Velvet Petals, Piercing Thorns - Chapter One
Title: Velvet Petals, Piercing Thorns - Chapter One (Prologue+1/?)
Media: Fic
Author: a_glass_parade
Rating: PG this chapter; will escalate to R/NC-17 in future chapters
Genre: Romance, AU, Historical Fiction
Warnings: None this chapter, I think, but given that this is essentially a romance novel set in a violent time...there will eventually be depictions of sexual acts between two men, things said that these days would be considered politically incorrect, adult language, murder, possible beatings, threats of torture.
Spoilers: While events and references from both seasons of Glee may be adapted and worked into the story occasionally, it's otherwise fully AU.
Word Count: Story: 6400+ This Chapter: 5100+
Summary: England, 1484: The forces of Lancaster see Edward Blaine Anderson, Viscount Dalton, as key to their plans to retake and hold the throne of England. The House of York has come to the same conclusion and they want to stop that from happening. Their secret weapon will be Kurt Hummel, stableman's son and reluctant spy.
Additional Notes: This is written in the vein of your typical historical romance novel with all the historical liberties taken that you'd expect. I do try to be as historically accurate as is feasible, though. Sweetly reader beta'd by the lovely and incomparable mothergoddamn , who made me feel like a queeeeeeeeeen. And if you missed the prologue, you can find it here.
The problem with helmets, Blaine mused, balancing the hilt of his sword in his hand, is that they make it so damn hard to see what your opponent is thinking.
The man standing across the sparring circle from him shifted on his feet, only the glittering of his eyes in the dim light revealing that he had eyes at all. Of course, to be fair, Blaine knew the man was seeing the same thing - an armored, anonymous, armed opponent. It was an intimidating thing to face; it was meant to be. All of it was simply part of the theater of battle.
Go.
He charged across the circle at his opponent, unleashing an involuntary howl of aggression. The unexpected noise seemed to startle the other man into action, and they met in the middle of the ring with a deafening clash of swords. Blaine let out a primal grunt as he used his shield to shove his helmeted foe back, used the momentum of the push to propel himself back out of sword's reach so that he could resettle his footing.
The other fighter wasn't about to give him that chance, however, pushing forward while Blaine was still off balance and forcing him to duck low and shove again with his shield. He was chillingly aware that it could occur to his opponent that Blaine was within distance of a blow to the head - a hit to the steel helmet wouldn't kill him, but it would disorient him long enough for a killing blow. But if he raised his shield to protect his head, he left his front and side open to attack. What is the better alternative? he asked himself, lightning quick. Protect the head.
Raising his shield, he let the rush of battle-lust take control and instinctively moved his body out of the reach of danger. With a wrench, he was away from the other man, but he'd relied too much on instinct, hadn't been aware enough of how he was moving. A fully armored fighter was not meant to move terribly quickly, or at least not as quickly as he had. He felt a painful stitch in his shield side now and had to stifle a gasp of pain. Be strong. It wasn't as if it was a flesh wound. It was only a pulled muscle. He danced back and regarded the other fighter, looking for weaknesses.
He always leads with his right foot. Aim for the left side, then - get enough movement behind it and he might have to overcorrect, you could come in again when he's off balance. But quickly, quickly...
Blaine bolted forward again, feinting to his own left and then pushing right as the other fighter took the bait. As he had expected, his blow to the left side of the man's chest sent him off balance - but what he hadn't expected was that the man would spin with the blow and bring the hilt of his sword up to catch Blaine in the back of the head. The impact sent him stumbling to his knees, turning clumsily to pull his own shield up to ward against the sword that was coming towards him.
But a pulled muscle was never “only a pulled muscle” on the field of battle, and this time he couldn't keep back the gasp of pain as the movement of his arm wrenched the overtaxed muscle. His arm dropped, helpless, leaving him wide open to the death blow.
“Damn it, Blaine.” Metal clattered on the packed dirt floor as the man dropped his sword and shrugged off his shield. A pull at his chin strap allowed him to tug his helmet off and tuck it under his arm. “I don't know how many times I've told you that you can't just let instinct take over. You're hurt.” The Marshal of Dalton House was glowering down at his Viscount, daring the younger man to refute him.
“It's just a muscle in my side, David. It'll be fine,” Blaine grumbled as he planted the tip of his sword into the ground and pushed himself to his feet. “I've had worse.”
“It's not the muscle, it's your bad habit that's the problem. You can't lose your head in the middle of a battle! It would be playing right in to the enemy's hands.” David snatched Blaine's sword and shield away, glaring until the noble had removed his own helmet, allowing his sweat-flattened black curls to tumble free.
“You say these things as if we were going into battle tomorrow,” Blaine protested, brushing the mop away from his face. “I have plenty of time to keep training. The rest of my life, even, since there's no war on and there's not likely to be one.”
“No amount of training is going to help you if you refuse to correct your poor reactions,” retorted the Marshal. “I say this as your military adviser, sir.”
The Viscount winced. “Oh, no, you're calling me sir. David, we grew up together.”
“And you entrusted me with the responsibility of being your military adviser. With the responsibility of teaching you how to save yourself from having your blood and innards spilled out on the English countryside like some common, stupid herd animal in a slaughterhouse. If I have to call you sir and remind you of your rank in order to put sense into your head, then I will do it.” He paused and glared again, harder. “And if that doesn't work, the next time you pull a fool move like that in a sparring match, I will take the opening you give me and knock you senseless.”
“Fair enough.” Blaine didn't feel like arguing anymore. He wanted to strip his armor off and get into a hot bath to soothe his aching side. Slowly, he moved over to the armor rack and allowed his squire to begin the long process of extricating him from his steel prison. “I won't even have you pilloried and whipped for it.”
David shoved his helmet onto its stand and cast an exasperated look at the other man. “Blaine, what do I have to do to get you to take the threat of war seriously?”
“I don't know, prove to me that one is coming?” He raised his arms to give the squire access to begin removing his breastplate, trying not to wince as the motion pulled at his sore side. “You keep saying that I have to be prepared, but for what? The York dogs that killed my father have been on the throne since you and I were small children. There are no more direct Lancastrian heirs to make a claim for it.. We've heard nothing out of France for as long as I can remember. So what, exactly, am I to ready myself for apart from your tender ministrations?”
