(no subject)
Later that night England escaped from his newly assigned bedroom. It wasn't an easy task considering he was sharing it with three others, but they had quickly fallen into a deep and sated sleep, while England hadn't a hope of dropping off even if he'd wanted to.
Glancing about, in case he'd rated their sleep deeper than it was, England crept out of their room. He checked the hallway thoroughly before embarking on his quest, a blanket wrapped round him to fend off the night time chills. He knew where he was going and he intended on getting there quickly, preferably before his extremities turned into blocks of ice. He paused in his mission only once, when he passed a set of stairs. They lead up to his old room and where France was still staying.
England hadn't been completely oblivious; he knew France had done what he could. He knew France deserved some gratitude for his efforts, but... even just the thought of him brought a fresh flush of humiliation and kick of anxiety. England needed to get away from any reminder of the earlier feast. He really didn't need to see anyone who'd witnessed his shameful behaviour (and it was shameful, just not for any reason the Bastard said. At least when he'd snivelled at the feet of the Vikings it was because they were brandishing axes).
England shook himself and moved on. He'd snuck out for a reason and it wasn't to stand about in the dark thinking about the past. He turned the next corner and nearly had a heart attack when he saw the shape of a person outlined in the doorway to the great hall.
England flung himself back and, once he gathered himself, peered around the corner at the other late-night wanderer. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the light, his smile grew. Once it was confirmed that they were alone, he dashed back round the corner and nearly bowled the figure over in his enthusiasm.
“Mildred!” he whispered into her frock.
“Hello, sweetie,” she said, stroking the back of his head. “You nearly had me over, there!”
“I'm just happy to see you!” England grinned up at her, still buried in her skirts.
“And I'm happy to see you.” Mildred detached him and bent down to his level. “But that's no reason to put an old woman on her back, is it?” She tapped him on the nose.
England held back a giggle and rubbed his nose.
“Well now.” Mildred moved away to settle down against the wall and patted the floor next to her. “What's brought you all the way out here? Bad day?”
England nodded as he sat down. “Horrible day.” He rested his head against Mildred's side as she wrapped her arm around him. He continued quietly, “I keep thinking I've had all the worst days, but then I have another one.”
“Oh, love.” Mildred kissed the top of his head. “I wish you didn't have to.”
England sighed. “Yeah, me too.”
Mildred rubbed his arm. “You're such a brave young man.”
“Young?” England slyly looked her way. “I'm older than you are.”
“Oh, don't remind me.” She rolled her eyes. “Here I am, joints creaking away, and there you're still with half your milk teeth.”
England grinned wide and showed her his mismatched set. Mildred returned the favour with an equally wonky mouthful.
“You know,” she leaned in closer, as if she were revealing a deep secret. “You remind me of Bertie when he was that age.”
England's face screwed up in confusion. “I do?” Everything he'd heard about Bertie and his brother, fun though the stories were, painted a picture of a rambunctious boy full of bounce who was nothing like England. (And the stories were always about a pair of boys, never men. England had never asked what happened.)
“Oh yes.” Mildred nodded. “He was so full of energy. He'd get into such mischief and then he'd tell you all about it afterwards. He couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life.”
England thought the words over, but decided his initial reaction had been correct. “But that's nothing like me.”
“No, it's not,” she said lightly, “But you've got the same bird's nest on your head.” She ruffled his hair vigorously.
“Oi!” England batted her hand away and patted his hair back down into its usual disorder. “My hair is fine!”
“Did I ever tell you about the time Bertie grew his hair out?”
England narrowed his eyes over the lack of agreement about the state of his hair, but ultimately allowed it to pass. “No, you didn't.”
“Oh, well, you know Bertie always had some strange ideas.”
England nodded.
“I never did find out how this particular idea got into his head, but he fancied he'd look good with long hair.” Mildred playfully tugged England's forelock. “Thankfully, he never convinced his brother of it.” She ruffled his hair once more and looked off down the hallway, remembering another time. “I chased that boy high and low, but he wouldn't let me come near enough to touch him, let alone cut his hair. He'd only stay in the same room long enough for me to put food in front of him, then he'd disappear off to I-don't-know-where. And, good grief, it looked terrible.” She looked back at England and grinned. “His hair grew in every direction but down. He looked like a shocked hedgehog!
“His dad finally managed to get hold of him. He marched that boy down to the lake to get a good look at himself. Bertie quickly changed his tune; I've never seen anyone so eager for a hair cut in all my days.”
England self-consciously tamped down his hair again, remembering his own foray into the wonders of hair. “That's definitely nothing like me.”
“Of course not. You've always been a dashing young lad, I'm sure.”
“Definitely.” England nodded seriously.
“Ah,” said Mildred, suddenly digging into her pouch, “I grabbed you something from the kitchen on my way out.” She pulled out a nearly whole leg of chicken and held it out.
England's mouth immediately started watering at the sight. He was hungry. Despite all the food he'd eaten, he was still hungry. He was used to it, mostly. Or he could at least mask the most obvious signs of his hunger. He always did his best to push it to the back of his mind, but the sight of food tried his resolve.
“Mildred!” With great effort he pushed the offered food away. “You shouldn't!” He frowned at her. “You'll get into trouble.” He pushed her hand further away, not daring to look at what it held and instead turned his eyes towards his lap. “And... and I was at the feast. I don't need anything more to eat.”
“Sweetheart, look at me.” She nudged him into raising his eyes to meet hers. “Are you still hungry?”
His eyes flicked towards the chicken for the barest of moments. “Yes.” He couldn't lie.
“Then you need this more than any silly Norman.” She pushed the leg into his hands and he finally took it. “After what they've done, they should be the ones starving.” She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge and not an opinion that could get you killed. It was the kind of thing that made England worry for her, even though he knew not a single other person in the castle could understand a word she said.
He wiped his mind of that worry for the moment. He decided instead to take refuge in her arms and draw from her sturdy strength as he ate. For all that he knew peoples' lives were fleeting compared to his, she did give the impression of being as enduring as an oak.
They sat for a while in silence, until England began to nod sleepily against her side.
Mildred sighed. “Come on, love.” She gently roused him. “You've had a hard day, you should be sleeping.”
England buried his face in her clothes. “I don't want to leave you.”
She wasn't swayed. “But if you don't, your toes will drop off from the cold.” She urged him to stand. “That happens, you know; I saw it once. Not pretty.”
England folded his arms and looked at Mildred, not even trying to hide that he was pouting.
“Don't worry, sweetie.” She held her hand out and with lots of heaving and grunting they managed to get her back on her feet. “All these extra men will be gone soon, so I've heard. Then we can carry on with our lessons. I've collected plenty of thread for us.”
England mustered up a smile and took his final hug. “Goodnight, Mildred. See you tomorrow.”
“Be strong, my little soldier.” She caught his face between her hands and looked into his eyes. “Remember that you're loved.”
~
England woke the next morning after not enough sleep along with the rest of his room mates. He dressed as usual and went down to the Great Hall and the scene of his humiliation. To his dismay, the Bastard was already there, just finishing the last of his plate. England usually tried to be there before the Bastard so he could eat in peace, but his late night had led him to oversleep.
