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A Foreign Mind/To Find Something One Can Resent
by kel

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It is not easy to write about what followed… Was I to abandon my hope
of freedom, surrender the mastery of my mind, for the hope of wearing
jewelled leather and having other men touch their caps to me?  The
notion was absurd.  Whatever privileges I was given, I would still be a
sheep among sheep.   …The insidious thing was that temptation should
have entered into it at all.  From the moment the idea ceased to be
unthinkable, I could not let it alone.
If one is seeking reasons for disloyalty, it is useful to find
something one can resent.
-- John Christopher, The White Mountains



Château Ricordeau, France, July 2089 A.D.


Will is badly hurt, the victim of debris hurled by terrified Vagrants
in the ruins of Paris.  Henry and Beanpole steal a wagon and carry him
as far as they can, watching helplessly as he slides into fever, raving
and screaming.  But fortune smiles on them, in the end;  leads Will
staggering and concussed into the path of a hunting party led by the
Duc de Sarlat, a minor noble who slings him over his saddle and drives
the others before his horse for several miles before delivering them as
évadés to the local landowner, the Comte Ricordeau.

The Comte, an humane and mannered man who prides himself on his
hospitality, insists upon taking the boys in until Will is well.  It
will take some time; Will's wound is inflamed and he recognises no-one,
babbling in English of things better kept secret.  La Comtesse and her
daughter Eloise, finding his companions' distress difficult to bear,
arrange to nurse him themselves.   The more private tasks are given to
Christophe, a quiet and discreet  man of great loyalty to the family.

As guests, however unexalted, Henry and Jean-Paul cannot openly be
asked to work in return for their board.  But they are quartered with
the squires, of whom there are never enough to do what must be done,
and the bargain is clear.  It's only natural to offer help where they
can.

Deeply mistrustful of the family's intentions, Henry busies himself in
the stables to keep from having to think, or talk, and takes his
frustration out on the demolition of damaged stalls.  He feels Will's
absence keenly in ways he cannot articulate, and is more than usually
volatile.  While Beanpole would much rather be studying the Comte's
collection of books and maps, he makes sure to spend time with Henry,
and be near whenever he must deal with others.  For his own part, he
makes friends among the unCapped Château boys, and delights in the
library when he can.

They see Will only when he is calm, or asleep, and must derive what
solace they can from each other.  Henry's lack of trust and French
means they socialise little with the other squires, taking at the far
end of the dormitory two beds which Beanpole pushes together and Henry
talks about pushing apart.   They share blankets and food and argue
late into the night about the wisest course of action.

There's no doubt that Will is in good hands.   Elegant, pretty and
kind, Eloise does nothing at whim; she is very adult, for someone so
young.  Henry dislikes her intensely, although he can give no sensible
reason for it.  She takes for granted a life of  mannered leisure,
something he can neither understand nor respect, and her unfailing
politeness makes him feel small.  Without Will by his side he is
oversensitive and rude.

The truth is that he begrudges her time with his cousin; while he is
worried to death and kept away, Eloise looks upon Will with immense
compassion, and is often to be found holding his hand and talking
quietly to him in English.   Knowing only that someone dark-eyed and
pale watches over him, Will calls her Jean-Paul, and speaks of kisses
and mountains and metal goose eggs.  Eloise is charmed by the
tenderness in his voice, and his oft-spoken promise to say nothing.

Beanpole is more than happy to leave Will in her care, once he's sure
she takes his ramblings for nonsense.  He is less happy at the
attendance of her cousin, Sarlat.   His interest in Will's condition is
unnerving.  Sons of the nobility are expected to travel before le
Calotte, and the boys' wanderings endear them to the Comte without
arousing undue interest.  Sarlat, however, believes the lower orders
have neither the right nor the initiative to journey, and the
conclusions he's likely to draw from Will's fevered babbling worry
Henry and Beanpole a great deal.  But there's nothing they can do.  As
Eloise's fiancé, Sarlat is used to having his way and the family are
used to granting it.  If he wishes to care for the young Englishman
then it must be permitted.

Will is no more aware of the hours the Duc spends in his room than he
is of the room itself, a luxurious private chamber reserved for guests.
He rambles and smiles, and remarks upon Sarlat's striking appearance in
a manner which, were he in his senses, would occasion the seeking of
satisfaction.  Once or twice he calls him Jack, and touches him gently.
The Duc discourages nothing, and Beanpole has to shepherd a furious
Henry from the room before he can jeopardise their position.  It is a
mistake, as they are not allowed to return, except in the company of
Eloise or her mother.

In truth Sarlat resembles Jack very little.  Where Jack was dark and
lively, the Duc is an arrogant, handsome sandy-blond with piercing eyes
and white-gold skin who moves with graceful deliberation.  A man of
curled lips and precise speech, he is no fool, and considers the Comte
to be one for playing host to the travellers.   Will, febrile and
euphoric, chatters freely to him, but in truth the Duc has little
interest in his conversation.  Will responds unguardedly and with
intimacy to his touch; he is flirtatious and réceptif, and it is no
great hardship for the Duc to persuade Christophe that such things
should not be witnessed by others.

It is not Christophe's place to notice Sarlat's hands teasing open
robes that should be closed, or to hear the creak of two bodies upon
the wide, brocaded bed.  Those in fever often cry out without reason.


=== * ===


When Will is finally himself again, he remembers little of what has
passed.  He is shy with Eloise and her mother, embarrassed and bemused
by their familiar manner.  They are relieved to see him well again.
His eyes are a little brighter than they should be, it's true, and he
will not be strong enough to travel for some time, but to see him
passing from patient to guest pleases them both.

When the others are finally called to his bedside, the occasion is
private and joyous.  It's a measure of Henry's relief that he allows
Beanpole's rush to embrace Will to pass without comment.  Withdrawing
his proffered hands in embarrassment, he hastily steps out of the way,
feigning interest in the ornate furnishings.  Beanpole, grown sensitive
to his moods, makes up for it in his own way; sits away from the bed
and allows Henry, perched next to Will and happier than he has been in
days, to answer all questions.   He is exhausted by the effort of
concealing his fears.  Beanpole knows all too well the danger of fever.
The constant passage of seafaring men through his village brings many
strange sicknesses against which the unCapped are defenceless.

Still struggling to understand what seems to him a violent transition
from the crumbling, dark ruins of Paris to a bright room more splendid
than any he has ever seen, Will feels the need for solidity and pulls
Beanpole up onto the bed to sit with his arm around him.  He draws
Henry close on the other side, ignoring his protests.  The last thing
he remembers with any clarity is the feeling of burning from the inside
and ice from the out; it sits in his mind with the smell of blood and
damp horses, and a pair of pale, piercing eyes above him in the rain.
Or was there rain?  He can't remember.

He shivers, and hugs them both, prompting Beanpole to venture the
gentlest of kisses and grimace at the taste of the Comtesse's
restorative.  It clings to Will's lips, combining honey and bitterness,
and his alarm at the taste rouses a laugh from both cousins.  Henry is
less amused when Will returns the kiss and, shrugging the arm from his
shoulders, waits for it to pass with folded arms, making a great play
of enjoying the view from the large bay window.

When the kiss becomes a quiet embrace, Henry withdraws, muttering under
his breath, to the corridor.  Lined with row upon row of dusty books in
a language he cannot read and wouldn't want to anyway, it depresses
him, and he quickly finds a niche which lets him look out at the bright
afternoon.

He needn't have left, and he knows it.  But he'd rather be out of the
way, even if they are only holding each other and trying to keep
Beanpole's boots off the intricately patterned coverlet.   The idea
that Will might not have recovered, might have died while out of his
care, terrifies Henry.  They've fought all their lives, one way or
another, and Tripods or no Tripods, they still don't get on.  But
they've never spent more than a day apart.

He'd have liked some time with his cousin.


=== * ===


His cousin is kissing Beanpole's closed eyes, having confiscated the
strange new lunettes he'd salvaged in Paris.  Their symmetry
bothers him; Beanpole sees better and they are better to wear, but Will
is selfish enough to miss his ramshackle, homemade pair, and the small
distortions that had shaped the Frenchman's face against the ocean sky.
Beanpole looks tired and thinner than he should, and radiates relief;
Will begins to understand just how ill he has been.

"The dreams, Beanpole.  Such dreams."

He rests his bandaged forehead against Jean-Paul's and closes his eyes,
feeling the space between them.  It's a favourite game, lying close
enough to kiss and not kissing;  feeling the heat of each other's lips
upon their faces, millimetres away and touching nothing.  It's how they
pass their nights, at least until Henry is asleep.

"You remember?"

"Some.  I wish I didn't."

