Fic: Shakeswood (aka, A Torchwood Twelfth Night)
Title: Shakeswood (aka, A Torchwood Twelfth Night)
Author Name: Anonymous
Prompt: 051
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Tosh/Owen, Doctor/Gwen (I know, I know!)
Summary: Take Torchwood, throw it into a blender with Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, and put it on frappe. Serve slightly chilled.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood or Doctor Who and I certainly can’t claim any rights to Twelfth Night. Those all belong to RTD and Master Shakespeare, respectfully. I just decided to toss them together and see what happened. (Mmmm, Shakespeare and British Sci-fi: two great tastes that taste great together. Hey, RTD did it first…)
Warnings: To be on the safe side, vagueish spoilers for both seasons of Torchwood and the last two seasons of Doctor Who, just to cover my butt.
Word Count: 22,960 (yikes!)
Author's Notes: Dear Mr. Shakespeare: Please don’t roll over in your grave. It’s all meant in fun, honest it is.
Betas: M
Dramatis Personae
JACK, Duke of Cardiff
IANTO, a young man newly stranded in Cardiff
GWEN, sister to Ianto
MARTHA, gentlewoman attending on the Duke, friend to Ianto
CAPTAIN HART, a sea captain, “friend” to Gwen
JOHN, a rich count
TOSHIKO, gentlewoman attending on John
SIR OWEN HARPER, nephew of John
SAXON, steward to John
MICKEY, a clown, servant to John
ACT I
The pair stood at the ship’s railing watching the dark sea merge with the moonless sky. All but a skeleton crew of sailors and deckhands had secured themselves below, sleeping perhaps, or reading, or gambling the long hours of the night away. But the two at the rail were content to stand in silence, watching the black for signs of life in the empty darkness.
“You didn’t have to come, Gwen,” the young man said, still watching the dimensionless horizon. “Didn’t have to join me in exile. Father would gladly welcome your return with open arms.”
“He can have both of us or neither of us.” The girl, Gwen, turned so that her left arm rested on the rail and her body, slight though it was, faced her brother. “We’ve been a matched set since birth, Ianto, and will continue to be so until God calls us home, hopefully within seconds of each other, as I don’t think I could bear the world without you in it.”
Ianto, taller than Gwen but not much larger otherwise, turned enough to place a hand on his sister’s cool cheek. He knew as surely as he knew anything - everything - about his sister, that the moisture beneath her eyes was not spray from the rolling sea below. “Nor could I bear it either, sister-mine.” He leaned to press a quick and reassuring kiss to her brow before resuming his sag against the slippery rail. “And yet I’d still rather see you home and happy with your Rhys than banished from familiar shores with me.”
“He was given the choice to accompany me. The lure of his family’s purse was more appealing than I was.” Gwen sighed, her weight sinking into the sturdy wood surrounding the deck. “Better to discover that now instead of after vows had bound us. Besides, there is more adventure ahead than I ever would’ve found as someone’s wife.”
“Be careful not to let the experience leave you bitter, sister.” Ianto draped an arm, affectionate and comforting, over his sister’s shoulder and pulled her close into his side. “You may yet meet your match, though I pity the poor soul who becomes ensnared by your wicked heart.”
“Oi!” Gwen thrust an elbow into Ianto’s ribs and raised a scolding finger. “No more wicked a heart than yours, and a learned student thereof, too. For God knows, yours has had two minutes longer in this world to perfect its wickedness.”
“That yours has yet kept up despite the deficit merely proves the evil prodigy you are.”
A loud crash of thunder suddenly boomed through the still night; a bolt of lightning followed, lighting the sky and the illuminating the deck. While they had sailed on in calm silence, a storm had been brewing overhead, clouds coiling inward like a vast snake and poised to strike. The sizzle of ozone had barely subsided when a wind that seemed to come from nowhere rushed across the sea, churning the waves and tossing the boat wildly across them.
Ianto grabbed hold of Gwen, securing her to him by both arms and the two of them to the boat by a frantic grip of the rail. He considered leading them both across the deck to the stairs below, but even as he thought it, he saw two of the crewmen knocked from their feet and sent into the sea by the frantic rocking.
“Hold fast!” he shouted, voice raised to be heard over the roar of the storm and the enraged sea. Gwen wrapped both arms as tight as you could around her brother and gripped the back of his shirt in a desperate grip. “Quick as it struck, it will blow itself out just as quickly. Have faith!”
“In you, always! In the consistency of the weather, never!”
Just then, as the twins clung to each other and the rail and the hope the storm would rage itself to nothing, a storm-tossed wave swept over the deck, pummeling them without warning. The wave had strength enough to rip both from the deck and toss them into the bottomless black just over the rail. They held to each other as they fell, even as the surface of the sea slammed into them with strength enough to steal their breath. Fingers dug into clothing, bruised skin without apology or remorse, all in the name of one not losing the other.
But a wave came, stronger than the others, stronger than the twins, and tore them apart.
“Ianto!”
Ianto fought against the force of the surf, arms and legs pulling and kicking to carry him over the wave and back toward the sister it swept away from him. The ship rolled and dipped under the storm’s fury, dragged further from them with every rise of the wave. “I’m coming, Gwen,” he cried into the dark, eyes straining for the smallest glimpse of her in every flash of lightning. “Yell again so that I can find you!”
No answer came.
“Gwen!”
In the distance, Ianto could see the boat failing, could barely hear the cries of the panicked crew and the creaks of wood preparing to snap. He could hear the relentless drumming of the waves, punctuated by the crash of thunder overhead. But he did not hear his sister.
“Gwen!!”
Ianto woke with a start, the taste of saltwater and ozone still in his mouth and wadded sheets clutched desperately in both hands. His skin was slick with sweat and he could feel the blood rushing hotly through his veins; pounding in his ears. The room around him was lit with the dim glow of approaching dawn outside his window. The air was thick with the ghosts that had chased him awake. He sank back into the soft mattress beneath him, an arm brought up to shield his eyes. They were wet with tears, as he knew they would be. As they always were.
The door to his room opened slowly, the light of a single candle spreading out from the hall in a warm arc. A lone figure, wrapped tight in a dressing gown, peered in through the opening.
“Nightmares again,” a softly feminine voice said.
“I’m sorry, Martha.” Ianto reached for the duvet and pulled it over his head with a groan. He wished, as he often did, that he could simply sink into the mattress and disappear, or that the single sheet could somehow render him and his humiliation invisible. The mattress dipped and a hand reached for the sheet, pulling it down enough to reveal his face with one firm tug. The woman hovering at his bedside had smooth dark skin and warm eyes, though they and her lips had a stern set to them as she watched him. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“Enough of those apologies, Ianto Jones. I’ve told you before, there’s no reason for them.” Once the words were out of her mouth, the harsher lines slipped from her features. The hand not keeping the candle aloft brushed damp hair back from his forehead.
“You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in well on three months. If anything deserves an apology, that should.”
She sighed. “It’s hardly your fault your dreams are tormented so.”
“Guilty conscience,” Ianto said, sitting up against the pillows. “Only the innocent sleep soundly.”