He cautiously approached the table. He put a hand down at the place he'd sat the previous evening. He made to sit down but the Bastard's fierce gaze stopped him. England reluctantly held that gaze, frozen in place.
The Bastard raised an eyebrow.
England backed off and returned to his place behind and to the left of the Bastard's seat. He stood and watched people come and go. He could smell the food no more than a few feet away from him. He had to keep himself in check and forcibly remind himself that glowering at the back of the Bastard's head would no doubt end badly.
There was at least one person in the room who didn't feel the need for such restraint, and that was France. He was scowling more at his food than anything, but when he looked up it was clear who it was really for. Especially in the way it melted into a hopeful smile when he caught England's eye.
England couldn't quite manage a full-blown smile in return, but he did raise his eyebrows out of their habitual frown.
The day continued in much the same manner. England had been dropped back to being the Bastard's personal serving boy (technically one step above whipping boy, but there wasn't much difference) and was constantly under surveillance.
The most welcome surveillance was from France, who had taken it upon himself to follow them closely everywhere they went (he probably thought he was being stealthy, but he really wasn't). Whenever England was sent on an errand, France would come out of 'hiding' and they'd have part of a conversation. It was always inane, never deep, but with Mildred's last words to him hanging in his mind, he found it endlessly comforting.
It was nearly nightfall by the time the Bastard finally let him go. England wasted no time in disappearing to do his own thing. He shook France off fairly easily, as he had an actual understanding of the word 'stealth' (both the French and the English one). France probably hadn't hidden a day in his life. It would be too hard for him, what with such a big head. And he... he would probably know what to do. Something more useful than hiding.
Well, that was definitely enough of being charitable to the frog. It almost certainly made up for running away from him at the first chance.
And with that thought, England was left with a free conscience to go seek out Mildred. It was something he did most days. It could take some time; there was no guaranteeing where Mildred would be at any given moment, and trying to stay out of sight as much as possible slowed England's progress.
As it got later and all the places England looked were to no avail, he knew that he was going to have to do something he didn't like. He was going to have to go down to the kitchen. The kitchen was where all the servants worked form and returned to inside the keep. As such, there were always people there, which wasn't much good for staying secretive.
When England had voiced his fears, Mildred had told him that some servant gossip was nothing compared to a night without seeing him. England had listened to her, but he still felt apprehensive whenever it came down to this. Mildred had told him again not to worry, and that she'd do everything she could to avoid it coming to this.
England felt bad, sometimes, for how much he leant on Mildred and how much she went out of her way for him. It was something he'd never voiced, knowing exactly what Mildred would say to it, and in the scheme of things, there were definitely things he felt worse about.
England crept across the Great Hall to the kitchen entrance. There were one or two of the Bastard's men still up and about, but it was mostly servants tidying away or getting ready to bed down themselves.
England stood before the entrance, took a deep breath, and walked in.
No one noticed him at first. They were all busy with their duties or looking forward to a night's rest.
It was only when he had to move out of someone's bustling way and moved into someone else's way, than anyone stopped to look at him. England returned that look full force. For all of the Bastard's lessons, England still wasn't entirely sure where he was on pecking order compared to the servants, but he reasoned that if he acted like he was above them, they'd believe it.
The servant raised his eyebrows expectantly and adjusted his handfuls of dirty plates.
“Do you know where I might find Mildred?” asked England in his most snotty and stuck-up manner. It was a pretty good approximation of most Frenchmen, if he did say so himself.
The servant frowned at him. “Who?”
England just managed to hold back a roll of the eyes. Instead he pushed, “The Saxon,” through gritted teeth. If anything, Mildred was more Angle than Saxon, but no one ever made the distinction any more, least of all the invaders.
The servant looked pained at realising who England was looking for, then his look turned to pity. “She's gone.”
“She's what?” England shook his head. The servant had obviously got the wrong person in mind. Even if Mildred did need to go somewhere, she'd get a message to him. “ No she's not, I spoke to her yesterday.”
“And today she was caught stealing.” The servant shrugged apologetically. “Now she is gone.”
“Stealing what?” Though England already knew the answer. “And 'gone'? What do you mean 'gone'?” He feared he knew the answer to that one as well.
Whatever the man was going to say was cut off by another servant. She was making strange hissing noises as though trying to scare off an unwanted animal.
“Get away!” She flicked a rag at him. “Go on! We don't need you hanging around here.”
England took a step back and tried to hit the rag aside whenever she went for him with it. “What's wrong with you? I've been just fine here before.”
“And what a lot of good that did.” The woman carried on making her strange noise and flicking her rag as she advanced.
England stood his ground. “Mildred!” he called into the kitchen, to hell with not making a scene. “Mildred, I'm here!”
The woman grabbed him by the back of his tunic. “Look, Saxon,” she breathed into his face as she dragged him towards the doorway. “She is gone. You won't see her again. Now, get out of here.” She threw him back into the hall. “I can't afford to lose anyone else.”
England stumbled to a halt and looked back at the woman, who whipped her rag again. England moved further away, towards the shadows at the far end of the hall. He stood there, relatively certain he would not be bothered, and thought.
Mildred was gone.
He pulled up tunic and felt for the embroidery on his undershirt. He ran his fingers over the thread Mildred had stolen to teach him with. (They were mismatched scraps; no one would have missed them. Just like the food she would get for him.)
England closed his eyes as the overwhelming inevitability of it washed over him. The Bastard crushed everything that made him happy, of course that would extend to people. It was stupid of him to try. It was stupid of him to get Mildred mixed up in all this.
England smacked the wall, then immediately wished he hadn't.
“England, what are you doing over here?”
England spun around. France was approaching him with a curious smile. England dropped his stinging hand to his side. “I'm just thinking.”
France raised his eyebrows. “Oh? About what?”
“Nothing you'd care about.” The last thing he needed was an 'I told you so' from France.
France looked nonplussed by the slightly brash answer, but quickly shrugged it off. “Well, I have great news.” He slung an arm around England's shoulders and started steering him away. “I managed to persuade William into letting you sleep with me in my room! Isn't that wonderful?”
“I suppose it's not bad,” he grudgingly admitted.
France continued to lead him out of the hall. Before they left, England cast one final glance towards the empty doorway of the kitchen.
~
The air was wonderfully cool and refreshing on his face. Not like being trapped inside. The sun shone full on his face, skylarks twittered above over the fields. It was like it had always been. It was as if nothing had ever happened. He opened his arms to the sky and let the sun burn away the cloud that had been hanging over him for over a year now.
A butterfly flitted past to land on the cow parsley growing tall by the road. It rested there a few moments, flashing its wings at him before it fluttered off.
He carried on along the road. His feet taking him away from the sun and the fields to a village.
All was quiet.
England slowed his walk, his tread uncertain. Clouds had gathered overhead and choked the sun out. The wind had turned cutting. He looked behind him, but the fields were shrouded in fog and no bird call reached him through it.
The wind blew him on down the street.
The houses either side of him were shut up and empty, their windows dark and leering. Charred and blackened things snapped beneath his feet.
England pulled his cloak around him and hurried on. There was a house ahead of him that the road was leading him to, that had light flickering in the windows and smoke rising from the roof. He set his sights on it and ignored the eerie stillness around him.
