#like an embroidery machine would be so fucking neat to have!

[ukulelegodparent]

So I think I finally have a big thing I will save money on to buy in like 5 years or something

[scaryvbachelorettes]

· · ─────── · Emily · ─────── · ·

Cw; Stalking, obsessive behaviour, fucked up bachelorettes, breaking in, scary art, blood, brief mentions of stealing clothing and choking (not detailed)

Steady hum came from the sewing machine, the ticking of the clock accompanied by energetic humming. Emily's foot pressed on the pedal that powered the machine, her push soft and experienced. Her fingers deftly pressed the fabric under the clacking needle, her eyes concentrated. It was the most important work for her as it was a present for you. It wasn't the first clothing she made, first gifting you wool and cloth and then sewing full pieces that were more intricate than the last. This time it was a simple shirt, an olive hue making it a sight for sore eyes. The seam was done, only a small detail left for her to embroider. An involuntarily chuckle left Emily as she added her name to the inner collar of the shirt. Small, golden stitching looked neat and bright enough to be noticed. Unsuspecting farmer wouldn't understand the implications, perhaps thinking of it as a creator signing their work. But Emily knew, oh she knew that this note would make others frustrated. After all, it is her name that touches your skin, her hands indirectly cupping your neck like a collar. Emily felt her hand jolt as she imagined touching your neck, cupping it, squeezing it. A prickling sensation hit her brain as she felt blood ooze from her thumb. She wasn't mad though, her eyes wide and intense as she watched the blood trickle onto the now-stained shirt. It was dark but blended nicely. Her foot lifted, stopping the movement of the needle as she watched her embroidery turn dark red and mix into a dark hue. Small giggles left her lips as she thought of her blood mixing with your sweat, the stains staying deep in the cloth as you wore it day after day. Her giggles turned into cackles as she pressed her bloodied thumb over the rim of the collar, moving it in a circle. Emily stood up, leaning heavily on the table, her purple eyes raking over the dark crimson ring, a collar made of her insides. 

My god is Emily crazy. She is the only one who doesn't mind competition. In fact, she loves to cause chaos just by purposefully taunting other bachelorettes with winning your heart. Lying about having a sleepover at your house just to anger Maru? Hugging you constantly around Penny? Flirt openly with you in the Stardrop Saloon? She isn't above a small mischief here and there. 

It doesn't mean she isn't serious about the farmer and her love, she is just confident enough to play around with self-conscious bachelorettes. Emily is one of the more calm bachelorettes, she doesn't kill or attack others. Why would she? No matter how much others try she will still be there for the farmer before anyone else. She will always be a shoulder for you to cry on, a friend that was kind to you since the first day you arrived at Pelican Town. 

She wasn't like those other dangerous, mean girls. She was nice and warm, gifting your clothing and listening to your problems. She was patient, so fucking patient. 

Still, no matter how much Emily showed you kindness you still hadn't really considered her romantically. Why? Was it because you were completely clueless? Or maybe you were trying to play stupid so you wouldn't have to deal with romantic relationships? She didn't know but it drove her crazy. 

She would sit alone at night, looking at the countless fabrics, thinking of possible clothing she might make you. 

"How about this one?" She would ask her parrot, holding up a navy blue, silky fabric. A chirp came from the bird, its beak turned away. 

"Another no? Hm," She would murmur, her eyes distant as she looked over the cluttered shelves.  

Sometimes Emily took walks down to your farm, her hand clutching a few fabrics. She would wait before your door, standing silently, thinking over the things she would say. She never knocked, instead waiting quietly until you came out

She couldn't help but feel a rush as she saw your neutral expression turn to surprise. The way you would startle made her heart race, her eyes wider than usual.

"Emily?" A confused exhale left your lips as you almost ran into her. It was six or something in the morning.

Emily usually stands silently for a few seconds before smiling warmly and putting on a familiar, friendly demeanor. She asks about your well-being, about the crops, and how others treat you, her smile never wavering. In a way, she was always weirdly alert, her eyes blown open as early as she wakes up. 

Sometimes she gifts you the fabrics she came with or a new garment, her hands shaky as she waits for your reaction. No matter how many times you will show your happiness while receiving them she will never stop worrying. Obviously, she couldn't disappoint her love, couldn't have a seam wrong. 

At night when you come back from a long day of work in the field, you might feel uneasy. You could have sworn there were eyes in the dark. As you later then laid in bed, completely exhausted, you might even feel the mattress dip.

Not to worry though! It was just her, your friend Emily. She usually sits patiently on the bed, her purple eyes and wild blue hair mixing with the darkness. Some days, when she feels particularly bold she crawls up to the headboard. Leaning over your face, smiling to herself, her head tilted. 

Would it be weird to say she sits like that until morning? She wishes to sleep alongside you, protect you from cold and creeps. She hopes to say good morning to you without you screaming in fear. So she leans away, sitting quietly as she observed warm sunlight glow on your skin. 

Other times she rummages through your things. How kind of you to leave the door unlocked for her! Her hands carefully tucked your clothing back into the shelves, sometimes taking out your underwear. She wouldn't take it or do anything weird with it obviously…but she had to check if the fabric was good. And if they were worn or had a tear she would just repair it. By taking it to her house, of course. And maybe staining it with her blood or more. 