“The only one judging you guilty is yourself, sweet.” Martha set the candle on the small table beside Ianto’s bed and folded both her hands in her lap. “God knows well your shoulders are not due that weight.”
“If not for me, she would not have been on that ship.”
“You forced her, then?”
“No, she chose to come herself.”
“Because you persuaded her against her best interests?”
Ianto scoffed. “She was not so easily led.”
Martha paused, brow furrowed in thought. “But you chose a ship you knew was destined to sink, of course.”
Ianto shook his head and sat up straighter, adjusting the sheet as he did so. “The fool’s part doesn’t suit you, Martha,” he said.
“It doesn’t suit you either, so stop donning the jester’s cap and lining it with thorns.” Martha reached for the sheet-covered bump that most likely belonged to Ianto’s knee and squeezed it. “You keep forgetting: there is every chance she was as lucky as you were.”
“Survived on luck and a handy bit of driftwood?”
“Rescued by a kind, benevolent, beautiful soul that took pity on her bedraggled state, despite their best judgment.”
Ianto leaned forward and, with a warm hand, cupped Martha’s cheek. “I agree with all but the bedraggled state. My sense of order cannot accept that it was true.” Then, feeling none of the awkwardness he might have before, he pressed an affectionate kiss to her brow. “Thank you, if it has not been said enough.”
“It has, so let’s hear none of it again.” Giving the knee beneath her hand a pat, Martha stood. After primly smoothing out the creases in her dressing gown, she said “Now, up and dressed, you. Your Lord and Master will beckon soon enough.” Ianto groaned and sunk back onto the bed, pulling the sheet once again over his head.
“It’s too early and I haven’t yet the strength for my Lord and Master or his beckons,” he grumbled from beneath the duvet.
“Dig deep and find it then, Master Jones,” she said, grabbing the edge of the sheet and tugging with all her surprisingly abundant strength. Ianto yelped and made a grab for the lone sheet as it began to pull away, but he wasn’t fast enough. Martha blushed faintly as he was left there in his nightclothes and turned for the door. “A new day dawns and you must rise to meet it.”
“I’ll rise, but I refuse to shine,” Ianto muttered as he lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling. A new day of my Master’s torment, he thought, watching the sunlight slowly begin to creep across the shadowed stone. He tried not to dwell on why the thought made him smile.
**
From the exterior, Torchwood Castle had the appearance of an installation awaiting the next attempt at siege more than the home of a nobleman. Boxy and bleak, its plain stone walls stretched ominously skyward, in defiance of the elements and, perhaps, God himself. The last Duke of Cardiff, several years before, had lived under constant, irrational fear of invasion, so much so that he had, despite his wife’s frantic objections, demolished the ancestral castle and had it replaced with the current, impregnable keep. When the Duchess went suddenly, shockingly mad two years later, some assumed it was merely a long history of insanity finally come to a drastic crescendo. Others wondered if two years living like a criminal inside her husband’s custom-built prison hadn’t driven her that way. Most, though, agreed that her passing three months later was a blessing.
As barren and bleak as the outside was, the interior of the castle was opulent, warm, in décor even if not in temperature. The most had been made of the scattered windows the Duke had included in the design so as to attempt to draw in as much natural light as could be drawn. Where sunlight could not reach, plentiful torches and candles were put instead, casting their pleasant light over the smooth stone. Mirrors, polished daily to a high sheen, bounced light from one corner to another to spread the illumination further. Rich, ornate tapestries depicting battles and victories - and a few that depicted things that made the women amongst the staff blush - brought color and insulation to the bare gray walls.
The most richly appointed of the rooms was the main hall. Situated in the center of the structure and as square and regimental as every other part of the castle, its walls were strewn with earthy fabric and a large fur rug - bear and, according to the current Duke, brought down with his bare hands if you believed his story - covered the floor in front of the large fireplace. A substantial chair sat at the head of the room, wide enough for its owner and at least one other person to sit, comfortably, or sprawl, as its owner often preferred. The tables, when needed, were heavy wood and polished to a rich, dark shine.
It served any number of purposes, defined by the time of day and mood of the Duke. At mealtimes it was a dining room; when threatened, it was a war room. In the evenings, after supper was cleared and if the Duke was in high spirits, it became little more than a well-dressed tavern filled with the Duke’s lewd or impossible stories and boisterous laughter. Sometimes, the tavern didn’t wait until evening to open.
That morning, it was a music room. A pair of favored musicians - two sweet, comely young men from the village renowned for their skills in the bedroom as much as for their musical talent - took up a bench to the side of the collection of bodies scattered around the room. The singer, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a dimpled chin stood in the center of the room, eyes shut and his face overtaken by the song’s rapture. His voice was a rich baritone that blended sweetly with the flute’s lilting melodies and the harp’s rhythmic accompaniment. It settled about the room like late afternoon sunshine, warm and bright.
When the song ended, the collection of knights and valets and serving girls pulled from their duties by the serenade clapped enthusiastically. The singer gave a dramatic bow; his unruly hair almost dusted the floor, he bent so low. As he straightened, his eyes opened and took his audience in. Those eyes were a deep, devastatingly melancholy blue.
This was the Duke of Cardiff.
His father had named him simply Jack, as common a name as any nobleman had ever been given, in part because he wanted to raise his son without pretention. There would be no Ernst’s or Edward’s or Leopold’s in the Harkness line, he’d said, and made sure it stayed true, at least for his son’s generation.
“Beautiful as lark’s song as always,” said a visiting knight, near enough that he could lay a compelling hand on Jack’s shoulder and give it a firm squeeze. “Shall we have another?”
“Oh yes, another!” A bright-eyed serving girl, a hint of swoon in her eyes, clutched the pitcher she held tight to her chest. “Please, Sir Jack, can’t we have another?”
The Duke shook his head as he retrieved a goblet from the hearth above the fire.
“No,” he said after draining the glass in one long gulp. “My muse is too ill fed for more. She grows thin without fit inspiration to feast upon.”
“But surely, sire, if music be the food of love-“
“Then my muse is a glutton and Count John must be near starved to death!” Jack tossed his empty cup to the starry-eyed girl and fell back into the large chair at the head of the room. His legs settled over the left arm, his elbow bracing his weight against the right. “If only he would listen, he would know I have enough to nourish his heart and my own.”
“He grieves still for his sister, my Lord,” came a throaty reply from the direction of the door. A young woman stood in the entrance, a tray balanced expertly in her hands. Silver mugs and an equally silver kettle sat pristinely on the tray and didn’t shake in the slightest as she crossed the floor. She was dressed in the same simple black gown the others of the household staff wore and looked both at home and yet oddly out of place in it. “It is hard to worry about what will feed your heart when it is broken in two and the other half is still and silent in the grave.”
Jack smiled, a move that softened his face but did little to banish the darkness from his eyes. “Ah, sweet Viola. Come to dispense coffee and wisdom to those unfamiliar with both.”
The girl, Viola, curtsied when she stood before the Duke’s chair. “I dispense only what my Lord desires,” she said, her smile shy and her eyes turned down respectfully. Jack reached out a hand to cup the girl’s chin, nudging her eyes up level with his own. Some of the darkness, but not all, was replaced by a wicked mischief.
