===============

The Greatest Imperfection
by kel

===============

"With love and courage, Mankind is capable of anything...  But we
live in the real world, and the real world is a world of Capping and
acceptance.  My girls will be Capped.  Jeannie is already.
   They will lose their sense of wonder.  But there will be gains...
Peace of mind...  Do not underestimate the gift of peace of mind,
Will.  I shall never have that, entirely.
... I hope you find what you are looking for."
-- Madame Vichot


France, October 2089 AD


"This is all my fault."

Beanpole, slumped against the foremost bars of the Black Maria,
doesn't sound half as contrite as he should.  Henry squeezes Jean-
Paul's hand gently in acknowledgement, but says nothing, for now.
It's safer, somehow; the less attention he gets, the calmer he'll
stay.  The calmer they all will.

Henry meets Will's eyes, briefly, and can tell they're both thinking
the same thing.  Neither wants to have to say I told you so, despite
the growing conviction that they're entitled to.

"No it isn't.  Now sit down."

"Daniel, please... nous avons nui à personne... "

Daniel Montagnon ignores Beanpole, and drives the way he does
everything - conscientiously and  methodically, with care for the
horse as well as his passengers.  He's thorough and considerate,
both qualities Henry has found rare in townsmen, although he
supposes Daniel is a farm boy, really.  It's one of the reasons
Henry likes him so much.  Daniel's got a good head on his shoulders,
and he always thinks things through.   He'll make a good husband for
Jeannie Vichot.

He's also tall, handsome, and a Black Guard.   Like someone Beanpole
used to know.  And if Beanpole had managed to keep that particular
fact to himself maybe none of them would be in this mess.  Maybe
they'd be walking.  Maybe they'd be Capped.  Maybe Daniel would
still be talking to them, instead of taking them to trial in Dijon
as subversifs and worse.

Maybe Henry would be washing grape juice from Kirsty's feet, and
making her laugh.

"Daniel... tu m'as dit tu m'accepté...  Je n'ai pas caché ma nature.
Maintenant, tu m'as dit suis un menteur.   Je ne t'ai pas trompé.
Comment est-ce que je t'ai trompé?"

Beanpole's up on his knees again, hanging onto the bars of the iron
cage as best he can with his threadbare, slippery gloves.  Speaking
calmly and familiarly.   Far too familiarly.  Henry buries his head
in his hands and tries, slightly hysterically, to look on the bright
side.

It's a lovely day, fine and sunny.  And the Black Maria isn't
uncomfortable, as wagon-mounted iron cages go.  There's nowhere near
enough straw to cushion the worst jolts, but it's cleaner than the
cart they rode into town on.  And the bars give them something to
sit against, and they've been fed, and at least they're together and
in one piece, although Henry's head still aches from where the
woodland Vagrants knocked him out.

Funny how fast things change, he thinks, standing so he can see over
the edge of the massive stone bridge they crossed on foot only the
day before.  It's only a few hours since they were on trial for
theft, watching Dubois and Neyrand preparing to argue their case out
between them.  Ridiculous, really, since everybody knew what they'd
done; since they admitted it, up to a point, and were sure to be
found guilty.  But he understands the conseil's reasons.
Everybody had to know they'd been dealt with, that there'd been
'speaking for, as well as against.'  It's the way things are done,
in villages; the way Squire Geoffrey handles accusations at home,
although the most serious charge Henry can remember anyone facing in
Wherton was accidental damage to a goat.  And even then, it had
mostly been the goat's fault.  Although legend has it someone got it
drunk.

Ralph Parker, the day before Capping, apparently.  Henry has a
feeling he'd have liked his father if he'd known him as a boy.  Or
as a Freeman, perhaps.  But that hurts far, far too much to think
about, so he doesn't.

He sits down again, unobtrusively closer to Jean-Paul, as Will
hasn't moved to comfort him.  Steadying Beanpole against the rocking
of the cart, he has to admit they've brought it all on themselves.
Starving and tired after a fortnight's walking in increasingly cold
and rugged country, the boys had happened on a harvest fair; had
stolen food and spoiled the villagers' most cherished holiday.

They'll be talked about for years. The first foreign visitors anyone
can remember, and they'd gone and turned out to be thieves.

It had angered Henry that Beanpole hadn't seemed to understand why
people were so upset.  Typical town boy, laughing off liberties
because there's always enough to go round.  Farm boys, village boys,
know different.  If only they'd just asked, quietly, for something
to eat, or offered a day's work in return for a meal...  It's what
people do in Wherton, what they do everywhere, and nobody's ever
turned away.  They wouldn't have had to lie.

And now Henry's angriest of all at himself, for not speaking up and
insisting that they try.  Stealing was bad enough.  But stealing and
running, and then lying about it...  The village Guard was right, it
was bloody well uncivilised.  And stupid.  So very, very stupid,
especially this close to their goal.  Henry had overheard Daniel
talking to the Mayor, while the transfer of arrest was signed, and
understood enough to realise he'd lost their trail, the day before.
They'd accepted a lift into town; he'd assumed they'd struck out
cross-country.  After all, they normally avoided people.

If they'd only behaved, and there'd been no fuss, Daniel might never
have found them.  So as far as Henry's concerned, that's his fault.