Unfortunately, she wasn't the only person who stayed in the farmer's house longer than welcome. With her sister, she could agree to divide the days of the week between the two of them. But others? They were just constantly around you! Usually, it amused her but sometimes their jealousy ends up in a fight. Loud fight, an unnecessary alarm to you. So Emily found herself being a sort of tying force, a middle woman that calmed them down. Reminding them that the farmer isn't an idiot, just a little oblivious. 

She doesn't remember the day she started adoring you, and really- does it matter? When she sits on your bed, her ear to your chest, hearing your heartbeat is enough to sate her. 

It was like your heart itself talked to her, giving her more than enough confidence to believe that you're meant to be. Who cares about small details or your lack of acknowledgment? After all, you must have something for her...

[qqueenofhades]

the dragons on the map: iii

Rating: M Summary:  After the Lifeboat is nearly destroyed, the Time Team ends up stranded in their strangest and most unfamiliar destination yet: 1195 France. With Rittenhouse to stop, medieval adventures to be had, and a pair of rival kings at war, it’ll truly be a miracle if they ever get home. (Garcy/Lyatt/pre-Garcyatt, Flogan, Rufus Is Judging, general Time Team relationships and bonding. Guest appearances from the Plantagenets, for reasons.) Available: AO3

The streets of Paris are uneven, muddy, and dark, and Flynn is having to concentrate on keeping both his footing and an eye on Lucy. He and Wyatt already decided with a look that it’s too dangerous to try to punch and/or shoot their way out of this, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for a later alteration of the plan. The captain of the guards has to be Rittenhouse, or at least Rittenhouse-trained – how else would he be able to speak modern English to them? Is it possible that Rittenhouse isn’t just days ahead of them, but weeks, or months? Their jump here was so uncontrolled, like a windsurfer being pulled along in the wake of a motorboat, that they still don’t know when they arrived relative to the Mothership, or even how they consciously did at all. If the machines run on a closed time-like curve, the amount of fold and twist in the fabric of spacetime necessary to bend so far back on itself might have created a maelstrom effect. In other words, Rufus could not possibly have jumped the Lifeboat anywhere – or when – else. It would have just gotten stuck in the Mothership’s massive gravitational anomaly and dragged down here anyway. But like debris washing up on the beach – basically, after all, exactly how they landed – there is no reason it has to have been anywhere close. Did Rittenhouse do this on purpose? Frankly, Flynn isn’t sure they’re that smart. But since 1195 is so very far from 2018 (in more ways than one), farther than either of the machines have traveled before, maybe this jump did mess something up. Something more than history, something that can’t be changed.

That, however ominous a thought, is also a very unhelpful one, and Flynn shoves it away. He glances around for Lucy again. They are being escorted toward the portcullis of the gate that guards the bridge to the Île-de-la-Cité, and Flynn feels a cold lump of foreboding in his stomach. If they’re going here, they’re going directly to the royal dungeons, rather than some noisome local hoosgow for small-time miscreants. Prisoners held at the king’s pleasure have almost no chance of getting out, or at least not for years. Maybe they took the punching thing off the table too early. Have Rittenhouse finally realized that gloating never goes well for villains, and are intending to just chuck them in here and throw away the key? Or –

Flynn is on the very hair-trigger of a considerable scene, but Lucy is too far away for him to reach easily, and he feels oddly obligated for Rufus as well (Wyatt can take care of himself, he’ll be fine). Besides, there has to be some kind of explanation for this. Rittenhouse probably wants information (which they’re not going to get) or satisfaction (which Flynn intends to see they don’t). If they wanted to just kill them, they’d have taken them down by the Seine and tipped the bodies in (though there are guaranteed to be some of their own among them). No. Taking them here means something else is afoot. Something bigger.

The guards shout up at their fellows on the gatehouse, and chains rattle and clank as the portcullis is winched up, mossy iron teeth dripping with river water. The team is marched forward by their respective soldiers, Wyatt and Flynn exchange another look, and once more – for the time being – consent. They still have their guns, hidden beneath their jackets (or tunic, in Wyatt’s case) but that’s only an ultimate last-resort option. And no matter how the saying might go about bringing a knife to a gun fight, Flynn would not like to take his chances against these particular knives unless he has to. Someone swinging a piece of metal at you that is three feet long and extremely sharp is not a prospect to take lightly, especially when they know exactly what the hell they’re doing with it. Boys start training for knighthood at seven years old. Even the best-drilled, crack-shot special-ops soldier in the modern world didn’t enlist until he was eighteen.

Torches flicker from rough iron sconces as they pass under another portcullis, and enter the main courtyard – the bailey, it’s better known as. Flynn is briefly struck by the whiteness and sharpness of the stones in the walls and in the buildings of the royal palace. He has wandered around plenty of old castles in his day – he used to live in Dubrovnik, Croatia, which is a medieval old-city jewel box – but they’ve all been that, old. They’ve had several centuries to slip and scuff and wear, to settle down to comfortable disarray. This one is so new that you can almost smell the sawdust. It looks like a Hollywood set or a modern replica, rather than the real thing. Which is the irony, of course, because it is.

“So,” Flynn says, as pleasantly as he can. “We’re going to visit someone?”

“Yes.” The captain smiles at him, not in a way to make Flynn feel better about this (although that was not likely to happen anyway). “Some formalities. To see why you are here, is all.”