Beanpole studies Will's face as best he can with everything amorphous,
reduced to clouds of shifting colour.  "Yes," he says softly, "they did
not sound enjoyable."

"Did I scare you?"

"Very much."  He reaches up, brushes strands of hair away from Will's
face.  "But not to be with you, that was worst. "

"You were here.  You held me, I remember that, and kissed me.  But I
was so tired..."

Beanpole smiles, and traces gentle patterns on Will's face with the
back of his fingers.  "It is a dream.  To hold you is not possible.
Eloise, she is here, or her mother.  And there is Henry, always, and he
is dérangé.  I do not hurt him more by suggesting the impropers."

"But you stayed with me.  We..."  Will reddens.  He hasn't the words
for intimacy, and the ones Beanpole knows embarrass him.

Beanpole shakes his head, slowly.  "Not possible.  And in any case I
would not.  Your mind was not here.  But I am flattered it wishes
otherwise."  Smiling, he cups Will's face in his hands and kisses him
gently.   "Listen, coquille, I am serious now.  You must talk with
Henry.   He has great fear for you."

"No, wait…"  Will opens his eyes and draws back, puzzled.  "You were
here.  I mean, I thought you were Jack, but... "

"Ah, yes…"  A deeper tone, too sharply edged to be pleasant, interrupts
them; the door has opened, silently, and Sarlat  stands outlined
against the dark wood.  "A lucky man, this Jack, to have such a friend
who remembers him even in fever."

Suddenly pale, Will struggles to sit up, staring at the Duc with shock.
Beanpole, blind and vulnerable,  scrabbles furiously for his glasses
and wonders why neither has heard the door open.  Christophe announces
all visitors, especially the family.

Henry pushes past him, breathlessly, relieved for himself as much as
the others that there is nothing to interrupt.  "I tried to stop him,
but..."

 "Venez."

Sarlat bows slightly, holding Will's gaze and smiling in a way that
makes Henry itch to hit him.

"Tell him Will's sick!"

But the Duc sweeps out of the room, waving Christophe in and leaving
the others to follow.  Will is  suddenly, insanely certain that he
knows the curve of Sarlat's shoulders naked, and the shape of the mark
his teeth leave when he bites.  What his voice sounds like, breathing
husky obscenities against the back of Will's neck.

His voice trembles.  "That man, Beanpole..."

"He brought us here," says Henry, contemptuously.  "Probably made you
worse, dragging you round in the rain like that.  For two pins he'd
give us to the Black Guards."

"Le Duc de Sarlat.  He has attended you, since," says Beanpole quietly.
"You do not remember?"

Will stares after the Duc, his mouth filling with the taste of very
particular skin.  Soft skin, that glows in candlelight and brings with
it closed curtains, dark gold hair against his belly and pale eyes
mischievous with wine.

He had dreamed of Jack, dreamed he kissed him, and held him, and told
him of things he had learned; and Jack had made him laugh, and done
things Jack would never do.

His hand flies instinctively to his shoulder, to the tiny marks and
bruises he knows before touching are there, are real.  Little bites he
knows, now, that Beanpole did not make.  There are other pains, too,
that linger in his body, and that he had not until now minded.

"Beanpole..."

There's a note of incomprehension, almost panic in his voice.  Beanpole
quietens him, gently, rests an arm around his shoulders and guides him
through the dark corridors.  He watches Will's face carefully; wonders,
and speaks calmly for Henry's sake.

"He has much concern for your safety."

"Much concern about our travels, you mean."

"Quiet, Henry, " Beanpole turns back to Will.  "You… he sat with you,
and it seemed welcome."

"Welcome?"  They round the corner into a large bright ante-room, pale
walls hung with strange instruments, and painting upon painting of
river scenes.  The light hurts Will's eyes, but he refuses to go on.
"What do you mean, welcome?"

His voice is too loud, and draws Sarlat, waiting at the entrance to the
library, back towards them.  Will doesn't look at him as he approaches.
Won't.  The way he moves frightens him, touches needs in Will he hadn't
known were there.

"Do you need assistance, Englishman?"

Englishman.

Will hears the word in whispers, finds it wrapped in weight and skin
between his legs, pressing him into fine linen.  He knows he mustn't
look up, can't help but look up, and can't look away once he has;
shaken afire as Sarlat smiles, fleetingly, so no-one else can see.

He remembers that smile, has somewhere inside a haunting sense of it
emerging, slowly, upon invitation.

"He's fine.  Leave him alone."  Henry glares up at the Duc, desperately
unintimidated.  There's not much difference between them, in strength
or in height; but somehow Will has no doubt about who would win, should
it come to blows.

Sarlat, graceful and controlled, ignores him, speaks past him, to Will;
not gently, but with peculiar reassurance.

"You need not be alarmed."

He holds Will's gaze a little longer, then walks to the door of the
library, beckoning them curtly.   "Monsieur Le Comte waits."

Will's mind whirls.  He pulls away from Beanpole, trying to work out
what he feels.  What he remembers.  What he's done.  It all makes far
too little sense, and far too much.

"Will?  What is it?  Qu'a-t-il fait à tu?"

"Not now.  Leave it."

"What?  What's going on?"  Henry, thoroughly annoyed, looks between the
others.

"Nothing," says Will, tiredly.  "It's nothing," and pushes past them
both.


=== * ===


Will emerges from the library with the distinct impression that the
travellers are curiosities; that he is more welcome than his
companions, and that despite... whatever...  Henry is right, and Sarlat
would like nothing more than to turn them in.   Listening to the Comte
refuse to give them up disorients him; it's too hard to think about,
and he's having enough trouble staying upright.  He grasps one thing,
that they are safe; that they can stay, and not be Capped.  For now.

He can feel the Duc watching him as he walks out of the room.

Apprehensive but silent, Beanpole helps Will to dress and takes him to
sit in the sun.  The château has many sheltered courtyards; the one he
chooses is a peaceful place, with comfortable benches and a pretty view
of the great twisted willows that line the river.   Jean-Paul walks
alone by the water for a while, building tiny dams of riverstones and
leaving Will with Henry to talk or not talk as they need.  When he
returns they are laughing, and the change in Henry as he returns to the
stables is remarkable.

Left alone, the lovers say little, the shadow of the Duc ghosting
between them.  It was impossible for Will to dress without revealing
the marks on his skin, and impossible to discuss it with Henry in the
room.  Beanpole had simply held his friend briefly; folded his long
arms around him and shielded his body from Henry's view, grateful that
there were at least no signs of violence.

They look at each other, touch fingers, say nothing.  And when the
silence grows too hard to bear, they walk to the riverbank and sit
together by a thick-trunked willow a hundred years old.  Beanpole props
himself against it, draws Will gently backwards to lean against his
chest.

Jean-Paul watches the eddying water through half-closed eyes, feeling
old, rough bark against his back.  He makes himself think about
machines, makes himself calm.

"I do not like being separated from you," he says at last.   "If you
are hurt…"

The question hangs in the air between them, quietly.

Will loops his arms around Beanpole's legs, bent up on either side;
makes himself a willing prisoner between them, and runs his fingers
down Beanpole's calves to the peculiar open-toed shoes he's wearing.
They must belong to someone at the château; Beanpole would never choose
such things for walking.  The straps hide healing blisters, fading
after a week of inactivity, and his instep shows tender and white at
the sides.

Will strokes the soft skin, and realises fully for the first time that
if it were not for him, this beautiful mad boy would be miles and miles
away, lying safely in the sun and brushing sand from stolen books.

He owes him the truth.

"No.  I don't think so."

"You remember, then?"

"Yes.  No.  Nothing …unpleasant."

He takes Beanpole's hand, turns it palm down and brushes smudges from
his long fingers, running his thumb between the ink-stained knuckles.

Englishman.

He takes a deep breath.  "I do not remember refusing.   Or... or wanting
to."

"Bâtard.  C'est plus impardonnable."

"I'm sorry," says Will, sharply.  "I can't help that now."

"Oh, Will... I did not mean you."  Beanpole sighs, heavily, sounding
suddenly brittle.  "He is… If he approaches you, again…"

"He did not hurt me."  Will studies the ground, leaning forward and
hugging his knees, so that his face is hidden.  "But you musn't tell
Henry.  Promise me."

"Et le fois prochaine?"

"There won't be a next time."

Beanpole knows better, and knows better than to say so.  He gathers
Will to him again, holds him tight until Will's hands close over his
own, and he is sure he is understood.  He rests his head on Will's
shoulder, and rocks them gently for a time, grateful that they are not
looking at each other.