“Only what I desire? Well, if that’s what is being dispensed, I’ve a thing or two to add to the daily order.”
Viola blushed, a deep crimson staining her cheeks and forehead. “Those are desires you should keep a tight rein on, my Lord, if you wish to eventually sway the Count and convince him of your intentions.”
Jack smiled, soft and sad, and let his hand drop. Viola gave another curtsy and filled the Duke’s cup from the steaming kettle, her steady hands from before shaking just enough to leave waves in the cup. She did the same with the remainder of the mugs, disseminating them among the guests.
“Is there anything else, my lord?” she asked when the last cup was filled and handed off. Jack paused in the savoring of his own mug to wave her off and she bowed again, slipping out as quickly as she’d arrived.
Just beyond the door, shielded from the gathering by thick rock and sturdy wood, Viola leaned against the wall and took a shuddering breath. After a second’s deep breathing and time enough to be sure her limbs were steady, she shoved off the wall and quickly made her way to a small room off the main hall she knew excess silver was kept in and ducked inside. Setting the tray and kettle on a shelf near the door, she fell back against the solid wood and slowly slid down until she sat on the cold floor. As she slid, a hand combed through her hair, removing the carefully tended wig.
Ianto’s head slumped back against the thick door, jarring without the extra cushion of the wig between his skull and the wood. “Bugger me backwards,” he said, thumping his head against the door one last time for emphasis.
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
**
Ianto kept himself busy the rest of the day. Even in a castle as relatively small as Torchwood, there was always something that needed doing. He helped prepare the midday meal in the small kitchen, tidied the Great Hall when the Duke and his guests had moved on for the day’s activities, and offered Martha, who was head of the household staff, help in making plans for a dinner the castle was hosting for the winter holiday. It was easy to lose himself in the little details, whether the details were how many potatoes to dice to feed the motley crew that went in and out of the castle every day or the latest scuffs that needed polishing out of the silver or which noble couldn’t sit within ten feet of which other noble without potential war being declared over the roast. Was easy to forget, while buried in the minutiae that his temperature had been sent through the roof by another man’s touch.
While he was wearing a dress, no less, which was a whole other issue that he would address at a much later date, possibly on his death bed while bargaining with Saint Peter for absolution.
His favorite thing, by far, was sneaking down to the castle’s small catacombs to help Alex, the resident scholar, make sense of the former Duke’s papers. “Franklin, God rest his soul, never understood that shifting things from one pile to another did not constitute organization,” Alex had told Ianto the first day he’d wandered down the half-hidden stairwell. While Alex had been surprised that a woman had been taught to read and write as well as “Viola” had been, he welcomed the help.
Martha found Ianto buried in a pile of old maps of the duchy, trying to place them in chronological order.
“Did you know the duchy hasn’t grown an inch since Jack became Duke?” Ianto asked as Martha wound her way through stacks and tables. “Or shrunk either, it should be said. Has he no ambition?”
“He sees no use in expanding borders just for the sake of saying he can,” she said, sidestepping a particularly precarious pile Alex had been working on before nipping out for a rare breath of fresh air. “He would defend every boundary and border that exists with his very life, surely, but doesn’t need to push them further.” She stopped behind Ianto, peeking over his shoulder. “Is it so wrong, simply being happy with what you have?”
“Not at all. I simply find the attitude fascinating. Others of his station are not as easily appeased.”
“Our Jack, as I’m sure you have discovered, is quite rare.” Martha leaned her hip against the edge of the table Ianto worked from, arms crossed over her chest. “He’s asked for you.”
Ianto sputtered and nearly choked on his tongue. “He what?”
“As I was boring him with the latest seating arrangement.” She stretched up, trying to seem taller than her petite height as she squared her shoulders in a very Jack pose. “‘Where is our sweet Viola?’ he asked me, feigning no interest at all. ‘Off completing her daily tasks, m’lord,’ I told him. ‘Fetch her for me, I’ve need of her.’ Again, pretending it was as unimportant as the color of the grass outside his window.”
“What possibly for?” Martha’s eyebrows waggled suggestively and Ianto nearly swallowed his tongue again and turned near as red as he had that morning. “Certainly not!”
“Oh, of course. Why ever would he have such lecherous thoughts about as comely a thing as you.”
Ianto sighed and dropped his head to the table, not bothering to soften the blow at all. “I only took to the dress and wig so that I might avoid his interest! I may run the bastard through who told me the Duke had interest in only in men. He has led me too astray!”
“Calm yourself, Ianto.” Martha squeezed his shoulder warmly. “He may have need of you for something entirely banal. There’s no reason to assume it must be more.”
“You’re right, of course. Little reason to work myself up so.”
“Indeed.”
“He may only wish to discuss the coffee, or the library. Or the music for the party.”
“Indeed again. It may be just that simple.”
Ianto rose, pushing back his chair and setting the stack of unsorted maps to the side with infinite care. He squared his shoulders and smoothed a crease from the skirt of his dress and tried to acquaint the assurances of Martha’s words with his mood and translate that to a confident stride and set of his lips, an expression only twice removed from a smile. But it only lasted until Martha’s next words.
“And if he expects anything more, just make sure your wig remains on straight.”
Ianto resisted the urge to grab the nearest stack of ale invoices and dump them over Martha’s head. He shook a fist at her instead and headed out the vault’s door and up to his doom.
He found Jack in the Great Hall, sprawled as was his custom over the large chair by the fireplace. The Duke’s booted feet swung from their spot draped over the far arm and Ianto resisted the urge to swat his feet down and scold him about shoes being anywhere near furniture. Instead, he curtsied just inside the door and said, “I was summoned, sir?” in Viola’s carefully pitched voice.
“Ah, Viola. Come in, come in.” Jack swung his legs over the arm and pushed himself to his feet. His whole body was overcome with a twitchy sort of vibrancy that both amused and frightened Ianto. “Martha found you, I see.”
“Aye, sir, in the vault. Sir Alex had me in the maps - had me working in the maps,” he amended, trying to head off the wicked glint in Jack’s eyes. He failed. “By the time we’re done you will have the most organized vault in the known world.”
“Perhaps then someone will tell me why I’m in need of the most organized vault - whether it be in the known world or the unknown one.”
“Convenience and expediency, my lord.” Ianto nodded and gave a slight curtsy. “And pride, if one has use of such a thing.”
“All men have use of pride, sweet Viola. Have you not yet learned that plain fact?” Jack turned, took two steps toward the chair, and stopped. After a breath’s pause, he said, “Viola. Not the most Welsh of names.”
“No, sir, quite not. But my father was a traveler by spirit, if only a tailor by trade. It’s how he came to have his first cup of coffee in a tavern in the east - and came to fall in love with a woman of Verona.” Ianto paused, attention drawn to the cold fireplace and its empty hearth. “Our mother was Italian.”
“Our?” Jack prompted.
“I…had a sister. As dear to me flowers are to Spring.” He sighed and turned away from the Duke. “And as short-lived.”
He didn’t hear Jack move, but there was suddenly a hand on his shoulder, warm and steadying. “I’m sorry. How did she…”
“The sea. I hear at least that it is a pleasant death, drowning. Without pain.” Ianto quickly wiped at his eyes, shocked and horrified to find himself crying. I’ve played the woman’s part too long, he thought. Much longer and I may become one entirely. He pulled away from Jack’s hand and turned, a smile plastered well over his lips. “It’s no matter. I doubt you called me here to discuss my misfortunes.”
