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#249 Talk about politics.
It would be like the French, Percy supposed, to discuss English politics whilst sharing a drink at the local pub. He personally found it distasteful, but not more than he find the wine intoxicating. So he sat, leaned against a grungy wall with his jacket undone and laying open. His undergarment was stained, baring proof that it had been some days since he had last taken it to the wash. Not that, in his opinion, the French waters allowed for anything to be truly clean. Paris was, after all, a filthy city.
“Aye, God have mercy of Queen Mary. I was there, when she died. Poor soul, all of England seemed bleak.” The gentleman’s accent was more English, than French. The way he formed his words was rounded, full of an English staccato, broken in its flow by heavy stress on the wrong vowels. “Bloody Protestants have the crown now. Elizabeth is sure to run the crown to the ground.”
“Have her marry the Dauphin,” someone joked, “put a bit of French into her, eh?”
Others laughed, raising their drinks with cheers and jeers.
“The Dauphin is married, you know. God Bless him, to a Scot!”
“Isn’ the Dauphin your King now? Doesn’ that make him king and not dauphin?” The Englishman asked, clear look of confusion painted on his features as he scratched at his thinning hair.
“King, Dauphin…he is only sixteen, we could call him Baby and it would be all the same!” The laughs were echoed all around the pub. “Better to call him Baby than ‘virgin witch’ and ‘protestant’.”
The jest went on for some time, Percy idly sipping at his wine as he listened and watched. When the Englishman finally stood and excused himself, Percy was quick to make his exit behind the man. The misty rain made the night seem darker than it was, boots slapping against mud as they walked. Twice Percy noted the fellow turned back to eye him, before walking on. Light from pubs and inns peppering the otherwise dismal streets of Paris with light.
“Sir,” the man finally said, turning back to confront Percy. “Is there some reason you are following me?”
Smiling a little, Percy moved closer, glancing up at the cloudy sky as a cool wind cut its way through the streets. “I’m jus’ walkin’ this way,” he assured the man in English. “No reason to get in a twist…” The man seemed at first surprised, and then impressed to have found another Englishman surrounded by the wonders of France.
“English, eh?” He stated more than asked, adjusting himself as he would in proper company. “Been long since I last heard the sweet sound of a proper language spoke.” He laughed at his own jest, though Percy only managed the barest of smiles. Then the fellow paused, and eyed him critically… “Catholic?”
“Born and breed,” Percy assured him, lifting his chin ever so much higher. As if the mere idea of being something else was insulting at the very least. “You from London?”
“Na’, My ship took berth there right ‘fore Queen Mary died, though. Watched that bitch of a woman, Elizabeth ride in on her chariot. Like she’d one a fuckin’ war.”
“Some say she has…” The fellow stopped short, looking at Percy hard as if he almost questioned that logic, before shrugging in some sort of agreement.
“Maybe…I’m from Chester. We never did see King Edward or Queen Mary. But I was a Catholic, despite what Henry tried to do to the church. Damn shame…Elizabeth is sure to turn it all on its head.”
Politics was a poor way to spend conversation. Percy rolled his eyes at the continued conversation, dull. “I don’ much care, really.” He tugged at his jacket irritably, flicking his hair out of his eyes as best he could. “England is far away from me…” He could remember Henry’s reign. Even saw him once. When he had come to see Henry Percy’s lands, and hunt. It had been a strange sighting, considering that Percy’s father had been in the city for once. For a moment, Percy had thought Sir William’s eyes had stayed on him has the boy stood and watched the king’s court ride toward the Earl’s home.
Politics was a nasty business as far as he was concerned.
“No’ a very English thing…”
“Why should politics by an English thing? I thought the French were more concerned with affecting their government.”
“Perhaps…Perhaps no’.” The man shrugged, before turning to walk on with Percy trailing behind. His ruby cheeks seemed to glow as light bounced off them, though his curling locks stuck to his melon like head with no mercy. He looked as if he was hot, but he still shivered in the cold, wet wind. “France is a horribly wet place…”
“Dryer than England.” Percy commented blandly, wishing he had brought the bottle of wine with him as he stared ahead. “Warmer as well…”
“England is better…the English have taste.”
“The English are wet dogs that fight over scraps of meat.”
The man regarded Percy curiously for a moment, then seemed to sigh before he shook his head. “Where did you come from? You have the sound of a northerner.”
“Northumberland.”
“Ah, Earl Percy…fine man he is, that Thomas Percy…” Percy’s brow knotted, even as he nodded.
“Son of Henry Algernon?”
“Nay, Algernon was his grandfather. His father was Sir Thomas Percy.” The fellow gave him an odd look. “Surely you know this…”
“I haven’ been in Northumberland for a long time now.”
“How long?”
“Thirty and two years…” He smirked as the man stopped to stare at him in disbelief. “I know…I look wonderful for my age.”
“Who are you?”
“Percy…William Percy Hastings.” The man gawked more, his fatty cheeks paling. “Wha’? Something strike you odd?”
“I’ve heard that name ‘fore?”
“Really?” Percy laughed, harsh and cold as the wind. The rain stopped, allowing the wind to dry his hair as it blow by, lifting wet locks off the back of his neck. “What ever for?”
“The second son of Henry Percy, 4th Earl… My da once told me that he had a son.” The man seemed to speak in a mix of awe and discomfort. “You should be dead…”
“You shouldn’ bring up the past…Old man is dead, don’ be whispering his name. Gives him hope that he’ll find his way to heaven sometime.”
