(no subject)
As soon as France had realised what had happened, he'd bolted his food as fast as was humanly (or nationly) possible. He'd then gone searching. Hugh steadfastly trailed behind him every step of the way, much to France's consternation.
It hadn't taken long to find a likely room, what with most inhabitants being in the hall or in bed and the castle not being a particularly big place to start with. For once, France was glad they weren't in any of the more permanent structures he knew from home, which could be a mess of additions and expansions. No, this small keep had only a few rooms that hadn't been turned over to accommodating William and his entourage and it didn't take a genius to guess that the one with the firmly shut door was probably the one they were looking for.
France's suspicions were confirmed when he peered under the door and saw, amongst the legs of furniture, feet pacing the room. The voices from inside were quiet and muffled; quite impossible to make out, but France still recognised William's timbre, even if he couldn't recognise the words.
Having identified this as the proper place, France found himself at a loss as to what to do next. In a perfect world he would burst in, snatch England from under everyone's noses, then bundle them both onto William's best stallion and head for the horizon. But that was a plan with more holes than a fishing net.
France chewed on his thumbnail as he stared at the door. Perhaps he could claim there was a fire and everyone had to get out. Though that would only delay the inevitable. Perhaps he could actually start a fire. Perhaps he could single-handedly raze the keep and everything associated with it to the ground. He cast a sidewise glance at Hugh. Hugh would probably help; it was plain to see that he was jittery about being stuck in such close quarters with William and his men.
A yelp knocked France out of his reverie. It was a muffled yelp, but there was no mistaking who had made it. There was another and France twitched with the desperate need to something other than stand helplessly in the hallway.
Every idea that ran through his head was more absurd than the last. The most he realised he could do was postpone William's plans. He dearly wanted to do more, but he was only one person. A very important and powerful person, yes, but still only one.
A third cry steeled France's resolve. He set his shoulders and marched up to the door.
“What do you hope to achieve with this?”
It was only a quiet question from Hugh, but it still managed to stay France's hand where it was poised to knock. France huffed. “I am hoping to stop this,” he said in an angry whisper as he waved his hand at the door.
“Oh?” said Hugh in his aggravating way, “And how will you manage that?”
France didn't know if he was more annoyed with Hugh for questioning him, or if it was because he was asking such good questions. “I always manage.” France turned stubbornly back to the door.
“My lord, you have no power here.”
France paused again.
“This is not your land. This is not your future being decided.”
Another muffled cry and France's heart jumped. “I can't just stand by and watch.” He turned pleading eyes towards Hugh.
Hugh seemed to understand France's plight and he laid a soothing hand on France's shoulder. “If you run in there now, without a plan, that is all you will be able to do.”
“But if there's even the smallest thing I could do...” France frowned at the door in confusion. His gut was telling him he should be in there, making a scene and standing up for what he cared for. His mind, though, used to courtly politics and the sort of people that engaged in them, told him that what Hugh said was the truth.
“Do not doubt that he would use your presence to his advantage,” said Hugh lowly. “He is more than capable of it.”
France's head drooped and for a moment all was silent.
“Come, my lord,” said Hugh gently, urging France to move with his hand, “There's nothing you can do here.”
France steeled himself and crushed down the swirling in his gut. It felt wrong to leave England there to fend for himself, but France had the wisdom enough to know when he had to admit defeat, no matter how painful and wrenching it was.
They would retreat and regroup. Then France would come up with a plan to fix it all and prove he hadn't given up on England. He had to.
~
France spent the next few hours second-guessing himself and feeling generally awful. Hugh did his his best to distract and everyone he met was eager for a conversation, that he might remember them favourably in the future. It was a pity they didn't realise how unlikely it was that he'd remember anything about this castle and his time here favourably, else they wouldn't have bothered. France, for his part, could only muster up the most passing of polite interest in anything anyone had to say.
Eventually, he retired to his chamber, sent Hugh off on a fool's errand and spent the rest of his time pacing the room.
Lunchtime came and went, but France didn't feel remotely hungry, his stomach churning horribly. He watched the sun move across the sky and people come and go through the castle gates, either to the adjoining huts at the base of the hill or out of the second gate into the gloomy countryside. He kept an ear out for footsteps in the hallway, jumpy and on-edge.
After a few false alarms, France at last heard light, shuffling footsteps accompanied by poorly stifled sniffling. He flew to the door and threw it open so suddenly that England shrieked and jumped a foot in the air.
“What did he do to you?” France asked desperately, his mind having provided all sorts of possibilities. He held England by the shoulders and looked him over. England's eyes were red and puffy, though wide in shock and his breathing took a few moments to calm once he saw it was only France.
England twisted out of France's grip and curled his hands protectively into his chest. He brushed the question off with a sullen shake of his head and turned half away to stare at the opposite wall. “He wasn't happy when he saw my wound had been treated.” England's words were curiously devoid of feeling.
“That was my idea!” France took a step forward and England took an equal step back. “Did you tell him I did it?”
England met France's eyes and his mouth twitched up into an ugly smile. “I have to take responsibility for my actions. I'm not to blame innocent bystanders for my own failings.”
For once, France stilled his own hand before it wrapped around England's arm. A chill settled in his stomach; William had used him against England without him even being there. “I--” France choked on his words. It was unnerving to have England looking at him as though he'd played a part in all this. “I'm sorry, I--”
“Being sorry doesn't help, France,” England snarled, advancing.
It was France's turn to take a step back.
“You can apologise all you want but it doesn't change anything.” England stood toe-to-toe with France, glaring up at him. It was a pose they had often been in over the course of their acquaintance, but this time it felt decidedly different. The threat from England was not so empty any more.
“Tell me how I can help you, then,” France pleaded.
“You can leave me alone.” England broke off his glare and stepped towards the door of his chamber. “You can piss off and stop making it worse!” He aimed to undo the latch with his elbow but he jabbed too hard in his anger and ended up recoiling with a yell.
France took hold of England's wrists and held them so he could look at his hands. They were red and swollen and obviously painful. France felt such relief at a physical ill that he could fix, that he felt immediately guilty for it. “That looks sore.” He uncertainly flicked his gaze up and found England staring stonily back. “I think... yes, I have a cream that would do wonders--”
England snatched his hands back. “No!”
“It's very soothing!” France insisted.
“If you want to help so much, you can make the Bastard leave!” England spat, with no heed for anyone who might be passing by. “You can bring all those people back to life!” He gestured wildly to the land outside the wooden walls. “Make it so the last year never happened!” England stopped, breathing heavily through his nose, and waited for France's reply.
France was leaning away from England's feral outburst and slowly came back to vertical. He tried to think of what answer England could possibly be expecting, but there wasn't any other than, “I can't.”
“Then leave me alone.” England bit out each word precisely before he withdrew and made a more successful attempt at opening his door.
France was left in the empty hallway, staring at the door. He considered going after England but decided, for once, that England could probably do with some time to calm down.
~
France didn't see England again until the next morning. Very early the next morning, in fact, when he was roused from sleep by knocking at his door. France answered it as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
England stood in the hallway with his chin up and defiant. He met France's gaze unwaveringly. “I'm going to get something to eat,” he said. “You should come with me.”
