[fic] Nightfall
Nightfall
Fandom: The Lion in Winter, though at this point this may constitute original fiction
Rating: PG
Ship: allusions to Geoffrey/Constance, mostly shipless
Summary: John goes to Poitou to fight Richard. Geoffrey tags along.
A/N: For nextian! This is about 780 words, and follows More Aloes Than Honey, though it can stand alone.
Geoffrey had said to John, "I'm a legitimate son of Henry, King of England, and Eleanor of Aquitaine. It's eleven eighty-three, and I am a barbarian. And I shall be king. Now, turn around and go home to Daddy. Or Mother. I don't care. I'm done with you."
Then he had mounted his horse and ridden away, leaving John on the frozen banks of the Loire, a stunned and pitiful figure huddled in a cloak.
That had been the dawn after Christmas. Now it was August, and Geoffrey found himself once again in his younger brother's company.
On the edge of what was soon to be a battlefield, which he could have predicted, even in the grim cold of December.
On the same side, which was something of a surprise.
Standing outside his tent and watching the sun sinking slowly behind the lush rolling hills of Poitou, Geoffrey chided himself silently. His words were not to be trusted, not even by himself. He should not have forgotten that.
Still, he was glad to be away from Nantes. It was hot, and his wife, big with child, was not pleasant company. Neither was John, he reflected, but at least John did not share his bed.
They were here because Henry had ordered John to take the Aquitaine from their brother Richard - and then failed to provide him with the means to do so. Geoffrey, as always, doubted their father's sincerity, but John had not. First he'd gone to Philip, who'd been too busy fighting his father-in-law in Flanders and trying to repudiate his queen to help. Then he'd gone to Geoffrey, who'd been looking for an excuse to leave Constance for a while and who, in twenty-five years, had never been able to pass up the chance to do Richard and ill turn.
Even if it meant spending time with John.
As Geoffrey watched, the last rays of daylight stretched across the hills, turning the grass and streamlets to gold. A breeze lifted his hair and played across the back of his neck. He shivered and lifted his wine cup to his lips. Finding it empty, he lowered it again and tilted his head back.
The sky was the pale pink of watered down wine, and starless. Constance would soon be undressing for bed. He didn't miss her, doubted he'd want to see her again before the child was born. But he liked it when she unbraided her hair and it fell in chestnut ripples down her back. She knew he liked it, and made a show of it.
Poor Philip, he thought. At least Constance was fertile.
For the first time since riding out from Nantes, Geoffrey found himself wondering what Philip thought of this expedition.
A shame he could not be here.
Geoffrey knew when John was behind him, but he did not turn. "You'd better have brought the wine."
"Of course I did." As John refilled Geoffrey's cup, he said, "This is going to work, isn't it? 'Cause if it doesn't, I'm going to be in a lot of trouble."
"And I won't?"
"You always find your way out of messes. Me, I just get myself in deeper, no matter what."
"You wormed your way back into Henry's good graces."
"Henry's got graces?"
Startled by John's unexpected wit, Geoffrey laughed.
"I think William Marshal talked him into taking me back, to be honest," John went on. "Probably told him he can't hate all his sons."
"Father only hates Richard," said Geoffrey. "I don't exist, and you-"
"He doesn't love me," John interjected sourly.
"No, he doesn’t," Geoffrey agreed. "But…" He'd been about to say, But he has some faith in you, but checked himself in time. "He finds you useful," he finished at length.
"I don't want to get killed fighting Richard."
"Nor do I."
"Richard will kill us if he catches us, won't he?"
Without pausing Geoffrey said, "Most likely, yes."
"Great. Good thing you're going to have an heir."
Something in John's tone, some sarcastic note, caught Geoffrey's ear and caused him to look at his brother. The sun had set completely by now, so his features were difficult to read.
"Richard," said Geoffrey slowly, "would not scruple to murder a child."
"I would."
"Would you? If it stood between you and the throne?"
There was just enough torchlight for Geoffrey to see John cock his head. "But yours doesn't."
Yet, Geoffrey thought, but decided not to pursue it. John, he realized, had not answered his question, but that was all right. John might die fighting Richard. In which case, Henry might suddenly discover that he had a second useful son.
