[fic] More Aloes than Honey
More Aloes than Honey
Fandom: Plantagenets (The Lion in Winter)
Ship: Geoffrey/Constance
Rating: PG-13
Sumamry: That day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying, "Hmm, regicide," what he meant was...
A/N: For themis, who wanted a story about Constance! This is a sequel to Nobody's Good Son, a little coda, really. 740 words. The title is from Gerald of Wales's description of Geoff. I've been trying to decide which actress I'd like to see play Constance. Any thoughts?
"When I'm queen," Constance said, her cheek on Geoffrey's breast, her right thigh flush with his left.
"Yes?" he prompted when she paused. "What do you want? Who will you lock away?"
"When I'm queen," she began again, but stopped, for she'd lost her train of thought. She was slippery with sweat and hot, despite the fact that they'd lost their blanket and the fire was dying. Constance closed her eyes to the ashen February twilight and turned her face tenderly against her husband's skin. His heartbeat was still as wild as hers.
But Geoffrey was not content with her silence and caress. "Go on," he said, putting his index finger under her chin and tilting her face up to his. His eyes were the same color as the sky through their window, and his thin lips were curved in a curious smile. "I'd like to hear your list."
This again. Geoffrey horded grievances the way some small animals horded nuts and seeds before the winter. They sustained him. He could cast his memory back across the years to blows and slights his parents and brothers had dealt him ere he could speak. And sometimes, when he was tired or experiencing what Constance had come to recognize as Geoffrey's twisted brand of generosity, he demanded hers.
She did not mind ordinarily. It was rather nice having leave to complain. Some lovers, she thought, exchanged endearments and tokens such as poems and locks of hair tied with ribbons. They did this.
Usually, when he asked, she could supply him with at least half a dozen men and women, and suitable punishments for their various transgressions. Just now, however, she felt oddly sluggish, wanted only to lie in his arms and listen to his heart until she fell asleep. She did not love him, knew that he did not love her. But he confided in her, desired her, and after twenty-two lonely - and chaste - years, she found his attention and ambition rather intoxicating.
"Alais," Geoffrey said, and Constance bit back a groan. "What would you have me do with my father's whore?"
"Give her back to Philip," Constance said. Though she had no desire to see Alais in a position of power, she could not bring herself to hate the girl she'd once played with in Eleanor of Aquitaine's court in Poitiers.
"And lose the Vexin."
"Didn't you already promise Philip most of England's lands in France?"
"As you may have noticed, I've a tendency to break promises. Mother, I'm sure, would prefer to see her in a nunnery. What of Mother?"
"Hmm?"
"I could send them to the same nunnery. That might be fun."
"Geoffrey." She was cold now. With some effort, she pushed herself away from him, retrieved the blanket from the end of the bed, and gathered it to her breast.
His smile faded. "So you're a sentimental fool after all. Like Alais. Like Philip's wife."
"I am not," Constance. She straightened her back, lifted her chin. "Eleanor was good to me. In Poitiers, and later, when Henry took us prisoner and dragged us to England. The Channel was rough when we sailed from Barfleur, and I was frightened. I was but thirteen," she added, "and I'd overheard some of the men talking about the disaster of the White Ship."
"Did my mother fold you in her arms and dry your tears?" Geoffrey inquired sardonically.
"There were none to dry," said Constance. "I saw the queen standing straight as a sword despite the waves, and I did the same." As he seemed unimpressed, she added, "John wailed. Eleanor struck him."
"Hard?"
"Yes."
The thin smile returned. "All right," Geoffrey said, "we'll show the old bag some mercy. Come back." He took a fold of the blanket and tugged it away from her.
Exposed to the cold air and his gaze, she continued to sit straight and perfectly still. At length, he rolled to his knees and put his hands on her waist. She remained rigid one moment more. Then, slowly, she raised her own hands, slid her fingers into his thick, disheveled hair.
"We'll show Henry no mercy," he said huskily.
"None," she breathed.
Whether he moved of his own volition, or under the pressure of her hands, she would never be certain. Suddenly he was kissing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts.
"When I am queen…" This time she only mouthed the words.