France looked towards his window where the sky was only just lightening. He gave England a wry smile. “Do you always start eating so early in the day?”
England's stomach took the opportunity to rumble. He looked down to his toes and then back up. “Only when I'm trying to avoid people.”
An apology would have been nice, but France knew better than to hope for one.
France threw on a tunic and they both descended to the hall to find a servant to provide them with something. It was too early for many of the kitchen staff to be up and about, but it still didn't take long for them to find someone to fetch them a simple bowl of porridge each.
England ate ravenously. He finished his bowl before France was even halfway through his own and he'd eaten in such a way that talking hadn't been possible.
“Hungry?” said France with a small chuckle.
England nodded, looking a little embarrassed at his sudden gluttony. He still couldn't keep his eyes from straying to France's bowl and folded his hands in his lap to keep them to himself.
“Your hands!” What with the lack of fuss England made, France had forgotten that they must be painful still.
“They're fine,” England snapped.
France continued to eat in silence. He wasn't going to push such a sensitive subject when they'd only just reconciled.
France noticed England staring enviously at his food and smiled. “Still hungry?” He suspected England hadn't had any supper the previous evening. France hadn't been able to bring himself to eat in the same room as William and he supposed England would have made the same choice. And England hadn't even been in his room when France told Hugh to bring a plate of food for him.
England, however, twisted his hands in his lap and refused to answer.
“Another bowl for my friend,” France ordered easily.
England looked more worried than grateful for all this food being bestowed upon him, but he still ate when the bowl was set in front of him. He ate more slowly now he had something in his belly, though he kept glancing at France's bowl, pacing himself to France's speed.
“So, tell me,” France paused in his eating and smiled when England forced himself to pause too, “What are these lessons about?”
England's eyes widened before they were curtailed by his sudden scowl. “Etiquette,” he groused as he pushed his porridge around the bowl, “Language.” He gave the porridge a particularly vicious stab. “Knowing my place.”
France nodded. “At least he shouldn't be able to fault you on your French.” France thought of all the time they'd spent together getting England to speak properly.
“My accent is poor,” England sneered in a plain imitation of William, “And my vocabulary limited.”
“Oh.” France returned to his food with a frown. He'd never had a problem with England's vocabulary, nor his accent; that was just how England spoke. And who was a better judge of French than France himself?
France sighed and took a spoonful, which England took as a sign to start eating again. It was clear that William cared less about teaching than he did about punishing. “I'll talk to him.”
“You'll what?” England gaped at France in horror. “No! You can't!”
“Why not?” France pouted. “I'm trying to help you.”
“So that I can be punished for it later? No thank you.” England sullenly returned to eating.
France did the same, put out that England would use that against him. He hadn't known, had he? And he'd apologised! Though, really, he wasn't sorry that he'd looked after England, he was only sorry that it had all turned sour afterwards. And that hadn't even been his fault. He wouldn't make a mistake like that again; he knew what he was dealing with now.
France swallowed his indignation with another mouthful of porridge. “Are you sure you don't want to put something on your hands?”
“France!” England gave him an exasperated look.
“The stuff I have would really help, and it rubs in like it was never there!”
England stopped his next rant short. “Really?”
“Yes!” France nodded emphatically.
England glanced at France out of the corner of his eye. “Does it smell?”
“Barely.”
England considered it. “I suppose it might help.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you mustn't get all smug like you usually do or else he'll know.”
Having only just got back on good terms with England, France chose to ignore the slander and be glad that England was accepting his help. In that same vein, he quashed his jibe when England abandoned his spoon and used his finger to get every last drop out of his bowl.
Despite having two whole bowls, England still finished eating before France did.
~
England disappeared soon after France had finished his round of expert skin care, and France was pleased to note that he looked far more cheerful than he had the day before. France didn't know where England was off to, but he wasn't much worried about it; he knew where William would be and that he would be distracted.
William would be distracted because France was going to have a talk with him. There was more than one reason he didn't mind England being elsewhere.
France sat in his room, planning, until Hugh came to find him.
~
The hall seemed larger now that there were more people to fill it. The room seemed to stretch before him as he made his way to the far end of the table, where William sat, indulging in his wealth. The man was surrounded by his nobles and they talked and laughed and congratulated themselves on a job well done.
France frowned and firmly instructed Hugh to stop dogging his heels before he approached any closer.
William turned to France with an amused quirk to his lips, the remnants of some witty remark from one of his men. “Is there something I can do for you, France?” The smile remained, giving the impression of a reasonable man.
France drew himself up with a sharp nod. “I wish to discuss England's education with you.”
William flicked an amused glance back to his men, who all returned their attentions to their food. “Is that so?”
“You are a busy man with many things on your mind.”
William nodded. “True enough.”
“Taking all of England's learning into your own hands is unnecessary. I would suggest that you let someone else take on the bulk of the work so that you may attend to your more important duties.”
“And would you know of anyone up to such a task?” The raised eyebrow was a touch more patronising than required; France was older than he looked and this wasn't just some fancy or whim of his.
“With my knowledge of the language and society - from King down to lowliest servant - I believe I would be the perfect candidate.” France brushed non-existent dirt off his tunic.
William looked thoughtful. After a moment he leant forward, to better look France in the eye.“Do you believe you are capable of disciplining the boy?”
France kept his face neutral at such a distasteful question. “If it came to that, I believe-- I believe I would use sufficient force.”
William looked France in the eye for an unnerving length of time, then he sat back in his chair. “Do you know, France, how long it took for him to address me properly?”
“No.”
“Five months.” William's eye contact was unwavering.
France didn't let himself show any reaction beyond a polite nod.
“It was two months before he could even be without guard, and another month after that before I heard a single civil word from him.” With the smallest of shrugs, William glanced around the table. “I cannot risk all my hard work being undone.”
“I will make sure it is not!”
“How, France? Will you take the switch to him when he deserves it?”
“Of course!” France lied, “If he deserves it.”
William sighed as though disappointed. “You are a kind-hearted soul, France, but England cannot be taught with kindness. My methods may appear barbaric, but England must be taught his place. He is not a creature of reason, he has proved that time and again. Swift and sharp discipline is the only language he understands.”
France felt himself losing grip on the conversation. “Must it be so sharp?”
William chuckled indulgently. “You are young.” (France resisted the urge to point out that he was oldest one in the entire castle.) “And yes, in the short term letting him get away with the little things would be easier, but it would only make for more work later on. If you wish, you may sit in on his lessons. I'm sure you would learn some useful things yourself, about bringing errant subordinates to heel.”
France forced his shudder back.
“I'm afraid that is not possible.”
France turned sharply to where Hugh had materialised beside him. He didn't know if he should be grateful or incredibly annoyed at the intervention.
“The King,” Hugh continued, his face hard and eyes boring into William's in a way that bordered on insolence, “The French King, requires France to attend to his own lessons.”
“That is a pity.” William's smile as he looked between Hugh and France was deeply insincere. “Remember, the invitation is open if you ever,” his gaze drifted back to Hugh, “Tire of your studies.”
“I shall keep it in mind, William. Thank you.”
