Deva Victrix (6/?)
Title: Deva Victrix (6/?)
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): (so far) femAmerica, England, France, femGermany, Northern Ireland, Portugal, Scotland, Wales
Pairing(s): (so far) mentions of England/Portugal
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 3925
Summary: It’s raining when they find the body, but then it usually is in Deva.
A fantasy AU murder mystery.
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Prince Francis’ coach looks as much out of place in Old Town as the man himself.
It’s a huge, gaudy thing; its bottom half painted deep, Imperial red, and the top covered with ornate carvings of exotic birds flying through a tangle of grape vines. At each corner of its roof there stands one of the ubiquitous gilded statues of a bare-chested man or woman, their heads set at such an angle that they seem to be sneering down at the small group of people that has gathered in order to gawp at the carriage.
They’re being held at a respectful distance by the coachman, who has clambered down from his boot seat to flick his long whip menacingly at anyone who looks as though they might try and get too close or touch something they shouldn’t. Both the coachman and postilion boy, mounted on the left rear horse of the four harnessed, are dressed in long coats of Gallian blue, and the horses themselves - which for peculiar reasons of equine esoterica, Alasdair knows should be thought of as grey, though they look nothing less than dazzlingly white to him - have long feather plumes of the same colour sprouting out from the tops of their bridles.
The coach’s doors are decorated with a fleur-de-lis in gold leaf on one side, and a snarling Rōman wolf’s head in silver on the other. The prince chooses to head for the door that bears his own crest even though the crowd is thickest there and he has to ask the coachman to brandish his whip at several of the more persistent gawkers in order to do so. Alasdair can’t pretend to understand the prince’s reasoning, but he suspects the gesture is either a small act of useless defiance, or, more likely, simple boastfulness.
The coachman helps the prince into the coach, and then returns promptly his seat at the front of it, leaving Alasdair to make his own way.
Alasdair’s own way comprises a short run up and subsequent leap through the doorway, followed by a long, humiliating moment of undignified scrabbling as he catches his trailing leg on a gilt wood leaf. This ungainly display sends a ripple of laughter through the assembled crowd, and births a smirk on the prince’s lips, if not any spark of chivalric feeling in his breast, seemingly. He does not offer to lend a hand, so Alasdair has to disentangle his trousers unaided before he can slam the heavy door shut, taking immense satisfaction in blocking out the sight of the grinning upturned faces outside.
The smirking face inside smoothes into its habitual expression of aloof disinterest soon after, and the prince then motions for Alasdair to take a seat on the high-backed bench opposite his own. Alasdair complies, but with a good deal of caution, as the red velvet upholstery looks delicate and liable to rip asunder if he plants his arse down too firmly. Once he’s settled himself, and following no obvious signal from the prince that Alasdair can see, the carriage sets off.
Alasdair has ridden in a cart before, so he’d known to brace himself for the initial jerk of movement, but where he’d been expecting to be jostled and bounced around thereafter, he’s only swayed, very gently, from side to side.
“The coach’s body is slung by leather braces,” the prince says, presumably prompted by some small indication of surprise Alasdair hadn’t been aware he was giving. “They absorb most of the shocks in the road, making the ride more even.”
Before Alasdair can respond to this unasked for nugget of information - and he was planning on thanking the man, as he’s always been interested in learning the mechanics of such things - the prince leans back in his seat and turns his head aside, giving every suggestion that he does not care whether Alasdair even took heed of his words or not.
All of his attention is instead directed towards his hair, which he rakes his fingers through again and again as if combing out knots, even though it seems quite clear to Alasdair that there aren’t any there to be untangled.
Once he’s finished faffing around with his hair - a task that must take a minute or two to complete and yet still leaves it looking exactly the same as it did before - he adjusts his shirt cuffs, straightens the lapel of his coat, and then stretches out his legs to their fullest extent. They’re long for his height, and despite the vast gulf between their two benches, the prince’s boot heel still strikes against Alasdair’s ankle before he draws his knees back up again.
Alasdair is immediately suspicious that the contact was deliberate, as the elegant way the prince comports himself and the deliberate grace of his movements suggest that he is by no means a clumsy man.
The prince’s next words only serve to confirm his apprehension: “Je suis désolé,” where he could just as easily have said sorry.
Likely a test, then - and a petty one at that - to determine if Alasdair had simply memorised a single word of Gallian that he’d overheard somewhere. Alasdair knows he shouldn’t rise to it, but the amused glint in the prince’s eyes annoys him more than he ought to let it.
“Ce n'est pas grave,” he says, cringing before the phrase has even finished leaving his mouth.
When set in such close contrast to the native accent, it’s more obvious than ever that Da was right about his own; his Devan burr rounds out the edge of every constant that should be sharp, and weighs down every vowel that should be long and lilting.
He expects the prince to laugh, or at least start smirking again, but he simply levels the same considering stare at Alasdair as he had down in the Temple crypts.
For a time, Alasdair tries to ignore the prince’s open scrutiny, but even when he looks down at his hands, or glances out of the window, or even closes his eyes, he can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he is being judged in some way. It makes him acutely aware, as he hadn’t been before, that, in his haste to open the door to Jones that morning, he had thrown on clothes that might have been the closest to hand, but probably weren’t really fit to be worn outside the apothecary, never mind in the presence of an Imperial governor. His shirt sleeves are both patched at the elbow - the right, neatly stitched, by Arthur; the left, distinctly less so, by himself - and his trousers are so threadbare at the knees that he can see his skin beneath.
The longer he dwells on it, however, the angrier he becomes about his own embarrassment. He works hard to earn enough coin to keep food on his brothers’ table and his ma’s memory alive in her shop, and if that leaves him with little to spare to clothe himself in finery, there’s no shame in that, as far as he can see. He refuses to let himself feel any just because a man who lives off his father’s fortune and the Empire’s back likely thinks that he should.
He lifts his head and stares back at the prince.
The prince inhales sharply - Alasdair wouldn’t quite call it a gasp, but it’s close enough - and then says, “Corporal -“ He cuts himself off with a frown and quick shake of his head. “That sounds horribly formal for such close quarters as these. May I call you Alasdair?”
“That depends; can I call you Francis?”
The question emerges with so little intercession on the part of Alasdair’s brain mind that it shocks him, though not half so much as it does the prince, it seems. He gives a loud snort of laughter that’s far too coarse, Alasdair thinks, to be anything other than an unstudied reaction.
“I could have you flogged for that,” the prince says, pressing two fingers against his lips as though in an effort to hold back the smile that seems determined to form upon them, regardless.
“No, you couldn’t,” says Alasdair, with all the confidence of a man who actually took the trouble to learn all of Deva’s laws and ordinances before taking his oath, unlike most of his fellow guards. “It’s been illegal as a punishment in this part of Britannia for the past twenty years. Governor Russo couldn’t abide it; said it made far too much mess for the little good it did, apparently.”
Which, of course, the governor should already be aware of, as even Alasdair knows that the edicts of all of his predecessors are recorded in a great tome stored in the palace’s library. It does not come as any surprise, however, that he is not.
“Imprisoned, then,” the prince suggests.