“You do that for all the newcomers to the city? And speak to them in English?” Flynn can’t quite tell if the captain is a native speaker or not. The version of English presently in currency is early Middle English – which, while not quite as confusing to the modern eye as Anglo-Saxon Old English, is still nothing like its twenty-first-century iteration. “Cut the crap. You and your friends – ” he nods at the other three guards marching Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus, has to fight an urge to tear the bastard’s hand off Lucy’s arm and then throttle him – “you’re all Rittenhouse. Let’s just skip to that and – ”

The captain gives him what seems to be a genuinely blank look, rendering Flynn momentarily stumped. What is going on here? He is baffled enough not to struggle as they enter a hall with a high hammer-beam roof, blue banners embroidered with the fleur-de-lys draped from the rafters. A carved mahogany chair under an ornate baldachin is set on a raised dais at the end, and Flynn screeches to a halt. Wait a damn minute, is this –

The thought barely has time to cross his head when the soldiers stop, the captain say something to another of his fellows by the door, and the other man nods once and turns smartly, vanishing out of it. There follow a very uncomfortable several minutes, as Flynn, Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus catch each other’s eyes and mouth silent variants of what the hell? They, to say the least, were expecting to be jumped or beaten or thrown into the dungeon (Flynn happens to know that iron maidens were a nineteenth-century myth used to bolster the “barbaric dark ages!” narrative that the Victorians were fond of, but that doesn’t mean that whatever is awaiting them would be pleasant). This appears instead to be the throne room, and that is an entirely new can of worms.

Right now, as Flynn has told the others, the king of France is Philip II, of the Capetian dynasty established in the late tenth century. He is sometimes known as Philip Augustus, originally for the month of his birth, but after his forty-three-year-long reign, from 1180-1223, with its impressive territorial conquests and brilliant, ruthless centralization of the French crown, there are plenty who see it as a fitting imperial epithet. He is presently just thirty years old, but has been a king since the age of fifteen. He is cynical, clever, clear-eyed, calculating, shrewd, bitter, jealous, and obsessed – especially with Richard the Lionheart, his great rival, who gets the best of him in nearly everything until his unexpected death in four years. There is plenty of conjecture as to how their notoriously intimate and passionate friendship, forged in the summer of 1187 as they were both plotting against Richard’s father, Henry II of England, has gone so wrong. But if the team is here to see Philip – Flynn has lost all notion of what is going on, or who can possibly want what from them.

He shifts his weight restlessly. Lucy and the other two are looking at him, waiting for him to history them out of this – Lucy’s job, usually, and Flynn feels an odd reticence at supplanting her. But he can’t do much when they’re still being watched by the guards. Do they all speak English, or just the captain? How long are they going to be kept waiting? It might be a king’s prerogative, but Garcia Flynn has had a goddamn bitch of a few days and he just wants, if that’s fine with everyone, to sleep.

At last, there’s a rustle at the door, and the guards snap to attention. There’s no trumpet fanfare, nothing but a tapestry imperiously thrust aside, and a communal inclination of heads, hands on hearts. Flynn does the same, and the trio follows his lead, as a slender, dark man, with shrewd green eyes, neat black beard, and a cool, haughty manner, strides into the room. He’s wearing a high-necked blue tunic picked with gilted embroidery, rings on his fingers, and a golden circlet on his head. It’s clear, as if it wasn’t by all the bowing, that this is the head honcho, the main man, and Flynn, after trying to decide if they should wait to be addressed or humbly acknowledge the king’s presence, goes with the latter. Unlike in later centuries, when the honorific would be “Votre Majesté,” it hasn’t come into common use for royalty yet. The title, shared between kings, bishops, lords, and pretty much any dignitary below emperor rank (and it can be pretty much anything for them, because they’re an emperor, fuck you) is “Vostre Grace.”

It is this which Flynn murmurs deferentially, as the team again copies him. Philip Capet eyes them with considerable judgment, clearly hearing their atrocious accents, but does not immediately comment upon them. Then he turns to the captain, asks something, and when it is answered, looks back at them. He appears to be asking which of them is in charge here.

For once, although Wyatt might normally have a problem with letting Flynn claim that role, he hurriedly steps back, so he doesn’t get stuck having to do this. “It’s him,” he says, and points. “Definitely him.”

Flynn rolls his eyes, even as he wonders if that counts as a show of trust. He clears his throat and turns back to Philip, who is waiting with an exquisitely arched eyebrow. This is a man who can evidently give Flynn a run for his money in the sassy face Olympics, even if Philip is a head and a half shorter than him (aw, how nice, Wyatt isn’t the midget in the room anymore). Flynn clears his throat. “C’est moi.”

“Great,” he hears Rufus mutter. “This is just who I wanted in charge of not getting us thrown into ye olde dungeon.”

With a valiant effort of will, Flynn does not turn around and strangle them, even as he hears Lucy shushing them like a stern kindergarten teacher. Philip utters a tiny sigh, a sign that they are treating the royal presence with considerable levity and they should knock it off. Then he says, “Can you provincials in fact understand me?”

It’s in Old French, of course, but since Philip speaks the closest thing there is to a standard, the educated Parisian or court French that modern French will develop from, the sort of thing that l’Académie members have special dreams about at night (though really, Flynn doesn’t want to know what those are), Flynn can indeed follow him, with effort. He blinks in abject gratitude, as it feels like grasping the Rosetta Stone after years of ignorance. “Yes. What is the language that your man there speaks?” It’s dangerous, going for the “did you know your bodyguard might be Rittenhouse?” ploy right off, but they need to get a few things straight.