“You are a fool, Edward Blaine Anderson.” The Marshal's voice mingled concern and annoyance at his friend and liege. He pulled off his gauntlets, throwing them into a chest by the rack. “Don't allow yourself to be complacent. War will come soon enough. And your attitude will get you killed. I don't want to see that happen.”
“Touching of you, David. It's fortunate that I have no intention of dying on the field of battle. I don't see myself running towards this non-existent war.” Blaine allowed his squire to divest him of the remainder of his armor and accepted the use of a towel to rub the sweat out of his hair.
The other man arched a skeptical eyebrow. “And what will you do when war comes to you?”
“Run away, of course.” A cocky grin lit up Blaine's face as he threw his towel at David's head and bolted for the door, his military adviser fairly quickly in hot pursuit.
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~
When they burst through the kitchen entrance of Dalton House, they were laughing like boys, arms slung over each other's shoulders in an only partly successful effort to help keep themselves upright. Blaine's aunt Alice, the lady of the House in the absence of a wife, was in the kitchen discussing changes to the evening meal with his châtelaine. Both women jumped, startled, when the door flew open and hit the wall with a noisy bang.
Alice recovered first, brushing a curl of dark hair out of her twinkling blue eyes. “Edward,” she drawled, tone drier than parchment, “If you're quite finished trying to pull the house down...?”
His mother's sister was the one person in the world who could get away with calling Blaine by his proper name. Alice Beaufort had undertaken to raise the newly orphaned Viscount after his father Neville and her husband Roger had both lost their lives on the battlefield at Barnet. Having never had children of her own with Roger, who had been Baron Linwood, Alice did not fight the relatives who claimed his land and home in the absence of an heir. She had chosen instead to reclaim her maiden name, retain her courtesy title, and move into Dalton House to stay with her nephew in the one home he'd ever known.
Blaine's face split into another sunlight smile as he loped across the kitchen to deposit a loud, smacking kiss on his aunt's cheek. “Anything for you, favorite aunt.”
“I'm your only aunt, you cheeky rascal.” Alice smiled fondly at her nephew, confounding mixture of boy and man that he was. “Disgusting. You smell like a barnyard and you're dripping with sweat.”
“That's all right. I'll bathe before dinner. Emma will send a bath up to my room, right, Emma?” He turned to look at the tiny redheaded woman who acted as his housekeeper. A frown furrowed his heavy eyebrows as he realized that her brown eyes were wide with horror, and she was...squeaking? “Emma?”
“Miss Pillsbury?” Alice waved a hand in front of the woman's face. The châtelaine's eyes snapped up to look at her mistress, her hand gesturing weakly in the direction of Blaine's shoes.
“My...I swept...boots!” Emma's voice was emerging in a series of rising squeals. “My floors! Take those filthy boots off at once!”
Blaine and David stared at the woman as if she'd grown two heads. Alice bit her lip to stifle a laugh, speaking only when she was certain she wouldn't completely lose control. "I suggest you do it, Edward." She waved him off towards the entrance. "I will not be stopping Miss Pillsbury if she tries to murder you for ignoring such a simple request."
"Well, when you put it that way, Aunt Alice..." Blaine grinned and returned to the door, balancing on each foot in turn to tug off the boots and depositing them on the low rack placed there for that purpose. The stone floor was chilly through his hose, but he could see his housekeeper's relief on her face, and she'd stopped wheezing. "Better, Emma?"
The châtelaine smiled tightly. "Immensely, sir. Thank you."
"I'm sorry for tracking dust on your nice clean floors." He strode over and grabbed the housekeeper by the shoulders, kissing her cheek as noisily as he had done his aunt's and laughing as she squealed in horror and ran off. "I'm sorry again, Emma! May I please still have a bath sent up?"
"You've got to stop teasing her, Edward. It's not nice. She's very timid and she does a lovely job keeping your home running smoothly." Blaine clearly heard that it was Baroness Linwood speaking and not his beloved Aunt Alice. He was appropriately chastened.
"You're right, Aunt. I do know better. I'll find a present for her later to truly make up for it."
"See that you do." Alice looped the trailing end of her long skirt up over her arm and began walking out of the kitchen, beckoning for her nephew to follow her. "I've tended to dinner, let us discuss our upcoming social engagements. Well. Engagement. There's just the one. Lord Crawford is holding a ball to celebrate Amelia's nineteenth birthday."
Blaine grinned at David, who was trailing along behind him. "See, David? War is hardly imminent if old Crawford is throwing a party."
"Crawford would hold a party in the middle of a raging battle if he thought it would get another one of that passel of harridans he calls daughters married off," the Marshal muttered. "Six legitimate daughters, where did he find the time?"
“Where does he find the money, is what I want to know. I know women don't eat much, but surely dressing them is prohibitively expensive.” Blaine eyed his aunt's brocaded gown speculatively, wondering how much it had made his Steward's head hurt when he got the receipts for it. Alice glared at him as if she could read his thoughts.
David snorted. “He doesn't find the money, he finds them husbands. Amelia must be next. Watch out, Blaine, she's always had her eye on you.” He laughed at his friend's groan of despair.
The Baroness pointedly ignored the both of them, sweeping to begin ascending the stairs towards the manor's bedchambers. “I've got a lovely embroidered sewing basket that I can give her as a present. The ball is in a fortnight, I'm sure that's plenty of time for you to have Wesley pick out a suitable gift for you to bring.”
“Why would I have Wes pick out a birthday gift for Amelia? I'm perfectly capable, I don't need to delegate that to my Steward.” Blaine puffed up, offended. “I select your birthday gifts myself.”
“Yes, and they're lovely, and I'm not the marriage-age daughter of your nearest and most powerful neighbor.” The Baroness patted her nephew's cheek. “You can't just send her jewelry and call it done, darling. Lord Crawford will see it as an invitation to open negotiations, and I am not going to be the one who has to tell him that my oblivious nephew doesn't actually have any interest in marrying the most featherbrained of his flighty daughters.”