1/27/08
Fandom: The Lion in Winter, though at this point this may constitute original fiction
Rating: PG
Ship: allusions to Geoffrey/Constance, mostly shipless
Summary: John goes to Poitou to fight Richard. Geoffrey tags along.
A/N: For nextian! This is about 780 words, and follows More Aloes Than Honey, though it can stand alone.
Geoffrey had said to John, "I'm a legitimate son of Henry, King of England, and Eleanor of Aquitaine. It's eleven eighty-three, and I am a barbarian. And I shall be king. Now, turn around and go home to Daddy. Or Mother. I don't care. I'm done with you."
Then he had mounted his horse and ridden away, leaving John on the frozen banks of the Loire, a stunned and pitiful figure huddled in a cloak.
That had been the dawn after Christmas. Now it was August, and Geoffrey found himself once again in his younger brother's company.
On the edge of what was soon to be a battlefield, which he could have predicted, even in the grim cold of December.
On the same side, which was something of a surprise.
Standing outside his tent and watching the sun sinking slowly behind the lush rolling hills of Poitou, Geoffrey chided himself silently. His words were not to be trusted, not even by himself. He should not have forgotten that.
Still, he was glad to be away from Nantes. It was hot, and his wife, big with child, was not pleasant company. Neither was John, he reflected, but at least John did not share his bed.
They were here because Henry had ordered John to take the Aquitaine from their brother Richard - and then failed to provide him with the means to do so. Geoffrey, as always, doubted their father's sincerity, but John had not. First he'd gone to Philip, who'd been too busy fighting his father-in-law in Flanders and trying to repudiate his queen to help. Then he'd gone to Geoffrey, who'd been looking for an excuse to leave Constance for a while and who, in twenty-five years, had never been able to pass up the chance to do Richard and ill turn.
Even if it meant spending time with John.
As Geoffrey watched, the last rays of daylight stretched across the hills, turning the grass and streamlets to gold. A breeze lifted his hair and played across the back of his neck. He shivered and lifted his wine cup to his lips. Finding it empty, he lowered it again and tilted his head back.
The sky was the pale pink of watered down wine, and starless. Constance would soon be undressing for bed. He didn't miss her, doubted he'd want to see her again before the child was born. But he liked it when she unbraided her hair and it fell in chestnut ripples down her back. She knew he liked it, and made a show of it.
Poor Philip, he thought. At least Constance was fertile.
For the first time since riding out from Nantes, Geoffrey found himself wondering what Philip thought of this expedition.
A shame he could not be here.
Geoffrey knew when John was behind him, but he did not turn. "You'd better have brought the wine."
"Of course I did." As John refilled Geoffrey's cup, he said, "This is going to work, isn't it? 'Cause if it doesn't, I'm going to be in a lot of trouble."
"And I won't?"
"You always find your way out of messes. Me, I just get myself in deeper, no matter what."
"You wormed your way back into Henry's good graces."
"Henry's got graces?"
Startled by John's unexpected wit, Geoffrey laughed.
"I think William Marshal talked him into taking me back, to be honest," John went on. "Probably told him he can't hate all his sons."
"Father only hates Richard," said Geoffrey. "I don't exist, and you-"
"He doesn't love me," John interjected sourly.
"No, he doesn’t," Geoffrey agreed. "But…" He'd been about to say, But he has some faith in you, but checked himself in time. "He finds you useful," he finished at length.
"I don't want to get killed fighting Richard."
"Nor do I."
"Richard will kill us if he catches us, won't he?"
Without pausing Geoffrey said, "Most likely, yes."
"Great. Good thing you're going to have an heir."
Something in John's tone, some sarcastic note, caught Geoffrey's ear and caused him to look at his brother. The sun had set completely by now, so his features were difficult to read.
"Richard," said Geoffrey slowly, "would not scruple to murder a child."
"I would."
"Would you? If it stood between you and the throne?"
There was just enough torchlight for Geoffrey to see John cock his head. "But yours doesn't."
Yet, Geoffrey thought, but decided not to pursue it. John, he realized, had not answered his question, but that was all right. John might die fighting Richard. In which case, Henry might suddenly discover that he had a second useful son.
1/27/08