“He says it is your native tongue.” Philip stares back at him unreadably. “Perhaps you should tell me?”

Well played, Flynn has to admit. A king does not give information, he asks for it, and Philip isn’t going to tip his hand on who – or what – he thinks they are. There is an awkward moment as Flynn can hear the boys whispering to Lucy if she can understand it, Lucy answering that she can get more of it than usual, and all of them shutting up sharpish as Philip flicks that viper’s gaze on them. “You have a talkative retinue of servants, do you not? Is it also the custom where you come from for them to gossip behind their masters’ backs?”

Flynn really wishes Wyatt understood that, just because the look on his face would have been worth the whole trip, but manages to keep his own face straight. “That is my wife, my lord. And my business partner – ” he points at Rufus – “and manservant.”

“Your business partner?” Philip considers the unfamiliar term, then glances at Rufus with a cutting expression. “A Saracen? So you are English, then? The English king is the one known to keep consort and commerce with all manner of heathens and unchristian people, after all. And you certainly speak the French language poorly enough.”

Flynn opens his mouth, reminds himself that no good can come of pointing out to Philip that the English (at least the upper classes) and the French speak essentially the same language at this point, and shakes his head. “No. We – we are Castilian, Your Grace. From Spain.”

“I am aware where Castile is.” Philip studies him with hooded eyes. It’s not altogether clear that he believes it. “What are your names?”

“I am Garcia.” It’s a good old Spanish name, already used for a while in one or other of the regional dynasties (Navarrese or Aragonese, Flynn thinks) and doesn’t need to be changed. “My wife, Lucy.” Likewise an old French name that is current, even if more often used as a place name; a Godfrey de Lucy is the bishop of somewhere in England right now. Winchester? Fuck it, Flynn can’t remember, and it’s not important. “My partner is Ramiro, and my servant is William.” When in doubt for a male name in twelfth-century France, just pick William. Considering Flynn could have stuck him with something like Odo or Boso (both old and honorable French names, he will have you know), Wyatt should be grateful.

As he says this, Flynn watches the English-speaking guard very carefully. If he’s Rittenhouse, there should be some flicker of awareness at this (even though, frankly, he’s probably guessed who they are from the moment he saw them in the tavern, and doesn’t need the confirmation). But nothing. He’s perfected the job of acting like a piece of furniture; he is here to protect the king’s person, not to presume to listen to his conversations or interact in his affairs. If he is a sleeper agent, he’s been here long enough to learn the drill, which again – worrisome. There’s a long pause as Philip takes all this in. Then he says, “And when did you arrive in Paris? Recently?”

“Just tonight Your Grace. We were… welcomed by your man there and brought here. We are still not entirely certain as to why.”

There is another pause. Then Philip raises a hand. “Leave us.”

There is an orderly rustle of movement as the guards pivot on their heels and file out without a backward glance; the king speaks, they obey. It’s a power Flynn can’t help but envy, even as he knows it’s the power Rittenhouse wants: that unquestioning, instant submission to one ruler, the arbitrator of a universe built on unshakeable certainty: the people answer to the lord who answers to the king who answers to God who (at least according to them) speaks through the church. This is not a place of postmodern political theory or grey moral relativism or atheism, or even usually agnosticism. This is not a time for considering yourself to have a special, individual destiny, over and above the role in which you have been born and raised. You are part of many, the pillar of the whole. Having seen this world for himself, Flynn understands a little more. You step out of line, you try to detach yourself from the community you need to survive, and you will die.

In any event, Philip dismissing his guards clearly means that he doesn’t think Flynn and the others will try to attack him – which they won’t, obviously, they’re not here to do Rittenhouse’s job for them – and without the potential Rittenhouse mole eavesdropping, they can perhaps speak more freely. Philip moves to the sideboard and pours a goblet of wine, then beckons, inviting Flynn to do the same. The king won’t serve him, obviously, but he can serve himself in the king’s presence, hinting that there might be some more candor in their interactions. Philip then glances over at the other three. “And your lady may take refreshment as well, of course. Madame?”

Lucy blinks, then drops an awkward little curtsy. It’s adorable, even if probably completely anachronistic, and Flynn bites his cheek. She ventures over, having obviously heard some currents of the conversation but not sure how much to let on. Philip is behaving as a well-born lord should, extending courteous conduct to the lady (though he has kept his second wife locked up in a tower without enough food, refusing to acknowledge her as his queen, since inexplicably repudiating her the morning after their wedding in 1193) but that does not mean he expects to hear or value her input in any way. Lucy pours a goblet of wine for herself, then takes a sip. Her eyes widen, which Flynn could have warned her about. Everyday beer and ale is watered down, since most people have to drink it as a common beverage, but wine – an expensive and time-consuming product cultivated in vineyards and sold at gourmand prices – doesn’t pull its punches.

“It’s very – very good, Your Grace,” Lucy says, only slightly hoarsely. “From Champagne?”

“Your wife has a refined sense of taste, my lord.” Philip looks at Flynn as if this is to his credit, not hers. “We import most of our spirits from there. My older sister – half-sister – is still the dowager countess, after my nephew never came home from Jerusalem. Not much of a loss, really.” He shrugs.