France bowed cordially, then turned and left the room. Hugh stuck persistently in his peripheral vision the entire way.
Once France judged them far enough from prying eyes and ears, he turned on his minder. “Hugh, what are you doing?”
“My lord, you must be careful.” Hugh crouched down to France's level and put a hand on his shoulder. His voice dropped to a low murmur. “You are only safe because he does not yet have claim to you. You know how he treats the Saxon child.”
France jerked his shoulder out of Hugh's grip. “His name is England. And yes, I do know. That is why I am trying to stop it!”
Hugh wasn't phased by France's vehemence. “The Duke is a determined man. He will not stop until the country is under his control. Believe me,” he implored, “It does not please me to see such treatment, but England has been conquered and you cannot change that. Even if, by some miracle, you manage protect him, you will have to return home eventually.”
France drew back further. “Then you would have me do nothing.”
“Comfort the child, if you wish.” Hugh gave a half-hearted shrug, then met France's eyes with renewed severity. “It is my duty to see you returned safely to the King and interfering with the Duke's plans is, at best, unwise.” The sound of someone approaching prompted Hugh to get back to his feet. He glanced over his shoulder at the still empty hallway then leant in close to France. “Do not let yourself think for a second that you are above his ambitions.”
~
France didn't have a proper conversation with England for a full week after that. France could only watch from afar at mealtimes. England was no longer allowed to eat at the table with France and the Normans. Instead, he stood at William's side as his personal serving boy. For the rest of the time he was either being taught his lessons or trailing after William everywhere he went (so long as it was within the castle walls, of course; England was still not allowed to leave the keep).
As such, France's and England's communication was severely restricted. Reduced to France's worried looks across the food-laden table and England's half-smiles and head-shakes when William's back was turned.
France was desperate, faced with such sheer uncertainty. He had surmised that his little talk with William had, if not helped, then at least not made anything worse. Or if it had make things worse, England didn't know that it was France's fault, which was for the best. Though a guilty worm he couldn't placate still gnawed at his gut if he ever thought about it.
France became restless. He couldn't sleep at night for all his worrying. His brain would incessantly recall every action of England's; the way he would flinch at a slight reprimand and hurry to do as he was told. But when France tried to turn his thoughts to something useful - to find a fix or a solution - his mind would hit a stone wall and, for all its activity, come up with nothing. And when France couldn't even find the boy he was trying to protect, what could he do?
He took to sitting and waiting in England's room at night, for surely with the castle so full, someone else would be sleeping there if England had been given somewhere else to sleep. Each morning when France woke from his fitful dreams, it was to find that the room was exactly as he left it, with nothing to suggest England had ever been in there at all.
That was, until the eighth night.
France was sitting on England's bed, head and eyelids drooping, when the door opened. France's head snapped up so quickly he had to flail his arms to keep balance.
England caught the tail-end of this impressive display and giggled as he shut the door behind him. “That was really graceful, France.”
France tucked his hair behind his ear and pursed his lips. “You took me by surprise.” He did his best to affect offence, but found that he couldn't in the face of England's cheer.
“That's what you get for hiding in other peoples' beds.” England hurried over and slipped off his shoes before clambering onto the bed beside France.
“You're in a good mood today.” France shuffled closer to England. “Has William decided to let you alone?”
England's expression clouded, which put paid to any hope that France's talk had done anything. “No. The- that man is the same.” England softened again. “I'm just... feeling a bit better.”
There was more to it than England was admitting, and France dearly wanted to know what, in the knowledge that he may not get a chance to speak to England again for days. However, he decided to let England keep his secret, just for the night. He never thought he'd be so glad to see England in a good mood (to be honest, he'd never thought there was such a thing as England in a good mood, but the past couple of weeks had made him re-evaluate his personal scale of England's moods). “That's good.”
England nodded as he undid his belt and dropped it on the floor. He then went about trying to push the tunic off over his head from the inside.
“Do you need some help?” said France once all he could see was an unruly sprout of blond hair and two eyebrows sticking out the top.
England paused. “Yes,” he finally admitted from inside his own clothing, “But be careful.”
“I'm always careful,” France assured, and then easily ignored England's following snort of disbelief. True to his word, he carefully lifted the tunic up off England's head. He frowned as he neatly folded the garment: there was something not right about it. He gave it a sniff. “Ugh, this stinks!”
England smirked. “Some people aren't afraid to get their hands dirty.”
France grimaced. “Some people have the good sense not to go rolling around in human waste.” He threw the tunic on the floor. “That's disgusting.”
“I didn't roll, I spilt.”
France gave it some thought. “No, I don't think that's any better.”
England's reply was lost to a yawn and France's own yawn reminded them both that they were sitting on a bed for a reason. England turned and shuffled to the head of the bed. He pulled the covers back then looked at France over his shoulder. “You may as well sleep here. I think it's going to be a cold night.”
France nodded and crawled under the covers. Already situated comfortably, he watched England steel himself and then everso gently lower himself on to his side. He lay there for a moment with his face screwed up in pain before he finally relaxed.
“Is your back--”
“It's fine.” England closed his eyes pointedly.
“Ah.” France chewed on the inside of his lip before he decided England had the right idea of it: now wasn't the time to talk about these things. “Good night, then.”
Silence. Then, finally, a mumbled, “G'night.”
France smiled and drifted off to sleep.
He woke hours later with the sensation of his arm being caught in a vice. He shifted uncomfortably and blinked open his heavy eyes to find that England had clamped onto him. France studied him in the early morning light.
England's lips were drawn tight, as if he were thinking about something deeply serious. He looked small, and ill-equipped to deal with what was happening around him. France was just about to run his free hand through England's hair in an attempt to soothe him when England dragged himself awake.
England stared unseeingly into France for a moment before he heaved a great breath and rolled onto his back. Which was a mistake, as evidenced by the short, sharp words England muttered in his own language.
Nevertheless, England continued on his way and rolled out of bed. He landed on his feet and stretched gingerly.
“Good morning.” France sat up and shook the feeling back into his hand.
“Oh.” England stopped mid neck-roll. “You're still here.”
“No need to sound so disappointed,” said France with a smile.
England rolled his eyes and slipped his shoes on before his feet got too chilly.
France draped himself across the bed, not willing to leave the warmth of the covers just yet. He watched England struggle into his clothing and saw something strange. He caught hold of the bottom of England's shirt, where there was a spread of colour on the otherwise blank material.
“Is William teaching you embroidery?” He rubbed a thumb over the mismatched threads.
“The Bastard?” England scoffed, “Of course not.”
“So what's this?”
England looked down at the offending patch of linen, then up at France, frowning in thought. “Mildred's teaching me,” he eventually admitted.
“Mildred? Who's--” France's eyes widened. “You've met a Saxon?”
“Yes.” England huffed. “I've met one of my own people.” He looked down at the floor, a small smile coming to his lips. “She's a servant here. Doesn't speak a word of French, so I'm teaching her.” He looked at the corner of his undershirt France was still holding. “She's teaching me some embroidery in return.”
“Does William know?”
England's face twisted into an ugly sneer. “This has nothing to do with him.”
“England.” France yanked on the shirt. “What if William were to see this?”
“I'm careful!”