“I find great hope in your misfortunes.” At Ianto’s confused expression, Jack chuckled. “In the way you handle those misfortunes. Others would let the grief consume them, lock them away without the comfort or solace of the world and what I has to offer. You have not.”
“It’s tempting, my lord.” Ianto gave a little shrug. “Every day, I’m presented with the choice to either lie in bed and weep, risking drowning myself in my own tears, or to get out of bed, turn my face to the sun, and carry on. So far, I carry on.”
Jack appeared honestly interested. “How did you come to those two choices?”
Ianto thought of Martha, just that morning, and smiled. “A very good friend who would not let me wallow or lock myself away in an early tomb.”
“You are lucky then to have such a friend.” Something suddenly lit up in Jack’s eyes, a spark of life Ianto had come to recognize as a warning. The grin that followed only furthered Ianto’s feeling of doom.
“I mean no disrespect, sir, but that grin of yours troubles me.”
“You know me well.”
“And I fear the trouble behind that expression is going to be mine.”
Jack reached a hand out, his knuckles soft against Ianto’s cheek. “No trouble, Viola, I promise you, beyond a little inconvenience.”
“Tell me of this inconvenience then so that I might prepare a rebuttal.” It took careful concentration and time to keep Ianto’s voice even and steady. That simple brush of a hand had an unnerving affect.
“You and the Count,” Jack said as his hand traveled further, a light touch against Ianto’s hair, “you suffer a common affliction. Perhaps if you shared a bit of the medicine that helps to lessen your symptoms, he could find his own way to a cure. And then find his way to me.”
“You…”Ianto’s voice caught, only partially due to the fear that the wig would slip and reveal his true nature. The Duke was too close - far too close for Ianto’s continued comfort. “You know as well as I any messenger from your Court will be turned away. It seems a fool’s errand, by my estimation. What will make my entreaties of a council any more successful than the others previous?”
“Your excessive stubbornness. In truth, I think you were gifted with double the helping of the rest of your countrywomen.”
Ianto frowned and hoped, for the sake of his ruse, that it at least resembled a pout. “I don’t know if I should thank you for the kind words or take offense at the insult, sir.”
“Thank me, of course.” Jack paused and let his hand drop from Ianto’s hair, only to acquaint itself instead with the back of his neck. Ianto gulped, which only added fuel to Jack’s wicked grin. He leaned forward, voice a rich whisper against Ianto’s ear. “Have I ever told you how enflaming that simple word is, rolling off your tongue?”
Ianto’s mouth went suddenly dry and he was glad for the thickness of the dress’s skirts and petticoats and their ability to hide his body’s basest reaction. “Which word, my lord?”
“Sir. When you say it like that, with that hint of amusement and irritation and affection, I’m hard pressed to remember that I am a gentleman.” As if in emphasis of how hard pressed he was, Jack rocked his hips forward, pressing an unmistakable erection into Ianto’s hip. Ianto bit back a groan and stepped away, back turned to the Duke so that he might have a moment to regain a modicum of composure.
“I find it …difficult… to remember that you are a gentleman as well.” Ianto looked up toward the ceiling, sighing, as he came to a decision. “I will deliver your message. Attempt to deliver it, that is, though I make no more promise than any of the others have, or expect more success than any of the others had.”
Jack took two quick strides forward, reaching for Ianto’s hand and guiding it up gently so that he could press a kiss to his knuckles. “In you, sweet Viola, I have nothing but faith.” Without waiting for further comment, Jack released his soft grip on Ianto’s hand and strode from the hall, leaving Ianto alone in the silent room. When the Duke’s footsteps had faded entirely, Ianto made his way to the chair at the head of the room and sank bonelessly into it.
Martha found him there a minute later. She had her mouth open to ask a question when Ianto shook his head.
“Curse me as all kinds of fool,” he said, staring at a fixed point just over Martha’s shoulder and through the open door, “but there’s little to be done about it. I’ve grown far too fond of the Duke for anyone’s good.”
**
That night, on a dark stretch of beach along the bay, a small, two-person wooden craft came ashore. The boat looked rough and barely seaworthy, as if it had been bashed around by the waves for some time. A tall man, wearing the sun-faded uniform of a captain, pulled the boat through the shallower waters until it reached dry land. Inside the boat, slumped in exhausted sleep, was a woman, dark-haired and bedraggled, her clothing as rough and weather-beaten as the boat.
The man stood and stretched when he had the boat steady in its shallow trench and collapsed against the bow. The boat, barely capable of remaining in one piece, let alone upright, toppled under the sudden impact and spilled its occupant out onto the sand. She spluttered awake with a face full of grit.
“My apologies,” said the captain, though he smiled as he said the words. “After so long at sea I’ve forgotten my own strength.”
“Forgotten many things, chief amongst them manners,” the woman said as she righted herself and pushed wild hair back from her face. “How I managed so long without pushing you overboard I do not know, but so much patience must surely mark me for potential sainthood.”
“You kept me aboard because you would never find land on your own.” The captain looked over his shoulder, leering at the view of his passenger’s backside as she struggled to her feet. “And you find me dashing and irresistible and have unladylike designs on the more remarkable bits of my anatomy.”
The woman finally managed to stand and made use of her new upright position and questionable equilibrium to kick a strong line of sand at her rescuer. “I assure you, Captain Hart, that I have no such designs on any part of your anatomy.”
Hart’s eyebrows danced as he pulled off his jacket and left it to the side. “Your lips say no, but your eyes…”
“And I have my doubts that any such part of it deserves the term ‘remarkable’ applied to it.”
Hart shrugged and pulled off first one boot, then the other, dumping salt water and sand from each. “I did offer to provide proof of the claim, my dear Lady Gwendolyn, but you refused it repeatedly.”
“I grew up with a brother, Captain. The male anatomy ceased to entertain me years ago.”
“Which is only proof that your brother’s was unremarkable.”
Gwen rolled her eyes and walked away from the boat, putting a good two feet between it and herself before looking up and examining her surroundings. “Where are we?”
Hart raised his head and took in the coastline. “Home sweet home. My home sweet home.” When Gwen continued to stare at him expectantly, he shook his head. “The Duchy of Cardiff.” As if sensing his companion’s continued exhaustion - which wouldn’t have been hard to do simply looking at her, he said, “You’re safe, lady. No one will harm you here. Take rest awhile. We can explore further by daylight.”
“I would like to sleep a bit somewhere that doesn’t rock and sway with every passing wave,” Gwen said, drawing her eyes away from the dark landscape finally. She reached for and grabbed Hart’s wet jacket from where he’d left it, grinning at his look of pique. “Wake me at first light please, Captain.”
Hart muttered but said nothing loud enough for Gwen to hear him as she settled on a patch of grass near the boat, his jacket rolled up beneath her head. He leaned instead against the boat, arms wrapped around his knees and a wary eye cast at the shadowed land ahead.
“Yes, safe as houses you are, lady. If only I were as lucky.” He sighed and shook his head. “Was better off in the bloody ocean, I was.”
