#biBaldwin

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty-Three

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

Baldwin was white-knuckling the stonework as he listened to the laughter echoing from just around the corner.

He'd had hours.. days (Gods, it felt like hours) to get it through his thick skull that he lo-loved his best friend and now he was here and laughing and why the hell couldn't he walk around the damn corner-

Baldwin took a deep breath.

He was going to stand here forever, like an absolute fool, or pry his fingers from the wall and march.

He took another deep breath.

Which promptly choked him as he stepped around the corner and saw Martin smiling at Yvette.

He's glowing.

Backlit by sunshine streaming down onto the courtyard, his skin was dappled caramel by the afternoon sky. His hair was spun up into short, cropped snow, fashionably unkempt and light in the breeze, standing out starkly against the rich turquoise of his tunic and the tan leather of his boots.

He looked like a god and Baldwin was ready to lie down on the altar.

'Well!' Godfrey clapped his hands together loudly and stood up. Baldwin nearly jumped out of his skin; he hadn't noticed his brother sitting behind Martin on a low brick wall. 'I shall leave you all too it!'

Please-do-not-leave-please-do-not-leave-no no no no Fuck!

'Lucius!'

'Still Baldw-oof!'

And now Martin was hugging him, strong arms wrapped around him and his mouth inches from Baldwin's ear. He desperately swallowed the high-pitched whine that was rising higher and higher in his throat and ignored the way his skin prickled and pulsed with heat where Martin was pressed against him.

'Thank you for taking care of Yvette for me,' Martin said, quietly.

Everything was apricot and tobacco and sunshine and Baldwin wanted to cry.

________________________________________________________________

Yvette was beginning to worry that her uncle was going to wear a hole right through the floor of the library.

She had been put in charge of sorting through the enormous amounts of scrolls, books and loose sheafs of paper that were in Sept Tours' library in order to try and figure out what organisational style Hugh's ghost had used to 'tidy up'.

It must be very boring, being dead; relying on the living for entertainment.

Baldwin had come in while she was browsing Great-Uncle Philippe's collection of astrolabes someone had used as bookends for a collection of illuminated bibles. He was focused on something that was troubling him deeply; Yvette saw the oddly-haunted look in his eyes he chased away with a smile and an offer to help her reshelve the manuscripts, but when he turned away the set of his shoulders told her that the look had returned.

He was now pacing the length of the library, Bible in his hand. She had sent him off into the room to put it back but he kept "forgetting" where it was supposed to go as an excuse for him to retread his steps.

On second thought, he may actually have been so distracted by whatever was bothering him that he really had forgotten about the book.

'Do you wish to talk about something, Uncle Baldwin?' Yvette piped up.

'Hm, what? Oh, sorry sweetheart,' Baldwin kissed the top of Yvette's head, put the Bible where it was supposed to go, and zipped back to the table. 'No, it is nothing.'

'Are you sure? Perhaps you should talk to ɸatīr-' a strange strangled expression passed quickly over Baldwin's face, '-he is only downstairs.'

'No, no,' Baldwin swallowed. 'It is nothing we need bother your ɸatīr about.'

'ɸatīr has taught me that when I cannot find the right words, writing down my thoughts can help,' Yvette commented, smiling encouragingly.

________________________________________________________________

I lo

I have feelings f

We have been good friends for centuries and I have never been unsure of this until now.

I am sorry.

I will get better at this. I promise.

Author's Notes

The latest book in the series, The Black Bird Oracle, has just been released. I will be encorporating some background information from the book into later chapters of this story if I deem it necessary, but for the most part I will continue focussing on the first trio of books and the tv series.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty-Seven

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

Five more minutes

Baldwin pressed his face into his pillow, willing time to reverse. He'd been dreading today for weeks, and even now he was still trying to dig down and bury himself in denial.

Please. Five more minutes.

Just a little more time before he got dressed and headed down for breakfast. Before the first messages of the day were conveyed, the travel documents signed and sealed.

Before he found himself standing outside in front of the baggage train, lined up with the rest of the family watching Yvette say her goodbyes.

The cook had burst into tears. Baldwin nearly did too. He wanted to bundle Yvette up tight in a hug and hold on - she is my daughter to, damn it! - hold on tight and never let her go.

She had grown up. Only thirteen and already up to his waist. Where had the time gone? He watched her hugging the servants, the maids and scullery boys and Marthe gathered around her, patting her back and squeezing her.

She does not have to return to Martin. I am sure he would not mind if I borrowed her for a little bit-

One of the horses snorted. Baldwin glared at it hatefully.

Yvette curtsied politely to Philippe and Ysabeau, then rushed in for a hug. Louise and Matthew were next; Louisa had ignored the summons home, feigning marital problems with her latest husband. Godfrey pressed a box of treats for the journey home into her hand when he let her go and then Yvette was wrapped around Baldwin's shoulders as he knelt down and squeezed her close.

'Sept Tours is going miss its little shadow'

Yvette smiled.

'I love you too, Uncle Baldwin'

Baldwin dried his eyes on her hair.

________________________________________________________________

Arriving at Château de Beaune took longer than it should have because Yvette insisted on talking to everyone.

Tradition dictated that a messenger was sent ahead days before to ensure Martin knew exactly when his daughter would be returning home and could make preparations for a welcoming feast. The townspeople would be rallied to wave and cheer the carriage as it passed, and the city guards would be lined up along the route, keeping an eye out for trouble.

A messenger had been dispatched, but she had been under strict instructions by Yvette to not tell her father she was coming. The staff were told; the cook immediately starting work on a menu and other preparations for a feast, shouting at the kitchen boys and sending receipts for expenses upstairs to Estienne.

Joan had "fallen ill", rushing off as quickly as her feet would carry her. She had shared a tearful, laughing embrace with Yvette when she found her, and they stayed up all night catching up.

Josselin and Estienne had done a mostly-successful song and dance to keep Martin in the dark, and although he knew Yvette was close he wasn't sure how close. Word had also leaked into the town and people were on high alert, eager to welcome their lady home.

Yvette had dismissed the retinue from Sept Tours a mile from Beaune and made the rest of the way on foot. She and Joan, flanked by Vincent, walked with the throng of the crowd, hoods drawn despite the spring heat to try and preserve their anonymity for as long as possible while Yvette called on the various businesses along the high street.

Gaspard and his wife Susanna were herbalists and were expecting their first child. The carpenter Digory had complaints about shipping costs and praise about rent prices. Widower Ebrulf presented Yvette with a fresh bouquet of flowers; twins Ketill and Kenborough cobbled her a new pair of shoes.

By the time the castle came into view there was quite a crowd gathered around the front gate. Cheers raised the roof as they parted to let the trio through, Yvette nodding greetings to them all before she crossed over the threshold and flung her arms around her father's waist.

'Welcome home' Martin smiled, holding her tight.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty-Two

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

Yvette rarely got sick. Despite her rocky start she was a healthy child; still small, still thin, but sturdy.

Yvette looked up from beneath a cold compress. 'You look awful.'

Only Godfrey laughed. Baldwin managed a weak smile.

'Uncle Baldwin has not been sleeping well.' Godfrey adjusted the compress and gently stroked Yvette's hair.

Yvette felt around until her hand found Baldwin's, and she gave it a gentle squeeze.

'I will be alrig-' she dissolved into a coughing fit, each inhale shaking her tiny frame. Baldwin grabbed the cup of water sitting on the floor and helped Yvette sit up a little and take a few sips.

She tried not to moan as she settled back down. Everything hurt. Her stomach could handle water but she had brought up the weak broth Marthe had made for her for lunch.

She had caught the fever randomly a few days ago, and had been confined to a spare room ever since. As a rule only Marthe and the other vampire servants were allowed to care for her, to try and stop the sickness from spreading.

'We have sent your father a pigeon. He will be here as soon as he can.' Marthe announced, abruptly entering the room. She emptied Yvette's chamber pot and gave her face and hands a gentle wipe with a wet cloth.

Yvette scrunched her face up and whined, trying not to cry. Her joints ground against each other every time Marthe moved her, and sent shooting pains up her arms.

'Shh, shh, here' Marthe smoothed a bitter-smelling lotion down Yvette's hands. There was a spike of pain for the first few strokes- Yvette whimpered properly this time; Baldwin winced and gripped the bedsheet tightly in a fist while Godfrey paled- but then the lotion leached into her skin and the pain ebbed away.

'There.' Marthe smiled. She refilled Yvette's cup and re-wet her compress, tucking a few extra flower petals into the folds. 'Rest. I will be back in a few hours with supper.'

'Shut your eyes.' Baldwin said, tucking Yvette in as Godfrey followed Marthe out.

'Will you read to me?' Yvette rasped.

Baldwin smiled. 'Of course.'

________________________________________________________________

'What do I smell like?' Yvette asked.

'Like smelly cheese' Godfrey tickled Yvette gently under the chin. She giggled and pushed his hand away, breathing deeply around a stuffy nose. She hadn't been able to have a full bath in a while and it was very obvious. Marthe had promised to run her a warm herbal bath soon but she wanted her to rest just a little while longer.

There was a whooshing noise as Baldwin appeared in the doorway. His shoulders relaxed and his face broke into a wide grin as he took in the sight of Yvette propped up against a mound of pillows, looking flushed but bright-eyed.

'Your fever broke.'

Yvette nodded. 'Marthe says that it happened late last night, when the moon was high. She wanted to tell you at the time but you were away.'

Baldwin looked sheepish. 'I was getting you cinnamon.'

He produced a bowl of stewed apples from under his cloak as Yvette gasped; the apples had been in Sept Tours' cellars for months but the cook had run out of cinnamon several months ago and the usual spice merchants had had a run on it and sold out.

'Oh, I see!' Godfrey adopted a wounded expression, clapping a hand against his chest. 'When Yvette asks you to travel hither and yon to fetch spices you are all too eager to follow her missives, but when I, your own brother-'

'Oh shut up' Baldwin said. Yvette giggled and nearly accidently spat out a mouthful of mush, apple juice dripping down her chin.

________________________________________________________________

Yvette leant back in the wheeled chair and sighed with contentment. She had begun to miss the outdoors since she had been confined to her room but she was finally able to walk - or rather, wheel- around in the sun once again.