“You're wearing it everywhere you go!”
England fell into an agitated silence.
“I don't understand!” France moved to kneel on the bed. “You know what he will do!” He placed a hand on England's shoulder, annoyed by how England, despite it all, just didn't seem to get it. “You're not allowed--”
England rolled his eyes expansively. “Oh, I'm not allowed! I'm not allowed!” He pulled away and started getting dressed. “I'm not allowed to speak my own language.” He opened a chest. “I'm not allowed to see my own people.” Pulled out a new tunic. “I'm not allowed to go out into my own land.” He looked back at France. “I'm tired of all your damn rules!”
France hit the bed in frustration. “They're not my rules!”
England spun around to face France, his unrestrained tunic flaring out around him. “Then why are you so desperate to have me follow them?”
“It's for your own good! If you're too stupid to keep yourself safe, I'll just have to do it!” France's words were left hanging in the now frigid atmosphere.
England broke the silence with a torrent of intelligible words as he snatched up his belt.
“England.” France scrambled down from the bed, aware that any good feeling from the previous night had been destroyed. “England, I didn't mean it.”
England reached the door and faced France, stopping him dead in his tracks. “It's easy to see why the Bastard fawns over you.” He opened the door. “Don't follow me.” And left.
So France was left back where he'd started.
~
The castle was abuzz with the appearance of new arrivals fresh off the so-called battlefield. The castle keep was full of people and while France managed to keep a bedroom to himself, England was moved elsewhere. A few tents had been erected outside for the temporary glut of people. They were making a stop to report to William on their way back South.
William himself was busier than ever, always surrounded by men, talking and planning. England trotted along beside him, largely unnoticed and staring hard at the floor more often than not. Getting England alone was proving to be an even more impossible task than it was before.
France spent much of his time in his room to escape the cacophony of the Great Hall. He could still hear the muffled murmurs through the walls, but at least he didn't have to hear the words. If he heard one more declaration of how wonderful William's idea was, of how the Saxons had no choice but to capitulate, of how there were sure to be no more rebellions, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions. To hell with what William could do to him.
He was just emerging from his room once more, ready to leap back into the courtly fray, when he noticed that England's old room was occupied. He hadn't yet seen who using the room and that, coupled with the door hanging slightly ajar, sparked his curiosity. Making sure he could still see if someone were coming, he casually leant against the wall and turned his ear away from the general hubbub of the place and focussed on what was coming from that room.
“My friend,” it was a man's voice, and not one he recognised. “For all this talk of success, you seem troubled.”
“Do you know me that well, or is it so obvious?” A second, equally unknown man. There followed a long silence, during which France quietly shuffled closer. A drink was poured. Finally, a sigh. “Truthfully, I can barely wait to be away from this place.” France immediately took a liking to this man. “The things we have done here... families slaughtered in their own homes... men defending themselves with nothing more than farming tools...” The man's voice became quieter and more ragged. “And what survivors there are are so desperate.”
“That is rather the point.”
France sneered at that assessment.
“They are eating their own dead, Harry!” The thud of a hand against wood. “That they have been driven so low-- that we drove them so low...”
“I thought that was just fanciful rumour.” He at least sounded properly chastised.
“I saw evidence of it myself.”
“Then, if nothing else, we know we won't be needed here again.”
“Yes.” The word was said with a black sort of humour. “I have no doubt the King's methods will prove effective. But still... I am disturbed by them.”
“What of the others? Does anyone else harbour--”
Creaking from the stairs prompted France to pull away from the door. He had known news of the atrocities was never going to be a pleasant thing to hear, but he was still shocked. He didn't want to think what such circumstances would mean for England. So, instead, he took what small solace he could in the knowledge that not all of William's men were completely besotted with him.
~
The meal that evening truly deserved the title of feast. People were packed around the table and the food was piled high. France was given a seat at William's right hand. England, to the surprise of everyone involved, was given the seat to William's left. France was caught between thinking him lucky to get a seat at all and empathising with him over all the idiotic talk they'd both have to endure.
Either way, it didn't matter one jot to England what France thought. He stared at the mountains of food with wide eyes and none of France's fidgeting and eyebrow-wiggling could get his attention.
Silence fell when William stood to give a small speech. He thanked everyone for their tireless work and welcomed England to the table. England was distracted from the food enough to shrink under the collective gaze of the room, but he smiled perfectly politely and bowed his head to William in thanks. The feast was, according to William, in celebration of the progress England had made.
Drinks were raised in toast, then everyone settled into the eating. It was a task England set to with gusto. France could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with communication while food was in the vicinity so he resigned himself to the small talk and insincere flattery. It was something he'd usually enjoy, but here it all rubbed him the wrong way; a greasy veneer of normality trying to cover the bright and glaring wrongness of it all.
Still, he endured what he could and smiled at the weak jokes from the pompous show-off to his right, all the while staying immaculately polite towards William, which he was sure he deserved some kind of honour for. He got vindictive satisfaction from throwing underhanded comments at the man sitting across from him, who had failed to pick up on the table-wide consensus to carefully ignore England and instead kept sending disgusted looks his way.
It felt like it took days, but even a room full of ravenous men can only eat so much, and the feast began to wind down. Cutlery was set down, plates pushed away and the men leaned back, rubbing their taught, full bellies.
Everyone was well sated. Everyone, except England, who ate like a starving pauper, licking the very last traces from the plate.
Conversations slowly trailed off and a hush fell over the whole hall. Even the clattering from the kitchen seemed to fade away.
William was staring at England. Everyone was staring at England. There was no way he couldn't have noticed, but he doggedly kept his eyes down and carried on eating. France watched in a horrified kind of awe as England finished the last of what was on his plate and, head down still, dragged the carcass of a boar closer.
“England.” William's voice was low but clearly audible in the hush that had fallen.
The entire room watched England pick at the flesh between the boar's ribs.
“England.”
England's fingers left the boar and fell onto a crust of bread, which he grabbed and shoved into his mouth while his other hand quested for any more food that may have been missed.
France looked around the table. He saw the glances that were being thrown this way and that, and he realised that they knew. Every last one of them knew. Not a single word was said, but it was clear in the way they looked at the bones England was picking clean, how they shifted uncomfortably if England so much as turned in their direction.
“England.” William leant forward, his grip tight on his knife. “You are making a scene.”
England paused, but apparently couldn't resist the last morsel within his reach.
William's hand shot out and grabbed hold of England's wrist.
England jumped and reflexively dropped the cheese rind he'd gone for. “Sorry, sire,” he whispered desperately, looking first at the grip William had on him, then up at William himself. “Sorry, sire.”
The next words France only heard because he was sitting so close. “And what about everyone else who had to witness your disgusting behaviour?”
England attention flicked to the rest of the room. He cringed away from the attention then pulled himself up. “M-my apologies, everyone,” he addressed the table at large, “That you had to see such a... a...”
“Uncouth display,” William muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“--Uncouth display. I am still learning.”
A murmur of acceptance ran round the table.
William released England's hand. “Better.”
England hid his hand under the table and returned to his default of trying to look as small as possible.