Tender and exploratory, their embraces happen because they happen;
because he looks on Will and is moved by his openness, and because
Jean-Paul's strange and colourful sanity makes Will smile.  There is
little satisfaction in it, but Beanpole does not mind; what they do is
language, innocent and not for recreation's sake.    Neither vigorous
nor invasive, it is not what he is used to, and the difference charms
him.   But he has known strong desire with others, and remembers its
power well.  Especially the first time.

No promises.  They agreed, no promises.

"This is a dangerous man, coquille.  You must be careful."

"I know."

"Then tu as ma bénédiction.   But I am here, if."


=== * ===


If.

Sarlat is frequently at the château, supervising preparations for the
annual tournament, a whirl of contests and feasting which attracts
visitors from miles around.  As the Comte's man he is responsible for
many things; but he is also a contestant, and assiduously hones his
skills upon familiar ground.  While not exactly popular, he is handsome
and correct and attracts followers both above and below stairs.

The boys often see him watching as they explore, or walk with Eloise.
It would be impossible not to see him.  There are only so many rooms,
so many corridors, so many courtyards, and he has legitimate reasons to
visit them all.   Riding here, fighting there; stripped and wrestling
in the sun or lounging indolently among the stewards, he attracts
attention.   Will tries hard at first not to seek him out, not to meet
his gaze, but fails; is left breathless and burning by the hint of a
smile in his pale eyes, by the slightest of acknowledgements.  His
interest grows harder to hide; but Beanpole is careful not to see it,
and Henry assumes it is antipathy.

They watch each other across ever-shortening distances, and trigger
talk of rivalry among the servants.

The Duc aside, this is a time of peace for Will.  He wanders in a
pleasant daze; after weeks of stress and deprivation, of running by day
and hiding by night with only the other boys for company, the sheer
abundance of life at the château is overwhelming.  There are nearly two
hundred people here, all told, living in or nearby, and they all have
their part to play.  Carters, craftsmen, musicians, cooks, maids,
groundsmen, stewards, orchardists; townsmen and farmers, servants and
family... it is like nothing he has ever known.  Wherton's Harvest
Festival attracts perhaps eighty souls, in a good year.  And to think
that there are more to come!

He is fussed over, and taught, and wants for nothing.  And there are
books and clothes, food and comfort, water warmed by others and a bed
of his own, in a room of his own.  The chamber he sleeps in is light
and warm; it would hold two of the one he shared with Henry at home,
and still have room for the millhouse kitchen.   The window-seat alone
is bigger than their bed.

It troubles him at first that the Comtesse insists that he retain it
alone while the others stay in the busy, noisy squires' hall.  But his
friends don't complain, and nobody offers them more, and it ceases to
prey on his mind after a while.  After all, he must get better.  And
they do spend time together in comfort: sharing meals, learning
geography and French with the Comte, walking the grounds with Eloise.

Charmed by the diffidence of their brave little malade, the family
have taken Will to their hearts, and Eloise monopolises him in a way
not quite proper in one engaged.  Her parents encourage the friendship
wholeheartedly, and find ways to throw them together.

Beanpole and Henry, it seems, are less preferred and nobody minds when
they miss the evening meal or spend the day elsewhere.  While Jean-Paul
is polite and amusingly eccentric,  Henry is neither, and both are
clearly uncomfortable in the family's presence.  It is a kindness not
to ask them to attend.

In truth Beanpole is more than happy to fit in, if it gives him license
to explore the Comte's collection of books and artefacts, but Henry
simply cannot cope.  The Comtesse's beauty makes him shy, and the
Comte's conversation makes him feel stupid;  he tries hard, but French
eludes him, and he feels the careful use of English for his sake as
condescension.   Will seems embarrassed by his inabilities, and makes
excuses for him without need.   Especially in front of Eloise; both she
and Sarlat look at him in ways that make him feel small, a curious
appendage of Will's.  Not good enough.   He could stand it if only Will
didn't seem so bloody comfortable with it all.  It's beginning to feel
as if he agrees with them.

Henry lost his mother young, and is more than grateful for the life the
Parkers gave him.  He's damned if he'll apologise for his origins.  But
without Will, he is exposed and vulnerable.  Beanpole stays with him
when he stays away; teaches him chess and words for useful things, and
speculates with him by firelight on what life with the Freemen will be
like.

Will means to spend time with them, but is often willingly distracted
and intolerant of their justified displeasure.  They grow closer in his
absence, learn to enjoy each other's company.  They share secrets, and
make each other laugh.  His friend and his lover.  He had felt focal,
shared between them, the place in which they met; and now they take
each other away.  Seeing them, heads bent over books or stews or
Beanpole's endless experiments,  waking curled as friends and working
side by side, makes him feel excluded.  He withdraws further from them
in irrational, guilty self-defence.

Henry can see it, and Will can see he can, and they hate each other for
it.

It drives him to seek Eloise out further; her company is restful,
peaceful in a way that theirs can no longer be.  She came to know him
well, while he was ill; they told each other many things he cannot now
remember, and rediscovering these secrets brings them close.   He feels
at times she knows him as Henry does, and cares for him as gently as
Jean-Paul; it touches the part of him that blossomed with Jack's first
kiss, and balances his fascination with Sarlat, which is of an
altogether more visceral nature.

Once, twice in the first week, Beanpole shares Will's bed, but it is
not simple to arrange.  The house is well-patrolled by Christophe and
his ilk, and while a sojourn in the grounds at night is possible, it
would not go unremarked.  Will tells himself he cannot go to Beanpole,
for Henry's sake, and insists on discretion elsewhere.  Out of
courtesy, he says.  It irritates Jean-Paul, who has never felt the need
to hide.   Their nights are pleasant enough, but shadowed with
undiscussed possibilities; Will's mind is elsewhere, on rougher
caresses, half-remembered.  He pretends not to want more, and that he
cannot see Beanpole's careful failure to notice his distraction.  It
improves Will's response as a lover, but does nothing for his peace of
mind.

Jean-Paul makes his peace with it all, in private, and begins equably
to answer certain smiles he has attracted since arriving.  Long used to
light-hearted, carefree sex, he has dearly missed the scrambling and
bargaining it involves.  There is no reason not to resume it, now.
Whatever Will may do, he has his loyalty, and what he is beginning to
think of as his love.  It is enough.  A little dalliance hurts no-one;
it supplements, it does not replace.  And in any case, they will be
leaving soon.

His amis  tend to a type: the apprentices of carters and artisans,
who work hard and think hard, and compete goodnaturedly for the company
of pretty men.  They travel extensively, and enthuse about the places
they have seen; tell wide-eyed tales and draw erratic pictures of
strange dead machines.  Most enjoy the license of youth, and look
forward a great deal to Capping and marriage.

So very like Will, but not.  On the whole they are better read, and
perfectly willing to embrace this crazy voyageur in sunlight.  To
drink with him, and kiss him, and scramble naked with him into borrowed
beds.  He is older and beautiful, and his strangeness makes him
something of a prize.  It would be churlish to resist.

He hides nothing, and leaves Henry to draw his own conclusions.

Will is so openly fond of Eloise that no actual lie is necessary.   His
growing affection for her steals over him, settles on him gently  in a
way that has nothing to do with anything he and Beanpole feel for each
other.  He buries Sarlat in his mind, ignores Henry's sneers, and does
not let himself think about what he wants.  Besides, there is too much
to do, as the tournament approaches.  The family do not know when he
plans to leave; he is an honoured guest, and must be presentable.
Eloise insists upon it, laughing.

She privately engages the Duc to teach him the finer points of
etiquette, as a surprise.


=== * ===


Running late to dress for an uncomfortable evening with Eloise's
cousins, Will does not at first notice he is not alone.  Flushed and
windswept from riding, he has stripped to his undershirt when a deep,
amused voice surprises him.

"You do not greet me, Englishman?"

Will whirls to see Sarlat, the late afternoon light turning his hair a
dark honey-gold, sprawled comfortably upon Will's bed.  He looks
curiously informal; his padded overtunic is folded beside him, and the
loose shirt he wears shows his form to advantage.

"What are you doing here?"

"I am to teach you manners.  How to behave.  Not before time, it
seems."  He smiles, tosses aside the book he has been reading.  "But
you spend much time with the Comte already, in his dusty little room.
I thought to have our lessons here.  It is more congenial."  His smile
widens.  "Besides, tu m'as invité.  You remember."

Will moves closer, heart pounding, absurdly vulnerable.

"I don't remember anything.  I don't want you here.  Get out."

"You are a very bad liar."

Sarlat rises and begins to unbutton his tunic.

Will, half tangled in his own shirt, backs away.  "What are you doing?"

"Picking carrots.  And you?"

"Get out."

Sarlat laughs indulgently.  "I do not think so."