PART TWO
Author Name: Anonymous
Prompt: 051
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Tosh/Owen, Doctor/Gwen (I know, I know!)
Summary: Take Torchwood, throw it into a blender with Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, and put it on frappe. Serve slightly chilled.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood or Doctor Who and I certainly can’t claim any rights to Twelfth Night. Those all belong to RTD and Master Shakespeare, respectfully. I just decided to toss them together and see what happened. (Mmmm, Shakespeare and British Sci-fi: two great tastes that taste great together. Hey, RTD did it first…)
Warnings: To be on the safe side, vagueish spoilers for both seasons of Torchwood and the last two seasons of Doctor Who, just to cover my butt.
Word Count: 22,960 (yikes!)
Author's Notes: Dear Mr. Shakespeare: Please don’t roll over in your grave. It’s all meant in fun, honest it is.
Betas: M
Dramatis Personae
JACK, Duke of Cardiff
IANTO, a young man newly stranded in Cardiff
GWEN, sister to Ianto
MARTHA, gentlewoman attending on the Duke, friend to Ianto
CAPTAIN HART, a sea captain, “friend” to Gwen
JOHN, a rich count
TOSHIKO, gentlewoman attending on John
SIR OWEN HARPER, nephew of John
SAXON, steward to John
MICKEY, a clown, servant to John
ACT I
The pair stood at the ship’s railing watching the dark sea merge with the moonless sky. All but a skeleton crew of sailors and deckhands had secured themselves below, sleeping perhaps, or reading, or gambling the long hours of the night away. But the two at the rail were content to stand in silence, watching the black for signs of life in the empty darkness.
“You didn’t have to come, Gwen,” the young man said, still watching the dimensionless horizon. “Didn’t have to join me in exile. Father would gladly welcome your return with open arms.”
“He can have both of us or neither of us.” The girl, Gwen, turned so that her left arm rested on the rail and her body, slight though it was, faced her brother. “We’ve been a matched set since birth, Ianto, and will continue to be so until God calls us home, hopefully within seconds of each other, as I don’t think I could bear the world without you in it.”
Ianto, taller than Gwen but not much larger otherwise, turned enough to place a hand on his sister’s cool cheek. He knew as surely as he knew anything - everything - about his sister, that the moisture beneath her eyes was not spray from the rolling sea below. “Nor could I bear it either, sister-mine.” He leaned to press a quick and reassuring kiss to her brow before resuming his sag against the slippery rail. “And yet I’d still rather see you home and happy with your Rhys than banished from familiar shores with me.”
“He was given the choice to accompany me. The lure of his family’s purse was more appealing than I was.” Gwen sighed, her weight sinking into the sturdy wood surrounding the deck. “Better to discover that now instead of after vows had bound us. Besides, there is more adventure ahead than I ever would’ve found as someone’s wife.”
“Be careful not to let the experience leave you bitter, sister.” Ianto draped an arm, affectionate and comforting, over his sister’s shoulder and pulled her close into his side. “You may yet meet your match, though I pity the poor soul who becomes ensnared by your wicked heart.”
“Oi!” Gwen thrust an elbow into Ianto’s ribs and raised a scolding finger. “No more wicked a heart than yours, and a learned student thereof, too. For God knows, yours has had two minutes longer in this world to perfect its wickedness.”
“That yours has yet kept up despite the deficit merely proves the evil prodigy you are.”
A loud crash of thunder suddenly boomed through the still night; a bolt of lightning followed, lighting the sky and the illuminating the deck. While they had sailed on in calm silence, a storm had been brewing overhead, clouds coiling inward like a vast snake and poised to strike. The sizzle of ozone had barely subsided when a wind that seemed to come from nowhere rushed across the sea, churning the waves and tossing the boat wildly across them.
Ianto grabbed hold of Gwen, securing her to him by both arms and the two of them to the boat by a frantic grip of the rail. He considered leading them both across the deck to the stairs below, but even as he thought it, he saw two of the crewmen knocked from their feet and sent into the sea by the frantic rocking.
“Hold fast!” he shouted, voice raised to be heard over the roar of the storm and the enraged sea. Gwen wrapped both arms as tight as you could around her brother and gripped the back of his shirt in a desperate grip. “Quick as it struck, it will blow itself out just as quickly. Have faith!”
“In you, always! In the consistency of the weather, never!”
Just then, as the twins clung to each other and the rail and the hope the storm would rage itself to nothing, a storm-tossed wave swept over the deck, pummeling them without warning. The wave had strength enough to rip both from the deck and toss them into the bottomless black just over the rail. They held to each other as they fell, even as the surface of the sea slammed into them with strength enough to steal their breath. Fingers dug into clothing, bruised skin without apology or remorse, all in the name of one not losing the other.
But a wave came, stronger than the others, stronger than the twins, and tore them apart.
“Ianto!”
Ianto fought against the force of the surf, arms and legs pulling and kicking to carry him over the wave and back toward the sister it swept away from him. The ship rolled and dipped under the storm’s fury, dragged further from them with every rise of the wave. “I’m coming, Gwen,” he cried into the dark, eyes straining for the smallest glimpse of her in every flash of lightning. “Yell again so that I can find you!”
No answer came.
“Gwen!”
In the distance, Ianto could see the boat failing, could barely hear the cries of the panicked crew and the creaks of wood preparing to snap. He could hear the relentless drumming of the waves, punctuated by the crash of thunder overhead. But he did not hear his sister.
“Gwen!!”
Ianto woke with a start, the taste of saltwater and ozone still in his mouth and wadded sheets clutched desperately in both hands. His skin was slick with sweat and he could feel the blood rushing hotly through his veins; pounding in his ears. The room around him was lit with the dim glow of approaching dawn outside his window. The air was thick with the ghosts that had chased him awake. He sank back into the soft mattress beneath him, an arm brought up to shield his eyes. They were wet with tears, as he knew they would be. As they always were.
The door to his room opened slowly, the light of a single candle spreading out from the hall in a warm arc. A lone figure, wrapped tight in a dressing gown, peered in through the opening.
“Nightmares again,” a softly feminine voice said.
“I’m sorry, Martha.” Ianto reached for the duvet and pulled it over his head with a groan. He wished, as he often did, that he could simply sink into the mattress and disappear, or that the single sheet could somehow render him and his humiliation invisible. The mattress dipped and a hand reached for the sheet, pulling it down enough to reveal his face with one firm tug. The woman hovering at his bedside had smooth dark skin and warm eyes, though they and her lips had a stern set to them as she watched him. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“Enough of those apologies, Ianto Jones. I’ve told you before, there’s no reason for them.” Once the words were out of her mouth, the harsher lines slipped from her features. The hand not keeping the candle aloft brushed damp hair back from his forehead.
“You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in well on three months. If anything deserves an apology, that should.”
She sighed. “It’s hardly your fault your dreams are tormented so.”
“Guilty conscience,” Ianto said, sitting up against the pillows. “Only the innocent sleep soundly.”
“The only one judging you guilty is yourself, sweet.” Martha set the candle on the small table beside Ianto’s bed and folded both her hands in her lap. “God knows well your shoulders are not due that weight.”