1/14/2008
Fandom: Plantagenets (The Lion in Winter)
Ship: Geoffrey/Constance
Rating: PG-13
Sumamry: That day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying, "Hmm, regicide," what he meant was...
A/N: For themis, who wanted a story about Constance! This is a sequel to Nobody's Good Son, a little coda, really. 740 words. The title is from Gerald of Wales's description of Geoff. I've been trying to decide which actress I'd like to see play Constance. Any thoughts?
"When I'm queen," Constance said, her cheek on Geoffrey's breast, her right thigh flush with his left.
"Yes?" he prompted when she paused. "What do you want? Who will you lock away?"
"When I'm queen," she began again, but stopped, for she'd lost her train of thought. She was slippery with sweat and hot, despite the fact that they'd lost their blanket and the fire was dying. Constance closed her eyes to the ashen February twilight and turned her face tenderly against her husband's skin. His heartbeat was still as wild as hers.
But Geoffrey was not content with her silence and caress. "Go on," he said, putting his index finger under her chin and tilting her face up to his. His eyes were the same color as the sky through their window, and his thin lips were curved in a curious smile. "I'd like to hear your list."
This again. Geoffrey horded grievances the way some small animals horded nuts and seeds before the winter. They sustained him. He could cast his memory back across the years to blows and slights his parents and brothers had dealt him ere he could speak. And sometimes, when he was tired or experiencing what Constance had come to recognize as Geoffrey's twisted brand of generosity, he demanded hers.
She did not mind ordinarily. It was rather nice having leave to complain. Some lovers, she thought, exchanged endearments and tokens such as poems and locks of hair tied with ribbons. They did this.
Usually, when he asked, she could supply him with at least half a dozen men and women, and suitable punishments for their various transgressions. Just now, however, she felt oddly sluggish, wanted only to lie in his arms and listen to his heart until she fell asleep. She did not love him, knew that he did not love her. But he confided in her, desired her, and after twenty-two lonely - and chaste - years, she found his attention and ambition rather intoxicating.
"Alais," Geoffrey said, and Constance bit back a groan. "What would you have me do with my father's whore?"
"Give her back to Philip," Constance said. Though she had no desire to see Alais in a position of power, she could not bring herself to hate the girl she'd once played with in Eleanor of Aquitaine's court in Poitiers.
"And lose the Vexin."
"Didn't you already promise Philip most of England's lands in France?"
"As you may have noticed, I've a tendency to break promises. Mother, I'm sure, would prefer to see her in a nunnery. What of Mother?"
"Hmm?"
"I could send them to the same nunnery. That might be fun."
"Geoffrey." She was cold now. With some effort, she pushed herself away from him, retrieved the blanket from the end of the bed, and gathered it to her breast.
His smile faded. "So you're a sentimental fool after all. Like Alais. Like Philip's wife."
"I am not," Constance. She straightened her back, lifted her chin. "Eleanor was good to me. In Poitiers, and later, when Henry took us prisoner and dragged us to England. The Channel was rough when we sailed from Barfleur, and I was frightened. I was but thirteen," she added, "and I'd overheard some of the men talking about the disaster of the White Ship."
"Did my mother fold you in her arms and dry your tears?" Geoffrey inquired sardonically.
"There were none to dry," said Constance. "I saw the queen standing straight as a sword despite the waves, and I did the same." As he seemed unimpressed, she added, "John wailed. Eleanor struck him."
"Hard?"
"Yes."
The thin smile returned. "All right," Geoffrey said, "we'll show the old bag some mercy. Come back." He took a fold of the blanket and tugged it away from her.
Exposed to the cold air and his gaze, she continued to sit straight and perfectly still. At length, he rolled to his knees and put his hands on her waist. She remained rigid one moment more. Then, slowly, she raised her own hands, slid her fingers into his thick, disheveled hair.
"We'll show Henry no mercy," he said huskily.
"None," she breathed.
Whether he moved of his own volition, or under the pressure of her hands, she would never be certain. Suddenly he was kissing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts.
"When I am queen…" This time she only mouthed the words.
1/14/2008