She wriggled her toes and hummed along with the birdsong.

'Feeling better?' asked Baldwin, as he and Godfrey stepped out into the courtyard.

'Very' Yvette smiled. She pat the arms of the chair.

'I can move on my own now but Marthe wants me to rest before I return to my chores tomorrow.'

'Well, I have the afternoon off from my chores so-' Godfrey grabbed the handles of the chair and leant forward, digging his heels into the cobblestones. 'Shall we go about the town?'

'Do not get her too worked up!' Baldwin called after them as Godfrey shot off down the hill, pushing the chair before him while Yvette shrieked with laughter.

Baldwin smiled fondly as he watched them disappear.

My brother, and my daughter.

Baldwin came to a screeching halt.

His-

Sweat on his brow, slicking his hair. He licked his lips and tentatively pressed against the abyss in his throat.

My...daughter.

Quiet agony trembled, settling in his gut.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

His daughter.

It clicked, like lightning strikes in a storm.

Martin laughing, pressed against his side.

Martin, face bent low and backlit by the soft glow of the forge.

Martin sipping wine, Martin dancing with Yvette standing on his shoes, Martin-

Baldwin sat down abruptly, feeling sick.

How could he have not noticed?

Does he know I like men? I love women more but I am not opposed to- gods, we have to have talked about it at some point?

When did this happen?

.. Martin striding through Rome, tunic tight against a bulk built from hard labour, sand whipping around shapely calves ...

.. Seagreen eyes turned stormy, then back to sparkling light as they moved out of the shadows ...

Baldwin blushed and dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty-Five

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

...I caught a flash of red hair today and thought of you. Sept Tours is so close and yet hundreds of miles away...

...a tobacconist opened up opposite the fruit shop that sells apricots now they are in season. I am forced to walk betwixt them to reach my place of work. It is agony...

...I keep coming upon new fancies that I know would make you laugh. I hate how I cannot share them...

...I see you in my dreams and when I wake it is rotten that I wake alone...

________________________________________________________________

Yvette was a Looker. She had learnt, at a very young age, the useful skill of taking up as little physical space as possible, watching and listening to the world passing by around her. Children were to be seen and not heard; Yvette happily made sure neither verb applied to her when she didn't want them to.

Watching her father, for instance. She had always been encouraged to be inquisitive, and she took a keen interest in learning how her father held himself when he was conducting business, the ticks and tells he affected to put people at ease or push them into tripping over their own lies.

At Sept Tours she watched her uncle put on similar masks, wielding anger like a surgeon's knife to get at the root of a problem. She stood half-hidden in plain sight while grown men were reduced to blubbering messes beneath her uncle's unwavering glare.

She watched when they were alone. When her father supped wine at the windowsill or played cards by himself on the hearth. When her uncle went out riding or hawking, or stayed up late looking wistfully at old maps as they stirred up memories.

She had also been watching when they were together. The long glances full of hopelessness at each other's backs. The warmth in their smiles when the other one laughed loudly, eyes shut or blurred with tears. The stillness that resulted whenever fingers accidentally brushed; the way they curved towards each other, unconscious of the movement.

And Yvette was watching now as Philippe called for her uncle and Baldwin jumped up from his chair, stashing an unfinished letter in a desk drawer before speeding off. She had been exploring the servant's hallway in the wall, peeling back the doors cleverly concealed by the woodgrain to look in on various rooms.

She waited a moment to see if Baldwin would come back; when he didn't she ventured forth from her hiding spot and crept up to the desk.

Yvette plopped herself down in her uncle's chair and felt along the bottom lip of the desk with both hands until her fingers brushed a tiny lever tucked up into the frame. She smiled and pressed it; there was a dull thud as something unclicked and she opened the drawer her uncle had just closed.

She hadn't meant to read the letter. She had been focussed on the brass seals wrapped in leather that Baldwin had plucked from their hidden compartment and shown to her mere days ago. He had made her close her eyes when he'd used the mechanism but her ears were sharp and she'd figured out what he'd been doing.

Her father's seal for the Knights of Lazarus was also made of bronze, with a pair of glassworking shears set above a knight kneeling in prayer. On the opposite side was a cross, with a tiny boar's head and a torc set above and below it, and Secretum Lazari stamped around the edge.

-Yvette-

Her own name caught her eye. She looked at the letter.

-Yvette arranged the cups precisely as Marthe instructed her and the countess spilt wine down her front exactly as they had hoped! A braggart taken care of, and no one the wiser that anyone was to blame but herself.-

Yvette grinned. The woman's loud squawk of surprise had been hysterical, and her face! The servants had been laughing at it for days.

-I miss you.

Yvette froze. She read from the beginning again.

I miss you. I wish I could find the courage to tell you in words what I happily commit to paper but I do not want to ruin our friendship. I will hold back my heart for both our sakes.

A light breeze stirred the room, as if a ghostly presence was leaning over her, reading over her shoulder.

'..I have two pères, do I not?' Yvette whispered, a smile on her lips.

The breeze stirred again in agreement.

Author's Notes

Boars were a Gallic symbol of battle

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fourty-Seven

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

Martin could not be certain exactly how old his daughter had been when he found her; she was small, which made things more difficult, but his best guess set her age at around six months.

Yvette was lying on her stomach in front of a mirror hanging low against the wall of the office. Martin had made it himself in Venice thirteen years before, when he'd been mucking about with a new technique. Instead of using the usual method of blowing bubbles, he'd figured out that blowing glass cylinders and unrolling them was much less time-consuming, and resulted in fewer imperfections. Glass mirrors could be warped quite badly if poorly-made; there was a reason why most people prefered to use polished metal.

Yvette was big and growing bigger, her now-brown eyes matching her hair. She was even talking now, babbling nonsense to herself at all hours and giggling.

She had propped herself up on her arms and was talking at her reflection, chubby fingers gently probing the mirror's surface. She looked over at Martin and gabbled a question, her hand curling up so that she was pointing at herself in the glass.

'Yes, that is you bādikridjo' Martin smiled and sat down on the floor next to Yvette. He tapped her reflection and she followed the movement. 'That is Yvette.'

Her head jerked up to look at him, recognition in her eyes.

Martin's heart stopped.

'Yvette.'

She shrieked, a beaming smile on her face.

She knows her name..

Martin leant down and kissed the top of her head. 'Yvette.'

She wiggled, bumping his chin with her forehead.

________________________________________________________________

You will never read this letter because it will be thrown into the coals when it is finished but I am lonely and I miss you and I have too many thoughts stoppered up in my heart.

Yvette has begun crawling. I placed the doll you gave her at her christening before her and she pulled herself up to it. I do not know how I will be when she begins to walk-

________________________________________________________________

Martin had turned away for a split second when he heard Loyse gasp; turning back he was shocked to find Yvette sitting upright on the floor.

'A prank, surely? ..Loyse?'

'Not at all m'lord, watch!'

Loyse picked Yvette up under her arms and gently lay her down on the floor on her back. Yvette squawked in protest, rocking herself over onto her side and, using both hands, shakily managed to push herself up to a sitting position again.

Loyse and Martin clapped and cheered, and Yvette copied them, giggling and shrieking as she smacked her chubby hands together.

________________________________________________________________

I burn

I am bored, and drunk, and Yvette is asleep in her cradle. Why have never I never asked you whether you like men? I miss you. I am foolish.

Yvette remains permanently attached to her doll, though she has several more toys to play with. She knows you now, and other people, and can remember who she likes and dislikes-

________________________________________________________________

'There is my little flower!' Blanda cooed.

Blanda, Merula, and the rest of the family had arrived months ahead of Yvette's birthday to make up for missing her baptism. Obviously Martin didn't know precisely when Yvette's birthday was, so he had arbitrarily picked January 11th.

Frederick tickled Yvette's chin so that she looked up at him, and blew a raspberry. When Yvette laughed and took a deep breath to copy him, Frederick quickly turned her face back towards his mother so that Yvette blew a raspberry at her aunt.

'Oh!' Blanda said, with exaggerated outrage, 'Oh! How rude!'

Yvette giggled and slapped her cousin's knee, and blew another raspberry at Blanda as she sat down with everyone else at the dining hall table.

'Would you like to see Cousin Lottie?' Frederick asked. Yvette nodded and Frederick picked her up under her arms.

'Here you go!'

Frederick's wife Lottie was built like an egg. She had been the daughter of a bookbinder in her first life, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of swans. They had met while strolling through a park, and became mated within a week.

'Good morning pet!' Lottie placed a kiss on Yvette's cheek and gave her a cuddle. Yvette leant into the hug, resting her head on her shoulder. 'And how are you this morning?'

'Amm-mm-mm-mm-'

'I am very glad to hear it' Lottie held hands with Yvette as the ten-month-old shakily stood on her lap.

'She is getting very good at that' observed Martin, as he came into the room. He gave Yvette a quick kiss on her forehead and smiled.

'ɸatīr is very proud of you.'

'Ada!' Yvette beamed back at him.

Everyone froze.

'Did she just..' Big York looked stunned.

Lottie pivoted around to face Martin, holding Yvette around her waist.

'Who is that?' Lottie asked, pointing. 'Is that ɸatīr?'

'Ada' Yvette repeated quietly.

Martin picked her up and hugged her, trying desperately not to burst into tears.

________________________________________________________________

Dear Lucius,

I would like to formerly invite you to Yvette's first birthday. Christmas is before the official date I have chosen for her, so for this year alone I have decided to combine the celebrations-

________________________________________________________________

The castle was alive with candlelight and laughter, mummers prancing through the crowd wearing animal masks and playing instruments. Peasants and nobles mingled respectfully, while their children chased each other round the tables.

A raised platform had been erected at the top of the hall for the high table. Martin stood in the middle of it, at the front, and clapped his hands. The crowd fell silent, turning to look up at him expectantly.

'Thank you all for coming! It warms my heart to see you all holding to the spirit of this sacred tradition,' Martin raised a glass, and rest of the room followed. 'Merry Christmas!'

He drank deeply, then waited a beat until the room focussed on him once again.

'As many of you are aware, I have recently become a father. And as it will shortly be her first birthday in the coming year, I would like to take this opportunity to present her to you all tonight.'

