiring how the bronze cannons glinted in the light as she pulled out into the harbour. “She must be the biggest warship in all Europe.”
Scotland grinned, and he had never looked more handsome, more proud in his moment. “Aye,” he agreed. “Ain’t she a beauty? Just listen to her sing.” He closed his eyes, the wind pinking his cheeks as they whistled through the sails and across the polished deck, all two hundred and forty feet of her.
She was a grand lady, France admitted, but she had cost him a bomb. He had admitted his surprise when Scotland had come to him with the initial plans to build up his navy, for the other nation had never put much emphasis into extravagance and getting him to spend a pretty penny was like trying to squeeze blood out of a stone. But here she was, and the Mary Rose was of no contest. Oh but England must have turned absolutely green, he thought with no small amount of delight.
“Your king has certainly outdone himself,” he remarked, “in pulling you out of the dark ages.”
“Is that what they’re callin’ it?” Scotland drawled, caressing the stern as lovingly as one would a woman. France raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I was going to let you take all the fun out of the Renaissance, did you?”
France responded with a carefully measured shrug, propping his hands up on the quarterdeck and leaning over the edge to watch the three-hundred-strong crew milling about. “Oui, it has put you back on the map. I’m impressed.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye, gauging Scotland’s reaction.
“I wasn’t aware I had disappeared so far into the arse cracks of history,” Scotland said amusedly, coming up behind him. He nosed along the shell of France’s ear, smiling widely against his hair. “But impressin’ you…ach, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
France cocked his head thoughtfully. “I could always use extra hands in my Italian campaign…I know how good you are with your hands,” he added candidly and tilted his head sideways to kiss the corner of Scotland’s mouth, but the other nation pulled back, lips turned down into a frown.
“Let me get this straight…I’ve finally made some semblance o’ peace with the runt after two hundred years and you want me to blow it all for a disastrous date in the Mediterranean?”
“Bien sûr,” France replied without hesitation, and turned in his arms to lace his fingers at the base of Scotland’s neck. “Why with this belle dame on our side, the Holy League will certainly think twice before they ever double-cross me again.” Anger rose like poison in his voice at that, but in the space of a second it was gone. He smiled beatifically.
Scotland gave him a long look. Then he grunted, but it was neither affirmation nor decline. He raked his hand gently through France’s golden hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “Who you do think you are?” he demanded gruffly, “The face that launched a thousand bloody ships?”
That was almost as good as an ‘I’ll think about it’ and he would take it however it came to him. “You have been following the Renaissance,” France noted with satisfaction, and kissed him soundly, the Great Michael rocking with the force of the open sea beneath them.
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9th September 1513; Northumberland (England)
“I didn’t want to do this you know,” England said, in the mild tone of someone who hadn’t, but had somewhere along the way gained appreciation for his efforts and come to enjoy it. “It had nothing to do with you.” He paced up and down by Scotland’s head, his cloak billowing in the chill. When he next turned to look down at his brother his face was puckered with contempt. “But that’s never stopped you before has it?”
Scotland didn’t reply, his own mouth pulled down hard at the corners as he shakily brushed his fingertips over the severed hand lying directly in front of him. The fingers were hard and calloused from years of training with a sword rather than from the chill and stiffness of death, which still had not quite set in. He rubbed at the blood that came away on his palm, wiping it on the grass. He didn’t look up. England sighed and ran his hand down his face.
“You couldn’t just leave world enough alone,” he muttered and went on cuttingly, “Whatever next, James? Are you going to jump off a cliff just because that frog tells you to?”
Scotland’s head snapped up. “Shut yer fuckin’ mouth runt,” he growled, temper flaring. “What, suddenly you’re the innocent party in all this? You invaded him first Artie and you’d do bloody well to remember that. Of course France asked me -”
“Oh he asked you,” England exclaimed with deliberate sarcasm, sidestepping over the body when Scotland made a lunge at him with his outstretched hand. “And here I was thinking you’d become his lapdog. Back out of this war if you know what’s good for you Scotland,” he warned. “Or you’ll lose more than just your king.”