France glanced from one to the other and quashed his base instinct to just punch William in the face. “Not to worry, England,” he said with false cheer, and pointedly not looking at William, “You did really well.”
~~~
Part Three
It hadn't taken long to find a likely room, what with most inhabitants being in the hall or in bed and the castle not being a particularly big place to start with. For once, France was glad they weren't in any of the more permanent structures he knew from home, which could be a mess of additions and expansions. No, this small keep had only a few rooms that hadn't been turned over to accommodating William and his entourage and it didn't take a genius to guess that the one with the firmly shut door was probably the one they were looking for.
France's suspicions were confirmed when he peered under the door and saw, amongst the legs of furniture, feet pacing the room. The voices from inside were quiet and muffled; quite impossible to make out, but France still recognised William's timbre, even if he couldn't recognise the words.
Having identified this as the proper place, France found himself at a loss as to what to do next. In a perfect world he would burst in, snatch England from under everyone's noses, then bundle them both onto William's best stallion and head for the horizon. But that was a plan with more holes than a fishing net.
France chewed on his thumbnail as he stared at the door. Perhaps he could claim there was a fire and everyone had to get out. Though that would only delay the inevitable. Perhaps he could actually start a fire. Perhaps he could single-handedly raze the keep and everything associated with it to the ground. He cast a sidewise glance at Hugh. Hugh would probably help; it was plain to see that he was jittery about being stuck in such close quarters with William and his men.
A yelp knocked France out of his reverie. It was a muffled yelp, but there was no mistaking who had made it. There was another and France twitched with the desperate need to something other than stand helplessly in the hallway.
Every idea that ran through his head was more absurd than the last. The most he realised he could do was postpone William's plans. He dearly wanted to do more, but he was only one person. A very important and powerful person, yes, but still only one.
A third cry steeled France's resolve. He set his shoulders and marched up to the door.
“What do you hope to achieve with this?”
It was only a quiet question from Hugh, but it still managed to stay France's hand where it was poised to knock. France huffed. “I am hoping to stop this,” he said in an angry whisper as he waved his hand at the door.
“Oh?” said Hugh in his aggravating way, “And how will you manage that?”
France didn't know if he was more annoyed with Hugh for questioning him, or if it was because he was asking such good questions. “I always manage.” France turned stubbornly back to the door.
“My lord, you have no power here.”
France paused again.
“This is not your land. This is not your future being decided.”
Another muffled cry and France's heart jumped. “I can't just stand by and watch.” He turned pleading eyes towards Hugh.
Hugh seemed to understand France's plight and he laid a soothing hand on France's shoulder. “If you run in there now, without a plan, that is all you will be able to do.”
“But if there's even the smallest thing I could do...” France frowned at the door in confusion. His gut was telling him he should be in there, making a scene and standing up for what he cared for. His mind, though, used to courtly politics and the sort of people that engaged in them, told him that what Hugh said was the truth.
“Do not doubt that he would use your presence to his advantage,” said Hugh lowly. “He is more than capable of it.”
France's head drooped and for a moment all was silent.
“Come, my lord,” said Hugh gently, urging France to move with his hand, “There's nothing you can do here.”
France steeled himself and crushed down the swirling in his gut. It felt wrong to leave England there to fend for himself, but France had the wisdom enough to know when he had to admit defeat, no matter how painful and wrenching it was.
They would retreat and regroup. Then France would come up with a plan to fix it all and prove he hadn't given up on England. He had to.
~
France spent the next few hours second-guessing himself and feeling generally awful. Hugh did his his best to distract and everyone he met was eager for a conversation, that he might remember them favourably in the future. It was a pity they didn't realise how unlikely it was that he'd remember anything about this castle and his time here favourably, else they wouldn't have bothered. France, for his part, could only muster up the most passing of polite interest in anything anyone had to say.
Eventually, he retired to his chamber, sent Hugh off on a fool's errand and spent the rest of his time pacing the room.
Lunchtime came and went, but France didn't feel remotely hungry, his stomach churning horribly. He watched the sun move across the sky and people come and go through the castle gates, either to the adjoining huts at the base of the hill or out of the second gate into the gloomy countryside. He kept an ear out for footsteps in the hallway, jumpy and on-edge.
After a few false alarms, France at last heard light, shuffling footsteps accompanied by poorly stifled sniffling. He flew to the door and threw it open so suddenly that England shrieked and jumped a foot in the air.
“What did he do to you?” France asked desperately, his mind having provided all sorts of possibilities. He held England by the shoulders and looked him over. England's eyes were red and puffy, though wide in shock and his breathing took a few moments to calm once he saw it was only France.
England twisted out of France's grip and curled his hands protectively into his chest. He brushed the question off with a sullen shake of his head and turned half away to stare at the opposite wall. “He wasn't happy when he saw my wound had been treated.” England's words were curiously devoid of feeling.
“That was my idea!” France took a step forward and England took an equal step back. “Did you tell him I did it?”
England met France's eyes and his mouth twitched up into an ugly smile. “I have to take responsibility for my actions. I'm not to blame innocent bystanders for my own failings.”
For once, France stilled his own hand before it wrapped around England's arm. A chill settled in his stomach; William had used him against England without him even being there. “I--” France choked on his words. It was unnerving to have England looking at him as though he'd played a part in all this. “I'm sorry, I--”
“Being sorry doesn't help, France,” England snarled, advancing.
It was France's turn to take a step back.
“You can apologise all you want but it doesn't change anything.” England stood toe-to-toe with France, glaring up at him. It was a pose they had often been in over the course of their acquaintance, but this time it felt decidedly different. The threat from England was not so empty any more.
“Tell me how I can help you, then,” France pleaded.
“You can leave me alone.” England broke off his glare and stepped towards the door of his chamber. “You can piss off and stop making it worse!” He aimed to undo the latch with his elbow but he jabbed too hard in his anger and ended up recoiling with a yell.
France took hold of England's wrists and held them so he could look at his hands. They were red and swollen and obviously painful. France felt such relief at a physical ill that he could fix, that he felt immediately guilty for it. “That looks sore.” He uncertainly flicked his gaze up and found England staring stonily back. “I think... yes, I have a cream that would do wonders--”
England snatched his hands back. “No!”
“It's very soothing!” France insisted.
“If you want to help so much, you can make the Bastard leave!” England spat, with no heed for anyone who might be passing by. “You can bring all those people back to life!” He gestured wildly to the land outside the wooden walls. “Make it so the last year never happened!” England stopped, breathing heavily through his nose, and waited for France's reply.
France was leaning away from England's feral outburst and slowly came back to vertical. He tried to think of what answer England could possibly be expecting, but there wasn't any other than, “I can't.”
“Then leave me alone.” England bit out each word precisely before he withdrew and made a more successful attempt at opening his door.
France was left in the empty hallway, staring at the door. He considered going after England but decided, for once, that England could probably do with some time to calm down.
~
France didn't see England again until the next morning. Very early the next morning, in fact, when he was roused from sleep by knocking at his door. France answered it as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
England stood in the hallway with his chin up and defiant. He met France's gaze unwaveringly. “I'm going to get something to eat,” he said. “You should come with me.”
France looked towards his window where the sky was only just lightening. He gave England a wry smile. “Do you always start eating so early in the day?”
