(no subject)
Title: Shooting Grouse in August
Author: gileonnen
Play: Richard II
Characters: Henry Bolingbroke, Northumberland, Hotspur, Hal; implied Richard II/Hal
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The economy might be on its deathbed, the king a sensualist without decency, all Europe roiling with war--but on the twelfth of August, the Percys would always be grouse-hunting on the far side of the Tweed. Follows directly after Flattering Glass.
Warnings: Implied sexual contact between an adult and a person below the age of consent in the U.S. (but not in other countries)
Author's note: Written for lareinenoire and angevin2.
September 10, 1940
Henry Bolingbroke was meant to be en route to Vilnius. He could nearly feel the rocking of the train under him, nearly hear the chatter of the passengers on the still air--the sense of transit haunted him as he drew back the curtains that closed off this little parlour room, letting in watery light flecked with dust motes.
There were rooms in Warkworth House to which the Earl of Northumberland held the only key--dusty, shabby rooms, untouched by maids; their furniture was several decades out of fashion and littered with the carcasses of moths. Their fireplaces had long since been swept of their last ashes, and their lights were all gas-lamps, although the rest of Warkworth House had been electrified after the war.
These were interstitial spaces, thought Henry Bolingbroke, rooms caught between an inglorious past and an uncertain future. There was a queer lack of presence to them.
He gently touched the keys to a dust-filmed piano, tracing out arpeggios, and he was unsurprised to find the instrument out of tune. John would have liked to play it, he thought; he was forever teasing out dissonance and syncopation on the piano at home, seeking chords that barely clashed and time signatures varied only enough to be unsettling. A piano out of tune would have been his proper instrument, and he would have known how to make jazz sing from it.
Hal had never displayed a particular aptitude for music, nor anything else.
Henry closed the lid over the keys and stepped back, dusting off his hands. "Finished mucking about?" asked Northumberland, who stood silhouetted in the doorway. His shoulders were hunched up like a range in the Peak District, his head tucked nearly down to his chest.
Henry only nodded. He felt oddly light-headed.
"I'll have the maid air out the room," said Northumberland. "The others should be arriving soon."
* * *
August 12, 1939
The grouse rose fluttering upward, all sudden rush of wings as the gamekeeper's dog charged through the roost. A sharp crack rang our across the fields, and one of the fat brown birds fell to earth--it seemed almost to hang a moment in the air, flight arrested, then dropped graceless to the heather. Harry Percy gave a sharp whoop of triumph; his father's eyes shone with pride.
Henry Bolingbroke had heard a gun's sound called a report, and as a child he had wondered what it reported.
"You've got remarkable skill with a gun," he told the boy, with a small smile. Harry returned the smile, nothing in his expression of guile or flattery; he knew that he had shot well, and hearing it said imported no more to him than hearing that the sea was great or the sky was blue.
"He's a regular sportsman," said Northumberland, ruffling his son's hair with that fierce affection that seemed to come so easily to him. "Bought him a gun for his fifth birthday; he was already begging me to sleep with the dogs on the floor--"
"Don't embarrass the boy," Henry answered, but Harry had already ceased to listen--he was kneeling to receive his grouse from the gamekeeper's dog, his fingers buried in the curly fur at the back of the spaniel's ears. "How old is he?" asked Henry, while the boy was oblivious.
"A year older than your Hal." His tone carried something of significance, and Henry emphatically did not read anything in it; he found himself looking away from the older man's narrow eyes.
"Not the same age as Tom?"
Northumberland laughed, shaking his head. "He does seem a young thing, doesn't he? But you remember, when your wife was pregnant with Henry, my wife came down to see her and chat about first sons."
"And Mary said she thought she'd have a girl--I remember." Henry sighted along his gun, eyes on the ground, searching for a telltale shape in the heather or a movement against the wind. "She would have named her Philippa ... I suppose she got her wish at last."
"Two girls," answered Northumberland. "A father's pride."
It sounded too nearly rehearsed; Henry didn't allow himself to be led. He fired for the sharp sound of the gun and the scent of cordite, the sight of heather stems bursting purple over the hillside. He should have come on his own, unobserved--but grouse-hunting had never been a solitary sport; there would need to be beaters and dog handlers and other sportsmen to canvass the hills, and on the twelfth of August he would have surely run across Percy even if he had taken pains to avoid him. The economy might be on its deathbed, the king a sensualist without decency, all Europe roiling with war--but on the twelfth of August, the Percys would always be grouse-hunting on the far side of the Tweed. Whether that made them the pride of England, or worse than the king, Henry did not let himself consider.