As he approached, the door swung ajar. England stopped dead in his tracks. The house was dark inside. Light still flickered merrily at the window, but the doorway showed no such thing. The darkness in there was oppressive. It started trickling out into the road.
England crept closer.
He stepped around the growing puddle and tried to peer into the house, but there was nothing to be seen through such a small gap. England went closer still and there was nothing he could do about avoiding the puddle any more. The trickle grew and soon there was a dark red stream flowing round England's boots and into the street.
England looked behind him. The fog had engulfed most of the village, only the nearest houses were still visible. The only way was forward.
He reached a hand out towards the door, hesitated, then pushed it open.
England woke up crying.
He felt hollow. There was an emptiness inside him that wasn't explained by the hunger and it was sapping him of all his strength and will. It pressed down on him like a dead weight and engulfed him.
England blinked and rolled over. A sorrowful whine escaped him before he could hold it back.
“England?”
England pushed his face into the pillow.
“England, what's wrong?”
Of all the people to see him in this state, it would have to be France. Not that there was anyone better, which was not a thought that cheered him any.
“Did you have a bad dream?”
Bad dream? He was having a bad life.
France finally found his way to England in the dark and rolled him onto his back. England lay there sniffling as the tears trickled through his hair.
“What did you dream about?” France gently ran his fingers over England's clammy cheek.
England shook his head. He couldn't put it into words, and not just because his voice would be all wobbly (the Bastard hated that).
“Oh, come here.” France pulled him up and into a hug.
England stiffened at first but relaxed into it when France held onto him. France started to hum and England clung to him.
Mildred had sung and held him; old songs that England knew, that had grown from his land and his people. Songs that felt like home.
France was singing now, but it wasn't anything England knew. The words were foreign, even though he understood them, and the melody was all wrong. It didn't comfort him. It made the void inside him grow and pushed Mildred's songs out of his mind. He tried to struggle out of France's hold, perhaps to tell him to shut up and go away; England didn't need babying. But France wouldn't let go.
England pushed harder and tried to wriggle away, but France held on tighter and murmured endearments, giving England names in a language he didn't want. England was happy with the name he had, he was happy with the language he had. He used to be happy.
Rage flared red and hot, blinding in its intensity.
Every punishment he'd had inflicted on him.
Every needless lesson.
Every death.
All the words England had forced himself to swallow bubbled up and erupted in a screech as he shoved France away.
“England, what's wrong?”
England scrabbled further out of France's reach and turned his fury towards the bedclothes, pulling them up and throwing them across the room, crying all the while.
“It's alright, I'm here.” France made a grab for him. “England, calm down!”
England's focus swung back to France “No!” he shouted in his own language, loud enough to be heard many rooms over.
France's eye's widened and he flapped his arms in a panic. “Be quiet! Someone's going to hear!”
“No!” England took a step back. “You can't tell me what to do!”
“Please calm down!” France hadn't understood England's words, but that didn't change his message. “It was a dream, you're fine now.”
“No!” England relented and spoke a language France knew. “It is not fine. Nothing is fine.”
France looked regretful. “I know it's not, but you have to quiet down or you'll make it worse.”
That was not a phrase England wanted to hear. He charged and barrelled France into the opposite wall. “Stop saying that!”
France gasped at the impact. “England!”
England didn't care what France had to say. He lashed out and caught France on the chin, then again in the stomach, before France gathered his senses enough to push England away.
“What is wrong with you?”
England stumbled to a halt in the centre of the room and burst into tears; too many emotions running through him than he knew what to do with. Some that he couldn't even name, in any language. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know if there was anything he could do. He had been fighting for so long and it had taken everything he had.
He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand and looked at France. France was still pressed up against the wall, watching wide-eyed and rubbing his jaw.
The image blurred with more tears.
“France.” England sounded like a lost child pleading for someone to take him home.
The door burst open before any plea could be answered. Men rushed in, the first one grabbing England, the next three jostling to see if France was unharmed.
England was dragged out into the corridor where people were starting to gather. England kept his head down and watched the tears drip off the end of his nose while the men spoke over his head. Tremors of fear ran through his body as what he had done began to sink in. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff ready to leap off, only he'd already taken the jump and was waiting for the ground to hit.
“I am fine, I am fine!” England could hear France trying to escape his army of defenders. “We were just playing!” England glanced over, but France was blocked from view.
“What,” said the voice England was most dreading, “Is going on here?”
England wished himself smaller as the crowd parted in front of him. He kept his head down and tried to shrink away, hide behind the man who still had a grip on his arm.
“William!” was France's cheery call. “There's been a terrible misunderstanding.” England watched France's stockinged feet trot past.
“Is that so?”
England didn't need to look up to feel the gaze burning into him.
“Oh yes,” said France sincerely, “England couldn't sleep so we decided to play a game, only I think maybe we got a bit loud--”
In three strides the Bastard was standing right next to England. He grabbed England by the arm and hauled him away from the other men. He trapped England against the wall and towered over him.
“More lies, England?” the Bastard hissed. “Is there something about you that turns people dishonest?”
England couldn't stop his terrified sobs as the Bastard carried on, his words quiet and insidious. England felt them settle about him like chains, dragging him down, condemning him. He barely needed to hear them to feel their effects. He started a litany in his trembling voice, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, forgive me, I didn't mean to, please, forgive me, I'm sorry,”
“Listen to me when I am speaking!” The raised voice was accompanied by a quick shake. There was a lull before pain exploded in England's cheek and he was sent stumbling sideways. He instinctively brought his arms up to protect his head in case another blow came but made sure not to let any more sounds out. The last thing he needed was for his undignified whimpering to anger the Bastard further.
“William, stop!”
The Bastard whipped around to face the one person foolish enough to stand against him.
England was left shaking against the wall. His jagged breathing was too loud for him to hear any of the words being said but he peered between his fingers to watch the Bastard advance on France. The relief was immediate. There was still a low-level dread from being in sight of the Bastard, but mostly he was relieved to have that fierce intensity turned elsewhere.
And France... France was defiant. Defiant on England's behalf, even. It was enough to stop the tears and steady England's breath.
He watched the Bastard move to loom over France, who refused to step back. The Bastard put his hand on France's shoulder and bent down to his level. The words were too quiet for England to hear, other than a denial or two from France, especially over the uneasy shifting of the men that surrounded them all. Cowards, the lot of them.
“I admire your loyalty.” England's eyes snapped back to France and the Bastard. “But it can't be helped.” The Bastard stood upright and ruffled France's hair (England knew for a fact that France hated that). France, having been released from the grip on his shoulder, stepped back; he reversed right into his keeper, who'd emerged from the dwindling crowd.
England looked between them all, waiting for someone to break the impasse (for France to put to use all those courtly skills he always bragged about and talk the Bastard into submission). France's servant placed a protective hand on France's shoulder and stood firm (and England's Fae friends still didn't dare enter the castle and his brothers were no doubt enjoying his defeat). The Bastard backed off from France and turned to England.
England looked to France, desperate. He had nothing else. Not even God would answer his prayers.
France looked back. His eyes were wide with shock and he clasped at the hand on his shoulder, but he did nothing.
The Bastard grabbed England by the arm and gave him a shake, then impressed upon him a few more threats and promises.