Lucy opens her mouth as if to offer sympathy, but Flynn surreptitiously steps on her foot. What Philip actually means is that his nephew, Henry II of Champagne, became king of Jerusalem at the end of the Third Crusade and is living there – at least for another few years, Flynn recalls that he dies young – quite happily, not that he was killed. But since Henry was a close ally of his other uncle, Richard (Marie of Champagne, his mother, is the daughter of Louis VII, Philip’s father, and Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard’s mother, from their first marriage to each other – incestuous does not begin to describe the family trees), as far as Philip’s concerned, he’s basically dead. Philip doesn’t particularly get along with Marie either. In fact, there are very few people, especially in his extended family, that Philip Augustus gets along with, which is mostly the way he seems to like it. He’s come here to win, not to make friends. Flynn can respect that about a man.

There’s another pause as they all genteelly sip their wine. Lucy is taking small mouthfuls, and Wyatt and Rufus are obviously wondering if they just get to stand here and awkwardly watch everyone else drink with their new best buddy, the king of France. But a Saracen and a manservant rank well below any tier of society that Philip is obligated to acknowledge or make any overture to, and so he continues to carry on as if they’re not even in the room. (God, Flynn wishes he could do that.) Then, when the dictates of hospitality have been fulfilled, Philip sets his goblet down and fixes Flynn with a cool, appraising stare. “I have been informed that you have considerable skill as a routier.”

It’s on the tip of Flynn’s tongue to ask who told him that, before he remembers that he doesn’t get to. Routier means mercenary, or a sword for hire, a man who makes his living being paid to fight in the various territorial wars across western Europe. They’re looked down on and disliked, even as they form a crucial part of most fighting forces. At least as long as it’s your standard skirmish warfare. They’re not the men to hold a fortress under siege; if a garrison resists until the bitter end, rather than coming out to surrender and make terms, the laws of war decree that they are to all be hanged or slaughtered without mercy when the castle is taken. Mercenaries, having a general concern for their skins, won’t do this, and hence will probably accept a payment from your enemy to hand over your castle to him. Richard himself has a feared mercenary captain, Mercadier, who’s served effectively as a co-dog of war. Is that what Philip wants? To also enlist some muscle without moral scruple? He does do that next year – hires a captain named Cadoc, who succeeds in wounding Richard during his attack on one of Philip’s castles – but that is 1196. This is 1195, and here Flynn – demonstrably, apparently, muscle without moral scruple – is. Standing right in front of him.

“I’ve… done that sort of thing,” Flynn says after a moment, carefully. “Yes.”

“Good.” Philip looks pleased. That can’t be good. “A man of your… presence, I would be dismayed if you did not. Well then, Garcia of Castile, if I may presume to such informality. I wish to engage your professional services.”

“You – ” Flynn blinks. “You what?”

“Did I misspeak the first time?”

No, Flynn thinks, no he did not, especially since Philip just pulled the twelfth-century equivalent of “did I fucking stutter, bitch?” This is definitely not good. “I am a – former routier, Your Grace, I mean to say. I’m only a merchant these days.”

“Are you?” Philip keeps smiling. “Forgive me if I doubt that. Your very strange apparel, the way your hand keeps moving to – what is that you have with you, exactly? No, no, please do not remove it. I may feel threatened and call for my guards, and then this would go in an unfortunate direction. As well, you have not ceased to look around this hall since you entered it, nor ever to stand at your ease. I may not be the most valiant soldier, no lion-hearted hero to rampage across battlefields, but I am not untutored in the ways of war. Also, unless customs have drastically changed in Spain – which I grant is entirely possible, what with all the Moorish invasions – I was not aware that it was permissible to lie to a king’s face. Do so again, and we can certainly arrange a different sort of welcome.”

Flynn shuts his mouth with a snap. He’s not used to feeling intimidated by other men at all, much less a man who stands maybe five-seven, five-eight, but he takes that like a backhand across the face. Philip continues to gaze at him. Again, he repeats, “Did I misspeak?”

“You did not, Your Grace.” Flynn grimaces. “I apologize for the discourtesy.”

“And before your lady?” Philip nods to Lucy, as if to say that he regrets that she has found herself attached to such an unchivalrous churl. (It may be true, but still.) It’s also a fairly clear threat that she’s standing right there, a useful hostage for Flynn’s good behavior if he keeps trying to weasel out, and that sends another chill down his spine. “Please, shall we attempt that again? Garcia of Castile, I wish to engage your professional services.”

“And what…” Flynn pauses to wet his lips. “What services would those be, Your Grace?”

“I wish you to travel to Poitiers,” Philip says. “My spies have brought me intelligence that the king of England is currently there, in company with a number of unusual people. You are to make a full report on what he is doing and who they are, and whether they are in any part a threat to me. If they are offering him some sort of advantage or tactic or anything else whatsoever, I desire it to be brought back and presented for my interest as well. Am I clear?”