"I said, get out!  Christophe!"

It is not loud.  Will will never be comfortable giving orders, and it
has no effect.

Sarlat sighs.  "Non.  Like this.  Christophe!"

The door opens immediately.

"Fetch us wine, " says Sarlat, calmly, his eyes on Will's.  "And we
should like warm water in …half an hour.  For Monsieur Will's bath."

'Certainly.  That is all?"

The Duc smiles, gestures politely to Will, who blushes fiercely but can
say nothing.

Christophe bows, and leaves discreetly.

Sarlat smiles, shaking his head.  "You see?  You must be firmer than
that."  He approaches Will, traces the line of his lips with an
archer's fingers.  Will knows he should push him away, but can't.
Won't.  He closes his eyes, steels himself not to respond.

Sarlat lifts Will's chin, tilts it back until Will looks at him.  "I
will leave, if you wish.  Is this what you want, Englishman?"

His tunic hangs open now, and he is hard under his breeches.  Will
feels heat between them; smells leather, horses and sweat upon him, and
shakes his head, trembling.

"You know what you do."  He touches Will's face, gently.  "Come here."

Embarrassed and hard, Will cannot refuse and leans in, shivering as
Sarlat bites his lower lip, gently; keeps his upraised hands out of the
way, not quite daring to settle on Sarlat's waist as the Duc begins to
work at Will's shirt, drawing the material apart gently, letting his
knuckles stroke the underlying skin, until one button, another,
another, is gone and it hangs open, framing white skin and the sparse
crop of whisper-thin black hairs hiding on his chest.

Sarlat takes his chin in his hand ungently and pulls him close; it's
less a kiss than an invasion, and Will's response cannot help but be
aggressive.  The collision of their bodies sends a surge of desire
through him more violent  than anything he has ever felt for Beanpole;
something so different as to be another creature entirely, a beast
grown strong on instinctive and growing distrust.  He crushes Sarlat to
him willingly, wishing to be bested; gasps as he is pushed onto the
bed.  Le Duc kneels over him, one hand working him through his
breeches, the other undoing the laces which hold them up.

"Today your friend will behave a little better, I hope.  Fever makes
him... enthusiastic."  He smiles, and squeezes Will hard.

Will's hands, seemingly independently, are tearing at Sarlat's
breeches, and he wonders at his own daring; realises with shock that
they have done this more than once.  He knows these hips, the hollows
and swells where fine blond hairs begin; knows without looking the
pattern of tiny scars under his fingers on the small of Sarlat's back.
The shape and weight of his engorged cock in his palm is no surprise.

Will is dizzied as Sarlat shifts, rolls him over and pulls off his
shirt; his wound hurts, a welcome distraction as Christophe returns
with the wine.  He hasn't time to be ashamed or embarrassed; the Duc
stands up and strips him brutally, efficiently, of his breeches, and
slaps him until he moves up the bed, legs spreading of their own
accord.  He has the disquieting sensation of his body taking over,
following a well-worn path, and is grateful his face is turned to the
window as Christophe withdraws discreetly.

Le Duc kneels upon the bed behind him, anointing himself with something
from the tray.  He shifts his weight, one hand hard upon the back of
Will's neck, the other suddenly working deep inside Will, not gently
and not for long.   His hips are grasped and pulled up, and he is
invaded by something Will knows must be Sarlat's prick.  He has not
even seen it properly, he thinks absurdly, distractedly; for there is
pain, and there is pleasure, and he cannot concentrate.  Quickly
aroused and quicker to satisfy, Will cannot remember having been
touched with such urgency.  It is soon too much for him.

The Duc carries on, laughing, steps up the pace of his thrusting as if
in punishment.  It is unbearable, and Will cannot be quiet about it,
but he cannot wish it to stop.  He closes his eyes to shut out the
vision of the sheet, crushed in his own white-knuckled hand, tries to
shut out the strange, hoarse noises he is making.  The Duc pulls him
back upright, sits back and places one vicelike hand upon his shoulder.
The other wraps around his chest, and Will is forced down even further
upon him, hard and hard and hard again until he cries out.

Will is young and resilient, and the sounds of his own enjoyment as
much as the Duc's spur him on;  forced back down onto the bed, he feels
himself thicken again under Sarlat's continued assault, something he
had not realised was possible.  Trembling, he pushes himself back into
the Duc, groans as he shudders and collapses upon him, panting rough
words he does not understand.

He is a heavy man, the Duc; his breathless weight pins Will to the bed,
leaves him a shaking mess of aches and wholeness, faced with himself
unequivocally as someone who does this and this and feels alive.
It frightens and elates him in equal measure.

"Bon, little whore."  Sarlat rolls onto his side, pulls Will with
him, one arm still locked around his chest.  The air is rich with the
tang of sweat, and Will feels trickles of it between them.   "That is
improved…"

Will tries to move, make himself more comfortable, but cannot.
Sarlat's restriction of his movements excites him.  He blinks the sweat
from his eyes, and waits for some further assault, some
acknowledgement, but the Duc is lying quietly, his breath hot and
gentle against Will's bitten shoulder.

For a moment he feels changed, dislocated; imagines what they must look
like to an outsider, and is absurdly, stupidly, unafraid.  It won't
last, he knows that.  But for now, they are the same.  He doesn't
realise his hand has closed over the Duc's.

He turns his head as best he can, but can see only the coarse gold of
Sarlat's fringe against his shoulder.  He has a million questions, but
all he can think to ask is "Why?"  His voice, when it comes, is bolder
than he expects.  Less resentful.

Sarlat laughs, gently.  "Why this?  Or why you?"

"Either."

"I found you, runaway.  The Comte wishes you here, I do not.  His duty
is disregarded.  I will not have my effort wasted."  Sarlat tightens
his grip, but there is no unfriendliness in his voice.  Will feels the
strength of his arms with every breath.

"I'm not a runaway."

"Of course.  I forget, it is normal for an English boy of no import to
travel..."

"Eloise's brothers did so, before the Cap."

"The brothers of Eloise are noble.  You are un cancrelat de
village.  Yet you come so far,  with your …friends.   Your madman and
your little barking dog.  Lovers, I think.  Do you collect them?"

"It's not like that."

Sarlat laughs.  "Perhaps you think to collect me."  His tone sharpens.
"Or Eloise."

Will struggles to get up, but cannot.

"Be still.  Recovery makes you obstiné.  It becomes you."

He releases Will, props himself up on his right elbow and surveys
Will's body, running his fingers slowly up and down his side, hip to
neck and back.

"Do you enjoy what we have done?"

He leans forward, so that Will can see his face, strokes his face,
caresses his throat gently.

"Do you think your Henry would?"

His hand tightens suddenly, painfully on Will's throat.  Will scrabbles
at it, frantically; Sarlat ignores the bite of his nails and the
thrashing of his body against him.

"I like you, Will Parker.  You have ...spirit.  But stay away from
Eloise.  She is your host, you are cancrelat.  Is this understood?"

Will nods, unable to breathe.

Sarlat lets go, watches as he collapses, coughing and gasping for
breath into the pillow.   The Duc strokes his hair with surprising
gentleness, and his voice carries no malice.

"Leave soon, and all will be well.  This I promise."

Will turns round, as best he can, still coughing.  "You …  You touch
him, you touch either of them, and I'll kill you."

"I believe you would."  Sarlat smiles, with genuine warmth.  "But it is
better to know where we stand, yes?"

One hand on Will's hip, he rolls back, withdrawing  from Will's body
and propping himself up on the many pillows.  He reaches to the bedside
table, and pours a glass of wine. His hair, thick and full and dark-
straw with sweat, stands up crazily around his face, stripping a good
five years from him.

He is certainly handsome, and knows it.  For a man over twenty who does
not work, his muscles are finely honed;  he is permanently active, with
jousting, duels, even the baiting of Vagrants if rumour has it right.
He is said to hunt them, for sport.    Naked, one might easily assume
he was at rest from work in the orchard.  The bloodlines here are
complex and intertwined; there are many with similar features and
poorer clothes.

But none as magnetic.  Anything would sound reasonable, said with his
confidence, his smile.

"Enough of that.  There are more pleasant things to discuss. More
invitations, perhaps."   He waits for Will to roll over, shrugging as
he refuses the wine.  "Your pretty friend must have much patience.  You
are like your little 'goose eggs'.  One pulls the pin, and bof."

"I don't know what you mean.".

"Liar."  Sarlat laughs, a surprisingly friendly sound, and kisses
Will's shoulder, his neck, soothing the reddening marks with a finger
dipped in claret.  "You are ...too quickly.  Votre cigare, c'est
tout de cendre.  But this can be overcome.  Watch."