England didn't take his eyes from France. He felt detached from what was happening, even as he was dragged away none too gently and his body tripped and struggled. The dread and fear were still in him, somewhere, but nothing was important enough to pull his gaze from France's pale face and the fact the last person had finally given up on him.
It was funny, really; he'd honestly thought he'd already lost all hope.
~~~
France's mood took a severe turn for the worse after that night.
He was so angry. He snapped at Hugh's every suggestion and barked orders at the servants. He could feel his face forming the scowl he used to tease England for.
Any man foolish enough to try and curry his favour would find himself on the receiving end of as many acerbic barbs as France could think of. France no longer held back any of his petty remarks. These men had shown just where their loyalties lay. They were more interested in kissing William's boots. Fighting like dogs to be first in line when William started handing out parcels of land.
They had left France to fend for himself. Oh, they may not be comfortable will William's methods, they may have their reserves behind closed doors, but at the crucial moment they turned their backs. They did nothing. They went back to their beds like cowards.
France couldn't stand any of them and it didn't take long for them to get the message.
Which left France with very little to do.
Spending time on his own was a new torture in itself. He was so ashamed of himself. He had let William intimidate him. He had behaved like a child. And when England had looked to him for help, when the time had come for him to step in like a big brother should, he'd just stood by and watched. France massaged his shoulder whenever he thought about it. He could still feel the bruises William's grip had left.
Every time he saw England about the castle he felt guilty. England was not sleeping in his room any more. England had become William's silent shadow. England would not even meet France's eyes from afar, and France had no desire to get anywhere near William, so they barely saw each other.
France even left the keep and walked the castle grounds, but the feelings came with him. There were more Saxons out there, mucking out the animals and doing basic, menial labour. France glowered at them. If they had fought harder in the first place, none of this mess would have happened. England would be the same grumpy, incredibly teaseable child he'd always been.
The castle became less crowded over the following days. France kept making excursions out of the keep, if only for a change of scenery (for less chance of bumping into William).
He tried to still make plans, to work out a way of fixing things, but his mind dwelt on the mistakes he'd already made. Once he set down that path, the helpless anger set in, until he was cursing anything and everyone who'd put him in this situation.
It was in this state, on his way back to his room, that he came across England. Or England came across him. England was going somewhere with purpose while France dawdled. Either way, they came across each other in a hallway, unsupervised.
It was such an opportunity that France was hardly prepared for. It was an opportunity that England was apparently happy to miss as he carried on striding by.
“England!” France turned and hurried after him. “It's me!” Perhaps England had trained himself to ignore everything around him; it was as good a tactic as any. “England, talk to me.” He put his hand on England's arm.
England reacted explosively. He shoved France into the wall and pinned him there, his little hands like vices around France's arms. He leant in, anger marring his features. “Don't touch me,” he snarled, “Don't even look at me.”
France pulled his head back sharply, knocking it into the wall. He watched in shock at the change that had suddenly overcome England.
England spoke in French that was perfect in every way but for the slight accent. “I hate you, France. I detest you. I loathe you and every last lousy cur that is part of you.”
France flinched at the flecks of spittle hitting his face.
England leant closer, looking France dead in the eye. “Speaking your language makes me want to retch.” England's breaths were short and measured, but his whole body was vibrating like a plucked bowstring. “I despise everything about you, right down to the vile stench of you.” He grew quieter. “At night, my best dreams are the ones where I rip that smug smile right off your face with my--” The sound of approaching footsteps cut him off.
England stepped away from where he had France pressed against the wall.
France watched with wide eyes as England shuttered himself up. The furious shaking subsided and England's face went blank as he returned himself to the silent statue of a boy that stood beside William.
England walked on without giving France a second look.
“Milord.” The hapless man who'd interrupted England's tirade looked concerned. “Are you quite alright?”
“Yes,” France choked out, then swallowed, composing himself. “Yes, I'm fine.” He ignored the burning in his eyes and hurried to his chamber.
The maids were in the midst of cleaning the room when France stormed in. He seethed for a moment, watching them watch him.
“Get out!” he screamed at them, “Get out!” He ripped the bedsheet from a startled maid's hands and flung it across the room. “Get out before I have you all beaten!”
France slammed the door shut after the last woman had left and then collapsed against it and slid down to the floor.
He sat there crying for some time.
~
France was sitting on the bed, looking out the window. The sky was grey and it hung over a greyer land. There was a knock at his door.
“Who is it?” he called over his shoulder.
“It is Hugh, my lord,” came the reply.
“Come in.”
The door opened and Hugh entered.
France remained staring out the window. He knew his eyes were still red and his face still blotchy from all his tears. “Hugh.” He sat up straight. “I wish to return home.” Hugh walked into his field of vision, but France still didn't turn to him.
“You are not required back for a number of months.”
“I'm well aware of that,” France snapped. He sniffed and returned to his affected indifference. “I'm sick and tired of this place and there is nothing keeping me here.” When no reply came, he glanced at Hugh out of the corner of his eye. “What is it?”
“This is quite a change of heart.” Hugh stepped closer. “Has something happened?”
“Happened? No.” France settled into his prim and proper appearance. “I have merely come to realise that England is a contemptible half-wit who wouldn't know kindness if it slapped him in the face.” He shrugged as if it were a simple fact of life he'd just come to realise. “It's no wonder William treats him the way he does.” A frown crept onto his face. “He's no better than a beast that lashes out, too stupid to see when someone means well. He and William deserve each other!” France's hands clenched in the bedclothes. “And, and at least while William is here, he can't make any designs on me.” He got off the bed and started pacing, gesturing angrily. “He can keep this damned, godforsaken island. He can slaughter the lot of them for all I care!” France stopped to catch his breath. He put a hand over his eyes and fought to keep control. “I-- I don't... I can't...”
“Very good, my lord.” Hugh had remained impassive throughout France's speech. “I shall notify William that we are leaving.”
~
As it turned out they were able to leave the very next day with a group of men already heading South. France was still more than ready to leave the oppressive atmosphere that the castle was shrouded in.
William came to the entrance of the keep to see them off. England followed along as though he were on a leash. William's farewell went on, saying how welcome France was to come back at any time.
France smiled through the words, not really listening to them. When it was apparent William was done, France bowed and thanked him.
William laughed fondly, then took France by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.
France gritted his teeth through it and managed not to flinch away. He plastered a happy face back on once William could see it and thanked him again. He quashed the strong urge to rub his cheeks clean.
France moved over to face England and looked down on him with a tight smile. “Be a good boy and attend to your studies.”
England's eyes flashed with anger. Suddenly, he leapt forward and clamped his arms tight around France.
France only relaxed when he realised that it was, for the benefit of those around them, meant to appear as a hug.
England stretched up till his mouth was on a level with France's ear. “Pray you'll never meet me on the battlefield.” He abruptly let go and stepped back, once again the docile little boy.
France took in England's diminutive stature with a raised eyebrow and sniggered. “Of course I will.”
England didn't rise to the bait and France turned away at last, eager for home. England made no noise as he watched France walk away.
France held his head high and did not look back.
~~~
"Wasta Est" is how much of the land of Northern England was described in the Domesday Book, ten or so years after William had his way with it. It more or less mean it's a wasteland.