After all, what had the king done that was so objectionable? Only nothing at all; only let the war pass him by while France cried out for help and Poland fell screaming.
It had always been Richard's way, to insist that he be drawn on to what he wished to do.
The gamekeeper's dog cut a dark trail through the waving heads of heather, soft flowers parting for him and then closing slowly behind him.
Henry raised his gun, and when the next covey of grouse rose into the air, he was ready.
* * *
August 1, 1939
Hal comes back to their rooms late, flushed, his shirt undone at the collar and hanging loose about his arms. He smells of expensive soap and another man's cologne. There's a kind of giddy exhaustion under his typical insouciant smirk, as though someone has lit a match behind his eyes. He has been scoured raw, burned empty, and the thought overjoys him.
Henry can scarcely bear the sight of him.
"You were out late," he says, neutrally. "Sharing a bottle of gin with the other boys?"
"Something like that," Hal answers, which means nothing like that. Hal does not smell of gin. "Gin and a fag--"
"I see." Henry turns the page of his Bible; the previous owner had filled it with marginalia, and he must devote special attention to ignoring the underlined passages and the questions scribbled at the borders of every verse.
He knows only one man who wears that particular, maddening cologne--only one man whose scent clings to the gloves that he has kissed and the fingers that he has touched, soft musk and sandalwood and some secret scent like incense in a church.
There is a dark mark staining Hal's neck, only barely concealed by his loose collar.
"We'll be on our way home tomorrow afternoon," says Henry, more quietly. "You should find a present for your sisters while we're in London."
A long silence follows; some of the light goes out of Hal's eyes. He seems to be waiting for something--some cue or sign, some expression to which he can respond; silence seems only to baffle him. Henry can see his jaw working, either to formulate a response or to conceal one. Hal's hands close so tightly that the nails must be tearing flesh.
After a moment, he only shakes his head and goes to his own room. He mutters something that might be a curse or an admonition, but he goes.
Henry puts aside his book and goes to the window. It's dark outside, though, and he can only see his own reflection.
Author: gileonnen
Play: Richard II
Characters: Henry Bolingbroke, Northumberland, Hotspur, Hal; implied Richard II/Hal
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The economy might be on its deathbed, the king a sensualist without decency, all Europe roiling with war--but on the twelfth of August, the Percys would always be grouse-hunting on the far side of the Tweed. Follows directly after Flattering Glass.
Warnings: Implied sexual contact between an adult and a person below the age of consent in the U.S. (but not in other countries)
Author's note: Written for lareinenoire and angevin2.
September 10, 1940
Henry Bolingbroke was meant to be en route to Vilnius. He could nearly feel the rocking of the train under him, nearly hear the chatter of the passengers on the still air--the sense of transit haunted him as he drew back the curtains that closed off this little parlour room, letting in watery light flecked with dust motes.
There were rooms in Warkworth House to which the Earl of Northumberland held the only key--dusty, shabby rooms, untouched by maids; their furniture was several decades out of fashion and littered with the carcasses of moths. Their fireplaces had long since been swept of their last ashes, and their lights were all gas-lamps, although the rest of Warkworth House had been electrified after the war.
These were interstitial spaces, thought Henry Bolingbroke, rooms caught between an inglorious past and an uncertain future. There was a queer lack of presence to them.
He gently touched the keys to a dust-filmed piano, tracing out arpeggios, and he was unsurprised to find the instrument out of tune. John would have liked to play it, he thought; he was forever teasing out dissonance and syncopation on the piano at home, seeking chords that barely clashed and time signatures varied only enough to be unsettling. A piano out of tune would have been his proper instrument, and he would have known how to make jazz sing from it.
Hal had never displayed a particular aptitude for music, nor anything else.
Henry closed the lid over the keys and stepped back, dusting off his hands. "Finished mucking about?" asked Northumberland, who stood silhouetted in the doorway. His shoulders were hunched up like a range in the Peak District, his head tucked nearly down to his chest.
Henry only nodded. He felt oddly light-headed.
"I'll have the maid air out the room," said Northumberland. "The others should be arriving soon."