Yvette toddled her way slowly up the ramp to the front of the stage, her tiny hands gripping a wooden frame on wheels. Loyse walked behind her, keeping her hands at her back in case Yvette stumbled.

Polite applause broke, several women and young girls cooing as they clapped. Several men cheered. A serving boy at the back of the hall set down his tray, and slipped away unseen. Blanda and Merula joined their brother and niece, their own children and spouses respectively lining up alongside them.

Yvette reached out and grabbed her father's hand, smiling down at the crowd of children that had pushed to the front of the stage to see her better. Martin raised his glass.

'Once again, Merry Christmas!'

Author's Notes

Glass mirrors were EXPENSIVE because they were time-consuming and difficult to make.

"The evolution of glass mirrors in the Middle Ages followed improvements in glassmaking technology. Glassmakers in France made flat glass plates by blowing glass bubbles, spinning them rapidly to flatten them, and cutting rectangles out of them. A better method, developed in Germany and perfected in Venice by the 16th century, was to blow a cylinder of glass, cut off the ends, slice it along its length, and unroll it onto a flat hot plate." Wikipedia

"In 1318, the Venetians—who boast a history as able glassmakers— attempted to introduce the craft of glass mirror-making to Venice with limited success. According to popular tradition, a German man, who has remained anonymous throughout the ages, recruited two Venetians and one Muranese (Murzio Da Murano, Niccolò Cauco and a man named Francesco) in hopes of sharing his techniques." AAV Barbini Specchi Veneziani

I know it says "a German man" but history gets things wrong all the time so I figured who cares!

bādi (sweet) kridjo (heart) - sweetheart

Allegedly "The earliest known use of the noun sweetheart is in the Middle English period (1150—1500). OED's earliest evidence for sweetheart is from around 1290, in St. Kenelm." Oxford English Dictionary

There is no difference between a baptism and a christening. The words can be used interchangeably.

ɸatīr = father (it is pronounced atir but obviously Yvette has trouble pronouncing her T's)

Mummers were wandering actors and musicians who were often paid to take part in medieval religious plays, holiday celebrations, and other important events. They would often wear animal masks, or even actual animal heads, while performing.

"Walking aids for young children have existed in Europe since the Middle Ages. The earliest type was a railed panel or an enclosed frame on wheels, designed to be leant on by the child. By the 17th century this design had developed into a structure that enclosed the child firmly, more like a modern baby walker." Victoria and Albert Museum

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Sixty-One

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

Philippe watched the light flicker and die in Martin's eyes.

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say...

Martin turning around and striding out of the room snapped Baldwin from his own fugue.

'Wait, Martin!'

Philippe sighed and sat back in his chair. He had intended to help Martin, but he hadn't expected the young man to focus on the wrong part of the promise.

I did say that I would help him. I was not lying about that.

CRACK!!

Splinters filled the hall. Wood dust motes danced through the air and the carpet was ruined. Baldwin was lying on his back in the middle of an obliterated solid oak table, the shattered pieces propping him up as he stared unseeing at the ceiling.

Philippe scanned him quickly. Shock; not dying.

Martin was nearly away down the corridor but half-turned back, framed by the doorway.

'If any De Clermont sets foot on my lands going forward,' Martin spat, 'I will be sending them home in pieces.'

________________________________________________________________

‘You just cost our son his mate.'

Ysabeau’s glare could have levelled a city.

Philippe had been both dreading and anticipating his wife's return from Brussels. Baldwin still wasn't speaking; his middle child had been in a catatonic stupor since Martin had left three days ago and it was all Philippe could do to get him to eat.

Philippe held up his hands in supplication, then flinched out of the way as a pair of his own throwing daggers buried themselves in his chair.

Ah.

'When I left for Brussels, I expected to return and find everything unchanged. So you can imagine my surprise when I come back to find Sept Tours upended.'

'My servants whispering behind my back, my children unable to look me in the eye,' Ysabeau tapped another pair of knives against her fingertips. 'Our son -your second eldest - lying grief-stricken in his room; Martin, who has, at times, been both asset, ally, and honoured guest-'

Philippe flinched out of the way again as Ysabeau drew her arm back and let the daggers fly.

'- swearing revenge on those who have wronged him and murdered his child, and my husband- my husband cowering in his study instead of searching for the murderers responsible.'

'Cowering?!' Philippe scoffed, and nearly lost an ear to an axe that went whistling past his head and buried itself in his desk.

'Are you hunting?!' Ysabeau never yelled. She enunciated sharply. 'What happened when Hugh died? Martin leapt to the pursuit without hesitation and now, when he comes begging on bended knee for assistance you tell him to wait?!'

Philippe dodged the hand axe but not the arrow Ysabeau shot from a longbow that she had pulled seemingly out of nowhere. He fell to his knees on the carpet with a pained grunt, looking up at his wife through teary eyes.

'Oh, forgive me,' Ysabeau cooed, sickly sweet false patience wearing wild, stormy eyes. 'I am sure this will blow over soon. After all, it is not as if Martin is known to hold a grudge.'

Ysabeau marched out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Phillipe slowly lowered his head into his hands as Yvette’s ghost watched him from the window.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Sixty

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

Baldwin was certain that if he hadn't been wearing house colours he would have been torn to pieces.

One thousand men and fifty women armed with anything they could gut, hit or stab with were marching down the hill to meet him. The stench of paranoia and anger rolling off them made him gag a little at the back of his throat.

They recognised him and parted, silently pointing and gesturing unnecessarily towards a rider who was fast approaching on a black charger. Baldwin dug his heels in and urged his horse into a swift trot.

Martin looked awful. He'd been crying; Baldwin could smell salt and see the tracks down his sallow cheeks. His hair was a mess and he clearly hadn't slept or eaten in days.

'Here,' said Baldwin, gently. He pressed his wineskin against Martin's mouth encouragingly. 'You cannot hunt on an empty stomach.'

Martin drank a little of the blood then slumped forward, burying his face in Baldwin's chest.

'We will find them' Baldwin whispered, rubbing him on the back.

The smell of salt spiked and Martin started trembling against him.

'We will find them' Baldwin whispered again.

****

Philippe was sitting behind his desk when the two men burst through the door.

'I promised Martin our assistance in tracking down the people responsible' Baldwin announced, striding over to position himself at Philippe's side.

'There were how many?'

'Two men on white horses- rouncey, according to the reports- were spotted riding hell for leather to the south' Martin drew himself up, swallowing. 'We lost them at the border.'

Philippe nodded.

'The Knights are scattered about at the moment,' said Philippe, over clasped fingers. 'Matthew is helping Miriam with the pogroms in Germany. Fernando is in London, Gallowglass is in Paris; the others are elsewhere. Wait a few days here until we can marshal the men, and then we will help you track the fiends responsible.'

Martin stopped breathing.

...'-get the fuck out of Rome'...

...'I know where you live now'...

...'-may refuse us, considering the history-'...

...'A gift for you'...

...'-anger alone cannot raise the dead-'...

..We underestimated him..

...'-I require hostages'...

...'Is that an order?'...

...'-in fact, I insist that you do'...

...'He's not a monster. He's an idiot.'...

...'Pater has requested your presence'...

..This is going to be close..

...'-perhaps your daughter may grace Sept Tours with her presence-'...

Martin snapped.

'My daughter- my only daughter- has been murdered by two butchers and your response, after everything I have done for this family, is "wait"?'

Martin's mouth curled up into a sneer. He turned abruptly towards Baldwin.

'Are you going to let him treat me like this?'

Baldwin hesitated.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty-Nine

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

In a quiet corner of a quiet tavern in a dark and distant country two men sit.

They are listening to a third man.

The third man speaks of broken promises, of houses turned nameless and shattered to dust. Of a planned design woven through the years reaching up, up, up, until at last it came to its hour at hand.

Two men ride forth from the tavern.

________________________________________________________________

It was a fine, warm day. Yvette skipped downstairs, readjusting the fastenings on her hair as she went. The eighteen-year-old had been enjoying the dry weather and had decided that today was the perfect day to go riding.

She had settled on a red cotehardie, with a supportive shift with thin straps underneath hidden by the length of her neckline. Current fashion held that if one had the figure for it one could get away with wearing only their cotehardie without anything underneath; women were not supposed to be so brazen, and Yvette was happy to ape the trend without actually committing to it properly.

She collected her riding boots from the boot boy, and stopped by the kitchens to pick up a small cloth-wrapped bundle of sweetened hardtack and an apple. She slipped the food parcel into her pocket and strolled out across the castle grounds towards the stables.

'You are going out today, I take it?' Martin smiled, looking up from his wax tablet. He nodded at Tobias, the stableboy, who dashed off to fetch Yvette's saddle and tack.

'I am going to Les Joigneaux and back' Yvette said brightly. The lake was on the outskirts of Beaune and a beautiful place for picnics, and ice skating in the winter.

'Would you like me to go with you? Or Victor?'

'No thank you,' Yvette shook her head and helped Tobias as he started to lay a saddle cloth across the back of her palfrey and strap on her saddle.

'I would like to have a day to myself.'

Martin nodded and tapped her side. 'Are you missing something?'

'I do have a knife, ɸatīr' Yvette laughed and pulled a sharp dagger from a hidden fold of her gown. It was slim and well-made, with a fine wrought-iron handle that was perfectly balanced and fit in her palm like a glove.

'Good. Be back before dark.' Martin kissed her cheek and helped her up into the saddle, her horse obediantly standing still awaiting instructions as Yvette lent back down and gave Martin a hug.

'I promise. I love you ɸatīr.'

'I love you too, dereling.'

Yvette dug her heels into the side of her horse, giving her father a quick wave as she steered her horse out of the stables and out of sight.

****

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Two men dash away on their chargers, thundering south along the forest path.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

There were flowers in her hair when they found her. They had fallen from the branches of the trees lining the edge of the track.

She looked serene; if it wasn't for the blood she would have looked like she was sleeping. Martin gently picked her up and carried her home one last time.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fourty-Six

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

The house had been a whirlwind of activity since Martin had first brought Yvette home. Estienne had spent of his time cooing over the baby and worrying about the list of things that she would need. Josselin had rolled her eyes and gone down into the town, muttering something about over-emotional men.

Sister Rosaline hadn't been able to abandon her duties to join the household as Yvette's wet nurse, but she'd passed on the details of a second woman, Loyse, who had accepted the position. She was off somewhere now, setting up her things and sorting out the belongings of her own son, Jaquob.