“My remark, though it might be considered rude by some and ill-judged by most, constitutes neither treason nor sedition,” Alasdair says, rather enjoying the opportunity to flex his legal muscles. Most times, when he arrests someone, they’re contravening much less complex rules such as ‘don’t hit other people with blunt objects’ or ‘don’t take things that don’t belong to you'. “I probably wouldn’t get more than a week, fortnight at most, and only that in the hopes that I might get some sense knocked into me by another prisoner whilst I’m there.”
“Most people wouldn’t dare to speak in this way to a prince, no matter how inconsequential a punishment the obviously flawed judiciary system of this town may give them.” The prince’s attempt at stern intonation would be far more convincing if his tone didn’t keep being lightened by suppressed laughter. “I have to wonder how it is that you do.”
Alasdair shrugs. “My da always told us that his family used to have a grand fortune. Some spendthrift bastard frittered most of it away before we ever saw a copper of it, but there are those who say that the Kirklands still have a touch of the arrogance that comes with coin, anyway.”
Which is really only half a truth, as he’s never heard anyone hint of such thoughts about Dylan, who is self-effacing to the point of abasement, or Michael, who doesn’t speak enough to anyone outside their family circle for them to have formed any real opinion of his character.
But it has definitely said of Caitlin in the past, when she refused to live and die in Old Town as several of their neighbours believed she should, and Arthur too, because he has never been humble about the advantages their father’s education gave him.
Alasdair’s superiors often call him arrogant, simply because he refuses to grovel in front of a title if he does not honour the person who bears it.
He prefers to think of himself as egalitarian.
Still, whatever Sergeant Lewis might think, he is capable of extending professional courtesies when they’re required, no matter what his personal opinions may be. He still needs the prince’s help, after all, and there’s no guarantee that his good humour will last. It’s probably best to stop pushing before he discovers where the limits of the prince’s patience for insubordination lie.
“I suppose I should continue calling you ‘sir’, in any case,” he says. “Might raise a few eyebrows, otherwise.”
“Indeed.” The prince lets his hand drop away from his face, untethering his smile. “Though, strictly speaking, protocol demands that you address me as ‘your Highness’, Corporal. A prince always outranks a governor.” He chuckles when Alasdair scowls. “I believe I can learn to tolerate ‘sir’, though. Our working relationship would doubtless be doomed from here on out if I did not, as the alternative seems to pain you .”
Alasdair wasn't aware that they'd ever started a working relationship. He chooses to keep his peace, however, due to the fear that questioning the prince's judgement on that score could serve to humiliate him, and thus humiliated, he might think to renege on the 'Highness' thing in retaliation.
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Alasdair has never seen anyone create quite such a stir as the prince does when they arrive at the palace.
From the moment he steps foot inside the building, he’s ambushed by a steady stream of liveried servants, each one begging to perform some mundane task or other for the man.
Would he like them to take his coat? Should a fire be lit in his private drawing room? Do he and his… guest require something to eat? Some wine, perhaps?
The prince shakes his head to each question save the last, which not only gives him pause enough to stop him dead in his tracks, but also prompts him to ask, “Do you care for wine, Corporal?”
When Alasdair was twelve, his da arrived home from the Lost Antler one night carrying a bottle of wine that he’d won in a card game. He’d set it down proudly on the dresser, and there it had sat for months, untouched by anything save for Da’s eyes, which often lingered on it of an evening with the sort of quiet reverence others might reserve for a holy relic.
On the evening of Ma’s birthday, he’d finally picked up that bottle again and brought it to the table. After opening it, he lifted the cork to his nose and took a deep appreciative sniff of it, his eyes rolling back as if the smell had sent him into divine ecstasies. Everyone giggled at that, even Ma, who usually reacted to Da’s occasional histrionics with nothing more than a fond, though slightly exasperated, smile.
Da presented a glass to Ma, gave her a deep, courtly bow that made her laugh even harder, and then poured a small measure into a cup for Alasdair, Caitlin, Dylan and Arthur to share.
Alasdair remembers that his mouth had watered when it was his turn to take the cup, because his da’s excitement had encouraged him to imagine that wine must be the most delicious thing a person could ever have to drink. Accordingly, he’d taken a long draught of the stuff; something which he immediately regretted. It was so bitter that it’d made his tongue feel as if it was shrivelling up like a slug that had had salt tossed on it, and burnt the back of his throat when he did reluctantly swallow it down.
The disappointment was almost worse than the taste, and Alasdair has never felt inclined to sample wine again since that day.
“I’ve tried it once but didn’t much like it,” he tells the prince. “Tasted like stewed tea mixed with vinegar.”
The prince’s nostrils pinch tight, as though he’s caught wind of an unpleasant smell. “I can assure you that no wine in my cellars tastes like that,” he says.
He rattles off a long name to the waiting servant, and then tells them to, “Make sure that there’s a bottle waiting in the rose drawing room for the corporal to sample after he’s finished talking to M. Jansen.”
In Alasdair’s opinion, if a place has so many drawing rooms that they need to be specified by colour, then it has a definite superfluity of them. In fact, the palace would seem to have an overabundance of every sort of room, if the number of doors he can see leading off the entrance hall alone are anything to go by.
That sheer sense of scale is, thus far, the sole thing he’s seen that’s impressed him even slightly about the palace’s interior. In decoration, it’s much as he would have guessed it might be - if he’d ever thought to consider it, anyhow - having seen the gardens outside.
White marble tiles the hall’s floor, the numerous doors are edged in gilt, and there’s a wide variety of the ubiquitous Rōman statuary nipples on display, lovingly rendered in painted plaster, gold and polished granite, respectively.
The ceiling, however, is so high that Alasdair almost expects to see clouds gathering around the huge crystal chandelier that hangs from the centre of it, and the stairs that sweep upwards from the very back of the hall are so wide that they could easily accommodate horses being ridden two abreast.
These exaggerated proportions are no doubt meant to impress any visitor with a sense of their own comparative insignificance, but Alasdair doesn’t like to be manipulated, whether it’s by architecture or anything else.
He deliberately straightens his back out of its usual slouch, squares his shoulders, and makes sure to look the prince directly in the eye as he says, “I presume this Jansen is your secretary?”
A faint smile quickly flits across the prince’s lips before he nods. “You might know him, in fact. I believe he has family in Old Town.”
“Thousands of people live in Old Town,” Alasdair says, “and, despite my line of work, I likely haven’t met even a tenth of them. I can’t say the name rings a bell.”
Neither, it turns out, does Jansen himself.
He is a small man, whip-thin, with the sort of hungry expression that Alasdair has seen on the faces of many men and women of humble beginnings who have managed to claw themselves up to a far higher position than they ever thought possible. His hair is too dark to be called blond, too light to be brown, and worn as long as the prince’s, though it’s tied back into a low tail with a length of grey ribbon which matches both his waistcoat and trousers.
When the prince introduces Alasdair, Jansen shakes his hand briskly, his grip a little too tight. “Luca Jansen,” he says, equally brusque. His accent doesn’t betray a single hint of Old Town that Alasdair can discern. “Prince Francis’ private secretary. How may I help you, Corporal?”
“There was a party here, three nights ago,” Alasdair says. “I was hoping you might have kept the guest list.”