“I like Amelia...” Blaine trailed off, unsure what else to say. He did like Amelia, she was a sweet girl and the best dancer he knew. But it was also true that he didn't want to marry her. Yes. His aunt had the right idea. “I'll talk to Wes after dinner, then. Do you think Emma will still have a bath sent up for me?”
“Not in the slightest, my dear. She's probably still scrubbing your kiss off of her cheek. I'll have one of the chambermaids do it. Oh, that reminds me, when you talk to Wesley, tell him we've lost another one and he'll need to find a replacement? The poor girl just couldn't keep up to Miss Pillsbury's standards.”
“Few can,” the Viscount sighed. “We go through so many...it's a good thing I rather like having a spotlessly clean home, or I'd replace Emma instead.”
“Perish the thought. No one could ever get our linens so white.” Alice twitched her mouth into a moue. “It would never be worth it.”
“Not at all.” The trio arrived at the top of the winding staircase. “I shall see you at dinner, Aunt. Thank you for seeing to the bath.” Blaine kissed his aunt's cheek again and started off for his rooms, David bowing to the Baroness and following behind him. “David? Is there something you want?”
“Yes, Edward.” The Marshal's tone was mocking, and he had to duck away from his friend's arm as it swung out to hit him. “While you're waiting for your bath, I thought I'd talk sense into you.”
Blaine frowned. “Not this imaginary war again. David, you've got to clean up for dinner as well.”
“I don't take nearly as long as you do,” David waved dismissively. “I don't have to impress the Baroness.”
They stopped outside of Blaine's door, the Viscount opening it and ushering his Marshal into the awaiting chambers with a sweeping, ironic gesture. “Fair enough. Besides, no amount of grooming could ever really make you impressive. Tolerable, maybe.”
“I'll take that out on you next time we're in the sparring circle,” David warned as he settled into one of the chairs by the shuttered window. “But it's neither here nor there. Blaine, I meant it when I said you needed to be ready for war.”
The younger man yanked off his sweaty linen shirt and tossed it into the woven basket his housekeeper insisted he use for dirty laundry. He pulled a robe out of his wardrobe and began unlacing his breeches. “And I meant it when I said I don't believe that there's one coming.”
“Quite apart from the fact that one should always assume that war is coming,” the military man retorted, “I have more than instinct to go on. It is coming, Blaine.”
Blaine turned to face his friend, hands pausing in their work. The look on David's face was deadly serious, sending a chill down his spine. For the first time, he began to wonder. “How?”
“Drinking with Crawford's men-at-arms. They've seen some visitors of note lately.”
“Names?” Blaine returned to disrobing, trying to conceal his rising anxiety behind short, single syllable answers. James Freville, Earl of Crawford had been a prominent Lancastrian loyalist. Visits from other supporters were likely to be nothing more than social calls, surely.
He pushed away the fact that he knew full well that Richard III was growing increasingly unpopular with the people, and that they still didn't know what had happened to his adolescent nephews, the “legitimate” York heirs to the throne before they mysteriously vanished from the Tower of London and Richard had himself crowned.
His denial of war had been born more out of hope than fact, he knew.
“Envoys from de Vere and Stanley.” David's response dashed any lingering hopes that Blaine had been harboring. John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, was one of the most powerful remaining Lancastrians. And Thomas, Baron Stanley was married to Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Richmond, distant cousin to Alice and unarguably the most influential woman in England's nobility. While Stanley's title was technically lower than Blaine's, he still wielded a great deal of power thanks to his marriage. Envoys from their households would absolutely mean something, especially given how much trouble any envoy of de Vere's would have coming over from France unnoticed.
He slipped into his robe and took unnecessarily long in tying it shut, giving himself time to think. “Aunt Alice hasn't said anything.”
“She likely wouldn't have heard anything. Not yet. I don't know anything more than that the envoys have come, myself...but Blaine. You know what it means, that Stanley has sent someone.”
“You think he'll come here.”
“I'd certainly count on it. They'll need all the Lancastrian nobles they can gather, and you're his cousin by marriage.”
“Distantly.” Blaine dismissed the connection. “Only because of Mother and Alice.”
“You're still a relative, and one with even a vague claim to the throne yourself. They will come, Blaine.”
He dropped into the other chair across from David, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stave off the headache he felt coming on. “I don't know what to think of this.”
“You would if you'd been listening to me all of this time.” The Marshal didn't even attempt to hold back the fire of his anger. “You appointed me Marshal for a reason that I hope goes beyond our childhood friendship and my father's own position in your father's household. I have tried to fulfill my appointment, but it doesn't do much good if my liege fails to listen to the advice I give!”
“I didn't want to listen!” Blaine was angry himself. “As much as I loathe the Yorkist bastards, I had hoped to never see war. No one wins, David. No matter who is on the throne, no one wins. It killed my father...” The words choked off and caught in his throat. He had only vague memories of his father, of a strong man who carried him through Dalton House on his shoulders, making him shriek with laughter. A man who carved him simple toy swords and horses from the wood of the chestnut trees that surrounded the manor, who taught him to ride a horse, who hugged him tightly one night when he was seven years old and then disappeared, never to ride a horse or carve a toy or give a hug ever again.
David sat silently, letting his friend fight his way through his thoughts and sorrow. It was a long while before he spoke, and then it was with caution and concern. “I understand, Blaine. I know that were it up to you...well. But it's not. We must face it. I'm sure it will be only a matter of time before Crawford approaches you. I wouldn't at all be surprised if he convened a meeting at some point during the ball.”
“So soon?” He was startled. “That's only a fortnight.”
“I'm sure this has been going on long before now.” The other man rose to his feet as a knock at the chamber door signaled the arrival of Blaine's bath. “I don't like having to be the bearer of bad tidings, Blaine. Truly I don't. But I hope I've gotten you to start taking this - taking me - more seriously.” He strode across the room and opened the door to allow the servants to enter with the deep tub and buckets of water. “I want to live through whatever is coming and know that you will live through it as well, my friend.”
Blaine sat still in his chair as David gave him one last long, measuring look and disappeared out the door. The servants, seeming to sense his disturbed mood, went about their business and poured his bath in silence, only whispering to each other enough to get the basin prepared and filled with the warmed water. When the last of them bowed and departed, the Viscount stood and dropped his robe to the floor, pacing slowly to the tub and easing into it with a hiss as his strained muscles protested at the heat. Perhaps the warmth and the lavender he could smell in the water would calm his troubled mind before he had to put on a good face for dinner.