“If not for me, she would not have been on that ship.”
“You forced her, then?”
“No, she chose to come herself.”
“Because you persuaded her against her best interests?”
Ianto scoffed. “She was not so easily led.”
Martha paused, brow furrowed in thought. “But you chose a ship you knew was destined to sink, of course.”
Ianto shook his head and sat up straighter, adjusting the sheet as he did so. “The fool’s part doesn’t suit you, Martha,” he said.
“It doesn’t suit you either, so stop donning the jester’s cap and lining it with thorns.” Martha reached for the sheet-covered bump that most likely belonged to Ianto’s knee and squeezed it. “You keep forgetting: there is every chance she was as lucky as you were.”
“Survived on luck and a handy bit of driftwood?”
“Rescued by a kind, benevolent, beautiful soul that took pity on her bedraggled state, despite their best judgment.”
Ianto leaned forward and, with a warm hand, cupped Martha’s cheek. “I agree with all but the bedraggled state. My sense of order cannot accept that it was true.” Then, feeling none of the awkwardness he might have before, he pressed an affectionate kiss to her brow. “Thank you, if it has not been said enough.”
“It has, so let’s hear none of it again.” Giving the knee beneath her hand a pat, Martha stood. After primly smoothing out the creases in her dressing gown, she said “Now, up and dressed, you. Your Lord and Master will beckon soon enough.” Ianto groaned and sunk back onto the bed, pulling the sheet once again over his head.
“It’s too early and I haven’t yet the strength for my Lord and Master or his beckons,” he grumbled from beneath the duvet.
“Dig deep and find it then, Master Jones,” she said, grabbing the edge of the sheet and tugging with all her surprisingly abundant strength. Ianto yelped and made a grab for the lone sheet as it began to pull away, but he wasn’t fast enough. Martha blushed faintly as he was left there in his nightclothes and turned for the door. “A new day dawns and you must rise to meet it.”
“I’ll rise, but I refuse to shine,” Ianto muttered as he lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling. A new day of my Master’s torment, he thought, watching the sunlight slowly begin to creep across the shadowed stone. He tried not to dwell on why the thought made him smile.
**
From the exterior, Torchwood Castle had the appearance of an installation awaiting the next attempt at siege more than the home of a nobleman. Boxy and bleak, its plain stone walls stretched ominously skyward, in defiance of the elements and, perhaps, God himself. The last Duke of Cardiff, several years before, had lived under constant, irrational fear of invasion, so much so that he had, despite his wife’s frantic objections, demolished the ancestral castle and had it replaced with the current, impregnable keep. When the Duchess went suddenly, shockingly mad two years later, some assumed it was merely a long history of insanity finally come to a drastic crescendo. Others wondered if two years living like a criminal inside her husband’s custom-built prison hadn’t driven her that way. Most, though, agreed that her passing three months later was a blessing.
As barren and bleak as the outside was, the interior of the castle was opulent, warm, in décor even if not in temperature. The most had been made of the scattered windows the Duke had included in the design so as to attempt to draw in as much natural light as could be drawn. Where sunlight could not reach, plentiful torches and candles were put instead, casting their pleasant light over the smooth stone. Mirrors, polished daily to a high sheen, bounced light from one corner to another to spread the illumination further. Rich, ornate tapestries depicting battles and victories - and a few that depicted things that made the women amongst the staff blush - brought color and insulation to the bare gray walls.
The most richly appointed of the rooms was the main hall. Situated in the center of the structure and as square and regimental as every other part of the castle, its walls were strewn with earthy fabric and a large fur rug - bear and, according to the current Duke, brought down with his bare hands if you believed his story - covered the floor in front of the large fireplace. A substantial chair sat at the head of the room, wide enough for its owner and at least one other person to sit, comfortably, or sprawl, as its owner often preferred. The tables, when needed, were heavy wood and polished to a rich, dark shine.
It served any number of purposes, defined by the time of day and mood of the Duke. At mealtimes it was a dining room; when threatened, it was a war room. In the evenings, after supper was cleared and if the Duke was in high spirits, it became little more than a well-dressed tavern filled with the Duke’s lewd or impossible stories and boisterous laughter. Sometimes, the tavern didn’t wait until evening to open.
That morning, it was a music room. A pair of favored musicians - two sweet, comely young men from the village renowned for their skills in the bedroom as much as for their musical talent - took up a bench to the side of the collection of bodies scattered around the room. The singer, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a dimpled chin stood in the center of the room, eyes shut and his face overtaken by the song’s rapture. His voice was a rich baritone that blended sweetly with the flute’s lilting melodies and the harp’s rhythmic accompaniment. It settled about the room like late afternoon sunshine, warm and bright.
When the song ended, the collection of knights and valets and serving girls pulled from their duties by the serenade clapped enthusiastically. The singer gave a dramatic bow; his unruly hair almost dusted the floor, he bent so low. As he straightened, his eyes opened and took his audience in. Those eyes were a deep, devastatingly melancholy blue.
This was the Duke of Cardiff.
His father had named him simply Jack, as common a name as any nobleman had ever been given, in part because he wanted to raise his son without pretention. There would be no Ernst’s or Edward’s or Leopold’s in the Harkness line, he’d said, and made sure it stayed true, at least for his son’s generation.
“Beautiful as lark’s song as always,” said a visiting knight, near enough that he could lay a compelling hand on Jack’s shoulder and give it a firm squeeze. “Shall we have another?”
“Oh yes, another!” A bright-eyed serving girl, a hint of swoon in her eyes, clutched the pitcher she held tight to her chest. “Please, Sir Jack, can’t we have another?”
The Duke shook his head as he retrieved a goblet from the hearth above the fire.
“No,” he said after draining the glass in one long gulp. “My muse is too ill fed for more. She grows thin without fit inspiration to feast upon.”
“But surely, sire, if music be the food of love-“
“Then my muse is a glutton and Count John must be near starved to death!” Jack tossed his empty cup to the starry-eyed girl and fell back into the large chair at the head of the room. His legs settled over the left arm, his elbow bracing his weight against the right. “If only he would listen, he would know I have enough to nourish his heart and my own.”
“He grieves still for his sister, my Lord,” came a throaty reply from the direction of the door. A young woman stood in the entrance, a tray balanced expertly in her hands. Silver mugs and an equally silver kettle sat pristinely on the tray and didn’t shake in the slightest as she crossed the floor. She was dressed in the same simple black gown the others of the household staff wore and looked both at home and yet oddly out of place in it. “It is hard to worry about what will feed your heart when it is broken in two and the other half is still and silent in the grave.”
Jack smiled, a move that softened his face but did little to banish the darkness from his eyes. “Ah, sweet Viola. Come to dispense coffee and wisdom to those unfamiliar with both.”
The girl, Viola, curtsied when she stood before the Duke’s chair. “I dispense only what my Lord desires,” she said, her smile shy and her eyes turned down respectfully. Jack reached out a hand to cup the girl’s chin, nudging her eyes up level with his own. Some of the darkness, but not all, was replaced by a wicked mischief.
“Only what I desire? Well, if that’s what is being dispensed, I’ve a thing or two to add to the daily order.”