Luca’s eyes turn immediately towards the prince, obviously seeking confirmation, which is granted by a small, answering bob of the prince’s head.
“I did,” he says. “I like to keep a copy of all such documents for our records. I’ll fetch it for you.”
The bookshelves which stretch from floor to ceiling across three walls of Luca’s cramped office are almost completely filled by closely packed books and documents, and yet he still moves unerringly to a single spot without having to check in any sort of ledger or record beforehand.
“Was there a problem at the party?” he asks as he extracts a roll of paper from the middle of a great pile of them. “A theft, perhaps? If I recall correctly, there were a number of guests from Eastgate in attendance that night.”
Luca pronounces ‘Eastgate’ with all the derision of a Highgate lord. If he did originate in Old Town as the prince seems to believe, he’s taken care to scrub every trace of it from more than just his voice.
“Nothing was taken, M. Jansen,” the prince says. “We’re just looking for a name.”
Alasdair unfurls the scroll after Luca gives it to him, and then asks the prince, “Does anyone jog your memory?”
He expects the prince to take the paper from him, but instead he moves to study it over Alasdair’s shoulder, standing close enough that his breath warms the side of Alasdair’s neck every time he exhales.
From the first moment of their brief acquaintance, the prince seems to have taken some perverse enjoyment in trying to throw Alasdair off-guard, and so, although his initial impulse is to flinch away from the man, Alasdair forces himself to keep still.
Evidentially the prince has little patience for his game once it becomes clear Alasdair isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of reacting to it, and he scans the names quickly thereafter. “I’m afraid not, Corporal,” he says. “It seems we’re going to have to turn to my family for help, after all.”
Alasdair had presumed the rose drawing room must be so called because of the colour of its wallpaper or something like, but it seems that the ornamentation therein had given it its name.
The low couch and chairs ranged beneath the window are upholstered in a green fabric patterned with white roses, and the paintings hung on the walls do not depict governors and emperors past as the ones in the hall outside do, but are still lifes full of fruit and flowers.
Each one of the bright, cloisonnéd vases standing on the broad mantelpiece at the far end of the room contains an arrangement of the flowers themselves, including one particularly abundant in Gallian roses.
“Though the conservatory was locked the night of the party, this room was left open,” the prince says, obviously noticing where Alasdair’s gaze is directed. “Our unfortunate gentleman might have taken his rose from here.”
“Maybe,” Alasdair agrees, but the more he thinks on it, the less sense that explanation seems to make.
The Gallian roses might be beautiful enough to make a perfect courting gift, as Dylan had presumed Alasdair’s own rose to be, but unlike Alasdair’s comments in the carriage at the beginning of their journey here, stealing from the governor’s palace could be considered treason if the prince felt vindictive enough to pursue things that far.
Alasdair has heard it said that romantic love makes people foolish, but for his own peace of mind, he’d prefer to believe that it doesn’t cause them to ignore every instinct of self-preservation they might otherwise possess.
In any case, without knowing how many roses that particular vase had contained before the party - something which he’s sure the prince never thought necessary to ascertain - such a scenario must remain nothing more than idle speculation, its likelihood included.
Roses thus discounted, Alasdair turns his attention back towards the prince, and is surprised to see that he’s pouring out the wine he’d asked to be set out earlier. Having witnessed how eagerly his servants had offered to fetch and carry for him, Alasdair had assumed that the prince didn’t do a thing for himself save get out of bed in the morning and, it was to be hoped, wipe his own arse when he visited the privy.
“I think you’ll find this wine quite palatable,” the prince says as he hands Alasdair one of the intricately etched glasses.
It is, to Alasdair’s relief, not even half full; he could likely down the whole thing in one go and not have to taste it at all.
When he lifts the glass to his lips in order to do just that, however, the prince gives a small cry of alarm.
“You can’t just drink it,” he says, looking scandalised.
“Why not?” Alasdair asks. “What else are you supposed to do with wine?”
“Enjoy the bouquet, to start,” the prince says, sticking his long, pointed nose near his own glass. He inhales deeply in demonstration, his eyelids stuttering shut. “Wine is as much of an experience as it is a drink. It should be savoured.”
Thinking that missing out this obviously vital step might have ruined his appreciation of Da’s wine all those years ago, Alasdair takes a cautious sniff of his own glass. Contrary the prince’s protestations, he can detect a definite note of old tea winding its way through the far stronger scent of alcohol.
“Is it supposed to smell like anything in particular,” he asks, certain he must be missing something.
“This particular winery and vintage? Blackberries and oak,” the prince says.
Alasdair inhales again, and again fails to smell anything even remotely like either blackberries or oak. Clearly, princely noses are far more discerning organs than those of guards.
“Right,” he says, “can I try some now.”
“Go ahead,” the prince says readily enough, although he does sound a little petulant, nevertheless.
Alasdair takes a small sip, and rolls it around his mouth before swallowing. It tastes rich, a little woody, and is not as sour as Da’s wine had been, though it does leave a similar bitter aftertaste on the back of his tongue.
“It’s not too bad,” he concedes.
The prince sighs despondently. “Perhaps it will grow on you in time,” he says.
Despite his insistence that Alasdair linger over his measure, the prince empties his own glass in a single gulp. “I’m going to ring for a servant to fetch my cousins now,” he says as he refills it. “I should warn you now, Corporal, that they’re the youngest sons of the Emperor himself, so you cannot be as impertinent with them as I have allowed you to be with me.”
Princes Lovino and Feliciano are alike enough that Alasdair thinks he would have difficulty telling the two apart had the elder of the two not worn a face like a whole month’s worth of wet weekends from the moment the two brothers were shown into the drawing room by a servant even more obsequious than those who had been waiting on Prince Francis.
It’s unclear whether his sour expression betrays a more general surliness of disposition, or that he simply resents being made to interact with someone so far beneath his own station that they could, in the normal course of things, expect to be treated as invisible. His reasons make no odds, as, either way, he scowls through Alasdair’s description of the murdered man, snaps out an immediate disavowal of his name, and then stomps off to the window to stare moodily out at the garden below.
Prince Feliciano, on the other hand, is full of questions for Alasdair. Were the man’s eyes closely-set or wide? Dark brown or light? What shape was his nose? His lips? Did he have -
“We don’t need you to paint us a portrait of him, cousin,” Prince Francis says, his voice far kindlier than Alasdair has heard it sound thus far. “We just need to know if you recall his name.”
“Ah, I’m not sure I even met him. I think I would remember if I did, because he sounds as though he was very handsome. I really only talked to Lovi that night, didn’t I, Lovi.” Prince Lovino maintains his silent vigil, refusing to be drawn on the subject, and eventually Prince Feliciano turns to Alasdair and says, “I’m sorry, Corporal.”
From everything he’s ever read about the emperor, Alasdair had come to understand that he was the sort of man who believed that apologies were nothing but an admittance of fallibility - a sign of weakness - and it comes as such a surprise that he apparently hasn’t taught his youngest son the same thing that Alasdair struggles to find his tongue for a moment.
“It’s all right, your Highness,” he finally manages to splutter out. “I appreciate you taking the time to answer my questions, in any case.”