For a long time Blaine simply lay back, arms extended along the sides of the tub as he thought about what David had told him. He knew it had always been a fool's game to pretend that war would not come back to England. Simply hearing the Earl of Crawford's vicious invective against the Yorkist king at various parties would have told anyone who wanted to listen that another rebellion was going to happen at some point. Of course, that was the key: anyone who wanted to listen.
The touch of his fingers to his wrenched side elicited another hiss and a reminder of why he had not wanted to listen. Blaine knew he had a natural capacity for strategy - he'd been playing chess since he was young, enjoyed reading military histories, and sloppy performance in the sparring ring aside, he was able to quickly assess his chances and maneuvers in a fight. He was also popular amongst his friends and frequently found himself to be the leader of any group he happened to be in.
That did not mean he wanted to be in a fight, or to be responsible for sending anyone else out to get hurt or killed, a sentiment he knew he shared with Thomas Stanley. And he was under no illusions that he wouldn't be in charge somewhere, somehow. Even if he hadn't been a quick and clever man, Blaine was a Beaufort by blood and a noble in his own right. There was no way he'd escape heading up even a minor command. He could have been a stammering moron and they'd still put him in charge of something.
If they won, he might even be given a higher title. There would be plenty of those to go around once the Yorkists were deposed.
“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, halting that line of thought in its tracks. He'd always wanted to be just a bit higher in the nobility - Dalton House was largely self sufficient thanks to Wes' clever Stewardship and Emma's skill with handling the harvests of grain and fruit from their land. He actually had a self-generated income that was larger than the pittance he was still somehow granted from the crown. So it wasn't about the money, really. He just would have liked a better title and a bit more respect from elder nobles, who still had to visibly restrain themselves from patting the young Viscount on the head when they encountered him at formal occasions.
Blaine leaned carefully out of the tub to pick up the cloth and soap he'd been left for his ablutions and washed himself clean with care, even dunking his head into the water and soaping up his curls to get the sweat out. Lifting his chin, he took a deep breath before plunging underwater again and remaining there for as long as he could, thoughts roiling with dark clouds and portents.
Yes, more respect and a better title could come his way, if he lived through whatever was coming. But there was no guarantee that he would live, and if he did it would be at the expense of other human lives. He could not live in willful oblivion any more, no. War was coming. Blood would be spilled. People would die - he might die.
With a gasp, he surfaced as his breath ran out, curls streaming water down his face and back. He groped for a towel and wiped the moisture from his eyes so that he could open them again and begin the process of getting out and drying off. The servants had left a stack of towels for him, so he dropped the one he'd just used onto the floor in order to not drip water everywhere - another one of Emma's insistent rules - and emerged from the bath, shivering at the contrast between the warm water and the cold air.
He felt better physically - the soreness of his wrenched side had decreased significantly - but mentally, the solitude of the bath had done nothing for him. In fact, he thought as he toweled himself off, his thoughts were possibly more turbulent than they had been. He was going to have to work to not worry Alice at dinner. Not that she wouldn't find out eventually, Blaine knew. She still kept in touch with her cousin Margaret, and that redoubtable woman - not that all Beauforts weren't redoubtable, but Margaret was particularly frightening - was unquestionably involved in any rebellion being planned. If Blaine was to end up involved, Alice could possibly even find out about it before he did, though with Crawford as his neighbor he felt that mostly unlikely.
Mostly.
His valet appeared just as he was about to carelessly throw on whatever he pulled out of his wardrobe first. “Absolutely not, my Lord,” Thad scolded, snatching the red doublet and green hose out of his hands. “How many times must I ask you to please entrust me with dressing you?” Despite the use of the words ask and please, Blaine knew better. If Thad could get away with issuing an edict on the subject, he would have - he felt that passionate about it.
“And how many times must I tell you that I don't care?” Blaine countered, trying to tug at least the red doublet back. “I am twenty years old! I am perfectly capable of dressing myself!”
“Certainly you are,” Thad agreed. “It's colors that you have a problem choosing.”
Anywhere else, with any other noble, Thad would have been out on his ear ages ago for being impertinent. But Blaine knew the man's knowledge of clothing was invaluable and kept him from looking like a complete idiot at parties. He only wished that Thad would confine his knowledge and criticisms to those times. But no, his valet insisted that he look his best at all times, and therefore Blaine was frequently treated like a small child. At least it was only in this regard.
He gave up and released the doublet into Thad's hands, ignoring the other man's satisfied smirk. “Fine. Get me something to wear. Can you at least take into account the fact that I do wish to wear red this evening?”
“Certainly, my Lord.” Stuffing the green hose back into their space in the wardrobe, the valet replaced them with black ones and added a matching black coat to his armload of fabric. He retrieved a belt as well and returned to Blaine's side, ignoring the young noble's long-suffering sigh as he allowed himself to be handled like a rag doll.
In relatively short order, the Viscount was dressed for dinner in his red doublet and black coat, dismissing his valet after one last towel rub and despairing cluck over the unruliness of his curly hair. Blaine did have to admit that Thad had an unmatched skill for making him look presentable. The Baroness would find nothing at fault in his ensemble.
The thought of Alice sobered him all over again. Never one to miss a trick, he knew she'd heard him and David joking about war as she told them of Amelia's birthday ball. She had ignored them then, but Alice was as averse to war as he was himself, and he knew she would ask what he and David had meant. Earlier, he would have been able to dismiss it as what it had been, a joke, but now with his new knowledge, did he dare burden his beloved aunt with the ugly news of impending war?
He would have to. She would see through any pretense and prevarication he made. Besides that, if she hadn't heard from Margaret, he was sure she would any day now. David was right - if Crawford was getting involved, then enlisting Blaine as the nearest noble, Lancastrian, and a Beaufort relative...well, that would be not very far behind. Alice would find out, it was just a matter of who got to her first. He would rather have that be himself, to deliver the blow as gently as he could.
Blaine wished the York dynasty and all of their benighted heirs to the deepest pits of hell as he put on a smile and departed his room to fetch his aunt for dinner and break her heart.