So, this was pretty much me indulging in ridiculous amounts of headcanon. I enjoyed it. Hope you did.
Glancing about, in case he'd rated their sleep deeper than it was, England crept out of their room. He checked the hallway thoroughly before embarking on his quest, a blanket wrapped round him to fend off the night time chills. He knew where he was going and he intended on getting there quickly, preferably before his extremities turned into blocks of ice. He paused in his mission only once, when he passed a set of stairs. They lead up to his old room and where France was still staying.
England hadn't been completely oblivious; he knew France had done what he could. He knew France deserved some gratitude for his efforts, but... even just the thought of him brought a fresh flush of humiliation and kick of anxiety. England needed to get away from any reminder of the earlier feast. He really didn't need to see anyone who'd witnessed his shameful behaviour (and it was shameful, just not for any reason the Bastard said. At least when he'd snivelled at the feet of the Vikings it was because they were brandishing axes).
England shook himself and moved on. He'd snuck out for a reason and it wasn't to stand about in the dark thinking about the past. He turned the next corner and nearly had a heart attack when he saw the shape of a person outlined in the doorway to the great hall.
England flung himself back and, once he gathered himself, peered around the corner at the other late-night wanderer. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the light, his smile grew. Once it was confirmed that they were alone, he dashed back round the corner and nearly bowled the figure over in his enthusiasm.
“Mildred!” he whispered into her frock.
“Hello, sweetie,” she said, stroking the back of his head. “You nearly had me over, there!”
“I'm just happy to see you!” England grinned up at her, still buried in her skirts.
“And I'm happy to see you.” Mildred detached him and bent down to his level. “But that's no reason to put an old woman on her back, is it?” She tapped him on the nose.
England held back a giggle and rubbed his nose.
“Well now.” Mildred moved away to settle down against the wall and patted the floor next to her. “What's brought you all the way out here? Bad day?”
England nodded as he sat down. “Horrible day.” He rested his head against Mildred's side as she wrapped her arm around him. He continued quietly, “I keep thinking I've had all the worst days, but then I have another one.”
“Oh, love.” Mildred kissed the top of his head. “I wish you didn't have to.”
England sighed. “Yeah, me too.”
Mildred rubbed his arm. “You're such a brave young man.”
“Young?” England slyly looked her way. “I'm older than you are.”
“Oh, don't remind me.” She rolled her eyes. “Here I am, joints creaking away, and there you're still with half your milk teeth.”
England grinned wide and showed her his mismatched set. Mildred returned the favour with an equally wonky mouthful.
“You know,” she leaned in closer, as if she were revealing a deep secret. “You remind me of Bertie when he was that age.”
England's face screwed up in confusion. “I do?” Everything he'd heard about Bertie and his brother, fun though the stories were, painted a picture of a rambunctious boy full of bounce who was nothing like England. (And the stories were always about a pair of boys, never men. England had never asked what happened.)
“Oh yes.” Mildred nodded. “He was so full of energy. He'd get into such mischief and then he'd tell you all about it afterwards. He couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life.”
England thought the words over, but decided his initial reaction had been correct. “But that's nothing like me.”
“No, it's not,” she said lightly, “But you've got the same bird's nest on your head.” She ruffled his hair vigorously.
“Oi!” England batted her hand away and patted his hair back down into its usual disorder. “My hair is fine!”
“Did I ever tell you about the time Bertie grew his hair out?”
England narrowed his eyes over the lack of agreement about the state of his hair, but ultimately allowed it to pass. “No, you didn't.”
“Oh, well, you know Bertie always had some strange ideas.”
England nodded.
“I never did find out how this particular idea got into his head, but he fancied he'd look good with long hair.” Mildred playfully tugged England's forelock. “Thankfully, he never convinced his brother of it.” She ruffled his hair once more and looked off down the hallway, remembering another time. “I chased that boy high and low, but he wouldn't let me come near enough to touch him, let alone cut his hair. He'd only stay in the same room long enough for me to put food in front of him, then he'd disappear off to I-don't-know-where. And, good grief, it looked terrible.” She looked back at England and grinned. “His hair grew in every direction but down. He looked like a shocked hedgehog!
“His dad finally managed to get hold of him. He marched that boy down to the lake to get a good look at himself. Bertie quickly changed his tune; I've never seen anyone so eager for a hair cut in all my days.”
England self-consciously tamped down his hair again, remembering his own foray into the wonders of hair. “That's definitely nothing like me.”
“Of course not. You've always been a dashing young lad, I'm sure.”
“Definitely.” England nodded seriously.
“Ah,” said Mildred, suddenly digging into her pouch, “I grabbed you something from the kitchen on my way out.” She pulled out a nearly whole leg of chicken and held it out.
England's mouth immediately started watering at the sight. He was hungry. Despite all the food he'd eaten, he was still hungry. He was used to it, mostly. Or he could at least mask the most obvious signs of his hunger. He always did his best to push it to the back of his mind, but the sight of food tried his resolve.
“Mildred!” With great effort he pushed the offered food away. “You shouldn't!” He frowned at her. “You'll get into trouble.” He pushed her hand further away, not daring to look at what it held and instead turned his eyes towards his lap. “And... and I was at the feast. I don't need anything more to eat.”
“Sweetheart, look at me.” She nudged him into raising his eyes to meet hers. “Are you still hungry?”
His eyes flicked towards the chicken for the barest of moments. “Yes.” He couldn't lie.
“Then you need this more than any silly Norman.” She pushed the leg into his hands and he finally took it. “After what they've done, they should be the ones starving.” She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge and not an opinion that could get you killed. It was the kind of thing that made England worry for her, even though he knew not a single other person in the castle could understand a word she said.
He wiped his mind of that worry for the moment. He decided instead to take refuge in her arms and draw from her sturdy strength as he ate. For all that he knew peoples' lives were fleeting compared to his, she did give the impression of being as enduring as an oak.
They sat for a while in silence, until England began to nod sleepily against her side.
Mildred sighed. “Come on, love.” She gently roused him. “You've had a hard day, you should be sleeping.”
England buried his face in her clothes. “I don't want to leave you.”
She wasn't swayed. “But if you don't, your toes will drop off from the cold.” She urged him to stand. “That happens, you know; I saw it once. Not pretty.”
England folded his arms and looked at Mildred, not even trying to hide that he was pouting.
“Don't worry, sweetie.” She held her hand out and with lots of heaving and grunting they managed to get her back on her feet. “All these extra men will be gone soon, so I've heard. Then we can carry on with our lessons. I've collected plenty of thread for us.”
England mustered up a smile and took his final hug. “Goodnight, Mildred. See you tomorrow.”
“Be strong, my little soldier.” She caught his face between her hands and looked into his eyes. “Remember that you're loved.”
~
England woke the next morning after not enough sleep along with the rest of his room mates. He dressed as usual and went down to the Great Hall and the scene of his humiliation. To his dismay, the Bastard was already there, just finishing the last of his plate. England usually tried to be there before the Bastard so he could eat in peace, but his late night had led him to oversleep.
He cautiously approached the table. He put a hand down at the place he'd sat the previous evening. He made to sit down but the Bastard's fierce gaze stopped him. England reluctantly held that gaze, frozen in place.