“Shut up!” Scotland snarled, awkwardly poised on his hands and knees above the princely corpse sprawled between them as though that alone would prevent England from defiling the body. His throat felt thick, a million disconnected thoughts already whirling through his head. It was not supposed to be like this. The young king stared up at him with dead eyes, his face already mutilated beyond any immediate recognition. There was an arrow sticking out of his slack, open mouth, the fletching already spattered red from the slit across his neck, crude flaps of skin leaving his throat wide and exposed while what remained of his life bled out of him.
Scotland covered the monarch’s eyes with his hand and pressed his forehead to his brow, gritting his teeth hard enough to crack. “Shut up,” he hissed again. “Or I’ll come right over there and break yer scrawny legs even if I have to drag myself.”
England clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shook his head. “You know if you actually followed through on your threats I might actually believe you one day. But leaving your king wide open, Scotland? I honestly did expect you to know better.” He flexed his wrist, adjusting his armour thoughtfully. “If this is all the wine-bastard has going for him then I’m sorely disappointed. You were barely a distraction.”
“Aye, I didn’a expect you to understand,” his brother remarked, stroking the crown of his fallen king’s head now without really knowing what he was doing. He didn’t look at England. “Never were much good at makin’ friends or keepin’ them were you, Artie? Let me tell you then, when you’ve got an alliance -”
England laughed. “Good god, is that what he said? Oh, James,” he shot his brother a scornful look. “He’s leading you by the nose and you don’t even know it.”
Scotland thought that if he ground his teeth together any harder he would bite his tongue at any given moment. England squatted down beside him. “Look,” he said, “it’s over. You had your chance. Don’t you think it’s time you picked the winning side?”
His brother’s mouth crooked up cruelly; he spat at England’s feet.
“I’ll take my chances.”
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18th May 1513; Palais du Louvre (France)
“You received the envoy I hope?” France asked him, no sooner than Scotland had arrived across the Channel and made his way to Paris. “The money, the arms…? The soldiers? Those are important, you will need those.” He walked quickly down the pristine halls, heeled boots clipping the tiled floor with every long stride as he wrung his hands thoughtfully. Scotland walked at his shoulder, eyes fixed upon France with interest; god if he didn’t look resplendent in blue, and even if he did have a tendency to want to worry his nails with his teeth when he was fretting he couldn’t help but feel that those leggings did very well to accentuate the curve of his -
“Are you listening Écosse?” France demanded, whirling on him with his hands on his hips and eyebrows raised. Scotland looked back on him, the picture of innocence.
“‘Course I’m listenin’,” he said. “Just admirin’ the view is all, don’t get yer knickers in a twist. Everything’s going to be fine.” France pursed his lips.
“Mon grand,” he said, his tone like spun-sugar, as though he were speaking to a witless child. “I don’t know if it has escaped your notice, but your uncouth bully of a brother is hell bent on invading me again. I’ll need to renew our alliance -”
That grabbed his attention. “Renew…?” Scotland repeated in disbelief. “As in… bloody hell Francis, his queen is married to my king, what do you want me to do?”
“I expect you to come to my aid,” France said, simple as you please and turned to continue down the corridor. “Now come, I need to talk to you about the captains I sent…” He broke off when Scotland reached out and grabbed his hand, effectively pulling him back into place and nearly throwing off his balance. His brows drew down, forming lines of irritation between them. “Quoi?”
“My people don’t want war,” Scotland told him seriously. “England and I are at peace and I’d really prefer it to stay that way if it’s all the same. Not that it’s all flowers and sunshine mind you but whatever the hell it is, it’s working out. I can’nae…”
“But for how long?” France replied coldly, trying and failing to shake Scotland’s grip off. “We have a pact, cher, one that is nearly two hundred years older than your agreement with Angleterre. You know the one,” he went on with a distant half-smile and a pointed raise of an eyebrow, “it’s only masquerading as a peace treaty while your king marches up and down the borderlands blasting that overlarge cannon you like so much and veritably asking for it.”
Scotland sighed; he could not deny it. “Francis…”
“I’m not asking much,” the other nation remarked primly, “just make your brother see red a little.” He ghosted his free hand under the curve of Scotland’s jaw, eyes lowered fetchingly to half-mast in such a way that it was rather difficult to look anywhere else. “You always do that so well. Besides, I believe ma reine has already tried to persuade you, non?”