England's stomach took the opportunity to rumble. He looked down to his toes and then back up. “Only when I'm trying to avoid people.”
An apology would have been nice, but France knew better than to hope for one.
France threw on a tunic and they both descended to the hall to find a servant to provide them with something. It was too early for many of the kitchen staff to be up and about, but it still didn't take long for them to find someone to fetch them a simple bowl of porridge each.
England ate ravenously. He finished his bowl before France was even halfway through his own and he'd eaten in such a way that talking hadn't been possible.
“Hungry?” said France with a small chuckle.
England nodded, looking a little embarrassed at his sudden gluttony. He still couldn't keep his eyes from straying to France's bowl and folded his hands in his lap to keep them to himself.
“Your hands!” What with the lack of fuss England made, France had forgotten that they must be painful still.
“They're fine,” England snapped.
France continued to eat in silence. He wasn't going to push such a sensitive subject when they'd only just reconciled.
France noticed England staring enviously at his food and smiled. “Still hungry?” He suspected England hadn't had any supper the previous evening. France hadn't been able to bring himself to eat in the same room as William and he supposed England would have made the same choice. And England hadn't even been in his room when France told Hugh to bring a plate of food for him.
England, however, twisted his hands in his lap and refused to answer.
“Another bowl for my friend,” France ordered easily.
England looked more worried than grateful for all this food being bestowed upon him, but he still ate when the bowl was set in front of him. He ate more slowly now he had something in his belly, though he kept glancing at France's bowl, pacing himself to France's speed.
“So, tell me,” France paused in his eating and smiled when England forced himself to pause too, “What are these lessons about?”
England's eyes widened before they were curtailed by his sudden scowl. “Etiquette,” he groused as he pushed his porridge around the bowl, “Language.” He gave the porridge a particularly vicious stab. “Knowing my place.”
France nodded. “At least he shouldn't be able to fault you on your French.” France thought of all the time they'd spent together getting England to speak properly.
“My accent is poor,” England sneered in a plain imitation of William, “And my vocabulary limited.”
“Oh.” France returned to his food with a frown. He'd never had a problem with England's vocabulary, nor his accent; that was just how England spoke. And who was a better judge of French than France himself?
France sighed and took a spoonful, which England took as a sign to start eating again. It was clear that William cared less about teaching than he did about punishing. “I'll talk to him.”
“You'll what?” England gaped at France in horror. “No! You can't!”
“Why not?” France pouted. “I'm trying to help you.”
“So that I can be punished for it later? No thank you.” England sullenly returned to eating.
France did the same, put out that England would use that against him. He hadn't known, had he? And he'd apologised! Though, really, he wasn't sorry that he'd looked after England, he was only sorry that it had all turned sour afterwards. And that hadn't even been his fault. He wouldn't make a mistake like that again; he knew what he was dealing with now.
France swallowed his indignation with another mouthful of porridge. “Are you sure you don't want to put something on your hands?”
“France!” England gave him an exasperated look.
“The stuff I have would really help, and it rubs in like it was never there!”
England stopped his next rant short. “Really?”
“Yes!” France nodded emphatically.
England glanced at France out of the corner of his eye. “Does it smell?”
“Barely.”
England considered it. “I suppose it might help.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you mustn't get all smug like you usually do or else he'll know.”
Having only just got back on good terms with England, France chose to ignore the slander and be glad that England was accepting his help. In that same vein, he quashed his jibe when England abandoned his spoon and used his finger to get every last drop out of his bowl.
Despite having two whole bowls, England still finished eating before France did.
~
England disappeared soon after France had finished his round of expert skin care, and France was pleased to note that he looked far more cheerful than he had the day before. France didn't know where England was off to, but he wasn't much worried about it; he knew where William would be and that he would be distracted.
William would be distracted because France was going to have a talk with him. There was more than one reason he didn't mind England being elsewhere.
France sat in his room, planning, until Hugh came to find him.
~
The hall seemed larger now that there were more people to fill it. The room seemed to stretch before him as he made his way to the far end of the table, where William sat, indulging in his wealth. The man was surrounded by his nobles and they talked and laughed and congratulated themselves on a job well done.
France frowned and firmly instructed Hugh to stop dogging his heels before he approached any closer.
William turned to France with an amused quirk to his lips, the remnants of some witty remark from one of his men. “Is there something I can do for you, France?” The smile remained, giving the impression of a reasonable man.
France drew himself up with a sharp nod. “I wish to discuss England's education with you.”
William flicked an amused glance back to his men, who all returned their attentions to their food. “Is that so?”
“You are a busy man with many things on your mind.”
William nodded. “True enough.”
“Taking all of England's learning into your own hands is unnecessary. I would suggest that you let someone else take on the bulk of the work so that you may attend to your more important duties.”
“And would you know of anyone up to such a task?” The raised eyebrow was a touch more patronising than required; France was older than he looked and this wasn't just some fancy or whim of his.
“With my knowledge of the language and society - from King down to lowliest servant - I believe I would be the perfect candidate.” France brushed non-existent dirt off his tunic.
William looked thoughtful. After a moment he leant forward, to better look France in the eye.“Do you believe you are capable of disciplining the boy?”
France kept his face neutral at such a distasteful question. “If it came to that, I believe-- I believe I would use sufficient force.”
William looked France in the eye for an unnerving length of time, then he sat back in his chair. “Do you know, France, how long it took for him to address me properly?”
“No.”
“Five months.” William's eye contact was unwavering.
France didn't let himself show any reaction beyond a polite nod.
“It was two months before he could even be without guard, and another month after that before I heard a single civil word from him.” With the smallest of shrugs, William glanced around the table. “I cannot risk all my hard work being undone.”
“I will make sure it is not!”
“How, France? Will you take the switch to him when he deserves it?”
“Of course!” France lied, “If he deserves it.”
William sighed as though disappointed. “You are a kind-hearted soul, France, but England cannot be taught with kindness. My methods may appear barbaric, but England must be taught his place. He is not a creature of reason, he has proved that time and again. Swift and sharp discipline is the only language he understands.”
France felt himself losing grip on the conversation. “Must it be so sharp?”
William chuckled indulgently. “You are young.” (France resisted the urge to point out that he was oldest one in the entire castle.) “And yes, in the short term letting him get away with the little things would be easier, but it would only make for more work later on. If you wish, you may sit in on his lessons. I'm sure you would learn some useful things yourself, about bringing errant subordinates to heel.”
France forced his shudder back.
“I'm afraid that is not possible.”
France turned sharply to where Hugh had materialised beside him. He didn't know if he should be grateful or incredibly annoyed at the intervention.
“The King,” Hugh continued, his face hard and eyes boring into William's in a way that bordered on insolence, “The French King, requires France to attend to his own lessons.”
“That is a pity.” William's smile as he looked between Hugh and France was deeply insincere. “Remember, the invitation is open if you ever,” his gaze drifted back to Hugh, “Tire of your studies.”
“I shall keep it in mind, William. Thank you.”
France bowed cordially, then turned and left the room. Hugh stuck persistently in his peripheral vision the entire way.