Martin smiled. The boy had been hovering over Yvette all day, even letting her sleep on his lap while he held her hand.

Her first friend.

Yvette was awake now, eyes roving over her room. It was, temporarily, in the guest quarters while extensions to his tower were completed. There was a wooden cradle in the middle of the room - oak, covered in tangled vines and small birds - and a basket in the corner for dirty swaddling, but for the moment the room was bare of decoration.

'Do not worry,' Martin said softly, 'We shall have some tapestries cleaned and brought up for you.'

Yvette looked up at him, eyes rolling up immediately to stare at the ceiling then over at the window. Martin brought her over and held her up to the glass.

________________________________________________________________

'For the baby,' Miriam smiled, passing Martin a small wooden box.

Martin had given Yvette a proper Gaul baptism during their ride home. Now he had to pay for a Roman Catholic service to make everything legal and above board.

Matthew leaned over Martin's shoulder as he unboxed a silver spoon. The spoon was carefully engraved with YB, the letters entwined by tiny curlicues. 'That is beautiful!'

Martin leaned in and hugged Miriam. 'Thank you.'

'Of course! Anything for my favourite god-daughter.'

The guests parted behind her as Baldwin stepped through.

'Speaking of favourite god-daughters' Miriam murmured.

Yvette was gazing, enraptured, up at Baldwin as he carried her around. They had taken to each other immediately; Baldwin scooped her up and called her pignora, and Yvette shrieked with laughter for the first time ever and buried a tiny hand in his hair.

She was still playing with it now, winding copper strands through her fingers and watching the light play across them. Baldwin had a pinched expression on his face; as they drew closer Martin could smell why.

'All yours' Yvette cried out as Baldwin passed her to Martin, her big blue eyes filling with tears. Baldwin looked as though he'd been stabbed.

'Let us get you changed and Uncle Baldwin can carry you again' Martin kissed Yvette on the forehead as she started to sob, and went off to look for Loyse.

****

'What has happened?' Baldwin asked, as Matthew and Miriam blurted out 'Are you alright?'

'I asked Loyse to show me how to dress Yvette in case I ever need to in future.' Martin passed Yvette to Baldwin; he looked pale and green at the throat.

'And?' asked Baldwin, pointedly ignoring Miriam's unsublte shakes of the head.

Martin shuddered and turned even paler.

****

Later that evening, after the celebratory feast had died down and the guests had gone to bed, and Yvette had finally been peeled off Baldwin and put to sleep in the new nursery, Martin lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

Seeing his best friend holding his daughter, it was like - rītije - Martin swallowed the lump in his throat.

A future so tantalisingly close he could picture it as easily as breathing lay just in front of him on the other side of impossible and it was killing him.

Before, when it was just the two of them, - and isn't that a knife twist into his guts- he could pretend that it was fine, that meaningless hugs and stolen glances were enough to close the chasm in his chest.

Now though...

Now...

Now.

'He loves her too..' Martin rolled over, clenching fists into his pillow as he started to sob.

Author's Notes

From my research into medieval childrearing, it appears that nappies weren't used during the period. Instead, the child's swaddling acted as a kind of onesie plus, both clothing and diaper.

"...The most idiomatic and Roman of endearments is pignus. A pignus is whatever one gives as bond or security for a debt, or to assure appearance in court, good conduct, etc. By extension, a person who is a pignus can serve as a “collateral” or “hostage”—for example, in diplomacy between two states. When applied to children, as it sometimes is in epitaphs, in poetry and other emotive contexts, pignora casts them as “sureties” or “pledges” of the love of the parents, assuring the reality of their marriage. But in such contexts it has no legalistic flavor. Often the best translation is simply “dear ones” rather than something more literal, like “little guarantees.”" - Dickinson College Commentaries

Silver spoons: "In many religions, the christening of a baby is an extremely important occasion and one marked with a good deal of ceremony and hope for the future. It’s the moment shortly after birth where a child is named before their God and welcomed into the church as a newborn.

Many faiths have their own form of christening and celebration, but all these occasions tend to involve buying a gift for the new child. In many cases, this is a silver artefact or nicknack such as a spoon, box or bookmark.

There is a rich history for gifting silver christening spoons and it stretches back to Medieval times, perhaps even before then. The original reason for this was not because silver was a valuable metal but because it could help ward off evil and protect the child. The spoon later became a way to wish a child health and prosperity for the future and was highly symbolic.

As silver became a more valuable commodity, its gifting was more generally seen as a matter of prestige. It said something about your status in life and who you were. This is where the phrase ‘born with a silver spoon in their mouth’ came from, with all its negative connotations.

Today, giving a silver christening spoon remains part of the tradition and is usually given by a close family member such as a godfather or mother, brother or sister. The spoon can vary in design from the very ornate to a simple motif but it is normally engraved with the initials of the recipient child." - Edinburgh Silver

rītije/o - copulate (I'm using this as a stand-in for 'fuck' because the Proto-Celtic word list, which sadly is no longer available online, didn't have 'fuck' on the list).

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty-Eight

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

It had been a busy three years. The English had taken Gascony, handing the French several brutal defeats. Reports of a horrifying disease sweeping through Europe from the Far East had scared people into the arms of the Church but the Great Pestilence had not yet reached France's shores.

In Brittany a fierce power struggle had erupted between the Counts of Blois and the Montforts of Brittany for the Duchy of Brittany. The Battle of Crécy had cost the French the port of Calais, introduced cannons to the world, and killed almost all leading French nobles.

Almost all. Yvette looked out across the entrance hall. As her father's second she had been cosying up to aristocracy her whole life but this was the first time she was expected to wine and dine in her own right. If tonight went wrong she'd be a laughing stock.

She resisted the urge to curl her hand tightly around the banister.

Everything has to be perfect.

'They are ready for you now, m'lady' Joan smiled proudly at her, hands clasped in front of her gown. Yvette took a deep breath, let it out slowly, settled her shoulders back and walked down the stairs.

She had picked a blue gown with slashed sleeves and silver-thread leaves curling across it, over a white chemise. A silver chain belt around her waist was also shaped like leaves. Her laced ankle-boots, cuff and collar were lined with gris, and she wore her hair up in braids threaded with ribbons sewn with pearls.

She descended and the chatter died away, all eyes upon her as she stopped towards the bottom of the stairs. She kept her arms by her sides, chin firmly raised, as she adressed the crowd.

'Welcome! Bless you all for coming,' Yvette was shouting in her mind, but she knew she was soft-spoken and she had to speak clearly and loudly if she wanted her voice to carry.

'It warms my heart that so many of you saw fit to accept my invitation. I know many of you have come a long way to be here tonight-' she locked eyes with Birger Dahlström, a diplomat from Sweden who had arrived in Burgundy to make friends, Gerbert De'Aurillac, and Dominico Michelle.

'-I hope we will provide such entertainment and stimulating conversation that you will not feel your time wasted. Please, be seated and feast!'

The polite applause buoyed her as she led the way to the great hall, the servants opening the door for her. Sweet-smelling wood burned in the braziers decorated with creeping ivy, and hung throughout the hall. A hundred coloured ribbons festooned the ceiling, with a hundred silver and glass stars hanging from them, glinting. Fountains of Burgundian wine sat at each corner of the room with glass ships sailing in them holding silver cups, and the tables had been laid with fresh flowers and silver tableware.

The important guests, and Yvette, were sitting on a raised dais at one end of the hall. At the opposite end was another stage where a group of musicians were playing gently.

'You are close, then?' Gerbert addressed Ysabeau as everyone settled into their seats. Ysabea, Gerbert and Birger were on Yvette's left; to her right, several ladies and lords who belonged to the local aristocracy were chatting among themselves, pointing in wonder at the ceiling and the fountains.

'Quite close,' Ysabeau smiled politely. 'It does not do to be unneighbourly.'

________________________________________________________________

Dinner was three courses. Venison and roast swan; roast pork, stew, and pastry custards, with roast boar's heads to decorate the tables and an elaborately-built castle, dyed red and made of marzipan.

More roast pork for the second course, along with glazed chicken, roast crane, heron and pheasant. A white soup, jelly stew, roast rabbits and jellied deer; tarts, fish, and another subtlety, this time in the shape of a green ship under full sail.

Yvette talked enthusiastically with Birger about the recent anti-slavery reforms introduced in the Kingdom of Sweden, and she was the first person to make the ambassador laugh.

Round three of the meal saw potage served, a sweet stew of almonds, honey and eggs, and a sweet syrup of honey, dates and wine. More roast venison, chickens, rabbits, and patridge, and roast pigeons, quail and larks. Pan puffs and jelly and long fritters were served last, and the final subtlety was the most elaborate, eliciting gasps and bursts of spontaneous applause.

Wheeled out on a cart to stand in the middle of the room was a metre-tall olive tree, its leaves drooping down in a cascade of dyed green, red, and blue. The whole thing had been carved from a single block of marzipan, and Yvette knew if had taken a small team of extremely pleased kitchen staff to make.

The musicians struck up a lively tune as the entertainment arrived. Jugglers and tumblers, fire-eaters and contortionists pranced and danced about, throwing colourful balls and balancing knives and each other back and and forth around the room.

The tree was wheeled away and the trestle tables removed, the tumblers moved to various points around the room and the guests took to the floor to dance. In an act of equitability Yvette shared the first dance with the rest of the high table; the group swayed along gently in a ronde, Yvette singing and the others answering with the appropriate refrain.

The circle melted away into quadrilles as the rest of the guests flocked onto the dance floor. Yvette danced with Gerbert, Ysabeau watching carefully from the perimeter; Domenico slipped in gracefully as soon as the music ended and Yvette danced with him as everyone parted again and reformed as pairs.

Yvette made sure to dance with every single one of her guests and by the end of the night she was happy and exhausted. The servants brought the roof down, literally, and Yvette snipped silver-glass stars free from the ribbons and handed them to the guests as they headed off to bed.

Yvette slipped out of her shoes and walked barefoot back to her room, Joan keeping her balanced with an arm around her waist and a hand on her elbow as they climbed the stairs together.

As she helped Yvette get ready for bed, washing the makeup from her face and brushed her hair, Joan squeezed her around the shoulders in a tight hug.