Chapter Two
Media: Fic
Author: a_glass_parade
Rating: PG this chapter; will escalate to R/NC-17 in future chapters
Genre: Romance, AU, Historical Fiction
Warnings: None this chapter, I think, but given that this is essentially a romance novel set in a violent time...there will eventually be depictions of sexual acts between two men, things said that these days would be considered politically incorrect, adult language, murder, possible beatings, threats of torture.
Spoilers: While events and references from both seasons of Glee may be adapted and worked into the story occasionally, it's otherwise fully AU.
Word Count: Story: 6400+ This Chapter: 5100+
Summary: England, 1484: The forces of Lancaster see Edward Blaine Anderson, Viscount Dalton, as key to their plans to retake and hold the throne of England. The House of York has come to the same conclusion and they want to stop that from happening. Their secret weapon will be Kurt Hummel, stableman's son and reluctant spy.
Additional Notes: This is written in the vein of your typical historical romance novel with all the historical liberties taken that you'd expect. I do try to be as historically accurate as is feasible, though. Sweetly reader beta'd by the lovely and incomparable mothergoddamn , who made me feel like a queeeeeeeeeen. And if you missed the prologue, you can find it here.
The problem with helmets, Blaine mused, balancing the hilt of his sword in his hand, is that they make it so damn hard to see what your opponent is thinking.
The man standing across the sparring circle from him shifted on his feet, only the glittering of his eyes in the dim light revealing that he had eyes at all. Of course, to be fair, Blaine knew the man was seeing the same thing - an armored, anonymous, armed opponent. It was an intimidating thing to face; it was meant to be. All of it was simply part of the theater of battle.
Go.
He charged across the circle at his opponent, unleashing an involuntary howl of aggression. The unexpected noise seemed to startle the other man into action, and they met in the middle of the ring with a deafening clash of swords. Blaine let out a primal grunt as he used his shield to shove his helmeted foe back, used the momentum of the push to propel himself back out of sword's reach so that he could resettle his footing.
The other fighter wasn't about to give him that chance, however, pushing forward while Blaine was still off balance and forcing him to duck low and shove again with his shield. He was chillingly aware that it could occur to his opponent that Blaine was within distance of a blow to the head - a hit to the steel helmet wouldn't kill him, but it would disorient him long enough for a killing blow. But if he raised his shield to protect his head, he left his front and side open to attack. What is the better alternative? he asked himself, lightning quick. Protect the head.
Raising his shield, he let the rush of battle-lust take control and instinctively moved his body out of the reach of danger. With a wrench, he was away from the other man, but he'd relied too much on instinct, hadn't been aware enough of how he was moving. A fully armored fighter was not meant to move terribly quickly, or at least not as quickly as he had. He felt a painful stitch in his shield side now and had to stifle a gasp of pain. Be strong. It wasn't as if it was a flesh wound. It was only a pulled muscle. He danced back and regarded the other fighter, looking for weaknesses.
He always leads with his right foot. Aim for the left side, then - get enough movement behind it and he might have to overcorrect, you could come in again when he's off balance. But quickly, quickly...
Blaine bolted forward again, feinting to his own left and then pushing right as the other fighter took the bait. As he had expected, his blow to the left side of the man's chest sent him off balance - but what he hadn't expected was that the man would spin with the blow and bring the hilt of his sword up to catch Blaine in the back of the head. The impact sent him stumbling to his knees, turning clumsily to pull his own shield up to ward against the sword that was coming towards him.
But a pulled muscle was never “only a pulled muscle” on the field of battle, and this time he couldn't keep back the gasp of pain as the movement of his arm wrenched the overtaxed muscle. His arm dropped, helpless, leaving him wide open to the death blow.
“Damn it, Blaine.” Metal clattered on the packed dirt floor as the man dropped his sword and shrugged off his shield. A pull at his chin strap allowed him to tug his helmet off and tuck it under his arm. “I don't know how many times I've told you that you can't just let instinct take over. You're hurt.” The Marshal of Dalton House was glowering down at his Viscount, daring the younger man to refute him.
“It's just a muscle in my side, David. It'll be fine,” Blaine grumbled as he planted the tip of his sword into the ground and pushed himself to his feet. “I've had worse.”
“It's not the muscle, it's your bad habit that's the problem. You can't lose your head in the middle of a battle! It would be playing right in to the enemy's hands.” David snatched Blaine's sword and shield away, glaring until the noble had removed his own helmet, allowing his sweat-flattened black curls to tumble free.
“You say these things as if we were going into battle tomorrow,” Blaine protested, brushing the mop away from his face. “I have plenty of time to keep training. The rest of my life, even, since there's no war on and there's not likely to be one.”
“No amount of training is going to help you if you refuse to correct your poor reactions,” retorted the Marshal. “I say this as your military adviser, sir.”
The Viscount winced. “Oh, no, you're calling me sir. David, we grew up together.”
“And you entrusted me with the responsibility of being your military adviser. With the responsibility of teaching you how to save yourself from having your blood and innards spilled out on the English countryside like some common, stupid herd animal in a slaughterhouse. If I have to call you sir and remind you of your rank in order to put sense into your head, then I will do it.” He paused and glared again, harder. “And if that doesn't work, the next time you pull a fool move like that in a sparring match, I will take the opening you give me and knock you senseless.”
“Fair enough.” Blaine didn't feel like arguing anymore. He wanted to strip his armor off and get into a hot bath to soothe his aching side. Slowly, he moved over to the armor rack and allowed his squire to begin the long process of extricating him from his steel prison. “I won't even have you pilloried and whipped for it.”
David shoved his helmet onto its stand and cast an exasperated look at the other man. “Blaine, what do I have to do to get you to take the threat of war seriously?”
“I don't know, prove to me that one is coming?” He raised his arms to give the squire access to begin removing his breastplate, trying not to wince as the motion pulled at his sore side. “You keep saying that I have to be prepared, but for what? The York dogs that killed my father have been on the throne since you and I were small children. There are no more direct Lancastrian heirs to make a claim for it.. We've heard nothing out of France for as long as I can remember. So what, exactly, am I to ready myself for apart from your tender ministrations?”