Flynn’s stomach sinks slowly through his foot. On the one hand, this is exactly the information they’ve been after: Richard is in Poitiers, his hometown and capital city from his teenage days as count of Poitou and duke of Aquitaine, rather than Rouen, where he’s supposed to be right now, reconciling with his wife. Instead, he’s in another city (and another province) altogether, with Rittenhouse whispering God knows what suggestions in his ear. If Flynn knows Richard at all (that is, from books), they will have their work cut out and then some trying to manipulate him, but if it sounds like a good deal, there’s a chance that Richard could agree to it. And Philip – what? Wants Rittenhouse brought back to Paris, is willing to get in on absolutely anything, if it means Richard can’t use it against him? Someone has to have planted this idea, told Philip (mostly) who they are, whether the guard or the person that the guard reports to. Send the Time Team to fuck up history themselves – every interaction they have with Richard might lead him further away from what he’s originally supposed to do. And with the added extra twist that if Richard finds out they’ve been sent by his mortal enemy to spy on him, he’ll kill them. Great!

“We…” Flynn starts, feeling winded. “Your Grace, that…”

“You have an objection, Garcia?”

“It sounds very… dangerous.”

Philip gives him a no shit! look. “I was not aware that you were a man to recoil from danger. A craven routier? If that is the case, perhaps I can see why you went into the merchant trade. Much less risk in counting pennies. A disappointment, though, truly.”

Flynn racks his brains. They are not going to get away with refusing this offer to Philip’s face, they do need to get to Richard and warn him about Rittenhouse – that’s the whole reason they’re here – and even the fairly clear proof that there is a sleeper agent somewhere in Philip’s court is less of a problem at the moment. It’s not like they have Skype or FaceTime or any way for Philip to immediately know what they’re doing. Word travels slowly. And if Rittenhouse is there, the Mothership must be somewhere in the vicinity. Maybe they can grab it and bomb out before Philip ever hears anything. A hopeful thought, even if probably a vastly over-optimistic one. Wouldn’t that be nice.

“You would… supply means for our travel?” Flynn asks at last. “Horses, provisions, clothes, the like?”

“If that would enable you to more conscientiously carry out the task I have asked of you, yes.” Philip inclines his head with faux humility. “Seeing as the lot of you are dressed like knaves to begin with, and should not at least give such insult as to stride into Richard’s court looking like that. Garments in your measure may be difficult to come by, but I will do my best. As for a fee, it will be payable upon your successful return. And perhaps your lady wife would wish to stay and enjoy the society of the court?”

“No,” Flynn blurts out, fast enough to be rude. There is no way in absolute hellfire that he is leaving Lucy behind as a hostage, which he knows damn well that she would be. No chance he’s leaving her alone, no certain chance of a reunion, with the sleeper agent probably just waiting for the opportunity. “We…” He reaches out and puts his arm around Lucy, pulling her close. “We are very fond of each other. She is a great help to me, Your Grace.”

“In matters of war? I have not yet met the woman that was.” Philip turns on his heel to pick up his goblet again, which is probably a good thing as he misses Lucy’s appalled little huff. “I find that excessive reliance on one’s wife is not a trait to be celebrated, frankly. But for such touching marital fidelity, I can allow it. And you will be taking those others as well?”

“Yes,” Flynn says. “We will go together, my lord, or we will not go at all.”

Lucy glances up at him, as if impressed by this display of solidarity, and Philip considers it. Finally he says, “Very well. You may take your manservant and the heathen. We will discuss the arrangements tomorrow – I break my fast after Lauds, you will join me then. In the meanwhile, it does grow quite late, and you must have had a wearying journey from… Castile. You and Lady Lucy may repair upstairs, I will have a chamber made ready. The other two may sleep in the hall with the rest of the serving folk.”

Flynn thinks that despite everything, this may be his favorite mission yet, especially when this arrangement is conveyed to Wyatt and Rufus. Wyatt looks like he is about to spit fire at the thought that Flynn gets to go to an actual room with Lucy, while he and Rufus are expected to crash with the rest of the castle’s residents who don’t have their own quarters, who push aside the trestle tables and bed down in the dirty rushes of the great hall. “Look,” Wyatt says. “Can’t we just go back to the hotel? We paid extra for that room.”

When this is translated to him, Philip raises an elegant black eyebrow. “Leave my palace, you mean? No, I don’t see how that will be necessary. And since when does a manservant voice opinions on these things? I suggest more beating, to be frank.”

“So do I,” Flynn says with fervor, earning himself a dirty look from Lucy. “You are a wise and just man, Your Grace. A gentleman and a scholar.”

Philip gives the amused little smile of someone who sups on flattery daily, but is not above enjoying the taste. “That’s settled, then? Tomorrow, after Lauds. Good night.”

They echo it clumsily back to him, servants appear with the same well-trained speed, and Wyatt and Rufus are shown off to the hall (both glaring at Flynn, convinced – not without reason – that this is his fault) and Flynn and Lucy climb a set of tightly winding, narrow stone steps to a bedchamber on the next floor. At the sight of it, Flynn supposes that he doesn’t get to laugh too much at Wyatt and Rufus, unfortunately. The bed will fit Lucy nicely, but cut him off at about the knees, unless he curls up like a shrimp (and for that matter, if she wants him in it). Jesus. Midgets.

“Well,” Lucy says, once they’ve shut the door. “That was a disaster, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Flynn isn’t honestly sure what constitutes a disaster anymore. “If you mean that we know where Richard is now, but because we’re supposed to travel there and spy on him on Philip’s behalf. And he’s not an idiot, he’s not going to let us go alone. He’ll send men with us, likely including the captain. We’ll have to lose them before we can even think about whatever we need to do with Richard.”