'Tonight was a triumph!'

Author's Notes

There was a LOT happening between 1345 to 1347. If I spell it out in the notes we'll need a whole other chapter but just know, there was A LOT.

The Black Death won't be called that until 1755, by the Dutch. Originally it was called a pestilence, an epidemic or a mortality. Its "titles", for want of a better word, included "The Pestilence", "The Great Pestilence", "The Plague" or "The Great Death". It did reach France in 1347 but this chapter takes place in January and the plague won't reach French shores until November.

Gris: the gray back fur from European red squirrels that was a common high-end fur used to line the clothing of nobility during the medieval period

Pearls were used as good luck charms during the Middle Ages; specifically, it was believed that they granted protection during battle

Medieval drinking fountains were a thing! They worked via air pressure in the pipes forcing water up from a hidden reservoir. And there ARE records of wine fountains! For example, allegedly it was traditional for London fountains to flow with wine instead of water upon the coronation of a new king (although it's unclear how that was achieved) and there is a wine fountain in Caldari di Ortona, in the Abruzzo region of central Italy.

Pewter alloy was the Royal Doulton of medieval tableware. Poorer families used wooden bowls if they could afford them or make them, or "trenchers", hollowed out bowls made of bread. Middle class families used pewter if they could afford it, and the wealthy used silver and, in some cases, gold.

The meal is allegedly an actual banquet King Richard II gave for the Duke of Lancaster (because I'm lazy and didn't want to menu plan)

If you've ever seen a half-way accurate medieval feast in a movie, you've probably seen an elaborate sculpture sitting on a table or being paraded around by servants. That's a subtlety. They were elaborate sculptures made of food (and not food, as they gained special significance in the late middle ages), and shaped into symbols that represented the "theme" of the feast.

I chose a castle for protection, a ship under full sail for wealth and prosperity, and an olive tree for peace.

Red - colour of love

Green - wealth, prosperity, youth

Blue - purity, peace

Yes, Sweden did have a slave trade! "Thralls" were taken from Eastern Europe or the British Isles; slaves were typically Franks, Anglo-Saxons, Celts, Baltic, Slavic and Latin. Occasionally they also bought and sold Byzantine or Islamic persons. Although "thralldom" was officially outlawed in 1335 by Magnus IV of Sweden, slavery continued outside the borders of Sweden, in Swedish territories abroad, until the 17th century.

A Carole or Ronde is a medieval dance involving a group of people in a chain or a circle, with one person singing a song and the rest of the group singing a refrain. A quadrille is dance for four partners standing together in a square, and a basse dance is a slow dance for two partners.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fourty-Four

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

It was cold in the chapel.

Weak sunlight filtered through the windows, contrasting with the torches in sconces on the walls to deepen the shadows between them. In the gloom, Martin sat with his back to the wall, torc in hand.

"-that God has so few friends; if that is the way he favours them, he ought to have still less."

Martin's laughter echoed back to himself. Across from him, on the opposite wall, Hugh's shield, armour and sword rested on a metal frame Matthew had sunk into the stone floor. The plaque beside it read

In Memoriam

Hugh de Clermont

Beloved Son

'I hope you like the flowers' said Martin. Carnations and forget-me-nots wreathed Hugh's shield and gauntlets; a reference to Fernando masked by double meaning. Underneath the real ones flowers made from iron held the figure up, like vines grasping each piece of the mannequin together.

It had been Martin's gift to Fernando, and one that had received a chilling response from Philippe until his need to grieve his son had outpaced his dislike for his son's choice of mate and he had let the matter go.

'Well!' Martin rocked up onto his feet, stretching. 'I had best walk to the main gate. Your father is throwing a party for no particular reason again and he will be ushering guests in shortly.'

The cold breeze that started from nowhere as he turned to leave felt like hands pressing gently on his back. Martin gave a small smile, and walked outside.

________________________________________________________________

'Lucius!'

'Still Baldwin.'

Baldwin chuckled affectionately as Martin shrugged.

Beautiful. Like music.

He went to sit on the bench next to Baldwin, who shuffled over to give him space.

'Have you been up to anything new of late?'

Baldwin shook his head. 'Much the same as ever, I am afraid.'

'You need a hobby,' said Martin, observing Baldwin over the rim of the tankard a passing serving girl had rushed over and placed in front of him. 'You know, I think you should get into finance.'

'Yes, the mighty desk warrior; earning honour and glory through paperwork.' Baldwin sneered.

Martin grinned, nursing the tankard and leaning forward.

'Let me tell you the story of the king from Mali with the Midas' touch...'

________________________________________________________________

Philippe had toured the room twice, mingling and talking with visitors and locals. When he made it back to the high table again he was annoyed to see Baldwin still sitting at the edge of the room, listening to Martin rambling on.

He had specifically requested one or two individuals be here today so Baldwin could gently persuade them to follow Philippe's plans.

Now that he had a moment to properly observe his son, Philippe could tell Baldwin was listening to Martin. Really listening. He was staring at him with a focus that Philippe hadn't seen before; there was a warmth in his gaze that went beyond fondness, and a slight suggestion that he could start smiling at any moment.

Oh.

Oh no.

A millennia of willpower was the only thing which stoppered the scream of white-hot fury clawing up Phillipe’s throat. He ground his teeth and hissed.

His boy, his second son, mating with a thrice-damned nuisance?!

Gaul.

Patricide.

Insipid meddler.

‘Somebody has caught up with the rest of us it would seem,’ Marthe muttered quietly as she passed by Philippe’s elbow. Ysabeau placed a hand on his to ground him and remind him where they were, and he let out a long, long breath.

‘All of you knew?!’ Philippe hissed.

'If you confront them, they will deny it and end up hurting each other. It will be better to let them come to a conclusion on their own.' Ysabeau squeezed his hand, and Philippe, reluctantly, squeezed hers back.

Author's Notes

The joke that Martin tells was recorded in Facetiae, a collection of jokes published in 1470, written by Poggio Bracciolini. This chapter takes place circa 1324, so the joke is not era-accurate, but I couldn't find one from the 1300s.

The full joke:

"One of our fellow citizens, a very witty man, was labouring under a painful and lengthy illness, was attended by a Friar who came to comfort him, and, among other words of solace, told him that God thus especially chastens those he loves, and inflicts his visitations upon them. “No wonder then,” retorted the sick man, “that God has so few friends; if that is the way he favours them, he ought to have still less.”" (Medievalists.net)

Canonically Matthew made a shrine to Hugh in the chapel of Sept Tours out of Hugh’s shield, gauntlets, hauberk, coat of plates, sword and helm. We see a plaque on the wall in the show, so I incorporated both.

Oh the screaming. The screaming that occured when Philippe found out about what Martin had made. Matthew was, is, and will probably still be on his father's shit list for the next few centuries for keeping Martin's gift a secret from him. But in the end the entire family banded together and told Philippe to "build a fucking bridge, we want to mourn our brother/son/father/significant other" and it's a reference to Hugh's home in Spain*, so what's the big deal?

*Fernando and Gallowglass nearly broke Martin's ribs hugging him.

Carnations are the national flower of Spain.

I think that it takes a lot of energy for a ghost to materialise into corporeal form. Vampires and daemons cannot see ghosts immediately but they can feel their touch; witches can, of course, see ghosts in full whether or not they are actively trying to be seen.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba @dogblessyoutascha

Part Thirty-Nine

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century.

Also on AO3

'We should build in contingencies for when this madness ends,' said Martin.

The other delegates had broken off, each claiming an administration room within the palace for themselves. Philippe had, of course, picked the most spacious one for himself; a broad fireplace, sturdy wooden chairs and large windows with a clear view of the city.

'You think it ever will?' Gerbert sneered.

'The humans can hardly hate us forever.'

'Wait and see.'

'In the meantime, how long should we lead for?' Philippe interrupted, brandishing a quill.

'One hundred years' said Gerbert.

'Witches may live that long, but not daemons' Martin pointed out.

'Seventy years' said Philippe.

Martin raised an eyebrow. 'Do you want an infirm daemon making decisions? Fifty years. The better part of a life, with room for a second term if they prove particularly long-lived.'

'They should be allowed to serve terms back to back,' Gerbert said through a smile.

'But only after being sworn in officially a second time.' Martin added.

Philippe took notes through argument and counter-argument.

'-all creatures are to abstain from achieving positions of authority within religious orders whereby they can shape religious doctrine or practise?'

'What?' Gerbert demanded.

Martin glared at him. 'I refuse to stage another false funeral for you because you want to be Pope. I have not the strength.'

'Which leads us into-' Philippe checked his list of suggestions. '-"All creatures will refuse any honour above the lowest rank accorded a man of state".'

'A baron' Gerbert sat back hard in his chair.

'Do you mean to tell me this will limit your political machinations?' Martin scoffed with a grin.

________________________________________________________________

The witches were surprisingly accommodating. They had been open to the idea of a one hundred year seat, with back to back terms, and made no fuss about religious isolationism.

'We will, of course, concede to the majority,' Jean de Villiers inclined his head towards the rest of the room. He was sitting beside Irakli, a witch from Sakartvelo, and Quincey Toussaint, another Frenchman. 'A fifty year term. Now, we do have some suggestions of our own.'

He paused and cleared his throat.

'No member of the Congregation may hold a seat of power within it concurrent to governance within any other organisation.'

Martin raised his hand. 'This is for human organisations as well as creature? Or only the former?'

'The former, I think. To simplify matters.' Polissena, the daemon nun who had spoken up during the initial meeting, was from Milan. She was sitting across from Martin on the right, flanked by a Swedish hän called Uoti, and a male daemon from Scotland called Ingeramium.

'And will you be relinquishing control of the Knights Hospitaller?' Philippe asked. Martin looked at him with the corner of his eye; he was projecting an outward sense of calm, but Martin knew him well enough to see the anger sizzling beneath.

No other De Clermonts in the Congregation. Not as long as they are the head of the Knights of Lazarus. Pity.

'I have already made arrangements to pass on my appointment' Jean reassured.