He slaps Will's legs apart and moves gracefully to kneel between them.
He is still half-dressed, and his thick penis dangles wet and
glistening from his open fly amid blond-red pubic hair.  He hands Will
his glass, and smiles down at him.

"I show you this in your interest.  N'oubliez pas, vous êtes tolérés,
pas choisis.  You do not wish me to become bored."

His tone is friendly enough, but there is steel behind his words, and
Will believes him.  Sarlat bends swiftly and takes Will in both hands,
squeezes him unpleasantly hard and takes him into his mouth.

Will's first reaction is shock and embarrassment; this is something he
cannot withstand and will not perform, with Jean-Paul.  What had seemed
natural with Jack remains too private a thing to share with strangers,
and he excuses the intensity of his pleasure with the thought that he
is not anxious to offend Sarlat.  But he learns much from his careful,
sometimes painful, manipulation, and begins, disloyally, to resent
Beanpole for not pressing this upon him.

Giddy and bold with desire, he can't stop himself reaching out, running
his hands through the Duc's thick blond hair, so much of it, the ends
rough-cut like mown grass against his palms.  On the brink of
satisfaction he realises with horror that there is metal under his
fingers, and the flickers in his vision are caused by sunlight on the
intricate circuitry of a Cap.


=== * ===


The knowledge weighs heavily upon Will, turns everything upside-down.
He is desperately uncertain about what, if anything, to say to
Beanpole.  Sarlat's condition seems such a simple thing, when he is
alone, but its implications are breathtaking.   He cannot simply
whisper it, and walk away.  But it is difficult for them to talk; the
others are rarely apart, and in Henry's presence all conversations
become bitter arguments about the time Will spends with Eloise.

It is clear the Cap has altered nothing in Sarlat; Will cannot safely
ask the questions he burns to, but the Duc's demands, his assumptions
and touches, betray habits born of time and care.  He has always known
what he wanted, and taken it without fear of censure.  To do so is
unremarkable.  And what he wants now is Will.  Sarlat visits him
frequently; as a favoured contender for Champion he has plenty of
reasons for staying on hand, and feels no need to explain.  He is here,
because he is here.  It is accepted.   He may walk the house after
dark, unchallenged, and when he does, only Christophe might with any
certainty say why.

Will is as discreet as possible, but Sarlat takes no great pains to
conceal their involvement.  Nobody seems to notice, or care; and no
remarks are made.  It is simply the way he operates: steadily and
quietly, on the periphery of things.  He is known to spend time among
the unCapped, but the nature of his play is somehow not the currency of
speculation.  After all, the world of the château is small.  He is
nobly born, has friends in the Black Guard, and takes an active, ad hoc
role in the enforcement of Tripod law.

He is someone better not guessed about.

Sarlat is disarmingly honest with Will, when they lie sated and
laughing together; he grows fond of this little arriviste, and
openly admires his audacity in wanting to belong.   No château boy
would dare admit to envy, and it wouldn't occur to the Capped to want
what they do not have.   He hurts him freely and often in sex, leaves
him bruised and sore; but always satisfied, and afterwards he is tender
and curious.  Will discourages nothing, wants nothing more.  They are
as close to friends as Will's origins permit, in bed.  It amuses Sarlat
to improve him as Eloise would wish.

He freely admits to Will, dressing one afternoon behind the stables
after a particularly violent and noisy tryst, that his interest in
Eloise is anything but romantic.  Their betrothal is political in
nature, arranged years before and advantageous to them both.   He finds
Will's absorption in her amusing, and teases him for his devotion.
Eloise is one of many similar girls, he says, about whom he has little
real opinion.  Her interest in Will has improved her standing
considerably in his eyes.

However, he keeps a close eye on her parents' affections.  Gently
stroking angry red scrapes on Will's back, kissing him to stop him
crying out when pressed against the rough stucco of the stable wall, he
advises Will to do the same.  The Englishman has become a firm
favourite; they talk of him as affectionately as they do their absent
sons, and it makes for gossip he does not wish to hear.

Sarlat does not repeat his threats.  Every now and then he takes care
to be seen close by the squires, or stables; will speak to Henry in
passing, when he knows Will can see.  It is enough.

Sometimes he is kind; sometimes less so, but Will wouldn't dream of
turning him away, even if he could.  He has no power, and more than he
has ever known; it energises him, to be taken and owned so completely,
to choose to serve.   What he feels has gone beyond desire, somehow; he
hasn't a name for it, but it is essential and buoying and makes him
tall, and he cannot imagine having been without it.    He has never
felt so alive.

In company both behave with perfect courtesy.   Their conversations,
though, are edged with private mockery, and in unobserved moments,
Sarlat is likely to run a proprietary hand over Will's body, perform
some act of casual humiliation which makes Will burn with shame and
desire and steal away to meet him behind closed doors.

Will's time with Sarlat seems a world away from that he spends with
Eloise; he feels himself different people in their company, and it is
hard to remember that the two are connected.  He is happy with Eloise,
content and at peace, but somewhere inside he is always thinking of the
Duc.  When he is with Sarlat, no-one else exists.

Eloise and Sarlat; his friend and his lover.

Beanpole knows that things have changed between them, and waits for
Will to tell him how, if he can.  And Will knows he knows; they feel it
in each other, in the quiet pressing of hands and the gentle arm around
each other's shoulders when walking; in the sense of newborn, visceral
commonalty they did not have before.   But nothing is said.  Will must
learn his own lessons; and there is nothing Jean-Paul can do without
invitation.

He is far more worried about Henry, who finds Will's growing acceptance
of privilege unforgivable.   Desperately lonely without his cousin, he
cannot spend more than five minutes in his company without lashing out.
He is bitter, and there is much he does not understand, and Eloise
makes a fine and obvious target.   Will is changing; whose fault can it
be but hers?

The two avoid each other, and resist all attempts to make peace.

It is impossible for Beanpole to divide his time between them.   There
is no doubt who needs him most, and when Henry refuses to attend the
daily lessons, he stays away as well.

The decision is not taken lightly; he is learning much of value from
the Comte.  But he is as haunted as Henry by a growing, awful sense of
waste.  Henry resents the family's easy carelessness with food and
human warmth; Beanpole, its knowledge and time.  They speak of nothing,
do no work; live wonderfully among those who could, with little cost to
them, live better.  The Comte owns telescopes and maps of the stars,
and uses them to schedule social niceties; leaves maps of foreign lands
and intricate navigational machines boxed prettily upon dusty shelves
he seldom travels more than twenty miles from.   The Comtesse sits at
her ancestors' piano, and never once thinks to wonder how it is made,
or what those who keep it tuneful do; it would occur to none of them to
marvel at those who shaped and drew and strung and built these things
from nothing.

They want for nothing, and are happy to know nothing more.  Jean-Paul
looks at Will and sees that their contentment is contagious; it
terrifies him.


=== * ===


The week before tournament, when Sarlat is safely away with a hunting
party, Will finally makes up his mind to speak.  He finds Beanpole up
on the château roof, dropping rocks of varying sizes over the
battlements and peering after them with intense curiosity.  Will stands
unseen in the shade of the great stone stairs and watches him with a
tremendous sense of peace.  Beanpole is always happiest alone.

He wears no shoes, up here; they lie discarded in the sun with most of
his clothes.  Bright white against the summer sky and granite walls,
Beanpole takes enormous risks, bending between stanchions and barely
holding on to crumbling blocks of old, old, stone.  His feet slip on
lichen and riverstones placed carelessly to hand; and the rope tied
around his waist for safety trails behind him, unanchored.

Will feels suddenly, desperately in need of his touch, but waits a
little, lets it pass; waits until he is crouched safely away from the
edge before speaking.

"Is Henry here?"

Scribbling notes in the margins of a battered copybook, Jean-Paul looks
up, distractedly and breaks into an impossibly warm smile of welcome.
"No.  He was, but  grows bored, and chooses to make targets for the
tournament instead."

"Instead of what, or don't I want  to know?"

"He is supposed to help me, by calling out when the ground is hit.  I
cannot see, with the shade.   I have retrieved my lunettes twice
already.  And it is a long way down.  You see?"

He holds his glasses up, pointing wryly to fine cracks in the lenses.
Will laughs, and crouches next to him, ruffling his hair.

"Idiot.  Why do you care how long it takes, anyway?"

"It may be useful," says Beanpole indignantly.  "One never knows."

He reaches up, pulls Will against him into a hug, a little tighter than
it needs to be.  They haven't spoken for days; Will buries his face in
Jean-Paul's hair, breathes in the scent of sun-warmed skin.   There
seems so little of him to hold, somehow; he suddenly hates the fact
that his arms expect a different shape.