Once France judged them far enough from prying eyes and ears, he turned on his minder. “Hugh, what are you doing?”
“My lord, you must be careful.” Hugh crouched down to France's level and put a hand on his shoulder. His voice dropped to a low murmur. “You are only safe because he does not yet have claim to you. You know how he treats the Saxon child.”
France jerked his shoulder out of Hugh's grip. “His name is England. And yes, I do know. That is why I am trying to stop it!”
Hugh wasn't phased by France's vehemence. “The Duke is a determined man. He will not stop until the country is under his control. Believe me,” he implored, “It does not please me to see such treatment, but England has been conquered and you cannot change that. Even if, by some miracle, you manage protect him, you will have to return home eventually.”
France drew back further. “Then you would have me do nothing.”
“Comfort the child, if you wish.” Hugh gave a half-hearted shrug, then met France's eyes with renewed severity. “It is my duty to see you returned safely to the King and interfering with the Duke's plans is, at best, unwise.” The sound of someone approaching prompted Hugh to get back to his feet. He glanced over his shoulder at the still empty hallway then leant in close to France. “Do not let yourself think for a second that you are above his ambitions.”
~
France didn't have a proper conversation with England for a full week after that. France could only watch from afar at mealtimes. England was no longer allowed to eat at the table with France and the Normans. Instead, he stood at William's side as his personal serving boy. For the rest of the time he was either being taught his lessons or trailing after William everywhere he went (so long as it was within the castle walls, of course; England was still not allowed to leave the keep).
As such, France's and England's communication was severely restricted. Reduced to France's worried looks across the food-laden table and England's half-smiles and head-shakes when William's back was turned.
France was desperate, faced with such sheer uncertainty. He had surmised that his little talk with William had, if not helped, then at least not made anything worse. Or if it had make things worse, England didn't know that it was France's fault, which was for the best. Though a guilty worm he couldn't placate still gnawed at his gut if he ever thought about it.
France became restless. He couldn't sleep at night for all his worrying. His brain would incessantly recall every action of England's; the way he would flinch at a slight reprimand and hurry to do as he was told. But when France tried to turn his thoughts to something useful - to find a fix or a solution - his mind would hit a stone wall and, for all its activity, come up with nothing. And when France couldn't even find the boy he was trying to protect, what could he do?
He took to sitting and waiting in England's room at night, for surely with the castle so full, someone else would be sleeping there if England had been given somewhere else to sleep. Each morning when France woke from his fitful dreams, it was to find that the room was exactly as he left it, with nothing to suggest England had ever been in there at all.
That was, until the eighth night.
France was sitting on England's bed, head and eyelids drooping, when the door opened. France's head snapped up so quickly he had to flail his arms to keep balance.
England caught the tail-end of this impressive display and giggled as he shut the door behind him. “That was really graceful, France.”
France tucked his hair behind his ear and pursed his lips. “You took me by surprise.” He did his best to affect offence, but found that he couldn't in the face of England's cheer.
“That's what you get for hiding in other peoples' beds.” England hurried over and slipped off his shoes before clambering onto the bed beside France.
“You're in a good mood today.” France shuffled closer to England. “Has William decided to let you alone?”
England's expression clouded, which put paid to any hope that France's talk had done anything. “No. The- that man is the same.” England softened again. “I'm just... feeling a bit better.”
There was more to it than England was admitting, and France dearly wanted to know what, in the knowledge that he may not get a chance to speak to England again for days. However, he decided to let England keep his secret, just for the night. He never thought he'd be so glad to see England in a good mood (to be honest, he'd never thought there was such a thing as England in a good mood, but the past couple of weeks had made him re-evaluate his personal scale of England's moods). “That's good.”
England nodded as he undid his belt and dropped it on the floor. He then went about trying to push the tunic off over his head from the inside.
“Do you need some help?” said France once all he could see was an unruly sprout of blond hair and two eyebrows sticking out the top.
England paused. “Yes,” he finally admitted from inside his own clothing, “But be careful.”
“I'm always careful,” France assured, and then easily ignored England's following snort of disbelief. True to his word, he carefully lifted the tunic up off England's head. He frowned as he neatly folded the garment: there was something not right about it. He gave it a sniff. “Ugh, this stinks!”
England smirked. “Some people aren't afraid to get their hands dirty.”
France grimaced. “Some people have the good sense not to go rolling around in human waste.” He threw the tunic on the floor. “That's disgusting.”
“I didn't roll, I spilt.”
France gave it some thought. “No, I don't think that's any better.”
England's reply was lost to a yawn and France's own yawn reminded them both that they were sitting on a bed for a reason. England turned and shuffled to the head of the bed. He pulled the covers back then looked at France over his shoulder. “You may as well sleep here. I think it's going to be a cold night.”
France nodded and crawled under the covers. Already situated comfortably, he watched England steel himself and then everso gently lower himself on to his side. He lay there for a moment with his face screwed up in pain before he finally relaxed.
“Is your back--”
“It's fine.” England closed his eyes pointedly.
“Ah.” France chewed on the inside of his lip before he decided England had the right idea of it: now wasn't the time to talk about these things. “Good night, then.”
Silence. Then, finally, a mumbled, “G'night.”
France smiled and drifted off to sleep.
He woke hours later with the sensation of his arm being caught in a vice. He shifted uncomfortably and blinked open his heavy eyes to find that England had clamped onto him. France studied him in the early morning light.
England's lips were drawn tight, as if he were thinking about something deeply serious. He looked small, and ill-equipped to deal with what was happening around him. France was just about to run his free hand through England's hair in an attempt to soothe him when England dragged himself awake.
England stared unseeingly into France for a moment before he heaved a great breath and rolled onto his back. Which was a mistake, as evidenced by the short, sharp words England muttered in his own language.
Nevertheless, England continued on his way and rolled out of bed. He landed on his feet and stretched gingerly.
“Good morning.” France sat up and shook the feeling back into his hand.
“Oh.” England stopped mid neck-roll. “You're still here.”
“No need to sound so disappointed,” said France with a smile.
England rolled his eyes and slipped his shoes on before his feet got too chilly.
France draped himself across the bed, not willing to leave the warmth of the covers just yet. He watched England struggle into his clothing and saw something strange. He caught hold of the bottom of England's shirt, where there was a spread of colour on the otherwise blank material.
“Is William teaching you embroidery?” He rubbed a thumb over the mismatched threads.
“The Bastard?” England scoffed, “Of course not.”
“So what's this?”
England looked down at the offending patch of linen, then up at France, frowning in thought. “Mildred's teaching me,” he eventually admitted.
“Mildred? Who's--” France's eyes widened. “You've met a Saxon?”
“Yes.” England huffed. “I've met one of my own people.” He looked down at the floor, a small smile coming to his lips. “She's a servant here. Doesn't speak a word of French, so I'm teaching her.” He looked at the corner of his undershirt France was still holding. “She's teaching me some embroidery in return.”
“Does William know?”
England's face twisted into an ugly sneer. “This has nothing to do with him.”
“England.” France yanked on the shirt. “What if William were to see this?”
“I'm careful!”
“You're wearing it everywhere you go!”
England fell into an agitated silence.