“You are a fool, Edward Blaine Anderson.” The Marshal's voice mingled concern and annoyance at his friend and liege. He pulled off his gauntlets, throwing them into a chest by the rack. “Don't allow yourself to be complacent. War will come soon enough. And your attitude will get you killed. I don't want to see that happen.”
“Touching of you, David. It's fortunate that I have no intention of dying on the field of battle. I don't see myself running towards this non-existent war.” Blaine allowed his squire to divest him of the remainder of his armor and accepted the use of a towel to rub the sweat out of his hair.
The other man arched a skeptical eyebrow. “And what will you do when war comes to you?”
“Run away, of course.” A cocky grin lit up Blaine's face as he threw his towel at David's head and bolted for the door, his military adviser fairly quickly in hot pursuit.
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~
When they burst through the kitchen entrance of Dalton House, they were laughing like boys, arms slung over each other's shoulders in an only partly successful effort to help keep themselves upright. Blaine's aunt Alice, the lady of the House in the absence of a wife, was in the kitchen discussing changes to the evening meal with his châtelaine. Both women jumped, startled, when the door flew open and hit the wall with a noisy bang.
Alice recovered first, brushing a curl of dark hair out of her twinkling blue eyes. “Edward,” she drawled, tone drier than parchment, “If you're quite finished trying to pull the house down...?”
His mother's sister was the one person in the world who could get away with calling Blaine by his proper name. Alice Beaufort had undertaken to raise the newly orphaned Viscount after his father Neville and her husband Roger had both lost their lives on the battlefield at Barnet. Having never had children of her own with Roger, who had been Baron Linwood, Alice did not fight the relatives who claimed his land and home in the absence of an heir. She had chosen instead to reclaim her maiden name, retain her courtesy title, and move into Dalton House to stay with her nephew in the one home he'd ever known.
Blaine's face split into another sunlight smile as he loped across the kitchen to deposit a loud, smacking kiss on his aunt's cheek. “Anything for you, favorite aunt.”
“I'm your only aunt, you cheeky rascal.” Alice smiled fondly at her nephew, confounding mixture of boy and man that he was. “Disgusting. You smell like a barnyard and you're dripping with sweat.”
“That's all right. I'll bathe before dinner. Emma will send a bath up to my room, right, Emma?” He turned to look at the tiny redheaded woman who acted as his housekeeper. A frown furrowed his heavy eyebrows as he realized that her brown eyes were wide with horror, and she was...squeaking? “Emma?”
“Miss Pillsbury?” Alice waved a hand in front of the woman's face. The châtelaine's eyes snapped up to look at her mistress, her hand gesturing weakly in the direction of Blaine's shoes.
“My...I swept...boots!” Emma's voice was emerging in a series of rising squeals. “My floors! Take those filthy boots off at once!”
Blaine and David stared at the woman as if she'd grown two heads. Alice bit her lip to stifle a laugh, speaking only when she was certain she wouldn't completely lose control. "I suggest you do it, Edward." She waved him off towards the entrance. "I will not be stopping Miss Pillsbury if she tries to murder you for ignoring such a simple request."
"Well, when you put it that way, Aunt Alice..." Blaine grinned and returned to the door, balancing on each foot in turn to tug off the boots and depositing them on the low rack placed there for that purpose. The stone floor was chilly through his hose, but he could see his housekeeper's relief on her face, and she'd stopped wheezing. "Better, Emma?"
The châtelaine smiled tightly. "Immensely, sir. Thank you."
"I'm sorry for tracking dust on your nice clean floors." He strode over and grabbed the housekeeper by the shoulders, kissing her cheek as noisily as he had done his aunt's and laughing as she squealed in horror and ran off. "I'm sorry again, Emma! May I please still have a bath sent up?"
"You've got to stop teasing her, Edward. It's not nice. She's very timid and she does a lovely job keeping your home running smoothly." Blaine clearly heard that it was Baroness Linwood speaking and not his beloved Aunt Alice. He was appropriately chastened.
"You're right, Aunt. I do know better. I'll find a present for her later to truly make up for it."
"See that you do." Alice looped the trailing end of her long skirt up over her arm and began walking out of the kitchen, beckoning for her nephew to follow her. "I've tended to dinner, let us discuss our upcoming social engagements. Well. Engagement. There's just the one. Lord Crawford is holding a ball to celebrate Amelia's nineteenth birthday."
Blaine grinned at David, who was trailing along behind him. "See, David? War is hardly imminent if old Crawford is throwing a party."
"Crawford would hold a party in the middle of a raging battle if he thought it would get another one of that passel of harridans he calls daughters married off," the Marshal muttered. "Six legitimate daughters, where did he find the time?"
“Where does he find the money, is what I want to know. I know women don't eat much, but surely dressing them is prohibitively expensive.” Blaine eyed his aunt's brocaded gown speculatively, wondering how much it had made his Steward's head hurt when he got the receipts for it. Alice glared at him as if she could read his thoughts.
David snorted. “He doesn't find the money, he finds them husbands. Amelia must be next. Watch out, Blaine, she's always had her eye on you.” He laughed at his friend's groan of despair.
The Baroness pointedly ignored the both of them, sweeping to begin ascending the stairs towards the manor's bedchambers. “I've got a lovely embroidered sewing basket that I can give her as a present. The ball is in a fortnight, I'm sure that's plenty of time for you to have Wesley pick out a suitable gift for you to bring.”
“Why would I have Wes pick out a birthday gift for Amelia? I'm perfectly capable, I don't need to delegate that to my Steward.” Blaine puffed up, offended. “I select your birthday gifts myself.”
“Yes, and they're lovely, and I'm not the marriage-age daughter of your nearest and most powerful neighbor.” The Baroness patted her nephew's cheek. “You can't just send her jewelry and call it done, darling. Lord Crawford will see it as an invitation to open negotiations, and I am not going to be the one who has to tell him that my oblivious nephew doesn't actually have any interest in marrying the most featherbrained of his flighty daughters.”
“I like Amelia...” Blaine trailed off, unsure what else to say. He did like Amelia, she was a sweet girl and the best dancer he knew. But it was also true that he didn't want to marry her. Yes. His aunt had the right idea. “I'll talk to Wes after dinner, then. Do you think Emma will still have a bath sent up for me?”