Indeed, Scotland could not remember another time when he had flushed all the way to his ears in the presence of royalty, but Queen Anne was a proud insistent woman, and he had not known what to do but to take the fancy gold and turquoise ring she had presented him from her jewellery box and try not to bluster when she had called his king her champion, imploring them both into battle with the English and handing him a neatly sealed letter that carried the strong smell of perfume.
He rather uncomfortably felt as though he were carrying a private love note between the two and could not even begin to ponder where she got off saying such things. But his king, he had no doubt, would take it as a maiden’s plead and be thrilled at the prospect of battle. Certainly he thought himself as chivalrous as the knights of old.
He worked his jaw slowly, scanning France’s face with his eyes. The Hundred Years War was not even a century behind them; in retrospect he thought France was probably rather fed up with being invaded. He didn’t blame him. After what England had done the first time round…
It was persuasion enough, all the jewels and maidens be damned. He curled his fingers around France’s wrist, pulling the hand away from his face.
“Take the Michael,” he said seriously and France’s eyebrows climbed all the way to his hairline at that, all pretence of annoyance forgotten.
It was something Scotland could momentarily revel in. He squeezed the other nation’s hands; they were soft, perfumed and carefully manicured - and at any other time he would have teased him raucously about it.
“You’ll be wantin’ to take that cannon you’re always harpin’ on about while yer at it,” he went on. “Michael’s a beauty and she only deserves the best. Blow the English right out of the water for me, eh? I’ll take care of the rest.”
France’s mouth was moving in wordless disbelief. He shook his head a little. “She’s your biggest warship -”
“Aye and a fat lot of good she’s going to do me on land,” Scotland replied with a snort. He framed France’s face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across his cheekbones. “You just do me a favour and keep yer pretty little head down. The last thing we need is anyone seizing vital regions around these parts.”
The corners of France’s mouth tugged upwards into a rueful smile. “Why mon grand,” he drawled. “Are you worried about me?” Scotland returned the expression with a faintly reassuring smile of his own.
“You said it yourself,” he retorted. “Some alliances are older than others.”
France ‘hmm’ed thoughtfully at this and curled his fingers over Scotland’s, pushing his hands down and folding them together between them. “Indeed they are,” he mused and smirked a little from under his lashes, “Mon champion.”
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9th September 1513; Northumberland (England)
England kicked him in the face. Scotland’s head snapped to the side with a crack that sounded awfully like his jaw fracturing but the white hot pain was gone almost as instantly as it had come.
“Your ability to heal as quickly as you do has never ceased to amaze me,” his brother observed. “A shame the same can’t be said for your temper, or your manners.”
Scotland coughed and grinned sharply, showing bloody teeth. “Well aren’t we noble. It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it Artie. How’s Portugal these days? You fucked him yet? Or are you too afraid he’ll find out yer balls still haven’t dropped?”
That time he got England’s boot right in the eye. The pain was enormous, and colour bloomed in front of his vision in bursts and sparks, but Scotland only laughed. It was a triumphant, ragged sound, but worth it all the same to see England’s face darken like thunder.
“At least he fights his own battles,” his brother said waspishly and added weight to the statement by bringing his foot down flat on the corpse between them. Scotland stopped laughing. England went on, leaning in closer, “He doesn’t take the coward’s way out by sending cannon fodder into the fields while he idles around in his ivory tower playing the waiting game.”
He pushed down harder against the king’s chest and sneered. “You weren’t even a distraction.”
There was a sickening snap then, the sound of ribs breaking like branches underfoot. The body shuddered spasmodically.
And Scotland saw red.
He bellowed an incomprehensible string of curses in Gaelic and lunged at England, wanting to crush his leg with his bare hands for desecrating his king’s body and he had no right, he had no fucking right -
Yet either he was still too sluggish from the battle or it was just that England was faster (the runt had always been faster but now he was stronger) but whatever the reason was he didn’t see it coming until England took a hasty step back and grabbed at the fallen king’s sword.
By then it was too late to react. England drew his arm back and hit him over the temple with the hard edge of the scabbard. Then when Scotland reeled backwards he slammed his heel down on his fingers. There was another dull sound as he felt the bones in his hand splintering and the other nation gritted his teeth so hard against the pain the tendons of his neck bulged; he was sure by now that his face must have been near purple with rage.