Prince Feliciano beams him a smile full of what looks to be genuine happiness and gratitude before politely excusing himself from both Alasdair and Prince Francis’ company. His brother trails along behind him, steps dragging sullenly, and he does not do Alasdair the courtesy of making eye contact, much less giving a farewell.
After they’ve left, Prince Francis glowers at Alasdair as though he’s perpetrated some great insult against the very institution of the Empire or something like.
Alasdair can’t think of a single thing that he might have done or said that might have caused offence - although he had been severely tempted to tell Prince Lovino to stop being such a miserable arse, as he does Michael when he’s acting the same way, he had managed to restrain himself in the end - so he asks, “Did I not tug my forelock hard enough?”
“No, quite to the contrary. You were perfectly polite,” the prince says, his glare intensifying.
“Was it something I didn’t say, then,” Alasdair pushes on, honestly perplexed.
“No, I only -” The prince sighs heavily, and then brushes the rest of his words aside with a quick flick of his wrist. “It’s nothing.”
His unhappy moue suggests otherwise, but as he seems unwilling to vocalise exactly what’s bothering him, Alasdair concludes that whatever rule of etiquette he had transgressed, it was one so petty that even the prince is feels embarrassed about wanting to upbraid him for it.
As such, it seems pointless to contemplate it any further, and in an effort to similarly divert the prince’s thoughts elsewhere, Alasdair asks him, “Do your cousins live with you, then?”
“No, they’re simply staying for a few months,” the prince says, his tone flat and dull. “Like me, they have an older brother and sister - the heir and the spare - to take care of all the official duties the Emperor expects of his children. It leaves Lovino and Feliciano with little to do with their time other than to sing, paint and study at home, or else visit with their family.
“Feliciano is a great favourite of my uncle’s, though.” The prince takes another indelicate swig of his wine. “There has been talk of him being made King of Gallia upon my father’s death, instead of my oldest brother.”
Alasdair has heard similar rumours, but: “Can they just ignore the rules of succession like that?”
“If by ‘they’, you mean the Emperor, then of course he can. The so-called Kings and Queens are no more than governors with exalted titles, you know. I’d be King of Northern Britannia myself now had the Emperor who conquered these lands not banished the very notion of royalty from them for fear of later uprisings.”
“I am aware of that,” Alasdair snaps, annoyed that the prince is apparently still persisting in the belief that he is ignorant and uneducated. “I have studied my own country’s history.”
The prince’s eyebrows quirk upwards slightly. “So, you had lessons in history as well as Gallian,” he says. “Did you enjoy them?”
“I always preferred natural philosophy,” Alasdair says, shrugging. “My brother, Arthur, is the historian. My da was writing a book about the history of Deva before he died, and Arthur’s determined to finish what he started.”
“That would be the brother who works as one of my under-gardeners?” When Alasdair nods, the prince chuckles dryly, and then remarks, “What a fascinating family you have, Corporal.”
He doesn’t seem particularly fascinated, however. His voice has lost what little energy it had regained throughout the course of their short conversation, and he peers listlessly down into the depths of his almost empty glass after he finishes speaking.
When it becomes apparent that the prince seems prepared to allow the silence between them to stretch out into absurdity, Alasdair clears his throat and says, “On the subject of family, didn’t you say that your brother and sister attended the party, too? We should probably speak to them next.”
The prince startles like a man shocked out of deep slumber, almost dropping his wine in the process. “Yes, of course,” he says, blinking rapidly. “My brother, Alfred, spends most of his afternoons in the billiards room, so he should be easy enough to find. I shall go and fetch him myself.”
Because it’s something he’s puzzled over before, and he’ll likely never have a better opportunity than the present to have his curiosity satisfied, Alasdair asks, “That’s not a Gallian name, is it?”
“Not traditionally, no. My father did give Mama the privilege of choosing one of our names herself, however, and she is half-Briton.” The prince flashes Alasdair a wider smile than any he has bestowed on him before; one that reveals the bottom edges of all of his neat, white teeth. “I suppose you could say that my posting here has allowed me to return to my roots.”
Prince Alfred shares his older brother’s eye and hair colour, but there the familial resemblance ends.
His clothes are just as well-tailored as Prince Francis’, but he seems to have none of his fastidiousness with them: his frock coat and red waistcoat are both unbuttoned, his shirt tails untucked, and his boots are scuffed around the toes.
He laughs often, smiles even more frequently, and seems to be filled with the sort of boundless, youthful energy that results in him being incapable of staying still for more than a minute at a time.
He spurns returning Alasdair’s short bow of welcome in favour of shaking his hand so vigorously that Alasdair briefly fears that his shoulder might become dislocated.
Afterwards, he throws himself down onto an armchair, and shifts his weight around as though in an effort to make himself comfortable. The attempt clearly fails, as moments later, he springs to his feet again and moves to the couch. Once settled there, he stretches his arms out across the backrest, and lets his legs fall into a lazy sprawl.
He twitches and interrupts his way through Alasdair’s account of the murdered man, quickly professes to not have the faintest clue about who he might be, and then, like Prince Feliciano, starts firing his own set of questions towards Alasdair.
Unlike his cousin, though, he’s not interested in further details about the victim’s appearance, but Alasdair’s profession, instead.
His vision of a guard’s work shares a great deal of similarity with Michael’s - rooftop chases feature heavily - and Alasdair can only suppose that they must also share the same tastes in reading material.
The comparison amuses him, and he’d be happy enough to play along for a while, but Prince Francis appears to have far less tolerance for his brother’s digressions.
“That will be all, Alfred,” he says, sharply enough that it cuts through Prince Alfred’s excited and increasingly loud chatter even though he doesn’t raise his voice. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, indicating that he has a headache building. “Please go and tell Madeline that we’d like to speak to her now.”
In appearance, Princess Madeline is a feminine mirror to her brother Alfred, but, on first impressions, she hasn’t the same exuberant personality.
She seems almost shy, in fact; entering the drawing room almost silently save for the soft rustle of the full, crinoline skirt of her pale violet dress, and keeping her eyes lowered as Prince Francis introduces her to Alasdair. Alasdair bows to her as he had the rest of her kin, and, to his astonishment, she drops a quick curtsey in answer.
She seems to draw some courage from this exchange of formalities, because she lifts her head afterwards, and says in a firm, steady voice, “Alfred told me about the man you’re looking for, Corporal, and I believe I might be able to help you.”
Alasdair’s muscles tense in anticipation. “Do you know what he was called?”
A slight blush rises to Princess Madeline’s cheeks. “He only told me his family his family name, I’m afraid,” she says. “It was Martinez.”
Prince Francis mutters something indecipherable under his breath and then hurries forward, jostling Alasdair’s shoulder with his own in his eagerness to shove Luca’s list into Alasdair’s line of sight. He jabs one long, slender finger to a point about halfway down the sheet.
There, at last, is the dead man’s name. Inscribed in the secretary’s neat, even hand below ‘Clemence Martinez’ is: “Armand Martinez.”
Speaking it aloud drains some of the tension that had been clutching Alasdair’s body so tightly for the past few days, but only for an instant, because a new sort of anxiety soon rises to take its place.
He will, after all, probably have to accompany his captain when she visits Clemence to break the news about what has happened to Armand.