“Not in the slightest, my dear. She's probably still scrubbing your kiss off of her cheek. I'll have one of the chambermaids do it. Oh, that reminds me, when you talk to Wesley, tell him we've lost another one and he'll need to find a replacement? The poor girl just couldn't keep up to Miss Pillsbury's standards.”
“Few can,” the Viscount sighed. “We go through so many...it's a good thing I rather like having a spotlessly clean home, or I'd replace Emma instead.”
“Perish the thought. No one could ever get our linens so white.” Alice twitched her mouth into a moue. “It would never be worth it.”
“Not at all.” The trio arrived at the top of the winding staircase. “I shall see you at dinner, Aunt. Thank you for seeing to the bath.” Blaine kissed his aunt's cheek again and started off for his rooms, David bowing to the Baroness and following behind him. “David? Is there something you want?”
“Yes, Edward.” The Marshal's tone was mocking, and he had to duck away from his friend's arm as it swung out to hit him. “While you're waiting for your bath, I thought I'd talk sense into you.”
Blaine frowned. “Not this imaginary war again. David, you've got to clean up for dinner as well.”
“I don't take nearly as long as you do,” David waved dismissively. “I don't have to impress the Baroness.”
They stopped outside of Blaine's door, the Viscount opening it and ushering his Marshal into the awaiting chambers with a sweeping, ironic gesture. “Fair enough. Besides, no amount of grooming could ever really make you impressive. Tolerable, maybe.”
“I'll take that out on you next time we're in the sparring circle,” David warned as he settled into one of the chairs by the shuttered window. “But it's neither here nor there. Blaine, I meant it when I said you needed to be ready for war.”
The younger man yanked off his sweaty linen shirt and tossed it into the woven basket his housekeeper insisted he use for dirty laundry. He pulled a robe out of his wardrobe and began unlacing his breeches. “And I meant it when I said I don't believe that there's one coming.”
“Quite apart from the fact that one should always assume that war is coming,” the military man retorted, “I have more than instinct to go on. It is coming, Blaine.”
Blaine turned to face his friend, hands pausing in their work. The look on David's face was deadly serious, sending a chill down his spine. For the first time, he began to wonder. “How?”
“Drinking with Crawford's men-at-arms. They've seen some visitors of note lately.”
“Names?” Blaine returned to disrobing, trying to conceal his rising anxiety behind short, single syllable answers. James Freville, Earl of Crawford had been a prominent Lancastrian loyalist. Visits from other supporters were likely to be nothing more than social calls, surely.
He pushed away the fact that he knew full well that Richard III was growing increasingly unpopular with the people, and that they still didn't know what had happened to his adolescent nephews, the “legitimate” York heirs to the throne before they mysteriously vanished from the Tower of London and Richard had himself crowned.
His denial of war had been born more out of hope than fact, he knew.
“Envoys from de Vere and Stanley.” David's response dashed any lingering hopes that Blaine had been harboring. John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, was one of the most powerful remaining Lancastrians. And Thomas, Baron Stanley was married to Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Richmond, distant cousin to Alice and unarguably the most influential woman in England's nobility. While Stanley's title was technically lower than Blaine's, he still wielded a great deal of power thanks to his marriage. Envoys from their households would absolutely mean something, especially given how much trouble any envoy of de Vere's would have coming over from France unnoticed.
He slipped into his robe and took unnecessarily long in tying it shut, giving himself time to think. “Aunt Alice hasn't said anything.”
“She likely wouldn't have heard anything. Not yet. I don't know anything more than that the envoys have come, myself...but Blaine. You know what it means, that Stanley has sent someone.”
“You think he'll come here.”
“I'd certainly count on it. They'll need all the Lancastrian nobles they can gather, and you're his cousin by marriage.”
“Distantly.” Blaine dismissed the connection. “Only because of Mother and Alice.”
“You're still a relative, and one with even a vague claim to the throne yourself. They will come, Blaine.”
He dropped into the other chair across from David, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stave off the headache he felt coming on. “I don't know what to think of this.”
“You would if you'd been listening to me all of this time.” The Marshal didn't even attempt to hold back the fire of his anger. “You appointed me Marshal for a reason that I hope goes beyond our childhood friendship and my father's own position in your father's household. I have tried to fulfill my appointment, but it doesn't do much good if my liege fails to listen to the advice I give!”
“I didn't want to listen!” Blaine was angry himself. “As much as I loathe the Yorkist bastards, I had hoped to never see war. No one wins, David. No matter who is on the throne, no one wins. It killed my father...” The words choked off and caught in his throat. He had only vague memories of his father, of a strong man who carried him through Dalton House on his shoulders, making him shriek with laughter. A man who carved him simple toy swords and horses from the wood of the chestnut trees that surrounded the manor, who taught him to ride a horse, who hugged him tightly one night when he was seven years old and then disappeared, never to ride a horse or carve a toy or give a hug ever again.
David sat silently, letting his friend fight his way through his thoughts and sorrow. It was a long while before he spoke, and then it was with caution and concern. “I understand, Blaine. I know that were it up to you...well. But it's not. We must face it. I'm sure it will be only a matter of time before Crawford approaches you. I wouldn't at all be surprised if he convened a meeting at some point during the ball.”
“So soon?” He was startled. “That's only a fortnight.”
“I'm sure this has been going on long before now.” The other man rose to his feet as a knock at the chamber door signaled the arrival of Blaine's bath. “I don't like having to be the bearer of bad tidings, Blaine. Truly I don't. But I hope I've gotten you to start taking this - taking me - more seriously.” He strode across the room and opened the door to allow the servants to enter with the deep tub and buckets of water. “I want to live through whatever is coming and know that you will live through it as well, my friend.”
Blaine sat still in his chair as David gave him one last long, measuring look and disappeared out the door. The servants, seeming to sense his disturbed mood, went about their business and poured his bath in silence, only whispering to each other enough to get the basin prepared and filled with the warmed water. When the last of them bowed and departed, the Viscount stood and dropped his robe to the floor, pacing slowly to the tub and easing into it with a hiss as his strained muscles protested at the heat. Perhaps the warmth and the lavender he could smell in the water would calm his troubled mind before he had to put on a good face for dinner.
