#Aumerle tries to do a nice thing for his boyfriend and it gets turned in to a form of punishment because Exton is Like That

[themalhambird]

Hello! For the word fic ask thing- either #35 or #100 (or both- whatever you're feeling). Can you tell I'm needing angst? >-

It’s pissing down with rain. Which means, because the Captainis a bastard and the sergeants just as bad, Tom- as the youngest- is the sod whohas to go take their prisoner for a walk, because no one who had a choice andwasn’t simple would ever choose to go out in weather like this and certainlynot on to battlements, which is where the warden insists that the prisoner bewalked each day. No way of escaping, off the battlements. No way of escapingfrom a dungeon deep below the earth, either, but the King’s orders are that hispredecessor be given daily exercise and air, so battlements it is. Tom stompshis way down to the cells, blesses his sister for sending him that thick woolcloak for the new year, but otherwise sets together a string of bitter cursesagainst whitebeards who get to lounge in front of the roaring fires whilemaking other people do all the hard work. His footsteps echo as he descends;the further down the stairs he gets the more clearly he can see his own breathin the torchlight. It’ll be miserable, he thinks, for Richard of Bordeaux to besoaked to the skin and then deposited back down here. Maybe he’ll get a cold and die, Tom thinks, and save us all the bother.

The cell door consists purely of iron bars. If it’s been anespecially boring shift, Robin likes to set the food down on the stairs-side ofthings, and make the old king try and reach through the bars for it. He’s gotlong arms, and pretty, slender fingers- he normally reaches. Whether he’s ableto drag it back towards himself without tipping it over on to the stones isanother matter, though he eats it all the same. The king of England, eatingscraps from off the floor like a dog. It’s funny to watch, though Tom never doesit himself. The Captain’s threatened to whip anyone he catches tormenting theircharge. Punishment’s one thing- torture’s another.The warden doesn’t mind it,but then- the warden wasn’t at Crechy with Richard’s da. Tom pauses to unlockthe door, fumbling with the keys a bit. His fingers are cold. He can seeRichard through the bars, huddling in the back right hand corner for warmth, rubbinghis arms as he shivers. Tom finally gets the door unlocked and pushes it open.It creaks on it’s hinges, and Richard flinches, but doesn’t look up. “Come on,”Tom says from the doorway. “Walk time.”

Richard’s shoulders tighten. He doesn’t move, except to raisehis head long enough to through Tom a look of utter contempt and draw furtherin on himself. Tom grits his teeth, anger flaring. So it’s like that today, isit, making life difficult for everyone- hisself included, just because for aprisoner he’s also a proud stubborn bastard who the warden hasn’t had strung upand whipped lately enough to keep him tame? Or maybe he’s just too cold to carewhat happens- well Tom doesn’t want to go outside either, but he’s got hisorders and Richard of Bordeaux can fucking well remember his place; Tom stridesacross the cell to him, grabs him by the front of his shift and hauls him upwards.He slams him against the wall and kicks the back of his left knee as hard as hecan manage. The knee slams in to the stone with an audible thud and a yelp. Tomflips him back around. Richard stares at the ground, head bowed, the model ofsorry obedience. His shift’s torn- His knee’s grazed- there are flecks of bloodwelling up. “Come on,” Tom says again. “Let’s get this over with.” He stepsback and gestures for the prisoner to go ahead- the man knows the way it goesby now. Richard goes ahead and Tom follows behind. At the top of the stairswill be the warden, waiting with the chains.

It takes a long time to get to the top of stairs. Partlybecause there’s a lot of stairs, partly because the prisoner’s limping. Tom chivviesand curses him- but only in his head. It’s his left leg the King’s favouring,and that’s partly Tom’s own doing. Not that he feels guilty, because he doesn’t,but still.

The Warden is not a particularly striking man, not at firstglance. He’s the stocky kind of thin and on the taller end of average height. Brownhair like anybody’s. But then you take a second glance- and a third, and afourth, and you can’t stop looking. There’s something about him that makes itimpossible to look away, to ignore him. Tom doesn’t know what it is. Though onthis particular occasion, Tom thinks it’s probably the way he’s dangling twopairs of manacles from his hand. “Tom, isn’t it? Short straw for you, I’mafraid- the weather is terrible. Bring him to me when you’re done, he’ll need achange of clothes.”

Tom nods, tries to pretend that being so close to the Wardendoesn’t make him swallow his own tongue from nerves, and manages to say, “Yes, SirPiers,” without stumbling. Sir Piers Exton turns to Richard, and clicks histongue.

“Hold these, your grace.” he says, handing Richard one setof the chains. Richard takes them wordlessly. Exton kneels down and fastens theother pair around Richard’s bare ankles. Tom doesn’t know why the Wardeninsists on being the only one who puts chains on the old king, or takes themoff again, though he thinks, perhaps, the humiliated blush on Richard’s cheekas Exton stands again, takes the chains from Richard and bids him turn around withhis hands behind his back might have something to do with it.

The rain’s pissing down.