Disengaging gently, he sits down, running his hand over Beanpole's
back, over shoulderblades which have pinked a little in the sun.

"I've missed you.  I hoped you would come, last night.  Or before."

Beanpole shakes his head, concentrates on his figures.  He seems a
little too casual, a little too absorbed, even for him.

"I am busy."

"So I've heard."

"Do not misunderstand.  I wish to see you, if I am welcome.  When I
heard Sarlat was gone, I came two nights ago.  And yesterday, in the
afternoon.   But you are not there, you are with Eloise, or the family.
And when you are not, Christophe prevents me."

"He has no right."

"He does as he is told, Will."

"Not by me."

"It does not need explanation."

Beanpole scribbles out his design, starts another one.  Will carefully
takes the pencil and paper from him, takes his hand.  "Listen.  Are you
free tonight?  Please?"

"I can be."

"Then come.  Please.  I miss you."

"And what will happen to you if I do?"

Will smiles with a confidence he does not feel.  "Why should anything
happen?"

"Sarlat... has not a reputation for sharing."

Will tries hard not to think about Eloise, and Henry. "Why should he
care?  He sees others, too.  He told me."

"What others?"

"Apprentices, I think.  You should know, you're fucking half of them."

Beanpole laughs with delighted incredulity.  "He changes you!  This is
not a Will word."  He pokes Will, gently.  "Je l'envie.  You will
not say this for me."  He grins, watching Will redden furiously.  "Ha!
But you must, now; there is no excuse."

"Shut up."

"Say it again, go on.  Fucking, fucking, fucking…"

He tips over, laughing, as Will pushes him away; stays half-lying,
propped up on his elbow.

"Shut up.  There must be nicer words."

"Nonsense.  It is perfectly nice; it says what it means.  Which is
better than most of your English!"   He picks up his pencil,  begins to
draw absently on the flat stones of the château roof.  "Does it occur
to you that I choose who I see for a reason?"

"Eloise's maid says they are all very handsome."  Will can't help
grinning.

"Of course."  Beanpole kicks him, gently.  "But listen.  They travel,
Will.  I learn from them.  Of cities, dangers.  Where there are
Tripods, and Cappings, and runaways.  And those who would be
runaways.  They see things."

"That could be useful to the Freemen?"

"And the Tripods," says Beanpole, meaningfully.

 "Oh, don't start.  I know he's an informer.  Everyone does.    I
haven't told him anything, if that's what you're suggesting."

 "Keep it that way.  He must not know when we are leaving."

"He won't, believe me."  Will pushes Beanpole's carefully arranged
rocks aside and stretches out beside him, wriggles until they lie
together, spooned and looking at the sky.   He closes his hands over
Beanpole's, feels skin warm against his palms.

"Look…"

Beanpole's voice is firm.  "We leave at tournament, as agreed."

"What if..."

"It cannot be later.  We must be in the mountains before winter.  You
know this."

"But we're safe here."

"There is no safe, Will."

"I want to stay.  Just a bit longer.  Just a little."  It's harder to
say than he expects.  "You don't have to.  They'll let you go without a
fuss, but... they're fond of me.  If I just disappear… what if they
come after us?"

It's a point Henry's made, privately and bitterly, many times.

"I can come later.  When things are busier.  It'll give you two time to
get away."

"You have already decided."

"No."  Will tries not to sound defensive.

"But you expect to be followed.  And brought back?"   Beanpole peers
down at Will's face, shielding his eyes from the sun.   "If you are
caught, you will be Capped.  They cannot protect you.  And Sarlat will
not."

"It's nothing to do with him."

Beanpole is silent for just a little too long, speaks a little too
lightly.  "Eloise, then."

Will makes himself look up, look into his eyes.  "Perhaps."

"Menteur.  Il te souille."

"Piss off.  It's true.  You know it is."

"Oh, Will..."    Beanpole bites back a sigh and weighs his words
carefully, reaching over Will for his pencil and drawing precise
circles on the great grey flagstones.   "I understand... she cares a
great deal for you.  And the family... they make you welcome.  You have
everything here.  But --"

"They're good people.  Kind."

"They are still Capped."

Will takes a deep breath.  "So is Sarlat."

"And?"

Whatever else Will had expected, it is not irritation.   It must show
in his face; Beanpole shakes his head in disbelief.

"Did you think I did not know this?  He is old."

"But it shouldn't be possible."

"Les riches sont differents."

"There has to be more to it than that."

"Will!  He is informateur.  He has wealth.  That is your more."

"To what purpose?  It doesn't make sense."

"Be blind if you must."

"But if he can survive…"

"Putain de merde!"  Beanpole rolls over and sits up, raising one
finger in warning.  "I will not listen to this."  His voice is steady,
but lethally, quietly cold in a way that stops Will's protests before
they're born.  Hot resentment rises to combat the shame.

"They want me here, Beanpole."

"They are not free."

"They can do anything they want.  If that's not free, what is?  And
they're happy.   I never knew it was possible to be Capped and happy."

"And is Eloise happy, that you think like this?"

"She doesn't need to know.   She loves me.  And whatever you think, I
don't want to leave her."

"And Sarlat?"

And Will can't answer, or won't, and Beanpole concentrates fiercely on
drawing circles, circles which have grown three legs and gleaming eyes;
and they both fail to see Christophe standing in the shadows.


=== * ===


Young men are expected to make very particular kinds of trouble at
tournament, and with all the preparations there are far too many of
them to watch.  The few stewards assigned to the task post the laziest
of their number to the larder and orchards, and the fittest to the
casements of their daughters.    Nobody watches the dormitory, which
suits Beanpole down to the ground.  It is not unusual for Henry to wake
to him creeping in, dishevelled and satisfied, with cold feet and
pockets lined with quickly scribbled maps.

To Henry, confused and depressed and cut off from Will, it seems
everything is falling apart.

Beanpole hides nothing; he is grave about his fun and his friendship,
and has Will's blessing, he says.  Will is clearly smitten with Eloise,
and whatever they may think, he has a chance for happiness.  He must
take it while he may.  All of them should.  Especially if they learn
things of value to the Freemen.

But Henry isn't fooled.  Beanpole spends as many nights in his own bed
as he does away, and lies for hours staring up with blind, unfocused
eyes.  Thinking, he says.  Just thinking.

Tonight, however, he is silent; sits beside Henry in the dark and
stares into the distance.  He's half in bed, half out, with his chin on
his knees and his long, skinny arms wrapped around his legs.  It's warm
enough with the fires to sleep naked, although he usually does not.
The other squires' jokes embarrass Henry.  But it has seemed important,
recently.  Cleaner.

Beanpole is properly, and deeply, grateful for the hospitality they
have been shown.  They have learned much, eaten well, been sheltered
and safe.  But they have been here too long.  It is his fault, for
pushing to stay, to learn while Will recovered.  They are surrounded by
the Capped; suffocated by cast-off clothes and unused opportunities.
And what is happening to Will...

Il te souille.

He wants no part of it.

He closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of Will on his arms, in his
hair.  It had not been on Will's pillows, and there had been blond
hairs scattered in the bed, and Will had grown impatient with his
gentleness and wanted something… something more, that he would not ask
for, and begrudged in absence.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he says to Henry in a small voice, it is time
for us to leave.   Will is falling in love, he says, and gently avoids
denying that it means that he might stay.

Might choose to be Capped.

"It's that bloody girl, isn't it?  She's trapped him better than any
Tripod."

Beanpole turns away so Henry can't see his face, stares unseeingly at
the sleeping bodies of the other squires.  He knows some well, too
well, perhaps; has kissed them gently and respected their acceptance of
all that is to come.

Et il me souille aussi.

It would be so much easier to lie.  To do what is expected.

"He makes a choice, Henry.  His choice."

"What choice?  Following her round... She treats him like a pet.  Will
this, Will that, and he just falls over himself.  They all do it, and
he's too stupid to see it."

"And you do not see enough to judge.  Perhaps he has other reasons."

"Well, that's bloody obvious.  Everybody's little favourite, waited on
hand and foot.  He loves it."

"You are too cruel to him."

"He's the one being cruel.  You don't really think he cares about her,
do you?"

"I do not think it is untrue.  And he is loved here."

"And what about you?"

Beanpole smiles as best he can.  "I shall continue with you, of course.
To the White Mountains."

"That's not what I meant."

Beanpole has to look away, suddenly, count fibres in the blankets,
planks in the floor, anything.  Henry has never acknowledged his
involvement with Will.  Accepted it, resented it, made room and looked
the other way; but he has never, ever spoken of it.  To hear him do so,
make it real, brings the numbness he is trying not to feel sharply into
focus.