“So Rittenhouse is here,” Lucy says. “Both in Paris, and in Poitiers with Richard. They have more than one agent, they have plenty of moving pieces. And there’s a strong possibility that we’re playing exactly into their trap by going at all, but – ”

“But we can’t not go,” Flynn finishes grimly. “For any number of reasons. So yes. I suppose it’s a disaster.”

Lucy considers this, then gives a firm little nod. “We’ll figure it out,” she says. “We always do. Lauds is going to come early. We should get some sleep.”

Flynn glances at her awkwardly, but Lucy doesn’t seem inclined to challenge their sleeping arrangements. So, after he shucks the dirty 1799 coat and shoes, and she strips off to her shift, they crawl into the bed. He hikes his feet up, grumbling under his breath. The mattress is stuffed with straw and goose feathers, not entirely uncomfortable, but still scratchy, and the pillow is not what you would call ample. Not that he’s suddenly going to kick up a fuss about less-than-luxury accommodations, but he’ll wind up with a permanent crick in his back if they have to spend too many nights like this. He finds himself actually looking forward to getting to Richard’s court, much of a clusterfuck as it is likely to be, for the sole reason that Richard, in keeping with his larger-than-life reputation, had a stature to match: he’s estimated to have stood six-foot-four or five. His palace will be made with the comforts of a tall man in mind. About damn time.

Lucy drifts off quickly, though Flynn doesn’t, mind too busy with plans and possibilities and what the hell they’re going to do next – though he does steal a moment or two to watch her sleep. Besides, they’re very close to Notre Dame, and the fucking monks just have to punctiliously ring those bells, don’t they. He’s awoken once at midnight, again at three AM, and has given up all hope of getting back to sleep by the time the greyness is seeping into their room and it’s time to get up. But he must have dropped under enough not to notice when a servant came in and laid out new clothes for them. He reprimands himself for this carelessness – what if they had tried to do something else? Sloppy.

Nonetheless, there is nothing for it. Lucy has a new dress in blue, sleeves and neck trimmed in embroidery, a girdle and a fashionable bit of gauzy headwear that Flynn tells her is called a toque, a cloak with fox fur, and other garments more suitable for a respectable middle-class lady. As for Flynn, it’s clear that they have had to scramble, but they’ve come up with a tunic, braies, and boots, along with a green cloak that fastens over one shoulder with a bronze pin and makes him feel like a Viking. His toes cram against the end of the boots when he walks, and he’s tempted to keep his colonial shoes, but he might as well go for the look. The other ones are too small anyway. (This is a recurring problem in his life.)

Lucy eyes him approvingly once he’s changed, which makes Flynn think it was definitely worth it, and he offers his arm to escort her down the stairs, across the cool blue courtyard, and into the palace chapel, where the king and his household are hearing Lauds. Wyatt and Rufus are there already; they’ve managed to get some slightly nicer clothes as well, though there is still straw in Wyatt’s hair and he glares suspiciously at their arm-in-arm entrance. He gets glared at in return by Flynn, glances away, and reminds himself to deal with this later.

To his surprise, and to his grief, Flynn finds the service oddly comforting. It’s in Latin, which even he can’t really follow aside from a word here and there, but he’s been to enough High Church Catholic masses to know the drill, and it makes him think of the ones that Lorena took him to. They went to Italy on their honeymoon, there were tiny ancient churches everywhere, many of whom still offered services in the pre-Vatican II style. Flynn looks up at the light sifting through the diamonded window, and finds himself choking back tears. Kyrie, he thinks. Kyrie eleison. Not for him – he’s given up on that a while ago – but for them. In nominee Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Can see Lorena next to him in the pew, crossing herself as the crucifix passes, and laughing over coffee afterward over how much she hates the fusty patriarchal nonsense of the old guard. Her faith was always a contradiction, a struggle and a question, but she never relinquished it altogether. God, how he misses her.

Flynn is brought back to earth with a start when the service is over, and everyone begins to file out. Philip catches his eye over the household’s heads, and tips his own in a significant manner, so Flynn changes direction and follows him, Lucy perforce tagging along. Wyatt and Rufus troop over as well, as Philip leads them through the hall and into his private solar. It’s a combination living room/dining room/study, with large windows to admit sunlight (hence the name), tapestries on the walls to keep the chill out, and a table currently set with breakfast. Everyone is hungry enough that it looks very good, and once Philip has taken his seat, they do the same. They also have to wait until he starts to eat before they do, but fortunately that is not very long. Flynn asks, “Are we leaving today, my lord?”

“Yes.” Philip sips his breakfast wine. “I’ve arranged an escort to accompany you. The roads may be dangerous, after all, and if you insist on taking your wife along, surely we have a duty to see her safe. It will not be large, only a dozen men, and they will be under strict instructions not to be seen with you when you arrive in Poitiers. You are, after all, not to give Richard any indication as to where you hail from, or my role in this endeavor.”

Flynn starts to say something, then stops. While this saves them the hassle of having to lose their guards first, and also trying to find their way to Poitiers by themselves, which would clearly be a nightmare, “a dozen men” is still obviously a lot more than there are of them. Even he and Wyatt would have their work cut out for them trying to take on a dozen knights, if for any reason they should discover that to be necessary, and probably half of them are Rittenhouse or Rittenhouse-trained. After a pause, Flynn says, “And do you think Richard will be fooled by that?”