Viola blushed, a deep crimson staining her cheeks and forehead. “Those are desires you should keep a tight rein on, my Lord, if you wish to eventually sway the Count and convince him of your intentions.”
Jack smiled, soft and sad, and let his hand drop. Viola gave another curtsy and filled the Duke’s cup from the steaming kettle, her steady hands from before shaking just enough to leave waves in the cup. She did the same with the remainder of the mugs, disseminating them among the guests.
“Is there anything else, my lord?” she asked when the last cup was filled and handed off. Jack paused in the savoring of his own mug to wave her off and she bowed again, slipping out as quickly as she’d arrived.
Just beyond the door, shielded from the gathering by thick rock and sturdy wood, Viola leaned against the wall and took a shuddering breath. After a second’s deep breathing and time enough to be sure her limbs were steady, she shoved off the wall and quickly made her way to a small room off the main hall she knew excess silver was kept in and ducked inside. Setting the tray and kettle on a shelf near the door, she fell back against the solid wood and slowly slid down until she sat on the cold floor. As she slid, a hand combed through her hair, removing the carefully tended wig.
Ianto’s head slumped back against the thick door, jarring without the extra cushion of the wig between his skull and the wood. “Bugger me backwards,” he said, thumping his head against the door one last time for emphasis.
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
**
Ianto kept himself busy the rest of the day. Even in a castle as relatively small as Torchwood, there was always something that needed doing. He helped prepare the midday meal in the small kitchen, tidied the Great Hall when the Duke and his guests had moved on for the day’s activities, and offered Martha, who was head of the household staff, help in making plans for a dinner the castle was hosting for the winter holiday. It was easy to lose himself in the little details, whether the details were how many potatoes to dice to feed the motley crew that went in and out of the castle every day or the latest scuffs that needed polishing out of the silver or which noble couldn’t sit within ten feet of which other noble without potential war being declared over the roast. Was easy to forget, while buried in the minutiae that his temperature had been sent through the roof by another man’s touch.
While he was wearing a dress, no less, which was a whole other issue that he would address at a much later date, possibly on his death bed while bargaining with Saint Peter for absolution.
His favorite thing, by far, was sneaking down to the castle’s small catacombs to help Alex, the resident scholar, make sense of the former Duke’s papers. “Franklin, God rest his soul, never understood that shifting things from one pile to another did not constitute organization,” Alex had told Ianto the first day he’d wandered down the half-hidden stairwell. While Alex had been surprised that a woman had been taught to read and write as well as “Viola” had been, he welcomed the help.
Martha found Ianto buried in a pile of old maps of the duchy, trying to place them in chronological order.
“Did you know the duchy hasn’t grown an inch since Jack became Duke?” Ianto asked as Martha wound her way through stacks and tables. “Or shrunk either, it should be said. Has he no ambition?”
“He sees no use in expanding borders just for the sake of saying he can,” she said, sidestepping a particularly precarious pile Alex had been working on before nipping out for a rare breath of fresh air. “He would defend every boundary and border that exists with his very life, surely, but doesn’t need to push them further.” She stopped behind Ianto, peeking over his shoulder. “Is it so wrong, simply being happy with what you have?”
“Not at all. I simply find the attitude fascinating. Others of his station are not as easily appeased.”
“Our Jack, as I’m sure you have discovered, is quite rare.” Martha leaned her hip against the edge of the table Ianto worked from, arms crossed over her chest. “He’s asked for you.”
Ianto sputtered and nearly choked on his tongue. “He what?”
“As I was boring him with the latest seating arrangement.” She stretched up, trying to seem taller than her petite height as she squared her shoulders in a very Jack pose. “‘Where is our sweet Viola?’ he asked me, feigning no interest at all. ‘Off completing her daily tasks, m’lord,’ I told him. ‘Fetch her for me, I’ve need of her.’ Again, pretending it was as unimportant as the color of the grass outside his window.”
“What possibly for?” Martha’s eyebrows waggled suggestively and Ianto nearly swallowed his tongue again and turned near as red as he had that morning. “Certainly not!”
“Oh, of course. Why ever would he have such lecherous thoughts about as comely a thing as you.”
Ianto sighed and dropped his head to the table, not bothering to soften the blow at all. “I only took to the dress and wig so that I might avoid his interest! I may run the bastard through who told me the Duke had interest in only in men. He has led me too astray!”
“Calm yourself, Ianto.” Martha squeezed his shoulder warmly. “He may have need of you for something entirely banal. There’s no reason to assume it must be more.”
“You’re right, of course. Little reason to work myself up so.”
“Indeed.”
“He may only wish to discuss the coffee, or the library. Or the music for the party.”
“Indeed again. It may be just that simple.”
Ianto rose, pushing back his chair and setting the stack of unsorted maps to the side with infinite care. He squared his shoulders and smoothed a crease from the skirt of his dress and tried to acquaint the assurances of Martha’s words with his mood and translate that to a confident stride and set of his lips, an expression only twice removed from a smile. But it only lasted until Martha’s next words.
“And if he expects anything more, just make sure your wig remains on straight.”
Ianto resisted the urge to grab the nearest stack of ale invoices and dump them over Martha’s head. He shook a fist at her instead and headed out the vault’s door and up to his doom.
He found Jack in the Great Hall, sprawled as was his custom over the large chair by the fireplace. The Duke’s booted feet swung from their spot draped over the far arm and Ianto resisted the urge to swat his feet down and scold him about shoes being anywhere near furniture. Instead, he curtsied just inside the door and said, “I was summoned, sir?” in Viola’s carefully pitched voice.
“Ah, Viola. Come in, come in.” Jack swung his legs over the arm and pushed himself to his feet. His whole body was overcome with a twitchy sort of vibrancy that both amused and frightened Ianto. “Martha found you, I see.”
“Aye, sir, in the vault. Sir Alex had me in the maps - had me working in the maps,” he amended, trying to head off the wicked glint in Jack’s eyes. He failed. “By the time we’re done you will have the most organized vault in the known world.”
“Perhaps then someone will tell me why I’m in need of the most organized vault - whether it be in the known world or the unknown one.”
“Convenience and expediency, my lord.” Ianto nodded and gave a slight curtsy. “And pride, if one has use of such a thing.”
“All men have use of pride, sweet Viola. Have you not yet learned that plain fact?” Jack turned, took two steps toward the chair, and stopped. After a breath’s pause, he said, “Viola. Not the most Welsh of names.”
“No, sir, quite not. But my father was a traveler by spirit, if only a tailor by trade. It’s how he came to have his first cup of coffee in a tavern in the east - and came to fall in love with a woman of Verona.” Ianto paused, attention drawn to the cold fireplace and its empty hearth. “Our mother was Italian.”
“Our?” Jack prompted.
“I…had a sister. As dear to me flowers are to Spring.” He sighed and turned away from the Duke. “And as short-lived.”
He didn’t hear Jack move, but there was suddenly a hand on his shoulder, warm and steadying. “I’m sorry. How did she…”
“The sea. I hear at least that it is a pleasant death, drowning. Without pain.” Ianto quickly wiped at his eyes, shocked and horrified to find himself crying. I’ve played the woman’s part too long, he thought. Much longer and I may become one entirely. He pulled away from Jack’s hand and turned, a smile plastered well over his lips. “It’s no matter. I doubt you called me here to discuss my misfortunes.”