He reaches out, taps Henry's foot.  "He would want us to go on, yes?"

Henry's voice is almost plaintive.  "Why aren't you angry?  She's not
even a bo--"

Beanpole, furious and pale, looks him square in the eye.  "Why are you
angry?  Because he makes a choice, while he can?  To be happy?   That
is why I am here.  To have a choice."

Henry quietens, sobered a little by Beanpole's distress, but not for
long.  "And what about when he's Capped?"

"He knows what he does."

"Bullshit.  He's putting us all at risk, us and the Freemen.  Has he
thought about that?"

And Beanpole says nothing.

"He can't possibly be that stupid.  You know he'll go mad, if he's
Capped here.  It'll jumble his brain."

"He listens well, and speaks French also, now.  Better than you.  If he
becomes Vagrant it is for other reasons, for anger, or… "  Beanpole
stops, looks down at the stone-scrapes on his fingers, the sunburn on
his wrists.  "Madness comes from resisting.   And he has not the reason
to resist."

"That's a bloody lie."  But the defence is automatic; Henry's known it
for ages, accused Will of it openly, time and time again.   He hadn't
meant it, at first.  Somewhere inside he'd hoped to ward it off, to be
mistaken, to be seeing falsely through jealous eyes.  He kicks out,
savagely, judders the beds apart and leaves a raw and splintered gash
along the floor.

"Do not abuse me, Henry.  I do not like it too."

"Either.  I don't like it either."

"Either. Thank you. "

Beanpole, calm and reasonable Beanpole, sounds as if he is breaking.
It surprises them both when Henry -- fiercely, disablingly resistant to
any touch but Will's -- draws him into a hug.   Brief, and far too
tight, but a hug nonetheless.

And that is how Will finds them; sleepless and stealing after
Beanpole to apologise, although he tells himself he's not sure what
for.   It is much easier to walk away.


=== * ===


Christophe is an efficient and careful reporter; Sarlat, a man of his
word.  Returned from the hunt and informed of Will's conduct, he marks
well the time that Henry spends apart from the others; knows his
habits, and can have him taken in minutes if he pleases.  But he is a
sportsman, too, and chooses to issue a warning before making good upon
his threat.

It amuses him to gamble.  If one is not afraid to lose something, one
does not want it enough.

The boys find themselves summoned before the Black Guard, and are saved
from Capping only by the fortunate obstinacy of the Comte.  He is a
proud man, and fiercely defends the old obligations, passed down and
down despite Tripod rule.

Tripod law is not his law.  It must be respected, but within the bounds
of his estate he and he alone will choose the manner in which it is
applied to guests.  The boys will of course be Capped and sent home,
but it will be at the proper time; at his instigation and not Sarlat's.

It is an acrimonious interview, and the boys emerge shaken and
determined to flee.  Henry insists: in two days more, when the chaos of
tournament begins.  He is relieved, in a way, to be doing something, to
kick against something he can see.   Surely this, if anything, will
make his cousin see sense.    He is cheered by Will's silence.  Numbed
by absolute certainty that he does not want to leave, Will cannot argue
with Henry; in fact he would push to leave sooner if it was possible.
He must.  Infuriated by Sarlat's arrogance, the Comte has broken off
Eloise's engagement; has fumed and stormed and said in the hearing of
others that the Duc is a man without honour.  Not worthy.

It forces Will to speak, to make a decision he has avoided because he
already knows what he will do; and that afternoon he takes Eloise
aside, and declares himself to her.  He cannot, does not want to leave
her.  A minor accident intervenes before he can tell her everything;
and when they are safe, a grateful Comte takes Will aside and settles
things.   He and his wife are not fools; they know the boys will move
on, and have long since decided that Will will stay.  They make the
invitation formal now: they wish him to be Capped as their son.  To
stay, take Sarlat's place and someday marry Eloise.

The rules have changed, and drastically.  Henry is no longer safe.
Two days may be long enough, or it may not; Sarlat may strike fast, or
relish the fact that he is anticipated, and take his time.

There can be no waiting, no changing of minds; Henry must be out of
Sarlat's reach as soon as possible.  Will engineers a peaceful talk
with the others and winds it into bitter argument; speaks of staying a
little and following with Eloise on his arm.

He knows Henry  has already given up on him, is already grieving for
him.  The idea is unworkable, stupid, unthinkable;  Eloise would be
retrieved with force and no quarter given.  Henry reacts as Will knows
he will, thinking only of the mission.  Of the Freemen's safety, and
their own; of those who are endangered by their recklessness.  Will
provokes Beanpole's quiet, reluctant, logical support; he can be
counted on to consider the smallest possibilities.   It inflames things
suitably; he ceases to care whether he is believed or not.   It ends in
a fight, an actual physical fight with Henry, a throwback to their time
in Wherton, to years of tiny grievances they felt like hell and forgot
in hours, and the memories it provokes only make things worse.

When Will is sure Henry is angry enough to make irrevocable parting
possible, he seeks out the Duc, and bargains.


=== * ===


It is a rough encounter, fuelled by anger on both sides, and resentment
at having to compromise.  Will lies exhausted, afterwards, in the more
than moderate pain he is learning to enjoy.  To love.

Today is worse than usual, but Henry is safe for the moment.  It's a
small price to pay.

Perhaps something has gone subtly wrong with Sarlat, he thinks, or
there is a half-Vagrant state which leaves a man sane and capable of
these things.  Or perhaps it is deliberate.  The Duc, the crew of the
Orion... they have to be a little harsh, to do what they do.  To rule
the sea, or the land.  A great many of those they command are not
Capped.  A man must be able to command loyalty, as well as administer
discipline, and the young men who require it most respond to those with
similar minds.  But the Black Guards enforce the law, punish and even
kill without taking pleasure in it.

The central problem is Sarlat's desires.  He should not have them, not
in this form.  All else can be explained, one way or another.   But to
want Will, to no purpose…   It cannot simply help him learn or rule as
the Tripods would wish, whatever Beanpole says.  Which means it must be
something within him.  Something strong.

Will's instincts are telling him to run, but he ignores them; he's
never felt stronger in his life, never wanted anything so much as to
stay here, where it is warm and life is good and Sarlat burns inside
him.  For now the Duc fills him, colours everything, but he is only one
part of the whole, the most easily admitted.  To stay with him is to
stay somewhere Will is loved openly in a way that his exhausted parents
never managed; cared for by kind and learned people who know more, see
more, hope more than anyone in Wherton ever dreamed.  Where he may love
and form opinions as he pleases, and be understood by someone strong;
and all he has to do is share a bed with someone he will come to love.

He owes Ozymandius nothing.  To have the Cap and slave is one thing.
But to have the Cap, and this... He has wondered, many times, could it
matter so much to lose something and never know one had wanted it?  One
thing, among so many.   But if it was not lost...

"What is it, cancrelat?  You seem... disturbed."

"You disturb me."  Will, bruised and tired, waits until Sarlat has
withdrawn from his body and makes room for him to sit comfortably
against the headboard.  "I don't understand you."

"You cannot be trying very hard."

Sarlat stretches white-gold arms against the dark blue brocade.

"No other men behave like you."

"Meaning?"

"This."

Sarlat gives a shout of laughter.  "Now I know you are not trying.
Your friend, le demi-fou, has all the pretty ones on their backs.
Or perhaps it is the other way round… I have been meaning to find out."
He drops ash on the floor, carelessly, leans down to top up the smoky,
heavy wine in their glasses, which rest beneath the bed.  He passes one
to Will.   "His reputation varies.  So that is one, and you, and dozens
in the grass.  Beaucoup."

"But they're not Capped."

"No."

"You are."

"Yes."

"But don't you see?  This isn't usual."

"In what way?"

There is an edge of irritation in his voice, although whether he grows
bored, or it is the automatic defensiveness of the Capped when the
process is questioned, Will can't tell.  He moves away a little, just
in case.  Violence is never far from Sarlat's mind, and although they
have reached a truce, he cannot be depended on.

"Who else is there, like you?"

"Nobody.  Many.  Who cares?"

Will takes a deep breath.  "I do.  What if... when I am Capped, I won't
want this.  I won't even understand it."

Sarlat shakes his head, dismissively.  "Not so."

"But I've seen it.  It's what happens."

The Duc shrugs, and throws off the blankets, stretches in the afternoon
light.

"À qui?  Les paysans.  Les cancrelats.  Like you.  Christophe!
He claps, loudly, and waits as the manservant brings warm water for the
bedside bowl.  Standing to wash himself down, he cannot keep the
bitterness from his voice.  "But no.  You, you become one of us.  You
marry Eloise, you will live here, follow le comte."