“What are you doing?” England demanded once he had caught his breath, gripping the bloody sword in a white-knuckled fist as he put all his weight into pinning his brother’s ruined hand to his monarch’s equally broken breastbone. His words echoed emptily in Scotland’s ringing head.
“James,” he called out and there was something exasperated to his tone now. He hadn’t been talking about their scuffle. “James, be honest. What did you hope to gain from this?”
What did it matter what he’d have gained, Scotland thought, his ears buzzing. The concussion was spinning circles around his consciousness. There was no chance of ever getting it back now anyway.
“I wanted…” he began thickly, but England cut him off.
“God and the King man, when was the last time that French frog ever stuck his neck out for you?” he wanted to know.
Scotland couldn’t answer him. He tried, and even managed to open and close his mouth a few times, but he found any and all instances escaping him. The sharp pain in his hand was almost unbearable now. “Well if you’re going to go around takin’ every bloody eye for an eye,” he retorted after an uncomfortable silence but England just shook his head and sighed.
“Well it’s not as though this is the end,” he remarked, drawing the sword from its sheath in one smooth, languid motion. “This doesn’t have to drive a wedge between us. Margaret is still Henry’s sister when it comes down to it. Her son will rise to take the place of your ill-begotten king.” He examined his reflection in the flat of the blade. “Blood as they say, will tell.”
Scotland attempted to move his fingers. He managed to draw himself halfway up on his knees. “Ha,” he breathed. “Now you’re just pullin’ shit out o’ yer arse. If you think just because that lass is a relation of yer crown that this means everything’s going to be a fuckin’ bed o’ roses between us, you’ve got another thing coming.”
England frowned. “An alliance -”
“Say whatever the hell you want, runt.” Scotland levelled him with a dirty look. “Some alliances are worth more than others.” England stared at him.
“Indeed,” he said at last, brows drawing together in some semblance of haughtiness. His eyes ran across the length of the weapon in his hand again; he wrapped his fingers around the grip and tested its weight with a low-arced swing. Then he fisted the hilt, the tip of the blade levelled and pointing downwards.
“More’s the pity,” he added, moving his foot and stabbing the blade in a fierce, downward thrust over his brother’s palm, the bloody steel biting through skin and bone and the dead king’s heart to sink into the thick, muddy soil underfoot.
And the rampant lion of Scotland, lying broken upon the flowers and fields of Flodden, roared.
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17th September 1513; Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer (France)
France leaned against the window, eyes fixated in the direction of the port. The Michael was moored there, yet to see action while England’s boorish king was making himself at home just north in Calais.
He’d been here a month since late August, and already two cities had fallen. Switzerland had driven him out of Milan and almost out of Italy entire, but Spain had been quick to fall in to take his place. The traitor, France seethed. How quick people turn on you when they don’t quite fancy you winning the game. He would have to regroup, though he did not revel in having to face the Swiss mercenaries again and everything would be a lot simpler he thought sullenly, if England was not so insistent on being an invasive busybody.
“There you are, you worthless frog.”
Speak of the devil. France huffed and ran his hand back through his hair. He turned around and fixed England with raised eyebrows. “Sourcils,” he replied amiably with a half-smile. “Have you still not learnt how to knock?”
England closed the door behind him. “I’m not here to mince words,” he said flatly and returned the smile somewhat cruelly, “but my king wished me to convey this gift to you, seeing how he has no use for it any longer. Why, it’s just about ruined. But I’m sure you’ll appreciate it much more than he would.”
He proceeded to unfurl a blood-drenched surcoat with unnecessary flourish, much to France’s disgust. “You are utterly tasteless Angleterre,” he replied and inwardly recoiled when England draped the folded garment over a pristine armchair. The blood had dried so long ago that it had gone from red to brown and the stench was otherworldly. He pressed his sleeve over his face and glowered a little. England went on smiling.
“My queen only regrets that she could not send the head,” he went on, “but you see it would be rather difficult to ship the body all the way from York just to make a point.”
“And what an example it is mon petit chou,” France said sarcastically, his words somewhat muffled. “Cher Seigneur, take it away and burn it or it’ll linger around the castle for days. Really Angleterre, if you wanted to give me an article of clothing I’d have been just as happy with your underclothes.”
The smile left England’s face almost immediately and he reddened, spluttering incomprehensibly for a few minutes before he heaved in a breath and exclaimed, “You have no idea do you?”