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): (so far) femAmerica, England, France, femGermany, Northern Ireland, Portugal, Scotland, Wales
Pairing(s): (so far) mentions of England/Portugal
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 3925
Summary: It’s raining when they find the body, but then it usually is in Deva.
A fantasy AU murder mystery.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Prince Francis’ coach looks as much out of place in Old Town as the man himself.
It’s a huge, gaudy thing; its bottom half painted deep, Imperial red, and the top covered with ornate carvings of exotic birds flying through a tangle of grape vines. At each corner of its roof there stands one of the ubiquitous gilded statues of a bare-chested man or woman, their heads set at such an angle that they seem to be sneering down at the small group of people that has gathered in order to gawp at the carriage.
They’re being held at a respectful distance by the coachman, who has clambered down from his boot seat to flick his long whip menacingly at anyone who looks as though they might try and get too close or touch something they shouldn’t. Both the coachman and postilion boy, mounted on the left rear horse of the four harnessed, are dressed in long coats of Gallian blue, and the horses themselves - which for peculiar reasons of equine esoterica, Alasdair knows should be thought of as grey, though they look nothing less than dazzlingly white to him - have long feather plumes of the same colour sprouting out from the tops of their bridles.
The coach’s doors are decorated with a fleur-de-lis in gold leaf on one side, and a snarling Rōman wolf’s head in silver on the other. The prince chooses to head for the door that bears his own crest even though the crowd is thickest there and he has to ask the coachman to brandish his whip at several of the more persistent gawkers in order to do so. Alasdair can’t pretend to understand the prince’s reasoning, but he suspects the gesture is either a small act of useless defiance, or, more likely, simple boastfulness.
The coachman helps the prince into the coach, and then returns promptly his seat at the front of it, leaving Alasdair to make his own way.
Alasdair’s own way comprises a short run up and subsequent leap through the doorway, followed by a long, humiliating moment of undignified scrabbling as he catches his trailing leg on a gilt wood leaf. This ungainly display sends a ripple of laughter through the assembled crowd, and births a smirk on the prince’s lips, if not any spark of chivalric feeling in his breast, seemingly. He does not offer to lend a hand, so Alasdair has to disentangle his trousers unaided before he can slam the heavy door shut, taking immense satisfaction in blocking out the sight of the grinning upturned faces outside.
The smirking face inside smoothes into its habitual expression of aloof disinterest soon after, and the prince then motions for Alasdair to take a seat on the high-backed bench opposite his own. Alasdair complies, but with a good deal of caution, as the red velvet upholstery looks delicate and liable to rip asunder if he plants his arse down too firmly. Once he’s settled himself, and following no obvious signal from the prince that Alasdair can see, the carriage sets off.
Alasdair has ridden in a cart before, so he’d known to brace himself for the initial jerk of movement, but where he’d been expecting to be jostled and bounced around thereafter, he’s only swayed, very gently, from side to side.
“The coach’s body is slung by leather braces,” the prince says, presumably prompted by some small indication of surprise Alasdair hadn’t been aware he was giving. “They absorb most of the shocks in the road, making the ride more even.”
Before Alasdair can respond to this unasked for nugget of information - and he was planning on thanking the man, as he’s always been interested in learning the mechanics of such things - the prince leans back in his seat and turns his head aside, giving every suggestion that he does not care whether Alasdair even took heed of his words or not.
All of his attention is instead directed towards his hair, which he rakes his fingers through again and again as if combing out knots, even though it seems quite clear to Alasdair that there aren’t any there to be untangled.
Once he’s finished faffing around with his hair - a task that must take a minute or two to complete and yet still leaves it looking exactly the same as it did before - he adjusts his shirt cuffs, straightens the lapel of his coat, and then stretches out his legs to their fullest extent. They’re long for his height, and despite the vast gulf between their two benches, the prince’s boot heel still strikes against Alasdair’s ankle before he draws his knees back up again.
Alasdair is immediately suspicious that the contact was deliberate, as the elegant way the prince comports himself and the deliberate grace of his movements suggest that he is by no means a clumsy man.
The prince’s next words only serve to confirm his apprehension: “Je suis désolé,” where he could just as easily have said sorry.
Likely a test, then - and a petty one at that - to determine if Alasdair had simply memorised a single word of Gallian that he’d overheard somewhere. Alasdair knows he shouldn’t rise to it, but the amused glint in the prince’s eyes annoys him more than he ought to let it.
“Ce n'est pas grave,” he says, cringing before the phrase has even finished leaving his mouth.
When set in such close contrast to the native accent, it’s more obvious than ever that Da was right about his own; his Devan burr rounds out the edge of every constant that should be sharp, and weighs down every vowel that should be long and lilting.
He expects the prince to laugh, or at least start smirking again, but he simply levels the same considering stare at Alasdair as he had down in the Temple crypts.
For a time, Alasdair tries to ignore the prince’s open scrutiny, but even when he looks down at his hands, or glances out of the window, or even closes his eyes, he can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he is being judged in some way. It makes him acutely aware, as he hadn’t been before, that, in his haste to open the door to Jones that morning, he had thrown on clothes that might have been the closest to hand, but probably weren’t really fit to be worn outside the apothecary, never mind in the presence of an Imperial governor. His shirt sleeves are both patched at the elbow - the right, neatly stitched, by Arthur; the left, distinctly less so, by himself - and his trousers are so threadbare at the knees that he can see his skin beneath.
The longer he dwells on it, however, the angrier he becomes about his own embarrassment. He works hard to earn enough coin to keep food on his brothers’ table and his ma’s memory alive in her shop, and if that leaves him with little to spare to clothe himself in finery, there’s no shame in that, as far as he can see. He refuses to let himself feel any just because a man who lives off his father’s fortune and the Empire’s back likely thinks that he should.
He lifts his head and stares back at the prince.
The prince inhales sharply - Alasdair wouldn’t quite call it a gasp, but it’s close enough - and then says, “Corporal -“ He cuts himself off with a frown and quick shake of his head. “That sounds horribly formal for such close quarters as these. May I call you Alasdair?”
“That depends; can I call you Francis?”
The question emerges with so little intercession on the part of Alasdair’s brain mind that it shocks him, though not half so much as it does the prince, it seems. He gives a loud snort of laughter that’s far too coarse, Alasdair thinks, to be anything other than an unstudied reaction.
“I could have you flogged for that,” the prince says, pressing two fingers against his lips as though in an effort to hold back the smile that seems determined to form upon them, regardless.
“No, you couldn’t,” says Alasdair, with all the confidence of a man who actually took the trouble to learn all of Deva’s laws and ordinances before taking his oath, unlike most of his fellow guards. “It’s been illegal as a punishment in this part of Britannia for the past twenty years. Governor Russo couldn’t abide it; said it made far too much mess for the little good it did, apparently.”
Which, of course, the governor should already be aware of, as even Alasdair knows that the edicts of all of his predecessors are recorded in a great tome stored in the palace’s library. It does not come as any surprise, however, that he is not.
“Imprisoned, then,” the prince suggests.