“You’d best hope he is, mustn’t you?” Philip gives him a mild look. “Or that you can offer him something he wishes to hear? It is quite important that you do.”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t see how I am obligated to share that information with my mercenary.” Philip shrugs, then smiles, raising his cup. “To your health. I daresay you will need it.”

Flynn daresays they will, and they finish breakfast in terse silence, Wyatt and Rufus not quite daring to glare at either Flynn or Philip one-on-one, but making it very clear that they would like to. Then they are shown out to the courtyard, where the dozen men (including the English-speaking captain, whose name is apparently Gerard) are waiting for them. Because they will be leaving the city and traveling on the roads, Flynn and Wyatt are allowed to carry swords. These are a lot heavier than they look, and while it’s impossible not to feel extremely cool when you belt one on like goddamn Aragorn from Lord of the Rings, there is also the fact that they will be flailing like idiots if they actually try to fight with them. (Well, Wyatt will; Flynn feels confident he can learn on the fly, but he’s under no illusions as to who would win in a pitched fight.) Some of the men are also in chainmail shirts, but those weigh thirty pounds and you have to be trained to bear the weight, much less stand up, move around, and fight in them. Mounted knights are the Panzer brigades of their day, and if they are crashing toward you with a ten-foot-long lance on a heavy warhorse, then God have mercy on your soul. (Plate armor won’t come into vogue for about another century and a half, but they do just fine without it right now.)

The horse part, at least, Flynn is excited about. There are four: two knights’ coursers for him and Wyatt (Flynn can manage it, but that is going to be a lot of horse for Wyatt – normally a servant would have a much worse mount, but it seems that Philip prefers speed over societal observance, as well as possibly not believing that Wyatt is really a manservant). There’s a gentler palfrey for Lucy, suitable for a lady, and a common mule for Rufus, who eyes it with a Really??! expression. Apparently they don’t feel the need to waste good French horseflesh on a black heathen, even if Rufus’s attendance at chapel this morning “proves” that he is not a Saracen. “Can we go to Spain yet?” he grumbles. “That sounds better.”

“No.” Flynn helps Lucy onto her horse (he knows they rode at least once, trying to catch up to him and Jesse James, but this is still not their forte), then steps lightly up into his stirrups, just to prove he can. He gathers up the reins and gets to know his mount a bit, cantering quick circles around the bailey, while Wyatt and his mount are still having a difference of opinion over who is controlling who here. Much as it’s enjoyable to watch him suffer, Flynn sighs and supposes that once again, he is going to have to be helpful. “Be firm,” he advises. “It’s a warhorse, it’s been trained to be contrary. Needs a few hits with the reins.”

“Great,” Wyatt grumbles. “It’ll be just like riding you.”

Flynn gives him an arch look, as if inviting Wyatt to reflect on how that sounded, and Wyatt makes a faint choking noise which would be extremely enjoyable in other circumstances. Rufus divides a judgmental stare between them and gets onto his mule, which then, in true mulish fashion, refuses to go anywhere. It is finally coaxed to do so after a few solid kicks from Rufus, which Flynn approves of; at least someone’s getting the point. Once they have all managed to not fall off their mounts (or the trio has, at any rate), the portcullis is opened, they start to move, and canter down the bridge and toward the Paris streets.

It’s a fine, watery-pale morning, not quite None, and Flynn is almost able to enjoy the sensation of riding again, even as he keeps a very sharp eye on everything around them, the hustle of the morning commerce, and how Lucy is doing with the palfrey. He tries to guess how long this will take. It’s a little over two hundred miles southwest from Paris to Poitiers, a ride of barely two hours on a modern TGV, but that, obviously, is not the case here. A man riding hard can do thirty or forty miles in a day; a king’s procession can sometimes barely make ten. At the most optimistic end, it’ll be at least a week. But Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus will be in total agony if they ride that hard for that long, which even Flynn feels a little bad for.

There’s also the fact that the further they get away from Paris, the less use their French will be, and that was limited to start with. They just got by with Philip, but he speaks langue d’oïl, the northern French that becomes modern French. Richard himself also speaks that (though really, how to talk to him is the least of their problems right now), but the further south they go, the more it will turn into southern French, langue d’oc or Occitan, which is considerably different from and not necessarily mutually intelligible with Old French. They’ll have their friendly and not-at-all-evil guides for most of the trip, but once they get to Poitiers, communication is going to be even more of a pain. Flynn almost (almost) hopes the place is indeed crawling up the ass with Rittenhouse agents. At least they will speak English.

Flynn blows out a breath as they reach the city gates, and with the crowds and grime and churches and bridges and towers of Paris behind them, the world opens up into a sudden and almost shocking expanse of green ahead. Cities stop here in a way they don’t in the modern world, when they’re surrounded by rings and rings of suburbs and feeder communities and residential neighborhoods, until you finally transition into the countryside by means of a highway. There’s none of that here. There is Paris, and then there is no Paris, aside from a scattering of cottages. The road snakes off into the distance, a single, muddy track. It’s going to be a very long trip, in more ways than one.

Flynn considers it, and steals one more sidelong glance at Lucy. Then he puts his heels into his horse’s side, decides it’s not really worth it to look back now, and so, the wind in his face, he doesn’t.