France narrowed his eyes a little. “If I say ‘oui’ are you likely to go away and take that filth with you?” he asked. “Pray tell me, sourcils. I know you’re dying to lord it over me.”
England wadded the surcoat into a ball and threw it at him. He caught it on reflex but threw it down almost immediately after, his face puckered in mild horror.
“The next time you get my brother to bleed for you,” the other nation said, “you had better hope he fares better than the average moving target.”
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18th September 1513; Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer (France)
Scotland healed a great deal faster than any other nation France had encountered; he was as resilient as those weeds he called flowers, hardier than any thistle and just as prickly.
He had the gall to smile at France the moment his ship pulled into the harbour, and though it was a little crooked and worn the expression held its usual warmth. Coupled with the faded swelling of a blackened eye and the fact that his arm was in a sling, he looked a right sight indeed.
France pressed his lips together until they thinned, bloodless, into a white line.
“Well yer lookin’ right as rain,” Scotland observed aloud once he had landed. His left hand hung limp in its trappings and the other nation noted the raw pink skin just under the knuckles; the stab wound was clean, though the joints looked uneven and with luck, England had said to him darkly, Scotland would never swing a sword again.
The other nation caught him staring. “What, this?” Scotland asked and flexed his arm a little. “It’s not as bad as it is ugly, honestly. Been havin’ an arse of a time tryin’ to do everythin’ right-handed but it could be worse eh?”
France found he had no room for patience. Something hard had caught in his throat. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. Scotland raised his eyebrows.
“This is a friendly port o’ call ain’t it? You can’t be expecting me to head up to Calais with a supply ship can you? They’re up to their eyeballs in Englishmen.”
It was then that France realized that the hard feeling that was choking him up was beyond irritation, it was rage. “I don’t know what to expect of you,” he spat, “seeing that I had to wait until Angleterre showed up flinging blood-stained articles of clothing and gloating to my face that you took over thirty thousand men to the border and lost a further nine thousand in battle. Mon dieu Écosse, what were you thinking?”
A shadow flickered over Scotland’s face and came back to settle there. “Did it work?”
“Did it -” France looked at him wide-eyed. “Cher…”
“He knew what he was gettin’ into and damned the consequences,” the other nation replied, looking down and a little to the side, his mouth turning down hard at the corners. “He was a good kid; bit o’ a lousy show-off though.”
“Non,” he said tersely and looked close to wringing his hands a little. “Non, you do not just damn the consequences, mon grand. Taking ridiculous, unnecessary risks like exposing your king is -”
“Aye I fucked it up royally,” Scotland grumbled darkly, and refused to look at him. “Yer not the first to tell me that. Look, the point is it worked didn’t it?”
France crossed his arms over his chest. He did not like the way Scotland was putting emphasis on those words; he liked it even less that there had been no point to the venture; that this hadn’t been quite what he had in mind when he had renewed the alliance and the Holy League would run him out of Italy within the year and he would not let that happen.
Scotland looked uncomfortable; he tilted his head and ducked down a little to France’s eye level, trying to look at the expression on his face. “Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, look. It’s not the end of the world. I found myself a new king, didn’t I?”
“Un enfant,” France exclaimed. “Who cannot walk nor talk, let alone run a kingdom!” Which ruined his campaign in the long run; a king barely out of the cradle could not agree to the terms of their alliance without consulting their regent; and as luck would have it in this case that regent was only the sister to the King of England. It spelled all sorts of consequences, ones which France was not ready to deal with. “Why?” he wanted to know, quite ready to just bury his face in his hands and bemoan its ruin. “Why?”
Scotland shrugged; he smiled a little lopsidedly, green eyes stark against the colourful standard of bruises, a testament to the beating he had taken.
“Some alliances are older than others,” he repeated those fateful words France had parroted back to him all those months ago, when the question of aid had been idle, and the outcome hadn’t felt like so heavy a burden. “England can do to me what he bloody well likes but that won’t change a thing.” He leaned down and looked directly into France’s eyes.
“I know exactly what I’m fighting for.”
There was an intensity to his eyes, one that spoke very little of diplomatic relations and when France backed up a step he did it without being wholly aware of doing so, until Scotland did the same thing himself and stared after him, then he opened his mouth as though he were either going to repeat it or take the whole thing back.