“My remark, though it might be considered rude by some and ill-judged by most, constitutes neither treason nor sedition,” Alasdair says, rather enjoying the opportunity to flex his legal muscles. Most times, when he arrests someone, they’re contravening much less complex rules such as ‘don’t hit other people with blunt objects’ or ‘don’t take things that don’t belong to you'. “I probably wouldn’t get more than a week, fortnight at most, and only that in the hopes that I might get some sense knocked into me by another prisoner whilst I’m there.”
“Most people wouldn’t dare to speak in this way to a prince, no matter how inconsequential a punishment the obviously flawed judiciary system of this town may give them.” The prince’s attempt at stern intonation would be far more convincing if his tone didn’t keep being lightened by suppressed laughter. “I have to wonder how it is that you do.”
Alasdair shrugs. “My da always told us that his family used to have a grand fortune. Some spendthrift bastard frittered most of it away before we ever saw a copper of it, but there are those who say that the Kirklands still have a touch of the arrogance that comes with coin, anyway.”
Which is really only half a truth, as he’s never heard anyone hint of such thoughts about Dylan, who is self-effacing to the point of abasement, or Michael, who doesn’t speak enough to anyone outside their family circle for them to have formed any real opinion of his character.
But it has definitely said of Caitlin in the past, when she refused to live and die in Old Town as several of their neighbours believed she should, and Arthur too, because he has never been humble about the advantages their father’s education gave him.
Alasdair’s superiors often call him arrogant, simply because he refuses to grovel in front of a title if he does not honour the person who bears it.
He prefers to think of himself as egalitarian.
Still, whatever Sergeant Lewis might think, he is capable of extending professional courtesies when they’re required, no matter what his personal opinions may be. He still needs the prince’s help, after all, and there’s no guarantee that his good humour will last. It’s probably best to stop pushing before he discovers where the limits of the prince’s patience for insubordination lie.
“I suppose I should continue calling you ‘sir’, in any case,” he says. “Might raise a few eyebrows, otherwise.”
“Indeed.” The prince lets his hand drop away from his face, untethering his smile. “Though, strictly speaking, protocol demands that you address me as ‘your Highness’, Corporal. A prince always outranks a governor.” He chuckles when Alasdair scowls. “I believe I can learn to tolerate ‘sir’, though. Our working relationship would doubtless be doomed from here on out if I did not, as the alternative seems to pain you .”
Alasdair wasn't aware that they'd ever started a working relationship. He chooses to keep his peace, however, due to the fear that questioning the prince's judgement on that score could serve to humiliate him, and thus humiliated, he might think to renege on the 'Highness' thing in retaliation.
____________________
Alasdair has never seen anyone create quite such a stir as the prince does when they arrive at the palace.
From the moment he steps foot inside the building, he’s ambushed by a steady stream of liveried servants, each one begging to perform some mundane task or other for the man.
Would he like them to take his coat? Should a fire be lit in his private drawing room? Do he and his… guest require something to eat? Some wine, perhaps?
The prince shakes his head to each question save the last, which not only gives him pause enough to stop him dead in his tracks, but also prompts him to ask, “Do you care for wine, Corporal?”
When Alasdair was twelve, his da arrived home from the Lost Antler one night carrying a bottle of wine that he’d won in a card game. He’d set it down proudly on the dresser, and there it had sat for months, untouched by anything save for Da’s eyes, which often lingered on it of an evening with the sort of quiet reverence others might reserve for a holy relic.
On the evening of Ma’s birthday, he’d finally picked up that bottle again and brought it to the table. After opening it, he lifted the cork to his nose and took a deep appreciative sniff of it, his eyes rolling back as if the smell had sent him into divine ecstasies. Everyone giggled at that, even Ma, who usually reacted to Da’s occasional histrionics with nothing more than a fond, though slightly exasperated, smile.
Da presented a glass to Ma, gave her a deep, courtly bow that made her laugh even harder, and then poured a small measure into a cup for Alasdair, Caitlin, Dylan and Arthur to share.
Alasdair remembers that his mouth had watered when it was his turn to take the cup, because his da’s excitement had encouraged him to imagine that wine must be the most delicious thing a person could ever have to drink. Accordingly, he’d taken a long draught of the stuff; something which he immediately regretted. It was so bitter that it’d made his tongue feel as if it was shrivelling up like a slug that had had salt tossed on it, and burnt the back of his throat when he did reluctantly swallow it down.
The disappointment was almost worse than the taste, and Alasdair has never felt inclined to sample wine again since that day.
“I’ve tried it once but didn’t much like it,” he tells the prince. “Tasted like stewed tea mixed with vinegar.”
The prince’s nostrils pinch tight, as though he’s caught wind of an unpleasant smell. “I can assure you that no wine in my cellars tastes like that,” he says.
He rattles off a long name to the waiting servant, and then tells them to, “Make sure that there’s a bottle waiting in the rose drawing room for the corporal to sample after he’s finished talking to M. Jansen.”
In Alasdair’s opinion, if a place has so many drawing rooms that they need to be specified by colour, then it has a definite superfluity of them. In fact, the palace would seem to have an overabundance of every sort of room, if the number of doors he can see leading off the entrance hall alone are anything to go by.
That sheer sense of scale is, thus far, the sole thing he’s seen that’s impressed him even slightly about the palace’s interior. In decoration, it’s much as he would have guessed it might be - if he’d ever thought to consider it, anyhow - having seen the gardens outside.
White marble tiles the hall’s floor, the numerous doors are edged in gilt, and there’s a wide variety of the ubiquitous Rōman statuary nipples on display, lovingly rendered in painted plaster, gold and polished granite, respectively.
The ceiling, however, is so high that Alasdair almost expects to see clouds gathering around the huge crystal chandelier that hangs from the centre of it, and the stairs that sweep upwards from the very back of the hall are so wide that they could easily accommodate horses being ridden two abreast.
These exaggerated proportions are no doubt meant to impress any visitor with a sense of their own comparative insignificance, but Alasdair doesn’t like to be manipulated, whether it’s by architecture or anything else.
He deliberately straightens his back out of its usual slouch, squares his shoulders, and makes sure to look the prince directly in the eye as he says, “I presume this Jansen is your secretary?”
A faint smile quickly flits across the prince’s lips before he nods. “You might know him, in fact. I believe he has family in Old Town.”
“Thousands of people live in Old Town,” Alasdair says, “and, despite my line of work, I likely haven’t met even a tenth of them. I can’t say the name rings a bell.”
Neither, it turns out, does Jansen himself.
He is a small man, whip-thin, with the sort of hungry expression that Alasdair has seen on the faces of many men and women of humble beginnings who have managed to claw themselves up to a far higher position than they ever thought possible. His hair is too dark to be called blond, too light to be brown, and worn as long as the prince’s, though it’s tied back into a low tail with a length of grey ribbon which matches both his waistcoat and trousers.
When the prince introduces Alasdair, Jansen shakes his hand briskly, his grip a little too tight. “Luca Jansen,” he says, equally brusque. His accent doesn’t betray a single hint of Old Town that Alasdair can discern. “Prince Francis’ private secretary. How may I help you, Corporal?”
“There was a party here, three nights ago,” Alasdair says. “I was hoping you might have kept the guest list.”