It’s impossible to hurry: Richard can’t do much more than hobble.He’s soaked to the skin before they’ve gone three yards, shift clinging to him,long hair plastered across his face and shoulders and neck. Between theshackles, and his bare feet, and his leg, and the fact he’s bent over againstthe elements, it’s hard going. Tom keeps a firm grip of his arm- the last thingthey need’s him falling and hurting himself more. At length, they complete thecircuit, and Tom- anxious to get to his own dry clothes- enlists Wat’s help-since Wat was just lounging by the door instead of guarding it, the lazy sod-to carry him to the Warden’s office. Richard doesn’t struggle, which shows howmiserable he is- normally he at least attempts to kick when someone tried to grabhim by the legs. Tom knocks on the door, shoves Richard through it, and is gladto be dismissed instantly.

Richard stands before his gaoler, and tries to relax himselfenough that Exton will be unable to have the satisfaction of seeing him shiver,or hear his teeth chattering together. It’s a futile effort: he was coldbefore, now he’s freezing, and the sudden switch in temperature between hiscell and the battlements, and the Warden’s warm study is enough to make hisfingers and toes tingle in an unpleasant, burning sort of way. He’s grateful whenExton unchains him at once, and hates himself for being grateful. “Out of that,”Exton says, meaning the dripping, tattered shift, and Richard obeys at oncebecause the last time he hesitated when Exton told him to get undressed, thewarden had the clothes torn off him. Exton hands him a sheet and Richard wrapsit tightly around himself, once more pathetically grateful that he’s beenallowed a modicum of comfort. “Sit,” Exton tells him, and Richard sits on thestool opposite the warden’s desk, as the warden goes around to the other side,sits in the chair, and rests his elbows on the desk as he steeples his fingerstogether. “Your cousin has sent you some things,” he says, “ A nice, warm setof clothes, complete with a cloak; also a pair of boots.”

Richard fights to keep his face neutral, because grimacing, scowling,glaring, or otherwise looking unimpressed at the mention of Henry Bolingbroke’sname has a tendency to get him slapped. Not that he supposes he’ll ever see into a mirror again, but he would prefer to keep his face as undamaged aspossible, just in case…

“The king is very generous,” he says politely, because Extonseems to be waiting for him to say something.

“Yes he is,” Exton agrees, “But it wasn’t the king I wasreferring to.”

Richard’s heart skips a beat. The warmth from the fire blazingaway in the hearth  seems to have spreadinside his chest; for the first time in a long, long while Richard feels…happy?“Edward?” he whispers.

“The Duke of York, yes.”

“The Duke of-“ Abruptly, the warmth vanishes ,and Richardfeels his insides crumpling like paper discarded by a frustrated student. “MyUncle is dead?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, the Duke’s father died last year, didn’t youknow?”

“How could we possibly know, we were not informed!”

For the briefest of moments, Exton looks startled. Richardis himself startled by his sudden blaze of temper- a fire sprung up out ofnowhere from ashes they had both long thought were colder than death itself.But then, Richard has never handled losing people well, and there were athousand things he wanted to say to Edmund of Langley, and a thousand thingsthat he wanted to hear from Edmund of Langley, and now it is all too late, toolate…and Ned has lost his father, and Richard is not there to comfort him, andRichard loathes Bolingbroke as he has never loathed before. They should havetold him. They should have let him go to him.

Exton masks his surprise quickly enough. “Sit. Down.”  he says softly, and Richard realises that hehas shot to his feet.

He sits, because he wants to cling to the anger inside him.It is so much better than apathy, so lovely to be feeling something again, andif he stays on his feet and gives defiance to his captor, it will be beaten outof him in a matter of hours, flames of temper quenched by pain and misery andfear. “Forgive me, my lord” he whispers, lowering his eyes to the floor beforeExton can say anything else. “It was the shock, I had no idea-I’m sorry, I’msorry-“ he mumbles, and bites the side of his hand to show that he’s anxiousand afraid, because there is no Court for him to hide such gestures from,anymore.

“You are forgiven, your grace.” Exton says, and Richardlowers his hand to his lap, and looks up. The tears prickling at his eyes arefor York, and not his own misconduct, but Exton will see what he wants to see,which is King Richard broken for Exton’s master Bolingbroke so-called Harry thefourth. “As I was saying, the Duke of York sent you some things-“ he pauses, asthough considering something. “Prove to me that you can behave,” he says, “fora week. Just so that we can be sure that little outburst of yours was, indeed, justthe shock, and not the start of a return to old ways. Then you may have theclothes that your cousin sent you. For now, I’ll find you another shift. Youcan sit in here until your hair is dry; I don’t want you catching a cold.”

‘Then don’t force me to walk out in the rain,’ Richardthinks contemptuously, ‘and don’t lock me up in hole that’s colder than an icehouse at Christmas.�� Outwardly, he bows his head  once more and whispers: “Thank you, my lord.” Healmost means it. In a week’s time, he will have the things that his Edward sentto him- for the now, he knows that Edward is alive, that he is (surely) well. Yorkis dead, and Richard is sad, but now the shock is over, and the assurance thathe has not been abandoned, he has not been forgotten, is starting to warmRichard all over again.