________________________________________________________________

Martin clutched the leatherbound book in his hands as the carriage lurched through Arles. He had painstakingly written down the agreed-upon tenets of the Congregation's laws, binding his notes so that he would not lose them. He had even had them signed; Philippe volunteered a signature, then Gerbert. Polissena's spider-like lettering prickled across the page above her seal, next to Uoti's blocky handwriting and Ingeramium's neat scrawl.

The carriage lurched over something and there was a clank as the seals hit his leg. Jean had said that they would authenticate the copy and make it more official. Irakli had laughed and said that the seals made the book look like a patent of nobility.

The carriage swung sharply to the left, up a secret track leading up into the forest at the edge of the city. The track smoothed into a cobblestone laneway as they climbed higher into the mountains, a tree tunnel of silver birch obscuring Martin's view.

The road ended in a solid wall of interlocking branches choking the way. As the carriage rolled closer the branches parted to reveal a wide forecourt and a towering golden-brown fortress.

Martin had many mansions and castle throughout Burgundy, but Kamb-atsu was his true home. It had started life as a wooden fortress he had built atop a series of rockpools and caves, and when the mineral deposits in the ground had turned the foundations to stone he had used magic to rapidly petrify the rest.

Kamb-atsu's outer shell was an inverted copy of his castle at Beaune; a rectangular pentagon pointing out over a cliff with a river flowing gently below.

There were four towers, two to each side. A door set in the front tower on the left led into the library and the entrance hall. The tower to the right, and the section of the building behind it, contained the kitchen and laundry, the stores, and the servant's quarters.

Martin's guests were waiting for him in entrance hall. 'Ladies, welcome.'

'You summoned us, m'lord?' Rochelle Laisnié bowed stiffly, and smiled to let Martin know she was joking. Bertille Garnier and Joachine Moreau hadn't bothered standing; they raised their hands and Martin kissed the back of them, and pulled out Rochelle's chair for her so she could sit down.

'I am sure you are all aware that this meeting is..no longer legal.'

'We are, m'lord' Joachine grimaced like she had tasted something foul. She and Bertille had known Martin their entire lives; Rochelle's family had moved into the area when she was sixteen.

'I do not wish to sacrifice the relationship your families have with me,' Martin said evenly. 'But that is not for myself alone to decide.'

The witches stirred, glancing at each other.

'You know me. There will be no repercussions if you wish to leave.'

Bertille hesitated, then reached out and gently to Rochelle and Joachine by the hand. She straightened in her chair.

'What is a little high treason among friends?'

Author's Notes

Excerpt from The World of All Souls, page 37 (I believe this may be a picture of Hamish's notes on Congregation law):

Notes on Creatures from the Jerusalem Codex (trans. from Latin)

"We therefore agree, because of the dangerous temper of the times, to undertake these solemn oaths and promises to ensure the safety and well-being (solus?) of our selves, our progeny and our future. We undertake to bind daemon to witch, witch to lamia, and lamia to daemon within the solemn vow of the covenant."

"With respect to the great controversies and inconveniances that have accompanied the holding of titles and offices by the lamia, the covenant forbides them from accepting any honour above the lowest rank accorded a man of state. The daemons and witches are likewise barred from accepting such honours, for to do otherwise would sow discord among the covenanted."

"Similarly, daemons, lamia, and witches must, from this moment forth, abstain from debates over matters of faith. Covenanted creatures may choose to enter religious orders, but shall not aspire to positions within them that shapes religious doctrine or practise."

The Congregation was originally founded in Jerusalem, but moved to Constantinople after the fall of Outremer. I decided to speed up the process.

Jean de Villiers and Jaques de Taxi were real people! According to Wikipedia, "[he] was the twenty-second Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller, serving from 1285 until 1293 after the death of Nicolas Lorgne. Jacques de Taxi became Grand Master ad interim, perhaps through 27 June 1286, while awaiting the arrival of the newly elected Grand Master from the Holy Land. De Villiers was present at the Siege of Acre in 1291, but escaped just before the city fell to the Mamluks. He was succeeded by Odon de Pins."

I feel that daemons have a long history of electing female spokespeople for the Congregation.

The Finnish language doesn't have gendered nouns or personal pronouns like she/her, he/him, they/them. Instead, they use hän as a gender-neutral, all-encompassing term. It was first recorded in the Abckiria, or the ABC book, which was the first book published in the Finnish language in 1543, but the term pre-dates the this.

In this instance, I have used hän as a descriptive for Uoti both because it is correct grammar for a Finnish person, and because they are a gender-neutral individual. Non-binary people have existed in the past, even as far back as the Iron Age:

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/aug/09/1000-year-old-remains-in-finland-may-be-non-binary-viking-researchers-say

This is what a patent of nobility looks like:

Kamb-atsu - bend in a river

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fourty-Five

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

It took the time between steps for Martin's world to change again.

He had been out for an evening stroll through Chalon and had gone down to the river to hunt. No fishermen had chanced the moonless night to throw a line, so Martin had decided to try his luck elsewhere.

He took a step and raised his foot to take another.

A piercing wail rose from beneath the bridge.

A baby.

Another cry rose up.

Martin vaulted over the bridge and landed, cat-like, in the mud. The tiny bundle at his feet was wriggling; slow movements, but not sluggish, and definately distressed.

Martin sniffed. Faeces, tears, urine and mud. Poor babe.

The damp had soaked partway through the blankets; Martin wiped the excess away and rocked the child, peering down into a tiny pink face scrunched up and screaming. The only thing that had saved it was that the rain-swollen river had gone down a few metres, exposing the riverbank.

Martin ran a finger along the baby's face and winced.

'Too cold..far too cold. We shall have you before a fire soon, young one.'

The baby whined and gurgled, opening a pair of beautiful blue eyes.

'...Hello.' Martin breathed.

The child gave him a truly impressive glare, kicked furiously and screamed.

Martin felt the world fall away.

________________________________________________________________

Sister Isabella nearly jumped out of her skin when a volley of knocks hammered on the door beside the infirmary.

'Peace! Peace!' she admonished, rushing to unlock it. 'You will break it down-'

Screams deafened her. The young man, handsomely dressed and covered in mud, was cradling a tiny baby wrapped in his cloak and a bundle of wet blankets.

'She needs feeding,' the man pleaded, clearly desperately out of his depth.

'Give her to me!' Sister Isabella took the baby from him and rang her hand bell. Sister Rosaline, sleeping in a cot in the hospital on the other side of the corridor, jerked awake and came running.

'Feed the babe! I will fetch her clean swaddling.' Isabella passed the child to a nodding Rosaline who adjusted her gown and cradled the baby against her chest, who quieted immediately.

The young man disappeared into the courtyard and came back carrying a full bucket of water. He disappeared and returned again, and before long there was a hot bath steaming away in the corner, which Isabella had forced the young man to sit in while he cradled the baby and she poured water over her shivering form.

Once she had stopped shivering, and she was clean of river mud, Rosaline fetched a cradle from a store room and they lay the little girl down to rest. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, snuffling once and twitching, before falling still.

'What is her name?'

'Yvette.'

The man looked startled. He took a moment, swallowed, and looked down at the sleeping child.

'Her..' the man paused, staring.

Isabella and Rosaline shared a knowing look.

'My daughter is called Yvette.'

Author's Notes

BABIES NEED BREAST MILK OR FORMULA!! Goat milk can cause dehydration, malnutrition from lack of protein, kidney and organ damage and an allergic reaction. Cow milk can cause intestional bleeding in infants under twelve months old.

In cultures such as England in the High Middle Ages, babies were often swaddled, theoretically to help their arms and legs grow straight. Swaddling involved wrapping the infant in linen strips with his legs together and his arms close to his body. (ThoughtCo)

A woman can only act as a wet nurse if she is lactating (producing milk). It was once believed that a wet nurse must have recently undergone childbirth in order to lactate. This is not necessarily the case, as regular breast stimulation can elicit lactation via a neural reflex of prolactin production and secretion. (Wikipedia)

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba @dogblessyoutascha

Part Thirty-Four

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century.

Also on AO3

‘I am willing to wed a vampire, but I draw the line at sleeping with one.’

Matthew swallowed a smile and forced himself not to look at Hugh as Adelasia del Vasto slid the marriage contract back across the desk.

Count Roger I of Sicily, from the House of Hauteville, had died of natural causes at the grand old age of seventy. His son Simon inherited the title, but when the boy died unexpectedly four years later, Simon's younger brother Roger took over.

Adelasia's husband had entrusted her with regency over their sons before he had passed. She came from the Aleramici, a legendary Frankish-Italian dynasty that ruled great swathes of Italy's northwestern territories. The founder of the line, Count Willehmus, had been Burgundian.

'No natural-born heirs' Matthew nodded, scratching a small amendment to the contract. It would have difficult to produce one even if it was biologically possible; Adelasia was thirty-seven, and Baldwin was masquerading as fifty-four.

Adelasia smiled at Martin's joke and clasped her hands together in her lap.

‘My son Roger will inherit everything when His Majesty...passes away.’

‘Of course’ Hugh nodded. Surprise flashed in Adelasia’s eyes but she seemed happy enough to keep her doubts to herself.

That was good. Baldwin was counting on it.

________________________________________________________________

Baldwin, king of Judea and Jerusalem, and defensor of the Holiest Sepulchre of our Lord, Jesus Christ, was broke. There had been almost non-stop fighting against Egyptian forces in the twelve years since he had taken the throne and the threat of bankruptcy was always lurking in the wings.

Adelasia had arrived in Acre with a fleet of eleven ships, five hundred Sicilian Saracen archers, jewels, cloth, and gold. The flagship had a masthead, stern and bow gilded with pure gold and decorated by master craftsman. The public had been enraptured by the opulent display and a buoyant, bubbling excitement ran through the city.

Baldwin was ecstatic.

‘This looks to be quite a wedding’ he tapped his wine glass lightly against Martin’s, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Money in the coffers, fresh soldiers for the ranks,’ Martin sipped his wine and beamed cheekily at Baldwin. ‘No sex though.’

‘Her loss’

‘Best of four?’

‘Shut up’ Baldwin chuckled.

________________________________________________________________

‘You need to have a look at this’ Martin dropped two pieces of parment onto Baldwin’s desk and dropped heavily into a chair.

The missives had arrived directly from church this morning; the first concerned the results of the Latin Patriarchate elections, and the other was a very serious message inscribed with the signature of the papal legate.