* * *
August 12, 1939
The grouse rose fluttering upward, all sudden rush of wings as the gamekeeper's dog charged through the roost. A sharp crack rang our across the fields, and one of the fat brown birds fell to earth--it seemed almost to hang a moment in the air, flight arrested, then dropped graceless to the heather. Harry Percy gave a sharp whoop of triumph; his father's eyes shone with pride.
Henry Bolingbroke had heard a gun's sound called a report, and as a child he had wondered what it reported.
"You've got remarkable skill with a gun," he told the boy, with a small smile. Harry returned the smile, nothing in his expression of guile or flattery; he knew that he had shot well, and hearing it said imported no more to him than hearing that the sea was great or the sky was blue.
"He's a regular sportsman," said Northumberland, ruffling his son's hair with that fierce affection that seemed to come so easily to him. "Bought him a gun for his fifth birthday; he was already begging me to sleep with the dogs on the floor--"
"Don't embarrass the boy," Henry answered, but Harry had already ceased to listen--he was kneeling to receive his grouse from the gamekeeper's dog, his fingers buried in the curly fur at the back of the spaniel's ears. "How old is he?" asked Henry, while the boy was oblivious.
"A year older than your Hal." His tone carried something of significance, and Henry emphatically did not read anything in it; he found himself looking away from the older man's narrow eyes.
"Not the same age as Tom?"
Northumberland laughed, shaking his head. "He does seem a young thing, doesn't he? But you remember, when your wife was pregnant with Henry, my wife came down to see her and chat about first sons."
"And Mary said she thought she'd have a girl--I remember." Henry sighted along his gun, eyes on the ground, searching for a telltale shape in the heather or a movement against the wind. "She would have named her Philippa ... I suppose she got her wish at last."
"Two girls," answered Northumberland. "A father's pride."
It sounded too nearly rehearsed; Henry didn't allow himself to be led. He fired for the sharp sound of the gun and the scent of cordite, the sight of heather stems bursting purple over the hillside. He should have come on his own, unobserved--but grouse-hunting had never been a solitary sport; there would need to be beaters and dog handlers and other sportsmen to canvass the hills, and on the twelfth of August he would have surely run across Percy even if he had taken pains to avoid him. The economy might be on its deathbed, the king a sensualist without decency, all Europe roiling with war--but on the twelfth of August, the Percys would always be grouse-hunting on the far side of the Tweed. Whether that made them the pride of England, or worse than the king, Henry did not let himself consider.
After all, what had the king done that was so objectionable? Only nothing at all; only let the war pass him by while France cried out for help and Poland fell screaming.
It had always been Richard's way, to insist that he be drawn on to what he wished to do.
The gamekeeper's dog cut a dark trail through the waving heads of heather, soft flowers parting for him and then closing slowly behind him.
Henry raised his gun, and when the next covey of grouse rose into the air, he was ready.
* * *
August 1, 1939
Hal comes back to their rooms late, flushed, his shirt undone at the collar and hanging loose about his arms. He smells of expensive soap and another man's cologne. There's a kind of giddy exhaustion under his typical insouciant smirk, as though someone has lit a match behind his eyes. He has been scoured raw, burned empty, and the thought overjoys him.
Henry can scarcely bear the sight of him.
"You were out late," he says, neutrally. "Sharing a bottle of gin with the other boys?"
"Something like that," Hal answers, which means nothing like that. Hal does not smell of gin. "Gin and a fag--"
"I see." Henry turns the page of his Bible; the previous owner had filled it with marginalia, and he must devote special attention to ignoring the underlined passages and the questions scribbled at the borders of every verse.
He knows only one man who wears that particular, maddening cologne--only one man whose scent clings to the gloves that he has kissed and the fingers that he has touched, soft musk and sandalwood and some secret scent like incense in a church.
There is a dark mark staining Hal's neck, only barely concealed by his loose collar.
"We'll be on our way home tomorrow afternoon," says Henry, more quietly. "You should find a present for your sisters while we're in London."
A long silence follows; some of the light goes out of Hal's eyes. He seems to be waiting for something--some cue or sign, some expression to which he can respond; silence seems only to baffle him. Henry can see his jaw working, either to formulate a response or to conceal one. Hal's hands close so tightly that the nails must be tearing flesh.
After a moment, he only shakes his head and goes to his own room. He mutters something that might be a curse or an admonition, but he goes.
Henry puts aside his book and goes to the window. It's dark outside, though, and he can only see his own reflection.