The Bastard raised an eyebrow.
England backed off and returned to his place behind and to the left of the Bastard's seat. He stood and watched people come and go. He could smell the food no more than a few feet away from him. He had to keep himself in check and forcibly remind himself that glowering at the back of the Bastard's head would no doubt end badly.
There was at least one person in the room who didn't feel the need for such restraint, and that was France. He was scowling more at his food than anything, but when he looked up it was clear who it was really for. Especially in the way it melted into a hopeful smile when he caught England's eye.
England couldn't quite manage a full-blown smile in return, but he did raise his eyebrows out of their habitual frown.
The day continued in much the same manner. England had been dropped back to being the Bastard's personal serving boy (technically one step above whipping boy, but there wasn't much difference) and was constantly under surveillance.
The most welcome surveillance was from France, who had taken it upon himself to follow them closely everywhere they went (he probably thought he was being stealthy, but he really wasn't). Whenever England was sent on an errand, France would come out of 'hiding' and they'd have part of a conversation. It was always inane, never deep, but with Mildred's last words to him hanging in his mind, he found it endlessly comforting.
It was nearly nightfall by the time the Bastard finally let him go. England wasted no time in disappearing to do his own thing. He shook France off fairly easily, as he had an actual understanding of the word 'stealth' (both the French and the English one). France probably hadn't hidden a day in his life. It would be too hard for him, what with such a big head. And he... he would probably know what to do. Something more useful than hiding.
Well, that was definitely enough of being charitable to the frog. It almost certainly made up for running away from him at the first chance.
And with that thought, England was left with a free conscience to go seek out Mildred. It was something he did most days. It could take some time; there was no guaranteeing where Mildred would be at any given moment, and trying to stay out of sight as much as possible slowed England's progress.
As it got later and all the places England looked were to no avail, he knew that he was going to have to do something he didn't like. He was going to have to go down to the kitchen. The kitchen was where all the servants worked form and returned to inside the keep. As such, there were always people there, which wasn't much good for staying secretive.
When England had voiced his fears, Mildred had told him that some servant gossip was nothing compared to a night without seeing him. England had listened to her, but he still felt apprehensive whenever it came down to this. Mildred had told him again not to worry, and that she'd do everything she could to avoid it coming to this.
England felt bad, sometimes, for how much he leant on Mildred and how much she went out of her way for him. It was something he'd never voiced, knowing exactly what Mildred would say to it, and in the scheme of things, there were definitely things he felt worse about.
England crept across the Great Hall to the kitchen entrance. There were one or two of the Bastard's men still up and about, but it was mostly servants tidying away or getting ready to bed down themselves.
England stood before the entrance, took a deep breath, and walked in.
No one noticed him at first. They were all busy with their duties or looking forward to a night's rest.
It was only when he had to move out of someone's bustling way and moved into someone else's way, than anyone stopped to look at him. England returned that look full force. For all of the Bastard's lessons, England still wasn't entirely sure where he was on pecking order compared to the servants, but he reasoned that if he acted like he was above them, they'd believe it.
The servant raised his eyebrows expectantly and adjusted his handfuls of dirty plates.
“Do you know where I might find Mildred?” asked England in his most snotty and stuck-up manner. It was a pretty good approximation of most Frenchmen, if he did say so himself.
The servant frowned at him. “Who?”
England just managed to hold back a roll of the eyes. Instead he pushed, “The Saxon,” through gritted teeth. If anything, Mildred was more Angle than Saxon, but no one ever made the distinction any more, least of all the invaders.
The servant looked pained at realising who England was looking for, then his look turned to pity. “She's gone.”
“She's what?” England shook his head. The servant had obviously got the wrong person in mind. Even if Mildred did need to go somewhere, she'd get a message to him. “ No she's not, I spoke to her yesterday.”
“And today she was caught stealing.” The servant shrugged apologetically. “Now she is gone.”
“Stealing what?” Though England already knew the answer. “And 'gone'? What do you mean 'gone'?” He feared he knew the answer to that one as well.
Whatever the man was going to say was cut off by another servant. She was making strange hissing noises as though trying to scare off an unwanted animal.
“Get away!” She flicked a rag at him. “Go on! We don't need you hanging around here.”
England took a step back and tried to hit the rag aside whenever she went for him with it. “What's wrong with you? I've been just fine here before.”
“And what a lot of good that did.” The woman carried on making her strange noise and flicking her rag as she advanced.
England stood his ground. “Mildred!” he called into the kitchen, to hell with not making a scene. “Mildred, I'm here!”
The woman grabbed him by the back of his tunic. “Look, Saxon,” she breathed into his face as she dragged him towards the doorway. “She is gone. You won't see her again. Now, get out of here.” She threw him back into the hall. “I can't afford to lose anyone else.”
England stumbled to a halt and looked back at the woman, who whipped her rag again. England moved further away, towards the shadows at the far end of the hall. He stood there, relatively certain he would not be bothered, and thought.
Mildred was gone.
He pulled up tunic and felt for the embroidery on his undershirt. He ran his fingers over the thread Mildred had stolen to teach him with. (They were mismatched scraps; no one would have missed them. Just like the food she would get for him.)
England closed his eyes as the overwhelming inevitability of it washed over him. The Bastard crushed everything that made him happy, of course that would extend to people. It was stupid of him to try. It was stupid of him to get Mildred mixed up in all this.
England smacked the wall, then immediately wished he hadn't.
“England, what are you doing over here?”
England spun around. France was approaching him with a curious smile. England dropped his stinging hand to his side. “I'm just thinking.”
France raised his eyebrows. “Oh? About what?”
“Nothing you'd care about.” The last thing he needed was an 'I told you so' from France.
France looked nonplussed by the slightly brash answer, but quickly shrugged it off. “Well, I have great news.” He slung an arm around England's shoulders and started steering him away. “I managed to persuade William into letting you sleep with me in my room! Isn't that wonderful?”
“I suppose it's not bad,” he grudgingly admitted.
France continued to lead him out of the hall. Before they left, England cast one final glance towards the empty doorway of the kitchen.
~
The air was wonderfully cool and refreshing on his face. Not like being trapped inside. The sun shone full on his face, skylarks twittered above over the fields. It was like it had always been. It was as if nothing had ever happened. He opened his arms to the sky and let the sun burn away the cloud that had been hanging over him for over a year now.
A butterfly flitted past to land on the cow parsley growing tall by the road. It rested there a few moments, flashing its wings at him before it fluttered off.
He carried on along the road. His feet taking him away from the sun and the fields to a village.
All was quiet.
England slowed his walk, his tread uncertain. Clouds had gathered overhead and choked the sun out. The wind had turned cutting. He looked behind him, but the fields were shrouded in fog and no bird call reached him through it.
The wind blew him on down the street.
The houses either side of him were shut up and empty, their windows dark and leering. Charred and blackened things snapped beneath his feet.
England pulled his cloak around him and hurried on. There was a house ahead of him that the road was leading him to, that had light flickering in the windows and smoke rising from the roof. He set his sights on it and ignored the eerie stillness around him.
As he approached, the door swung ajar. England stopped dead in his tracks. The house was dark inside. Light still flickered merrily at the window, but the doorway showed no such thing. The darkness in there was oppressive. It started trickling out into the road.