'Arnulf's been forcibly deposed.'

Baldwin swore and slammed the desk with his fist.

Arnulf of Chocques, Latin Patriach of Jerusalem, had been the one to suggest Baldwin's marriage to Adelasia in the first place, as a way to resolve his money troubles. If his majesty agreed to all terms, Arnulf had pointed out, he could steal himself a fortune legally.

'Three years after the fact and the Pope decides that he has an issue with it' Baldwin sighed and shook his head.

'He says that you married bigamously, since Arda is still alive and you entered into the wedding with the understanding that there would be no physical intimacy between you and therefore no heirs.'

'Her father hardly paid her dowry' Baldwin growled.

'But he paid.' Martin looked at him. 'You bled him dry for fifty percent before you cast her off, and you have milked this marriage for all it is worth. Perhaps you should return Adelasia to her son; I am sure she would love to be reunited with him.'

Baldwin relaxed his deathgrip on his chair and breathed out slowly.

'What now?'

Martin reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a large lump of parchment. The insignia pressed into the wax seal was Philippe's.

'Well-'

________________________________________________________________

Arda took a bite of baklava, read the note again, and nearly choked laughing.

'-parted on poor terms...oh, this is too much! Anoush!'

Her cousin stepped into the room, skirting around the servant on the floor giving Arda a foot massage.

'My beloved husband-'Arda spat the words through a smile, '-has written to ask me to return to his side in Jerusalem.'

'Surely you jest?!' Anoush grabbed the note from her cousin's hand.

'I do not.'

'The man is quite mad'

'Indeed' Arda pushed a second note towards her. 'Martin sends his regards as well.'

Anoush smiled fondly. She found it hard to hate her former partner, despite everything. Perhaps because when Martin found out where Baldwin had banished Arda he had told her immediately.

And he had been as gentle as he could to Vahagn at the end.

'How shall we answer them?' Anoush asked, eyes glinting mischievously.

Arda looked around the room.

'Bring me that oil lamp...and that bowl...'

________________________________________________________________

'Well, I think her answer is very clear' said Martin, poking through the pile of ashes that the messenger had nervously tipped out in front of Baldwin.

'The pope has restored Arnulf on the condition that he tear apart my marriage to Adelasia, Arda refuses to return, and pater is breathing down my neck to resolve this situation.'

Baldwin looked up at Martin.

'What the hell am I supposed to do?'

'...fake your death? ' Martin said, quietly.

Baldwin leant back in his chair and groaned in frustration.

________________________________________________________________

Roger clasped his mother's hand and looked mournfully at her.

'Can I not persuade you to stay?'

Adelasia smiled sadly and shook her head.

Her son had been nothing but wonderful since she had returned, showering her with gifts and making sure she was comfortable and happy. But something inside her had broken after the anullment of her marriage to Baldwin at Acre; something that all the familial love in the world wasn't going to fix.

‘The quiet of the convent will do me good.’

The Convent of San Bartolomeo was in Palermo, the capital of her son’s empire. It was a beautiful complex, dedicated to St Bartholomew the Apostle; the follower of Jesus was matyred by being skinned alive, and subsequently became the patron saint of tanners, plasteres, tailors, leatherworkers, bookbinders, farmers, housepainters, butchers and glove makers.

Fitting, really. Her husband had stripped her of her wealth, her health and apparently her happiness.

Roger swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked rapidly. ‘I will never forgive those bastards for how they have treated you. Never. I swear it.’

Adelasia squeezed his hand. ‘I know.’

________________________________________________________________

They waited until the cover of night to smuggle Baldwin out of the city. Jerusalem was in mourning for its king and the heir apparent was expected to arrive any day. It wouldn't do for "Baldwin II" to arrive early.

'You could stay,' Baldwin said, quietly. 'I will need advisors I can trust.'

But Martin was already shaking his head.

'I have been away from Burgundy for too long. Better to return and relieve Estienne from the burden than return after the man has grown weary of his position. I will miss you.'

Startling to realise how true that is.

Baldwin said nothing but pulled Martin into a hug. He squeezed him firmly, and clapped him on the back.

'I will return some day to check up on the place. Take care not to burn it all to the ground.'

Baldwin snorted. 'Brakāto'

'Natrik'

They climbed up onto their horses and turned, riding off in different directions and ignoring the urge rising in their chests to turn back around and watch the other go.

Author’s Notes

Adelasia del Vasto was wealthy, widowed and wise. She was commended in her lifetime for being a prudent woman; a good ruler and an excellent mother who had a good relationship with her remaining son Roger. Adelasia died on 16 April 1118 and was buried in Patti. Roger II was outraged at the treatment of his mother and never forgave the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

Baldwin, king of Judea and Jerusalem, and defensor of the Holiest Sepulchre of our Lord, Jesus Christ was how he was referred to in a charter from 1104.

Wimple - a type of headdress worn by women in the middle ages

brakāto - bragget

natrik - snake

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fourty-Two

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century.

Also on AO3

The house on Drury Lane lay to its south, on the intersection between Wych Street and the rest of London. It had its back to the river and open fields on all sides, hemmed in by high brick walls to keep out prying eyes. There was an apple orchard and herb gardens, and Martin had built a series of interconnected streams and ponds full of fish and other wild animals to provide food and entertainment.

Martin was observing one of the ponds now; a family of otters had moved in and were scampering happily along their new home, climbing over rocks and flinging themselves into the water with a loud splash.

'Are you not concerned that they will eat everything?' asked Fernando. He happened to be passing through the neighbourhood that afternoon and had, on a whim, decided to come calling.

‘They are small creatures, they will not eat everything’ Martin dismissed him with a wave.

‘They may surprise you yet.’

‘If that becomes the case, I assure you you will hear of it first.’

‘I will,’ Fernando agreed, pointing. One of the smallest babies, a fuzzy little fluffball with slightly lopsided ears, was hauling the biggest fish it had probably ever seen in its life out of the water, squeaking indignantly as its siblings tried to grab its prize from its grasp.

‘Ambitious thief’ Martin said, laughing.

The faint sound of a racing carriage interrupted the moment, growing louder as it got closer to the house.

‘Should we go and see who that is?’ asked Fernando. Martin nodded and got to his feet, walking quickly. They reached the front door at the same time as the carriage pulled up and a pale-faced Matthew emerged, clutching a crumpled piece of parchment.

‘The Knights Templar-’ Matthew’s hand squeezed the parchment tighter for a moment. ‘-We are being rounded up and arrested. On King Philip’s orders.’

****

They managed to stop Fernando charging off long enough to leave instructions with the servants and then they were off, tearing across the city to the docks, and a boat waiting with an anxious Gallowglass behind the oars.

‘Could you not have found us a sailing ship?’

‘At this time of year? In this weather?’ Gallowglass swept a hand expressively towards the wild October sky. In the short time it had taken them to reach the Thames the sun had been covered by heavy black rainclouds, the wind whipping impressively fast through the streets.

‘A fair point,’ Fernando conceded. He hopped down into the front of the boat and took up a second set of oars while Matthew and Martin sat in the middle. ‘I will row too, the better to get us to France faster.’

And to Hugh.

They hadn’t said anything at all really on their way to the dock, too wrapped up in their own thoughts. Martin had asked Matthew where Philipe was; his stepfather and Ysabeau were out of the country, leaving his sisters in charge of Sept Tours while they were away.

‘Where are Baldwin and Godfrey?’ Martin asked.

‘With Ysabeau and Philipe,’ said Matthew.

‘Is Hugh at home?’

‘No,’ said Fernando, grimly. ‘He is in Paris.’

Martin and Matthew shared a look as Gallowglass pushed them off the dock wall. Paris was a month’s trip from London, even with favourable weather and fast horses.

This is going to be close…

________________________________________________________________

The crossing was choppy, but with everyone working in pairs to row they made good time.

Hugh's plans had succeeded beyond anybody's wildest expectations; the Templars paid no taxes, could move troops without issue throughout Europe, and were the rulers, or directly supported the rulers, of at least one country. King Philip IV of France, on the other hand, had inherited a kingdom crippled by loans his father had taken out to finance his war in Aragon, on top of Philip's personal debt to both the Templars and the Jews.

'He rid himself of one problem and now he is mopping up the other.' Fernando muttered, darkly. Philip had expelled the Jews from France in July the previous year, and collected their assets for his coffers in August.

Martin nodded, staring sightlessly into the water.

Perhaps that should have been a sign...

‘I can see the shore,’ Matthew said sharply, pointing. Gallowglass followed his uncle’s finger and helped Martin to row the boat into the bustling port of Calais, drawing alongside Stasia who had stopped pacing up and down the dock and was frantically waving them down.

‘What are you doing here?!’ Matthew and Gallowglass exclaimed, at the same moment that Martin and Fernando leapt out of the boat and asked ‘Have you any news of Hugh?’.

‘I am so, so sorry,’ Stasia sniffed back the tears pricking the corners of her eyes. ‘Hugh was arrested. He was being held in Chinon, and we tried to rescue him, but he was too well-guarded and nothing could be done-’

Her voice broke a little on the last word; she took a breath and gathered herself. ‘He is back in Paris now.’

‘Who betrayed him?’ Fernando was clenching his hands so tightly into fists it looked painful.

‘Guillaume de Nogaret.’

‘The keeper. of the. fucking seal.’ Martin growled. Fernando grabbed one of the oars from the boat and squeezed its handle to splinters.

________________________________________________________________

Dawn raced them across the countryside.

They had rarely ate and barely slept since setting foot in France, only pausing long enough to feed and water the horses before carrying on. What discreet enquiries they had managed to make on their travels had built into a kaleidoscope of confusing misinformation, so by the time the first twist of the Seine was in sight they still weren’t sure if Hugh was alive or dead.

They slipped into the city with the morning crowd, heads down, buried in simple cloaks. Martin had died his hair black and would normally have been the subject of intense teasing from somebody if the situation hadn’t been so tense.

‘Where is he?’ Fernando muttered, mostly to himself. Matthew closed the distance between them and pointed to a town crier standing at a crossroads up ahead. Silently, the group advanced.

‘What news of the Templars, good sir?’ Martin asked, when he realised that he had been shuffled to the front. ‘Is the trial done?’