France did not understand; he did not want to. And he certainly did not want to hover around to find out either. He did not think he could handle it on top of everything else.
It went beyond the alliance.
But he was not prepared for it and he doubted he would ever be. It brought back memories that he had thought to have put behind him; of lilies and farm girls in armour, of great sieges, the word of God and her devotion; and how she had burned at the stake for her love of him.
“Then fight,” he said at last, when he felt sure the words would not tumble out of him in such a way that he would embarrass himself. “But not for me.”
And he walked away, leaving the other nation to wonder at his retreating back with incredulity.
-
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[End]
A/N: Because I was inspired by discussing this pairing with moonlighten and it led me to want to do some historical fic on how the Auld Alliance imploded and fell apart, successfully ruining the France/Scotland relationship for the first time around until the subsequent Union of Crowns (1707) and how it all came back together ever after.
England stabbing Scotland in the hand is supposed to be symbolic of the weakening of the Scottish Crown - it's supposed to be his dominant hand, he never quite uses it the same after that, even after he heals right up. |D
Auld Alliance: The ancient alliance between Scotland and France; at 700 years old it claims to be the oldest in the world, even though it faded into history around the 16th century as a military alliance, culturally they do seem to be still pretty much in love with each other. |D
War of the Holy League: A major part of the Italian Wars. Long story short, initially it was everyone against the Venetians (ie. Spain, France, HRE and Switzerland etc) but then France fell out with the Pope and everyone turned against him to try and boot him out of Italy instead orz.
Anglo-Scottish Wars: The conflicts between Scotland and England in the 16th century, most of them going on the same time as the Italian Wars stated above. Because England still hadn't given up in annexing Scotland. |D
Battle of Flodden: The major battle mentioned here, when James IV of Scotland invaded England in fulfillment of his alliance with France. England had invaded France, so France renewed the Auld Alliance, and so Scotland was bound to defend France against English invaders. But the battle was a complete disaster. James IV was a military amateur in comparison to England's commanders.
The Great Michael: You know how big this ship was? Bigger than Nelson's HMS Victory. It also had the biggest artillery gun ever for a warship (Mons Meg, a medieval supergun). Sadly she was sold to the French after the disaster at Flodden and rotted to pieces, never to see battle. What a waste.
The Mary Rose: During this time period Scotland and England were having an arms race to see who could build up the biggest Royal Navy. And for a while Scotland was actually winning - he built all the biggest ships and England spent a lot of his time just countering them. The Mary Rose was Henry VIII's answer to James IV's Great Michael. She was eventually sunk by the French in a harbour battle a few decades later.
Queen Anne: Anne of Brittany was a queen consort of France. She is remembered as a proud, haughty woman but nonetheless the richest in Europe at the time. She was known to keep a jewellry box filled with gems, and would often give random ones to her guests. She also wrote a letter to James IV, imploring him to "take but three steps onto English soil and break a lance for my sake".
Margaret Tudor: Sister of Henry VIII and wife of James IV of Scotland. Because of their marriage England and Scotland were experiencing a peaceful, prosperous period, but Scotland threw that all away by saying he would fight for France orz. France also later got worried that she would cause the Auld Alliance to be broken off, as she was mother to the infant James V and would rule as regent in his place for as long as she remained unmarried.
James IV of Scotland: Along with a string of nobility, he was killed at Flodden Field by the English, in much the same way I mentioned in the fic. His clothes were sent from the battlefield to Henry VIII by his wife Catherine of Aragon, along with a letter saying she lamented that she couldn't send his head along with it. His body was severely mistreated and in the end was dumped in a mass grave. He was a great Rennaissance king and honestly his sense of chivalry was what got him killed. He just couldn't say no to France orz.
Henry VIII of England: Henry was still a young king during this period in history, charasmatic and powerful and intellectual, the first of England's kings to have had a great education. He was still married to Catherine of Aragon, the daughter of the Catholic Monarchs Isabella and Ferdinand of Castile and Aragon (Spain) and was at this stage, still a big devotee of the Catholic Church. He invaded France through Calais during the Italian Wars and occupied at least two towns in that area during the Battle of Spurs in August 1513.
lol history notes ftw. I'm pretty sure that's everything orz. I'll double-check tomorrow morning. |D