England crept closer.
He stepped around the growing puddle and tried to peer into the house, but there was nothing to be seen through such a small gap. England went closer still and there was nothing he could do about avoiding the puddle any more. The trickle grew and soon there was a dark red stream flowing round England's boots and into the street.
England looked behind him. The fog had engulfed most of the village, only the nearest houses were still visible. The only way was forward.
He reached a hand out towards the door, hesitated, then pushed it open.
England woke up crying.
He felt hollow. There was an emptiness inside him that wasn't explained by the hunger and it was sapping him of all his strength and will. It pressed down on him like a dead weight and engulfed him.
England blinked and rolled over. A sorrowful whine escaped him before he could hold it back.
“England?”
England pushed his face into the pillow.
“England, what's wrong?”
Of all the people to see him in this state, it would have to be France. Not that there was anyone better, which was not a thought that cheered him any.
“Did you have a bad dream?”
Bad dream? He was having a bad life.
France finally found his way to England in the dark and rolled him onto his back. England lay there sniffling as the tears trickled through his hair.
“What did you dream about?” France gently ran his fingers over England's clammy cheek.
England shook his head. He couldn't put it into words, and not just because his voice would be all wobbly (the Bastard hated that).
“Oh, come here.” France pulled him up and into a hug.
England stiffened at first but relaxed into it when France held onto him. France started to hum and England clung to him.
Mildred had sung and held him; old songs that England knew, that had grown from his land and his people. Songs that felt like home.
France was singing now, but it wasn't anything England knew. The words were foreign, even though he understood them, and the melody was all wrong. It didn't comfort him. It made the void inside him grow and pushed Mildred's songs out of his mind. He tried to struggle out of France's hold, perhaps to tell him to shut up and go away; England didn't need babying. But France wouldn't let go.
England pushed harder and tried to wriggle away, but France held on tighter and murmured endearments, giving England names in a language he didn't want. England was happy with the name he had, he was happy with the language he had. He used to be happy.
Rage flared red and hot, blinding in its intensity.
Every punishment he'd had inflicted on him.
Every needless lesson.
Every death.
All the words England had forced himself to swallow bubbled up and erupted in a screech as he shoved France away.
“England, what's wrong?”
England scrabbled further out of France's reach and turned his fury towards the bedclothes, pulling them up and throwing them across the room, crying all the while.
“It's alright, I'm here.” France made a grab for him. “England, calm down!”
England's focus swung back to France “No!” he shouted in his own language, loud enough to be heard many rooms over.
France's eye's widened and he flapped his arms in a panic. “Be quiet! Someone's going to hear!”
“No!” England took a step back. “You can't tell me what to do!”
“Please calm down!” France hadn't understood England's words, but that didn't change his message. “It was a dream, you're fine now.”
“No!” England relented and spoke a language France knew. “It is not fine. Nothing is fine.”
France looked regretful. “I know it's not, but you have to quiet down or you'll make it worse.”
That was not a phrase England wanted to hear. He charged and barrelled France into the opposite wall. “Stop saying that!”
France gasped at the impact. “England!”
England didn't care what France had to say. He lashed out and caught France on the chin, then again in the stomach, before France gathered his senses enough to push England away.
“What is wrong with you?”
England stumbled to a halt in the centre of the room and burst into tears; too many emotions running through him than he knew what to do with. Some that he couldn't even name, in any language. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know if there was anything he could do. He had been fighting for so long and it had taken everything he had.
He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand and looked at France. France was still pressed up against the wall, watching wide-eyed and rubbing his jaw.
The image blurred with more tears.
“France.” England sounded like a lost child pleading for someone to take him home.
The door burst open before any plea could be answered. Men rushed in, the first one grabbing England, the next three jostling to see if France was unharmed.
England was dragged out into the corridor where people were starting to gather. England kept his head down and watched the tears drip off the end of his nose while the men spoke over his head. Tremors of fear ran through his body as what he had done began to sink in. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff ready to leap off, only he'd already taken the jump and was waiting for the ground to hit.
“I am fine, I am fine!” England could hear France trying to escape his army of defenders. “We were just playing!” England glanced over, but France was blocked from view.
“What,” said the voice England was most dreading, “Is going on here?”
England wished himself smaller as the crowd parted in front of him. He kept his head down and tried to shrink away, hide behind the man who still had a grip on his arm.
“William!” was France's cheery call. “There's been a terrible misunderstanding.” England watched France's stockinged feet trot past.
“Is that so?”
England didn't need to look up to feel the gaze burning into him.
“Oh yes,” said France sincerely, “England couldn't sleep so we decided to play a game, only I think maybe we got a bit loud--”
In three strides the Bastard was standing right next to England. He grabbed England by the arm and hauled him away from the other men. He trapped England against the wall and towered over him.
“More lies, England?” the Bastard hissed. “Is there something about you that turns people dishonest?”
England couldn't stop his terrified sobs as the Bastard carried on, his words quiet and insidious. England felt them settle about him like chains, dragging him down, condemning him. He barely needed to hear them to feel their effects. He started a litany in his trembling voice, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, forgive me, I didn't mean to, please, forgive me, I'm sorry,”
“Listen to me when I am speaking!” The raised voice was accompanied by a quick shake. There was a lull before pain exploded in England's cheek and he was sent stumbling sideways. He instinctively brought his arms up to protect his head in case another blow came but made sure not to let any more sounds out. The last thing he needed was for his undignified whimpering to anger the Bastard further.
“William, stop!”
The Bastard whipped around to face the one person foolish enough to stand against him.
England was left shaking against the wall. His jagged breathing was too loud for him to hear any of the words being said but he peered between his fingers to watch the Bastard advance on France. The relief was immediate. There was still a low-level dread from being in sight of the Bastard, but mostly he was relieved to have that fierce intensity turned elsewhere.
And France... France was defiant. Defiant on England's behalf, even. It was enough to stop the tears and steady England's breath.
He watched the Bastard move to loom over France, who refused to step back. The Bastard put his hand on France's shoulder and bent down to his level. The words were too quiet for England to hear, other than a denial or two from France, especially over the uneasy shifting of the men that surrounded them all. Cowards, the lot of them.
“I admire your loyalty.” England's eyes snapped back to France and the Bastard. “But it can't be helped.” The Bastard stood upright and ruffled France's hair (England knew for a fact that France hated that). France, having been released from the grip on his shoulder, stepped back; he reversed right into his keeper, who'd emerged from the dwindling crowd.
England looked between them all, waiting for someone to break the impasse (for France to put to use all those courtly skills he always bragged about and talk the Bastard into submission). France's servant placed a protective hand on France's shoulder and stood firm (and England's Fae friends still didn't dare enter the castle and his brothers were no doubt enjoying his defeat). The Bastard backed off from France and turned to England.
England looked to France, desperate. He had nothing else. Not even God would answer his prayers.
France looked back. His eyes were wide with shock and he clasped at the hand on his shoulder, but he did nothing.
The Bastard grabbed England by the arm and gave him a shake, then impressed upon him a few more threats and promises.