For a long time Blaine simply lay back, arms extended along the sides of the tub as he thought about what David had told him. He knew it had always been a fool's game to pretend that war would not come back to England. Simply hearing the Earl of Crawford's vicious invective against the Yorkist king at various parties would have told anyone who wanted to listen that another rebellion was going to happen at some point. Of course, that was the key: anyone who wanted to listen.
The touch of his fingers to his wrenched side elicited another hiss and a reminder of why he had not wanted to listen. Blaine knew he had a natural capacity for strategy - he'd been playing chess since he was young, enjoyed reading military histories, and sloppy performance in the sparring ring aside, he was able to quickly assess his chances and maneuvers in a fight. He was also popular amongst his friends and frequently found himself to be the leader of any group he happened to be in.
That did not mean he wanted to be in a fight, or to be responsible for sending anyone else out to get hurt or killed, a sentiment he knew he shared with Thomas Stanley. And he was under no illusions that he wouldn't be in charge somewhere, somehow. Even if he hadn't been a quick and clever man, Blaine was a Beaufort by blood and a noble in his own right. There was no way he'd escape heading up even a minor command. He could have been a stammering moron and they'd still put him in charge of something.
If they won, he might even be given a higher title. There would be plenty of those to go around once the Yorkists were deposed.
“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, halting that line of thought in its tracks. He'd always wanted to be just a bit higher in the nobility - Dalton House was largely self sufficient thanks to Wes' clever Stewardship and Emma's skill with handling the harvests of grain and fruit from their land. He actually had a self-generated income that was larger than the pittance he was still somehow granted from the crown. So it wasn't about the money, really. He just would have liked a better title and a bit more respect from elder nobles, who still had to visibly restrain themselves from patting the young Viscount on the head when they encountered him at formal occasions.
Blaine leaned carefully out of the tub to pick up the cloth and soap he'd been left for his ablutions and washed himself clean with care, even dunking his head into the water and soaping up his curls to get the sweat out. Lifting his chin, he took a deep breath before plunging underwater again and remaining there for as long as he could, thoughts roiling with dark clouds and portents.
Yes, more respect and a better title could come his way, if he lived through whatever was coming. But there was no guarantee that he would live, and if he did it would be at the expense of other human lives. He could not live in willful oblivion any more, no. War was coming. Blood would be spilled. People would die - he might die.
With a gasp, he surfaced as his breath ran out, curls streaming water down his face and back. He groped for a towel and wiped the moisture from his eyes so that he could open them again and begin the process of getting out and drying off. The servants had left a stack of towels for him, so he dropped the one he'd just used onto the floor in order to not drip water everywhere - another one of Emma's insistent rules - and emerged from the bath, shivering at the contrast between the warm water and the cold air.
He felt better physically - the soreness of his wrenched side had decreased significantly - but mentally, the solitude of the bath had done nothing for him. In fact, he thought as he toweled himself off, his thoughts were possibly more turbulent than they had been. He was going to have to work to not worry Alice at dinner. Not that she wouldn't find out eventually, Blaine knew. She still kept in touch with her cousin Margaret, and that redoubtable woman - not that all Beauforts weren't redoubtable, but Margaret was particularly frightening - was unquestionably involved in any rebellion being planned. If Blaine was to end up involved, Alice could possibly even find out about it before he did, though with Crawford as his neighbor he felt that mostly unlikely.
Mostly.
His valet appeared just as he was about to carelessly throw on whatever he pulled out of his wardrobe first. “Absolutely not, my Lord,” Thad scolded, snatching the red doublet and green hose out of his hands. “How many times must I ask you to please entrust me with dressing you?” Despite the use of the words ask and please, Blaine knew better. If Thad could get away with issuing an edict on the subject, he would have - he felt that passionate about it.
“And how many times must I tell you that I don't care?” Blaine countered, trying to tug at least the red doublet back. “I am twenty years old! I am perfectly capable of dressing myself!”
“Certainly you are,” Thad agreed. “It's colors that you have a problem choosing.”
Anywhere else, with any other noble, Thad would have been out on his ear ages ago for being impertinent. But Blaine knew the man's knowledge of clothing was invaluable and kept him from looking like a complete idiot at parties. He only wished that Thad would confine his knowledge and criticisms to those times. But no, his valet insisted that he look his best at all times, and therefore Blaine was frequently treated like a small child. At least it was only in this regard.
He gave up and released the doublet into Thad's hands, ignoring the other man's satisfied smirk. “Fine. Get me something to wear. Can you at least take into account the fact that I do wish to wear red this evening?”
“Certainly, my Lord.” Stuffing the green hose back into their space in the wardrobe, the valet replaced them with black ones and added a matching black coat to his armload of fabric. He retrieved a belt as well and returned to Blaine's side, ignoring the young noble's long-suffering sigh as he allowed himself to be handled like a rag doll.
In relatively short order, the Viscount was dressed for dinner in his red doublet and black coat, dismissing his valet after one last towel rub and despairing cluck over the unruliness of his curly hair. Blaine did have to admit that Thad had an unmatched skill for making him look presentable. The Baroness would find nothing at fault in his ensemble.
The thought of Alice sobered him all over again. Never one to miss a trick, he knew she'd heard him and David joking about war as she told them of Amelia's birthday ball. She had ignored them then, but Alice was as averse to war as he was himself, and he knew she would ask what he and David had meant. Earlier, he would have been able to dismiss it as what it had been, a joke, but now with his new knowledge, did he dare burden his beloved aunt with the ugly news of impending war?
He would have to. She would see through any pretense and prevarication he made. Besides that, if she hadn't heard from Margaret, he was sure she would any day now. David was right - if Crawford was getting involved, then enlisting Blaine as the nearest noble, Lancastrian, and a Beaufort relative...well, that would be not very far behind. Alice would find out, it was just a matter of who got to her first. He would rather have that be himself, to deliver the blow as gently as he could.
Blaine wished the York dynasty and all of their benighted heirs to the deepest pits of hell as he put on a smile and departed his room to fetch his aunt for dinner and break her heart.
Chapter Two