‘Aye tis done, I am afraid.’ The man raised a hand and pointed to a distant speck in the middle of the Seine. ‘They executed them over yonder, upon Île aux Javiaux.’

All Martin could hear was the sudden wild beating of his heart and Fernando’s laboured breathing in his ear that had skipped on “executed”.

‘And who has been killed thus far?’ Matthew prompted, first being prompted himself into asking by a pallid Stasia.

‘Jacques de Molay, Geoffroi de Charney, Godefroi de Gonneville, and Hugh de Clermont,’ said the crier.

It was only Martin’s fingers wrapping around his wrist that kept Fernando from ripping out the crier’s throat with his bare hands. His other hand was busy propping up Gallowglass, who had gone chalk white and was swaying ever so slightly.

________________________________________________________________

The smart thing to do would have been to wait until nightfall, but none of them were in the mood to do the smart thing.

Martin didn't trust the oars in anyone else's hands so he rowed the boat from the riverbank to the shore of the island. Gallowglass and Fernando were holding hands and weeping, Gallowglass's face buried in the crook of his father's neck.

Stasia was crying too, head bowed beside her brother as Matthew worked his way silently through his rosary. Martin moored the boat as gently as he could, giving everyone a moment before he broke the silence.

'Someone else is here.'

The heartbeat he had heard resolved itself into a young boy. The fourteen-year-old was knelt in the dirt beside a burnt circle, head bowed, hands clasped around a rosary of his own. His monk's habit swamped him; when Martin deliberately sent a small stone skittering along the ground the boy started, tried to jump up, caught his feet in the folds of his robe and stumbled.

'You are not supposed to be here.'

'I..I am aware, m'lord,' the boy righted himself, and bowed, red-faced. He gestured feebly towards the circle. 'I..I wanted to pray for them. Someone should.'

Martin swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

'There should be ashes.' Fernando had started to pace the burnt ground and stopped, staring. 'There is nothing. Where are their ashes?'

'They were taken away.' The boy flinched under the intensity of their gaze. 'They...their ashes were collected and taken to various shrines and churches through the city. I-I know not where.'

Gallowglass shut down, stomping back to the boat and sitting heavily beside it. Fernando nodded once and held out a shaking hand; Matthew took it and helped his brother-in-law to walk back to the shore.

________________________________________________________________

'So this is where you betrayed my husband.'

Guillaume de Nogaret shot up from his desk, gripping a short sword in his hand. 'I was following orders.'

'Orders you poured like poison into the King's ear.' Fernando glared at him, eyes flashing. Behind him in the corridor Guillaume could see his guards lying dead or dying, gore splattered across the carpet and up the walls. Distant screams echoed up from the depths of the house.

'The Templars owned the world! They had too much power!'

'ENOUGH!' Fernando roared. He gripped the desk and flipped it, sending it crashing into the wall.

Guillaume lunged, stabbing forward. Fernando blocked him and he swapped hands, swinging behind him, his left hand gripping his sword as he spun.

Fernando blocked again. He grabbed his wrist and his upper arm; Guillaume shrieked at an ungodly pitch as he twisted both in the opposite direction.

Guillaume collapsed into a heap, clutching his ruined arm. Fernando stood over him; he looked up as Gallowglass appeared in the doorway, dripping with viscera from head to foot, Martin at his heels.

'Help- help me!' Guillaume moaned.

Gallowglass stepped up beside his father, looming over the shivering lawyer as Martin turned away, locking the door behind him.

Author’s Notes

There was a mansion built on Drury Lane, but Drury House was owned and built by Suffolk barrister Sir Robert Drury, circa 1500. It passed into the hands of the Earl of Craven, became turned into the public house The Queen of Bohemia, and then was finally demolished along with the small houses built over its former gardens in 19809.

Otters don't hibernate! I thought they did. There are over ten species of otters; the ones in Martin's garden would be Eurasian otter (Lutra lutra), the only wild species found in the UK.

London in October has an average temperature of 15ºC, with a lot of rain and wind competing with sunshine to make the weather very interesting.

According to Wikipedia "...King Philip IV of France mistrusted the Templars. The Teutonic Knights ruled Prussia under charters issued by the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor as a sovereign monastic state. He was concerned that the Templars in the Languedoc of southeastern France were planning the same thing.

In 1306, the Templars had supported a coup on the island of Cyprus, which had forced King Henry II of Cyprus to abdicate his throne in favor of his brother, Amalric of Tyre. Philip had inherited land in the region of Champagne, France, which was the Templars' headquarters. The Templars were already a "state within a state", were institutionally wealthy, paid no taxes, and had a large standing army which by papal decree could move freely through all European borders.

However, this army no longer had a presence in the Holy Land, leaving it with no battlefield. Philip had also inherited an impoverished kingdom from his father and was already deeply in debt to the Templars. However, recent studies emphasize the political and religious motivations of the French king. It seems that, with the "discovery" and repression of the "Templars' heresy," the Capetian monarchy claimed for itself the mystic foundations of the papal theocracy.

The Temple case was the last step of a process of appropriating these foundations, which had begun with the Franco-papal rift at the time of Boniface VIII. Being the ultimate defender of the Catholic faith, the Capetian king was invested with a Christlike function that put him above the pope : what was at stake in the Templars' trial, then, was the establishment of a "royal theocracy"."

Jacques de Molay, the last Grand Master of the Knights Templar, was arrested on Friday, 13th October 1307, but he wasn't put to death until sometime between 11 - 18 March 1314. I sped things up because having a shorter window of opportunity to rescue Hugh made his demise make more sense in my mind.

Guillaume de Nogaret was the keeper of the seal of King Philip IV of France, not the Knights Templar (sorry for the confusion but the title sounded snappy). He was a lawyer, a statesman and a councilor, and was an active participant in the arrest and torture of the Knights Templar. After the trial, he went on to be involved with the trial of Guichard, Bishop of Troyes, on various charges including witchcraft, and was making plans to go on crusade and pilgrimage when he died in April 1313.

Now known by the moniker Île Louviers, the Île aux Javiaux "...is a former island in the Seine in the centre of Paris, just upstream of the present Île Saint-Louis and of a similar size. Never built up, it was connected with the north bank of the river in 1843. Just before it ceased to be an island it had a surface area of 33,638m². In modern Paris the former island lies between the quai Henri IV and the boulevard Morland." (Wikipedia).

The remains of the Knights Templars burnt on Île Louviers were collected and delivered to various churches around Paris.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fourty-One

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century.

Also on AO3

'What the fuck is that?' Baldwin sneered, not bothering to hide his disgust. He had been told- they had all been told- that Ysabeau had taken in a pair of orphans she had dredged up from the streets of Paris but he was positive he had told her to put them back where she found them.

Even Philippe had had a word or two with her.

'Your new siblings.' Ysabeau composed herself in her usual impenetrable way. 'Louis, and his sister Louisa.'

The twins bowed.

They were at least ten years older than he had been when he was turned. The woman was smirking at him behind a thin-lipped smile, while her brother's bow was exaggerated and genuine.

They were identical down to their dark hair and bright, charcoal eyes. Louis was as much a dandy as his sister; they clearly had an appetite for finery and were making up for it now. Louisa's dress must have cost a small fortune, and Louis' shoes...

They look like their brother at least. Christ.

'I have put up with Matthew,' Baldwin growled, 'I will not tolerate them!'

'How unfortunate.' Louisa sighed sadly. 'I had hoped that we would get along.'

Baldwin bared his teeth and growled. Louis flinched but Louisa stood tall, only dipping her chin slightly when Ysabeau gave her a pointed glare.

________________________________________________________________

Baldwin stalked through the streets of Paris, the late middle ages carrying on around him. The house on the Rive Droite sat right on the water; there was a private pier attached to it and a balcony looking out across the Seine.

'She is. A. Menace.' Baldwin heard Verin grinding her teeth in frustration as Estienne led him through the house. He emerged onto the balcony as Martin passed Verin a bottle of spiced mead; she sculled a few mouthfuls in one go and passed it back.

And there he was. Martin. Solid as a rock, and dependable; the best friend he'd ever had. He'd been buzzing with anger since he'd left France, like hives roiling under his skin, but just seeing him sitting there calmed him down. Baldwin always felt better around Martin.

'When did you get here?' he demanded.

Verin very nearly rolled her eyes. 'I can be friends with Martin too.'

'Five hours ago.' Martin shuffled over to make room for Baldwin to sit down. 'We have only just moved past Matthew to the crux of the matter.'

Ah. Matthew.

Verin was a killer. All his sisters were. Verin had begged Philippe to make her the family assassin, but he had chosen Christian guilt-incarnate Matthew over her. It was the one point of contention between them that had festered into full-blown conflict.

'How do you find the twins?' Martin asked, offering Baldwin the mead.

'Louis is overly dramatic but he does what he's told.' Baldwin took the bottle and sipped.

'He is a good dancer,' said Verin.

'And Louisa..'

'Is a cunt,' Baldwin spat. 'She has already upset three major negotiations pater was orchestrating by sleeping with the other party, not to mention the mess she made in Florence when pater sent her away. I cannot understand what the hell Ysabeau sees in that bitch.'

Verin was silent for a moment, fiddling nervously with the knife she kept hidden in her boot. Martin noticed, froze, then sighed.

'She is like Matthew.'

..blood..

..black eyes...

...Martin, white as a sheet and shaking, looking from Eleanor's ragdoll corpse to the three of them standing over the body...

Baldwin blinked, a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. He nodded.

Author's Notes

Origin of the word fuck: "While its origin is obscure, it is usually considered to be first attested to around 1475 CE*. The Oxford English Dictionary states that the ultimate etymology is uncertain, but that the word is "probably cognate" with a number of Germanic words with meanings involving striking, rubbing and having sex or is derivative of the Old French word that meant 'to have sex'." - Wikipedia

*This chapter takes place in 1300AD, so I've moved its origins a little earlier.

The Rive Droite (Right Bank) is the right bank of the river Seine as it flows through Paris. The Rive Gauche is the Left Bank. The Seine flows roughly westward, cutting Paris in half. When facing downstream, the southern bank is to the left and the northern bank is to the right.

In this au, when Eleanor St Leger was killed in Jerusalem, Baldwin, Matthew and Bertrand were in the room when it happened.