"Does that matter?"

"Of course."  Sarlat looks at him with contempt.  "Are you so stupid?
For the count's son, anything is permitted."  He smiles, slowly. "If
you do not become mad."

"Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you."

Sarlat laughs, with genuine surprise.  "Actually, no.   I cannot hunt
you, by law.  There are not des vagabonds nobles.  Only young men
who are strangely ...unfortunate... with horses.  No matter.  I will
find another, and fuck on your grave."

"It can't be that simple."

"Believe what you will."

"What if you're wrong?   What if I forget?  If I don't want this, or
you?"

Sarlat's smile becomes feral; Will has seen it before, in his dreams of
rain.

"This would not stop me."

He returns to the bed, takes Will's face in his wet hands.  "Remember
this, Will Parker.  My effort is not wasted.  If you have her, I have
you.  No matter what."

Will smiles, uncertainly.  "I'm not frightened of you."

"No?  We shall see."  He kisses Will, long and hard, then begins to
dress.  "I also have friends, Englishman.   My friends have great anger
at the way I am treated.  Do not think your future here is certain."
He smiles, privately.  "The château has lonely, quiet corridors.  Take
care not to walk them alone.  And above all, do not feel certain of
Eloise."

He crosses to the door, and turns back, as if he has remembered
something.

"Alternatively... Leave while you can.  There will be no pursuit.  If
not, accept what you bring upon yourself and those who you claim to
love."

If one is not afraid to lose something...


=== * ===


It is nearly done.

Will makes sure to bring the family and his friends together, one final
time; a civilised, tasteful occasion at which his impending marriage is
toasted, and everyone's knowledge and good wishes assumed.  He has been
careful to shield the others from the news of his engagement.

He does not look at Henry, at what he has done; and they do not speak
again.

An hour, two, before they leave, he walks with Beanpole by the river in
the dark.  They make love in their own way, under the trees;  as they
always have, just kissing and touching, grass crushed against skin, and
Beanpole blind.   It is everything Will could want, and more.

Jean-Paul breaks the silence first, kissing his way around the newly
livid bruises on Will's neck, his long hair raising goosebumps where it
trails.  "I hope that ...this is worth it.  If you come…"

"When I do.  They won't Cap me for months.  You'll be safe by then,
even if they catch me.  I will come."

"And if you do not?"

Will kisses him, gently, draws Beanpole's head down onto his chest and
cradles him against the chill.  "Then tell Henry I am happy."

"I hope so.  I hope she is enough, when you and Sarlat are no more."

Will laughs fondly, in a tone Beanpole has heard often from the Comte.
"It doesn't have to be that way."

"Don't," says Beanpole sharply.   "You know better than that."

He rolls away, abruptly, and sits up, his long hair shielding his face.
Will rises with him, and reaches out, suddenly

"You don't see, do you?"  Will leans forward, excitedly, not noticing
that Beanpole has drawn away from him, every line of his body tense
with emotion.  "This is permitted, for nobles.   It will be safe here.
For you too, maybe…  If I am with Eloise, and there is responsibility--
"

Beanpole looks at him long and hard, looks straight through him, it
seems.  The silence takes on weight, grows, crushes him.

"Beanpole..."

"You are already Capped, in your head.  I am not doing this," says
Beanpole, calmly and quietly, with infinite sadness.   He stands, his
glasses in one shaking hand; bends and kisses the top of Will's head.

"I wish you well, coquille.  But I will not wait."

He walks unsteadily back to the château, leaving Will crumpled and
alone among their discarded clothes.


=== *  ===


Beanpole strokes Henry's hair, gently, the short russet curls bending
and springing back over his fingers.  It is thicker, coarser than
Will's, and a surprising contrast to the fine gold hairs on the back of
his neck and wrists.   Henry, turned away, stiffens at his touch, but
doesn't protest.  it is cold out here in the fields, and they must be
up and walking again in an hour.  There are Tripods in the distance,
and Black Guards based at Granville.  They need all the rest -- and
warmth --  they can get.

Beanpole watches Henry's face, as best as he can, watches the easing of
tension around his eyes, and wishes there were something he could say.

It's natural to miss Will.  To be angry at him, and for him, for
leaving and for risking everything in a way that even he hasn't the
words for.  How much worse it must be for Henry, who has shared his
life with Will for as long as he can remember, and who blames himself
when things are beyond comprehension.

Beanpole rests his head against Henry's, and closes his eyes.  He can't
remember having touched him before, not really.  Beanpole's constant
contact with Will is involuntary, instinctive and automatic, driven by
some nameless, cellular need to know that he is there.  But Henry... with
Henry, one just knows.  Henry is here, so. Bon.

Henry's very strength means he is more fragile than his cousin; he is
painfully, achingly sensitive to uselessness.  He cannot think about
Will as someone losing himself, only as someone Henry has permitted to
be lost.

Jean-Paul studies the back of Henry's neck, the soft curve of his
shoulders under the many layers of clothing.  His skin is white, and
there are more freckles than space between.  It gives him an unfairly
ruddy look, from a distance, a look of something unfinished and
forgotten.  But seen this close, they are chaotic, baroque.  A living
map of the stars by which they navigate.

Beanpole, whose cure for loneliness is earthy and male, looks at Henry
as if for the first time.  He doesn't desire him in any meaningful
sense of the word, although his stocky body is of  a pattern very
familiar to his hands.  Henry is more than gentle enough, rough enough,
foolish enough, for his tastes, and Beanpole suspects he would prove of
much greater appetite than his cousin.  He is strong enough to take
pragmatic enjoyment in someone else, as Beanpole does, without fear or
attachment.  It would be good for him.

Part of him wonders, just a little, what it would be like to take Henry
in his arms, and before he can stop himself he has kissed him, so, at
the base of his neck.  Gentle, and more than a kiss, to anyone schooled
in reading intent.

But Henry's eyes are closed, and he does not react to the lapse.  And
Jean-Paul is secretly glad; pats his shoulder apologetically, as a
cousin might, and settles down beside him, back to back.

He hopes he is right, that Will will not come.  Capped or unCapped,
married or mad.  He wants to imagine him happy with Eloise, who can be
trusted to care for him.   To remember Will with love and not grief, as
someone who chose to be Capped in the certain knowledge of what it
would do.

He does not let himself imagine Will with Sarlat, or become like
Sarlat.

If, if, if.  If Will does come, he resolves, if he brings Eloise here,
then it is no matter.  He will be courteous and kind, and help Henry to
cope.  They will run together, and hide the pair from those who want
them back.  But he will not fight to keep them -- either of them -- by
his side.

It will be difficult.


=== * ===


Henry closes his eyes and imagines it is Will curled against him, the
way it has always been.  Although Will would never do this, never touch
him like this.  It's too close to dreams for comfort.

Will would have known that.


=== coda  ===


Château Ricordeau, France, August  2089 A.D.


Will knows he will not follow, but the lie that he might is precious;
it bears the scent of sun-warmed skin and riverstones, the shape of
Henry's smile in better times.

To find that Eloise is Capped changes nothing but his view of himself,
which is not and cannot be complimentary.  It dawns on him that he has
gambled with Henry's life, and Beanpole's; but he has won, and he is
young enough, and selfish enough, for the unrealised possibilities not
to matter for long.  If the Cap makes no difference with Sarlat, why
should it, with her?  And she is kind, and happy, and loves him; and he
loves her, in his way.  He does not feel that he has lied.

Beanpole and Henry are a night's walk away, when he tells her the
Capping does not matter.  Two, when the news of their engagement is
promulgated.  And three, when Sarlat, Champion du Comte,  smiles and
points his lance, and gives her as Tournament Queen to the Tripods.

Will stares torn and numb as the great metal creature takes her away,
forever, to serve in the City until death.   But it is not that which
drives him finally to leave, nor any fear of danger.

He remains the cherished and adopted son of Ricordeau, with all the
privilege and protection that entails.  Sarlat's malice vanishes as
swiftly as his honour is restored.   What he does not have, none shall
have, and that is an end.   Now they are free to do as they wish, he
says, and kisses Will, his lover and his friend, in the abandoned
lists.

Nor is it the joy on Eloise's face, on her mother's, her father's, when
they talk of the great honour that she has received, and chide him for
his strange, undutiful unhappiness.  Nor even the pity when they
remember, when they take his hand gently and say  "But of course.  You
will understand, when you are Capped."

No, it is the part of him which agrees.

He leaves the Château as he came: on Sarlat's horse and in pain, his
face wet with tears he does not know he sheds.   But this time, his
eyes are open.


=== © arjuna 2003 ===