“I don't understand!” France moved to kneel on the bed. “You know what he will do!” He placed a hand on England's shoulder, annoyed by how England, despite it all, just didn't seem to get it. “You're not allowed--”
England rolled his eyes expansively. “Oh, I'm not allowed! I'm not allowed!” He pulled away and started getting dressed. “I'm not allowed to speak my own language.” He opened a chest. “I'm not allowed to see my own people.” Pulled out a new tunic. “I'm not allowed to go out into my own land.” He looked back at France. “I'm tired of all your damn rules!”
France hit the bed in frustration. “They're not my rules!”
England spun around to face France, his unrestrained tunic flaring out around him. “Then why are you so desperate to have me follow them?”
“It's for your own good! If you're too stupid to keep yourself safe, I'll just have to do it!” France's words were left hanging in the now frigid atmosphere.
England broke the silence with a torrent of intelligible words as he snatched up his belt.
“England.” France scrambled down from the bed, aware that any good feeling from the previous night had been destroyed. “England, I didn't mean it.”
England reached the door and faced France, stopping him dead in his tracks. “It's easy to see why the Bastard fawns over you.” He opened the door. “Don't follow me.” And left.
So France was left back where he'd started.
~
The castle was abuzz with the appearance of new arrivals fresh off the so-called battlefield. The castle keep was full of people and while France managed to keep a bedroom to himself, England was moved elsewhere. A few tents had been erected outside for the temporary glut of people. They were making a stop to report to William on their way back South.
William himself was busier than ever, always surrounded by men, talking and planning. England trotted along beside him, largely unnoticed and staring hard at the floor more often than not. Getting England alone was proving to be an even more impossible task than it was before.
France spent much of his time in his room to escape the cacophony of the Great Hall. He could still hear the muffled murmurs through the walls, but at least he didn't have to hear the words. If he heard one more declaration of how wonderful William's idea was, of how the Saxons had no choice but to capitulate, of how there were sure to be no more rebellions, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions. To hell with what William could do to him.
He was just emerging from his room once more, ready to leap back into the courtly fray, when he noticed that England's old room was occupied. He hadn't yet seen who using the room and that, coupled with the door hanging slightly ajar, sparked his curiosity. Making sure he could still see if someone were coming, he casually leant against the wall and turned his ear away from the general hubbub of the place and focussed on what was coming from that room.
“My friend,” it was a man's voice, and not one he recognised. “For all this talk of success, you seem troubled.”
“Do you know me that well, or is it so obvious?” A second, equally unknown man. There followed a long silence, during which France quietly shuffled closer. A drink was poured. Finally, a sigh. “Truthfully, I can barely wait to be away from this place.” France immediately took a liking to this man. “The things we have done here... families slaughtered in their own homes... men defending themselves with nothing more than farming tools...” The man's voice became quieter and more ragged. “And what survivors there are are so desperate.”
“That is rather the point.”
France sneered at that assessment.
“They are eating their own dead, Harry!” The thud of a hand against wood. “That they have been driven so low-- that we drove them so low...”
“I thought that was just fanciful rumour.” He at least sounded properly chastised.
“I saw evidence of it myself.”
“Then, if nothing else, we know we won't be needed here again.”
“Yes.” The word was said with a black sort of humour. “I have no doubt the King's methods will prove effective. But still... I am disturbed by them.”
“What of the others? Does anyone else harbour--”
Creaking from the stairs prompted France to pull away from the door. He had known news of the atrocities was never going to be a pleasant thing to hear, but he was still shocked. He didn't want to think what such circumstances would mean for England. So, instead, he took what small solace he could in the knowledge that not all of William's men were completely besotted with him.
~
The meal that evening truly deserved the title of feast. People were packed around the table and the food was piled high. France was given a seat at William's right hand. England, to the surprise of everyone involved, was given the seat to William's left. France was caught between thinking him lucky to get a seat at all and empathising with him over all the idiotic talk they'd both have to endure.
Either way, it didn't matter one jot to England what France thought. He stared at the mountains of food with wide eyes and none of France's fidgeting and eyebrow-wiggling could get his attention.
Silence fell when William stood to give a small speech. He thanked everyone for their tireless work and welcomed England to the table. England was distracted from the food enough to shrink under the collective gaze of the room, but he smiled perfectly politely and bowed his head to William in thanks. The feast was, according to William, in celebration of the progress England had made.
Drinks were raised in toast, then everyone settled into the eating. It was a task England set to with gusto. France could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with communication while food was in the vicinity so he resigned himself to the small talk and insincere flattery. It was something he'd usually enjoy, but here it all rubbed him the wrong way; a greasy veneer of normality trying to cover the bright and glaring wrongness of it all.
Still, he endured what he could and smiled at the weak jokes from the pompous show-off to his right, all the while staying immaculately polite towards William, which he was sure he deserved some kind of honour for. He got vindictive satisfaction from throwing underhanded comments at the man sitting across from him, who had failed to pick up on the table-wide consensus to carefully ignore England and instead kept sending disgusted looks his way.
It felt like it took days, but even a room full of ravenous men can only eat so much, and the feast began to wind down. Cutlery was set down, plates pushed away and the men leaned back, rubbing their taught, full bellies.
Everyone was well sated. Everyone, except England, who ate like a starving pauper, licking the very last traces from the plate.
Conversations slowly trailed off and a hush fell over the whole hall. Even the clattering from the kitchen seemed to fade away.
William was staring at England. Everyone was staring at England. There was no way he couldn't have noticed, but he doggedly kept his eyes down and carried on eating. France watched in a horrified kind of awe as England finished the last of what was on his plate and, head down still, dragged the carcass of a boar closer.
“England.” William's voice was low but clearly audible in the hush that had fallen.
The entire room watched England pick at the flesh between the boar's ribs.
“England.”
England's fingers left the boar and fell onto a crust of bread, which he grabbed and shoved into his mouth while his other hand quested for any more food that may have been missed.
France looked around the table. He saw the glances that were being thrown this way and that, and he realised that they knew. Every last one of them knew. Not a single word was said, but it was clear in the way they looked at the bones England was picking clean, how they shifted uncomfortably if England so much as turned in their direction.
“England.” William leant forward, his grip tight on his knife. “You are making a scene.”
England paused, but apparently couldn't resist the last morsel within his reach.
William's hand shot out and grabbed hold of England's wrist.
England jumped and reflexively dropped the cheese rind he'd gone for. “Sorry, sire,” he whispered desperately, looking first at the grip William had on him, then up at William himself. “Sorry, sire.”
The next words France only heard because he was sitting so close. “And what about everyone else who had to witness your disgusting behaviour?”
England attention flicked to the rest of the room. He cringed away from the attention then pulled himself up. “M-my apologies, everyone,” he addressed the table at large, “That you had to see such a... a...”
“Uncouth display,” William muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“--Uncouth display. I am still learning.”
A murmur of acceptance ran round the table.
William released England's hand. “Better.”
England hid his hand under the table and returned to his default of trying to look as small as possible.
France glanced from one to the other and quashed his base instinct to just punch William in the face. “Not to worry, England,” he said with false cheer, and pointedly not looking at William, “You did really well.”
~~~
Part Three