England didn't take his eyes from France. He felt detached from what was happening, even as he was dragged away none too gently and his body tripped and struggled. The dread and fear were still in him, somewhere, but nothing was important enough to pull his gaze from France's pale face and the fact the last person had finally given up on him.
It was funny, really; he'd honestly thought he'd already lost all hope.
~~~
France's mood took a severe turn for the worse after that night.
He was so angry. He snapped at Hugh's every suggestion and barked orders at the servants. He could feel his face forming the scowl he used to tease England for.
Any man foolish enough to try and curry his favour would find himself on the receiving end of as many acerbic barbs as France could think of. France no longer held back any of his petty remarks. These men had shown just where their loyalties lay. They were more interested in kissing William's boots. Fighting like dogs to be first in line when William started handing out parcels of land.
They had left France to fend for himself. Oh, they may not be comfortable will William's methods, they may have their reserves behind closed doors, but at the crucial moment they turned their backs. They did nothing. They went back to their beds like cowards.
France couldn't stand any of them and it didn't take long for them to get the message.
Which left France with very little to do.
Spending time on his own was a new torture in itself. He was so ashamed of himself. He had let William intimidate him. He had behaved like a child. And when England had looked to him for help, when the time had come for him to step in like a big brother should, he'd just stood by and watched. France massaged his shoulder whenever he thought about it. He could still feel the bruises William's grip had left.
Every time he saw England about the castle he felt guilty. England was not sleeping in his room any more. England had become William's silent shadow. England would not even meet France's eyes from afar, and France had no desire to get anywhere near William, so they barely saw each other.
France even left the keep and walked the castle grounds, but the feelings came with him. There were more Saxons out there, mucking out the animals and doing basic, menial labour. France glowered at them. If they had fought harder in the first place, none of this mess would have happened. England would be the same grumpy, incredibly teaseable child he'd always been.
The castle became less crowded over the following days. France kept making excursions out of the keep, if only for a change of scenery (for less chance of bumping into William).
He tried to still make plans, to work out a way of fixing things, but his mind dwelt on the mistakes he'd already made. Once he set down that path, the helpless anger set in, until he was cursing anything and everyone who'd put him in this situation.
It was in this state, on his way back to his room, that he came across England. Or England came across him. England was going somewhere with purpose while France dawdled. Either way, they came across each other in a hallway, unsupervised.
It was such an opportunity that France was hardly prepared for. It was an opportunity that England was apparently happy to miss as he carried on striding by.
“England!” France turned and hurried after him. “It's me!” Perhaps England had trained himself to ignore everything around him; it was as good a tactic as any. “England, talk to me.” He put his hand on England's arm.
England reacted explosively. He shoved France into the wall and pinned him there, his little hands like vices around France's arms. He leant in, anger marring his features. “Don't touch me,” he snarled, “Don't even look at me.”
France pulled his head back sharply, knocking it into the wall. He watched in shock at the change that had suddenly overcome England.
England spoke in French that was perfect in every way but for the slight accent. “I hate you, France. I detest you. I loathe you and every last lousy cur that is part of you.”
France flinched at the flecks of spittle hitting his face.
England leant closer, looking France dead in the eye. “Speaking your language makes me want to retch.” England's breaths were short and measured, but his whole body was vibrating like a plucked bowstring. “I despise everything about you, right down to the vile stench of you.” He grew quieter. “At night, my best dreams are the ones where I rip that smug smile right off your face with my--” The sound of approaching footsteps cut him off.
England stepped away from where he had France pressed against the wall.
France watched with wide eyes as England shuttered himself up. The furious shaking subsided and England's face went blank as he returned himself to the silent statue of a boy that stood beside William.
England walked on without giving France a second look.
“Milord.” The hapless man who'd interrupted England's tirade looked concerned. “Are you quite alright?”
“Yes,” France choked out, then swallowed, composing himself. “Yes, I'm fine.” He ignored the burning in his eyes and hurried to his chamber.
The maids were in the midst of cleaning the room when France stormed in. He seethed for a moment, watching them watch him.
“Get out!” he screamed at them, “Get out!” He ripped the bedsheet from a startled maid's hands and flung it across the room. “Get out before I have you all beaten!”
France slammed the door shut after the last woman had left and then collapsed against it and slid down to the floor.
He sat there crying for some time.
~
France was sitting on the bed, looking out the window. The sky was grey and it hung over a greyer land. There was a knock at his door.
“Who is it?” he called over his shoulder.
“It is Hugh, my lord,” came the reply.
“Come in.”
The door opened and Hugh entered.
France remained staring out the window. He knew his eyes were still red and his face still blotchy from all his tears. “Hugh.” He sat up straight. “I wish to return home.” Hugh walked into his field of vision, but France still didn't turn to him.
“You are not required back for a number of months.”
“I'm well aware of that,” France snapped. He sniffed and returned to his affected indifference. “I'm sick and tired of this place and there is nothing keeping me here.” When no reply came, he glanced at Hugh out of the corner of his eye. “What is it?”
“This is quite a change of heart.” Hugh stepped closer. “Has something happened?”
“Happened? No.” France settled into his prim and proper appearance. “I have merely come to realise that England is a contemptible half-wit who wouldn't know kindness if it slapped him in the face.” He shrugged as if it were a simple fact of life he'd just come to realise. “It's no wonder William treats him the way he does.” A frown crept onto his face. “He's no better than a beast that lashes out, too stupid to see when someone means well. He and William deserve each other!” France's hands clenched in the bedclothes. “And, and at least while William is here, he can't make any designs on me.” He got off the bed and started pacing, gesturing angrily. “He can keep this damned, godforsaken island. He can slaughter the lot of them for all I care!” France stopped to catch his breath. He put a hand over his eyes and fought to keep control. “I-- I don't... I can't...”
“Very good, my lord.” Hugh had remained impassive throughout France's speech. “I shall notify William that we are leaving.”
~
As it turned out they were able to leave the very next day with a group of men already heading South. France was still more than ready to leave the oppressive atmosphere that the castle was shrouded in.
William came to the entrance of the keep to see them off. England followed along as though he were on a leash. William's farewell went on, saying how welcome France was to come back at any time.
France smiled through the words, not really listening to them. When it was apparent William was done, France bowed and thanked him.
William laughed fondly, then took France by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.
France gritted his teeth through it and managed not to flinch away. He plastered a happy face back on once William could see it and thanked him again. He quashed the strong urge to rub his cheeks clean.
France moved over to face England and looked down on him with a tight smile. “Be a good boy and attend to your studies.”
England's eyes flashed with anger. Suddenly, he leapt forward and clamped his arms tight around France.
France only relaxed when he realised that it was, for the benefit of those around them, meant to appear as a hug.
England stretched up till his mouth was on a level with France's ear. “Pray you'll never meet me on the battlefield.” He abruptly let go and stepped back, once again the docile little boy.
France took in England's diminutive stature with a raised eyebrow and sniggered. “Of course I will.”
England didn't rise to the bait and France turned away at last, eager for home. England made no noise as he watched France walk away.
France held his head high and did not look back.
~~~
"Wasta Est" is how much of the land of Northern England was described in the Domesday Book, ten or so years after William had his way with it. It more or less mean it's a wasteland.
So, this was pretty much me indulging in ridiculous amounts of headcanon. I enjoyed it. Hope you did.