It would be like the French, Percy supposed, to discuss English politics whilst sharing a drink at the local pub. He personally found it distasteful, but not more than he find the wine intoxicating. So he sat, leaned against a grungy wall with his jacket undone and laying open. His undergarment was stained, baring proof that it had been some days since he had last taken it to the wash. Not that, in his opinion, the French waters allowed for anything to be truly clean. Paris was, after all, a filthy city.
“Aye, God have mercy of Queen Mary. I was there, when she died. Poor soul, all of England seemed bleak.” The gentleman’s accent was more English, than French. The way he formed his words was rounded, full of an English staccato, broken in its flow by heavy stress on the wrong vowels. “Bloody Protestants have the crown now. Elizabeth is sure to run the crown to the ground.”
“Have her marry the Dauphin,” someone joked, “put a bit of French into her, eh?”
Others laughed, raising their drinks with cheers and jeers.
“The Dauphin is married, you know. God Bless him, to a Scot!”
“Isn’ the Dauphin your King now? Doesn’ that make him king and not dauphin?” The Englishman asked, clear look of confusion painted on his features as he scratched at his thinning hair.
“King, Dauphin…he is only sixteen, we could call him Baby and it would be all the same!” The laughs were echoed all around the pub. “Better to call him Baby than ‘virgin witch’ and ‘protestant’.”
The jest went on for some time, Percy idly sipping at his wine as he listened and watched. When the Englishman finally stood and excused himself, Percy was quick to make his exit behind the man. The misty rain made the night seem darker than it was, boots slapping against mud as they walked. Twice Percy noted the fellow turned back to eye him, before walking on. Light from pubs and inns peppering the otherwise dismal streets of Paris with light.
“Sir,” the man finally said, turning back to confront Percy. “Is there some reason you are following me?”
Smiling a little, Percy moved closer, glancing up at the cloudy sky as a cool wind cut its way through the streets. “I’m jus’ walkin’ this way,” he assured the man in English. “No reason to get in a twist…” The man seemed at first surprised, and then impressed to have found another Englishman surrounded by the wonders of France.
“English, eh?” He stated more than asked, adjusting himself as he would in proper company. “Been long since I last heard the sweet sound of a proper language spoke.” He laughed at his own jest, though Percy only managed the barest of smiles. Then the fellow paused, and eyed him critically… “Catholic?”
“Born and breed,” Percy assured him, lifting his chin ever so much higher. As if the mere idea of being something else was insulting at the very least. “You from London?”
“Na’, My ship took berth there right ‘fore Queen Mary died, though. Watched that bitch of a woman, Elizabeth ride in on her chariot. Like she’d one a fuckin’ war.”
“Some say she has…” The fellow stopped short, looking at Percy hard as if he almost questioned that logic, before shrugging in some sort of agreement.
“Maybe…I’m from Chester. We never did see King Edward or Queen Mary. But I was a Catholic, despite what Henry tried to do to the church. Damn shame…Elizabeth is sure to turn it all on its head.”
Politics was a poor way to spend conversation. Percy rolled his eyes at the continued conversation, dull. “I don’ much care, really.” He tugged at his jacket irritably, flicking his hair out of his eyes as best he could. “England is far away from me…” He could remember Henry’s reign. Even saw him once. When he had come to see Henry Percy’s lands, and hunt. It had been a strange sighting, considering that Percy’s father had been in the city for once. For a moment, Percy had thought Sir William’s eyes had stayed on him has the boy stood and watched the king’s court ride toward the Earl’s home.
Politics was a nasty business as far as he was concerned.
“No’ a very English thing…”
“Why should politics by an English thing? I thought the French were more concerned with affecting their government.”
“Perhaps…Perhaps no’.” The man shrugged, before turning to walk on with Percy trailing behind. His ruby cheeks seemed to glow as light bounced off them, though his curling locks stuck to his melon like head with no mercy. He looked as if he was hot, but he still shivered in the cold, wet wind. “France is a horribly wet place…”
“Dryer than England.” Percy commented blandly, wishing he had brought the bottle of wine with him as he stared ahead. “Warmer as well…”
“England is better…the English have taste.”
“The English are wet dogs that fight over scraps of meat.”
The man regarded Percy curiously for a moment, then seemed to sigh before he shook his head. “Where did you come from? You have the sound of a northerner.”
“Northumberland.”
“Ah, Earl Percy…fine man he is, that Thomas Percy…” Percy’s brow knotted, even as he nodded.
“Son of Henry Algernon?”
“Nay, Algernon was his grandfather. His father was Sir Thomas Percy.” The fellow gave him an odd look. “Surely you know this…”
“I haven’ been in Northumberland for a long time now.”
“How long?”
“Thirty and two years…” He smirked as the man stopped to stare at him in disbelief. “I know…I look wonderful for my age.”
“Who are you?”
“Percy…William Percy Hastings.” The man gawked more, his fatty cheeks paling. “Wha’? Something strike you odd?”
“I’ve heard that name ‘fore?”
“Really?” Percy laughed, harsh and cold as the wind. The rain stopped, allowing the wind to dry his hair as it blow by, lifting wet locks off the back of his neck. “What ever for?”
“The second son of Henry Percy, 4th Earl… My da once told me that he had a son.” The man seemed to speak in a mix of awe and discomfort. “You should be dead…”
“You shouldn’ bring up the past…Old man is dead, don’ be whispering his name. Gives him hope that he’ll find his way to heaven sometime.”