Luca’s eyes turn immediately towards the prince, obviously seeking confirmation, which is granted by a small, answering bob of the prince’s head.
“I did,” he says. “I like to keep a copy of all such documents for our records. I’ll fetch it for you.”
The bookshelves which stretch from floor to ceiling across three walls of Luca’s cramped office are almost completely filled by closely packed books and documents, and yet he still moves unerringly to a single spot without having to check in any sort of ledger or record beforehand.
“Was there a problem at the party?” he asks as he extracts a roll of paper from the middle of a great pile of them. “A theft, perhaps? If I recall correctly, there were a number of guests from Eastgate in attendance that night.”
Luca pronounces ‘Eastgate’ with all the derision of a Highgate lord. If he did originate in Old Town as the prince seems to believe, he’s taken care to scrub every trace of it from more than just his voice.
“Nothing was taken, M. Jansen,” the prince says. “We’re just looking for a name.”
Alasdair unfurls the scroll after Luca gives it to him, and then asks the prince, “Does anyone jog your memory?”
He expects the prince to take the paper from him, but instead he moves to study it over Alasdair’s shoulder, standing close enough that his breath warms the side of Alasdair’s neck every time he exhales.
From the first moment of their brief acquaintance, the prince seems to have taken some perverse enjoyment in trying to throw Alasdair off-guard, and so, although his initial impulse is to flinch away from the man, Alasdair forces himself to keep still.
Evidentially the prince has little patience for his game once it becomes clear Alasdair isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of reacting to it, and he scans the names quickly thereafter. “I’m afraid not, Corporal,” he says. “It seems we’re going to have to turn to my family for help, after all.”
Alasdair had presumed the rose drawing room must be so called because of the colour of its wallpaper or something like, but it seems that the ornamentation therein had given it its name.
The low couch and chairs ranged beneath the window are upholstered in a green fabric patterned with white roses, and the paintings hung on the walls do not depict governors and emperors past as the ones in the hall outside do, but are still lifes full of fruit and flowers.
Each one of the bright, cloisonnéd vases standing on the broad mantelpiece at the far end of the room contains an arrangement of the flowers themselves, including one particularly abundant in Gallian roses.
“Though the conservatory was locked the night of the party, this room was left open,” the prince says, obviously noticing where Alasdair’s gaze is directed. “Our unfortunate gentleman might have taken his rose from here.”
“Maybe,” Alasdair agrees, but the more he thinks on it, the less sense that explanation seems to make.
The Gallian roses might be beautiful enough to make a perfect courting gift, as Dylan had presumed Alasdair’s own rose to be, but unlike Alasdair’s comments in the carriage at the beginning of their journey here, stealing from the governor’s palace could be considered treason if the prince felt vindictive enough to pursue things that far.
Alasdair has heard it said that romantic love makes people foolish, but for his own peace of mind, he’d prefer to believe that it doesn’t cause them to ignore every instinct of self-preservation they might otherwise possess.
In any case, without knowing how many roses that particular vase had contained before the party - something which he’s sure the prince never thought necessary to ascertain - such a scenario must remain nothing more than idle speculation, its likelihood included.
Roses thus discounted, Alasdair turns his attention back towards the prince, and is surprised to see that he’s pouring out the wine he’d asked to be set out earlier. Having witnessed how eagerly his servants had offered to fetch and carry for him, Alasdair had assumed that the prince didn’t do a thing for himself save get out of bed in the morning and, it was to be hoped, wipe his own arse when he visited the privy.
“I think you’ll find this wine quite palatable,” the prince says as he hands Alasdair one of the intricately etched glasses.
It is, to Alasdair’s relief, not even half full; he could likely down the whole thing in one go and not have to taste it at all.
When he lifts the glass to his lips in order to do just that, however, the prince gives a small cry of alarm.
“You can’t just drink it,” he says, looking scandalised.
“Why not?” Alasdair asks. “What else are you supposed to do with wine?”
“Enjoy the bouquet, to start,” the prince says, sticking his long, pointed nose near his own glass. He inhales deeply in demonstration, his eyelids stuttering shut. “Wine is as much of an experience as it is a drink. It should be savoured.”
Thinking that missing out this obviously vital step might have ruined his appreciation of Da’s wine all those years ago, Alasdair takes a cautious sniff of his own glass. Contrary the prince’s protestations, he can detect a definite note of old tea winding its way through the far stronger scent of alcohol.
“Is it supposed to smell like anything in particular,” he asks, certain he must be missing something.
“This particular winery and vintage? Blackberries and oak,” the prince says.
Alasdair inhales again, and again fails to smell anything even remotely like either blackberries or oak. Clearly, princely noses are far more discerning organs than those of guards.
“Right,” he says, “can I try some now.”
“Go ahead,” the prince says readily enough, although he does sound a little petulant, nevertheless.
Alasdair takes a small sip, and rolls it around his mouth before swallowing. It tastes rich, a little woody, and is not as sour as Da’s wine had been, though it does leave a similar bitter aftertaste on the back of his tongue.
“It’s not too bad,” he concedes.
The prince sighs despondently. “Perhaps it will grow on you in time,” he says.
Despite his insistence that Alasdair linger over his measure, the prince empties his own glass in a single gulp. “I’m going to ring for a servant to fetch my cousins now,” he says as he refills it. “I should warn you now, Corporal, that they’re the youngest sons of the Emperor himself, so you cannot be as impertinent with them as I have allowed you to be with me.”
Princes Lovino and Feliciano are alike enough that Alasdair thinks he would have difficulty telling the two apart had the elder of the two not worn a face like a whole month’s worth of wet weekends from the moment the two brothers were shown into the drawing room by a servant even more obsequious than those who had been waiting on Prince Francis.
It’s unclear whether his sour expression betrays a more general surliness of disposition, or that he simply resents being made to interact with someone so far beneath his own station that they could, in the normal course of things, expect to be treated as invisible. His reasons make no odds, as, either way, he scowls through Alasdair’s description of the murdered man, snaps out an immediate disavowal of his name, and then stomps off to the window to stare moodily out at the garden below.
Prince Feliciano, on the other hand, is full of questions for Alasdair. Were the man’s eyes closely-set or wide? Dark brown or light? What shape was his nose? His lips? Did he have -
“We don’t need you to paint us a portrait of him, cousin,” Prince Francis says, his voice far kindlier than Alasdair has heard it sound thus far. “We just need to know if you recall his name.”
“Ah, I’m not sure I even met him. I think I would remember if I did, because he sounds as though he was very handsome. I really only talked to Lovi that night, didn’t I, Lovi.” Prince Lovino maintains his silent vigil, refusing to be drawn on the subject, and eventually Prince Feliciano turns to Alasdair and says, “I’m sorry, Corporal.”
From everything he’s ever read about the emperor, Alasdair had come to understand that he was the sort of man who believed that apologies were nothing but an admittance of fallibility - a sign of weakness - and it comes as such a surprise that he apparently hasn’t taught his youngest son the same thing that Alasdair struggles to find his tongue for a moment.
“It’s all right, your Highness,” he finally manages to splutter out. “I appreciate you taking the time to answer my questions, in any case.”