“I find great hope in your misfortunes.” At Ianto’s confused expression, Jack chuckled. “In the way you handle those misfortunes. Others would let the grief consume them, lock them away without the comfort or solace of the world and what I has to offer. You have not.”
“It’s tempting, my lord.” Ianto gave a little shrug. “Every day, I’m presented with the choice to either lie in bed and weep, risking drowning myself in my own tears, or to get out of bed, turn my face to the sun, and carry on. So far, I carry on.”
Jack appeared honestly interested. “How did you come to those two choices?”
Ianto thought of Martha, just that morning, and smiled. “A very good friend who would not let me wallow or lock myself away in an early tomb.”
“You are lucky then to have such a friend.” Something suddenly lit up in Jack’s eyes, a spark of life Ianto had come to recognize as a warning. The grin that followed only furthered Ianto’s feeling of doom.
“I mean no disrespect, sir, but that grin of yours troubles me.”
“You know me well.”
“And I fear the trouble behind that expression is going to be mine.”
Jack reached a hand out, his knuckles soft against Ianto’s cheek. “No trouble, Viola, I promise you, beyond a little inconvenience.”
“Tell me of this inconvenience then so that I might prepare a rebuttal.” It took careful concentration and time to keep Ianto’s voice even and steady. That simple brush of a hand had an unnerving affect.
“You and the Count,” Jack said as his hand traveled further, a light touch against Ianto’s hair, “you suffer a common affliction. Perhaps if you shared a bit of the medicine that helps to lessen your symptoms, he could find his own way to a cure. And then find his way to me.”
“You…”Ianto’s voice caught, only partially due to the fear that the wig would slip and reveal his true nature. The Duke was too close - far too close for Ianto’s continued comfort. “You know as well as I any messenger from your Court will be turned away. It seems a fool’s errand, by my estimation. What will make my entreaties of a council any more successful than the others previous?”
“Your excessive stubbornness. In truth, I think you were gifted with double the helping of the rest of your countrywomen.”
Ianto frowned and hoped, for the sake of his ruse, that it at least resembled a pout. “I don’t know if I should thank you for the kind words or take offense at the insult, sir.”
“Thank me, of course.” Jack paused and let his hand drop from Ianto’s hair, only to acquaint itself instead with the back of his neck. Ianto gulped, which only added fuel to Jack’s wicked grin. He leaned forward, voice a rich whisper against Ianto’s ear. “Have I ever told you how enflaming that simple word is, rolling off your tongue?”
Ianto’s mouth went suddenly dry and he was glad for the thickness of the dress’s skirts and petticoats and their ability to hide his body’s basest reaction. “Which word, my lord?”
“Sir. When you say it like that, with that hint of amusement and irritation and affection, I’m hard pressed to remember that I am a gentleman.” As if in emphasis of how hard pressed he was, Jack rocked his hips forward, pressing an unmistakable erection into Ianto’s hip. Ianto bit back a groan and stepped away, back turned to the Duke so that he might have a moment to regain a modicum of composure.
“I find it …difficult… to remember that you are a gentleman as well.” Ianto looked up toward the ceiling, sighing, as he came to a decision. “I will deliver your message. Attempt to deliver it, that is, though I make no more promise than any of the others have, or expect more success than any of the others had.”
Jack took two quick strides forward, reaching for Ianto’s hand and guiding it up gently so that he could press a kiss to his knuckles. “In you, sweet Viola, I have nothing but faith.” Without waiting for further comment, Jack released his soft grip on Ianto’s hand and strode from the hall, leaving Ianto alone in the silent room. When the Duke’s footsteps had faded entirely, Ianto made his way to the chair at the head of the room and sank bonelessly into it.
Martha found him there a minute later. She had her mouth open to ask a question when Ianto shook his head.
“Curse me as all kinds of fool,” he said, staring at a fixed point just over Martha’s shoulder and through the open door, “but there’s little to be done about it. I’ve grown far too fond of the Duke for anyone’s good.”
**
That night, on a dark stretch of beach along the bay, a small, two-person wooden craft came ashore. The boat looked rough and barely seaworthy, as if it had been bashed around by the waves for some time. A tall man, wearing the sun-faded uniform of a captain, pulled the boat through the shallower waters until it reached dry land. Inside the boat, slumped in exhausted sleep, was a woman, dark-haired and bedraggled, her clothing as rough and weather-beaten as the boat.
The man stood and stretched when he had the boat steady in its shallow trench and collapsed against the bow. The boat, barely capable of remaining in one piece, let alone upright, toppled under the sudden impact and spilled its occupant out onto the sand. She spluttered awake with a face full of grit.
“My apologies,” said the captain, though he smiled as he said the words. “After so long at sea I’ve forgotten my own strength.”
“Forgotten many things, chief amongst them manners,” the woman said as she righted herself and pushed wild hair back from her face. “How I managed so long without pushing you overboard I do not know, but so much patience must surely mark me for potential sainthood.”
“You kept me aboard because you would never find land on your own.” The captain looked over his shoulder, leering at the view of his passenger’s backside as she struggled to her feet. “And you find me dashing and irresistible and have unladylike designs on the more remarkable bits of my anatomy.”
The woman finally managed to stand and made use of her new upright position and questionable equilibrium to kick a strong line of sand at her rescuer. “I assure you, Captain Hart, that I have no such designs on any part of your anatomy.”
Hart’s eyebrows danced as he pulled off his jacket and left it to the side. “Your lips say no, but your eyes…”
“And I have my doubts that any such part of it deserves the term ‘remarkable’ applied to it.”
Hart shrugged and pulled off first one boot, then the other, dumping salt water and sand from each. “I did offer to provide proof of the claim, my dear Lady Gwendolyn, but you refused it repeatedly.”
“I grew up with a brother, Captain. The male anatomy ceased to entertain me years ago.”
“Which is only proof that your brother’s was unremarkable.”
Gwen rolled her eyes and walked away from the boat, putting a good two feet between it and herself before looking up and examining her surroundings. “Where are we?”
Hart raised his head and took in the coastline. “Home sweet home. My home sweet home.” When Gwen continued to stare at him expectantly, he shook his head. “The Duchy of Cardiff.” As if sensing his companion’s continued exhaustion - which wouldn’t have been hard to do simply looking at her, he said, “You’re safe, lady. No one will harm you here. Take rest awhile. We can explore further by daylight.”
“I would like to sleep a bit somewhere that doesn’t rock and sway with every passing wave,” Gwen said, drawing her eyes away from the dark landscape finally. She reached for and grabbed Hart’s wet jacket from where he’d left it, grinning at his look of pique. “Wake me at first light please, Captain.”
Hart muttered but said nothing loud enough for Gwen to hear him as she settled on a patch of grass near the boat, his jacket rolled up beneath her head. He leaned instead against the boat, arms wrapped around his knees and a wary eye cast at the shadowed land ahead.
“Yes, safe as houses you are, lady. If only I were as lucky.” He sighed and shook his head. “Was better off in the bloody ocean, I was.”
PART TWO