Prince Feliciano beams him a smile full of what looks to be genuine happiness and gratitude before politely excusing himself from both Alasdair and Prince Francis’ company. His brother trails along behind him, steps dragging sullenly, and he does not do Alasdair the courtesy of making eye contact, much less giving a farewell.
After they’ve left, Prince Francis glowers at Alasdair as though he’s perpetrated some great insult against the very institution of the Empire or something like.
Alasdair can’t think of a single thing that he might have done or said that might have caused offence - although he had been severely tempted to tell Prince Lovino to stop being such a miserable arse, as he does Michael when he’s acting the same way, he had managed to restrain himself in the end - so he asks, “Did I not tug my forelock hard enough?”
“No, quite to the contrary. You were perfectly polite,” the prince says, his glare intensifying.
“Was it something I didn’t say, then,” Alasdair pushes on, honestly perplexed.
“No, I only -” The prince sighs heavily, and then brushes the rest of his words aside with a quick flick of his wrist. “It’s nothing.”
His unhappy moue suggests otherwise, but as he seems unwilling to vocalise exactly what’s bothering him, Alasdair concludes that whatever rule of etiquette he had transgressed, it was one so petty that even the prince is feels embarrassed about wanting to upbraid him for it.
As such, it seems pointless to contemplate it any further, and in an effort to similarly divert the prince’s thoughts elsewhere, Alasdair asks him, “Do your cousins live with you, then?”
“No, they’re simply staying for a few months,” the prince says, his tone flat and dull. “Like me, they have an older brother and sister - the heir and the spare - to take care of all the official duties the Emperor expects of his children. It leaves Lovino and Feliciano with little to do with their time other than to sing, paint and study at home, or else visit with their family.
“Feliciano is a great favourite of my uncle’s, though.” The prince takes another indelicate swig of his wine. “There has been talk of him being made King of Gallia upon my father’s death, instead of my oldest brother.”
Alasdair has heard similar rumours, but: “Can they just ignore the rules of succession like that?”
“If by ‘they’, you mean the Emperor, then of course he can. The so-called Kings and Queens are no more than governors with exalted titles, you know. I’d be King of Northern Britannia myself now had the Emperor who conquered these lands not banished the very notion of royalty from them for fear of later uprisings.”
“I am aware of that,” Alasdair snaps, annoyed that the prince is apparently still persisting in the belief that he is ignorant and uneducated. “I have studied my own country’s history.”
The prince’s eyebrows quirk upwards slightly. “So, you had lessons in history as well as Gallian,” he says. “Did you enjoy them?”
“I always preferred natural philosophy,” Alasdair says, shrugging. “My brother, Arthur, is the historian. My da was writing a book about the history of Deva before he died, and Arthur’s determined to finish what he started.”
“That would be the brother who works as one of my under-gardeners?” When Alasdair nods, the prince chuckles dryly, and then remarks, “What a fascinating family you have, Corporal.”
He doesn’t seem particularly fascinated, however. His voice has lost what little energy it had regained throughout the course of their short conversation, and he peers listlessly down into the depths of his almost empty glass after he finishes speaking.
When it becomes apparent that the prince seems prepared to allow the silence between them to stretch out into absurdity, Alasdair clears his throat and says, “On the subject of family, didn’t you say that your brother and sister attended the party, too? We should probably speak to them next.”
The prince startles like a man shocked out of deep slumber, almost dropping his wine in the process. “Yes, of course,” he says, blinking rapidly. “My brother, Alfred, spends most of his afternoons in the billiards room, so he should be easy enough to find. I shall go and fetch him myself.”
Because it’s something he’s puzzled over before, and he’ll likely never have a better opportunity than the present to have his curiosity satisfied, Alasdair asks, “That’s not a Gallian name, is it?”
“Not traditionally, no. My father did give Mama the privilege of choosing one of our names herself, however, and she is half-Briton.” The prince flashes Alasdair a wider smile than any he has bestowed on him before; one that reveals the bottom edges of all of his neat, white teeth. “I suppose you could say that my posting here has allowed me to return to my roots.”
Prince Alfred shares his older brother’s eye and hair colour, but there the familial resemblance ends.
His clothes are just as well-tailored as Prince Francis’, but he seems to have none of his fastidiousness with them: his frock coat and red waistcoat are both unbuttoned, his shirt tails untucked, and his boots are scuffed around the toes.
He laughs often, smiles even more frequently, and seems to be filled with the sort of boundless, youthful energy that results in him being incapable of staying still for more than a minute at a time.
He spurns returning Alasdair’s short bow of welcome in favour of shaking his hand so vigorously that Alasdair briefly fears that his shoulder might become dislocated.
Afterwards, he throws himself down onto an armchair, and shifts his weight around as though in an effort to make himself comfortable. The attempt clearly fails, as moments later, he springs to his feet again and moves to the couch. Once settled there, he stretches his arms out across the backrest, and lets his legs fall into a lazy sprawl.
He twitches and interrupts his way through Alasdair’s account of the murdered man, quickly professes to not have the faintest clue about who he might be, and then, like Prince Feliciano, starts firing his own set of questions towards Alasdair.
Unlike his cousin, though, he’s not interested in further details about the victim’s appearance, but Alasdair’s profession, instead.
His vision of a guard’s work shares a great deal of similarity with Michael’s - rooftop chases feature heavily - and Alasdair can only suppose that they must also share the same tastes in reading material.
The comparison amuses him, and he’d be happy enough to play along for a while, but Prince Francis appears to have far less tolerance for his brother’s digressions.
“That will be all, Alfred,” he says, sharply enough that it cuts through Prince Alfred’s excited and increasingly loud chatter even though he doesn’t raise his voice. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, indicating that he has a headache building. “Please go and tell Madeline that we’d like to speak to her now.”
In appearance, Princess Madeline is a feminine mirror to her brother Alfred, but, on first impressions, she hasn’t the same exuberant personality.
She seems almost shy, in fact; entering the drawing room almost silently save for the soft rustle of the full, crinoline skirt of her pale violet dress, and keeping her eyes lowered as Prince Francis introduces her to Alasdair. Alasdair bows to her as he had the rest of her kin, and, to his astonishment, she drops a quick curtsey in answer.
She seems to draw some courage from this exchange of formalities, because she lifts her head afterwards, and says in a firm, steady voice, “Alfred told me about the man you’re looking for, Corporal, and I believe I might be able to help you.”
Alasdair’s muscles tense in anticipation. “Do you know what he was called?”
A slight blush rises to Princess Madeline’s cheeks. “He only told me his family his family name, I’m afraid,” she says. “It was Martinez.”
Prince Francis mutters something indecipherable under his breath and then hurries forward, jostling Alasdair’s shoulder with his own in his eagerness to shove Luca’s list into Alasdair’s line of sight. He jabs one long, slender finger to a point about halfway down the sheet.
There, at last, is the dead man’s name. Inscribed in the secretary’s neat, even hand below ‘Clemence Martinez’ is: “Armand Martinez.”
Speaking it aloud drains some of the tension that had been clutching Alasdair’s body so tightly for the past few days, but only for an instant, because a new sort of anxiety soon rises to take its place.
He will, after all, probably have to accompany his captain when she visits Clemence to break the news about what has happened to Armand.