"Daniel... nous sommes des amis, oui?   J'ai offensé, je suis un
criminel.   J'accepte ton accusation.  Mais libérez les autres.  Ils
n'ont fait aucun mal.  Ils sont innocents.  Tu as raison; je les ai
corrompus. "

Henry takes Beanpole gently by the arm and makes him sit down; pulls
him close for comfort, and to keep him still.  Whatever he's on
about, it's not helping; Daniel's sitting more stiffly and tensely
than he was, and it's upsetting Will, too.  And Beanpole's missing
the point.  This isn't about him, at heart; it's about the Freemen.
Abrivert had said as much, although not in those words; and that
means it all comes back to the bloody Tripod that assaulted Will.
It must do.  There's no way Daniel could have known about them,
otherwise.  Madame Vichot hadn't, and in any case Henry would bet
his life she'd die rather than betray them.  And Beanpole wouldn't
have said anything.  Not to a Guard.  Not even one as handsome as
Daniel.

And he is handsome, says a little voice in his head, which he
ignores.  Henry's never been the kind of boy who notices that sort
of thing, and he's damn well not going to start now.

Beanpole's trying to get up again, but Henry holds on.  Firmly, not
restrictively, a suggestion, not a demand.  And it works, as he
knows it will; the tension leaves Beanpole's body and he curls
against Henry, buries his head in his shoulder and hides behind his
hair.  And Henry won't let him; brushes his fringe away from his
face, gently, and kisses his forehead.

"Come on, idiot... stop this.  We're in this together.  What
have you done, that we haven't?"

"Il m'a permis de l'embrasser, Henry..."

Henry takes a deep breath.

 "Well, all I can say is - "

And Will, looking moodily out at the trees, mouths silently 'I told
you so'.

"- I hope you enjoyed it more than he did."

And that makes them both smile, fleetingly, so he holds Beanpole a
little tighter, to ward off the despair gathering in his eyes.

It should be Will doing the holding, thinks Henry, helplessly; but
he's lost in his head.  In the ifs and buts and should-have-beens,
probably.  He'll never change.  So much for growing up.

They'd have been fine if Daniel hadn't turned up.  Convicted of
theft, and sentenced to Capping, yes.  But he's sure it wouldn't
have mattered.  Abrivert, the senior village Guard, was a kindly,
gentle man who only wanted the best for them; who fed them well, and
watched sorrowfully as the Mayor declared them Capless.  It would
never have occurred to him that they wanted to stay that way.

He'd have trusted them to stay, whatever the verdict.  After all,
why would you run from something that was good for you?   They'd
only been guarded because court formality demanded it, and the
villagers on duty had spent most of the night in the tavern playing
chess.  More proof, if any were needed, that the world was
completely mad.

Unfortunately, Henry hadn't realised quite how mad until morning.

They'd definitely have been able to get away before a Tripod
arrived, if only.  If, if, if.   If  Daniel hadn't made nonsense of
their entire defence in less than a minute.  He supposes he should
be glad they were taken here, and not in the mountains.  At least
they can't tell anyone anything about the Freemen.  They don't
know anything.

Daniel looks almost as tired as they do.  He's been following them
since they left the vineyard.  But Henry can't bring himself to feel
too sorry for him.  While they've starved and struggled and woken
too cold to move, he's had a horse and legitimate access to food and
shelter.

The whole village had turned out to watch as they were herded into
the Maria.  And why not?  It wasn't every day their sleepy streets
were invaded by foreign subversives.  Bandits and thieves,
corrupters and perverts.  Seducers.  Abusers of hospitality and
deceivers of honest families...  Henry had lost track of all the
charges in the end, watching the colour drain from Beanpole's face
at the words adulte de Calais.  Watching the genuine concern
with which Daniel offered his arm for support, and the way Beanpole
took it, smiling instinctively at the touch of the man who'd
sentenced him to death.

For that is what Daniel has done.  If Jean-Paul is convicted, he
will be executed; if not, he will be Capped.  And if he is Capped,
he will almost certainly be broken; become a Vagrant who must wander
without wit or lunettes or friends to provide them.  In Calais,
among those who knew him, he might have learned to keep himself
alive.  He knows the coast and the sea, in a way beyond thinking,
perhaps beyond sight; they are in his bones.  But here... Winters are
harsh in the Jura; food is scarce and shelter rare, and the
clochards of the region's forests, as the boys have found to
their cost, habitually, murderously violent.

Mindless, blind and precociously sexual, Beanpole would not live
safely, or long.

Abrivert had explained it all, quietly, while Daniel took Beanpole
somewhere private to be sick; had reassured them that all would be
well.  Daniel's Captain is a good man, and sure to judge correctly,
if he is given all the facts.  He had placed an arm around Henry's
shaking shoulders, and said but you must tell the truth, for his
sake, now.  It will be kinder, so very, very much kinder, for the
Guards to kill him.

Henry's still in shock, hours later.  He'd never really understood,
before, what it would mean for Beanpole to be caught; and when the
older boy had returned, pale, upright and desperately dignified,
Henry had taken him in his arms, in front of everyone; had said as
calmly as he could,  "Je n'ai pas honte de mon ami."

But he'd mangled the words, spoken haltingly through tears that
clawed their way in circles through his chest, and it was far, far
too late to be honest.  Beanpole had disengaged himself, gently,
telling Henry to be silent; had looked at Will, and said tu m'as
promis, coquille.  Stood straight and accepted the charges in
full, true and false alike; stared straight ahead until Will stepped
forward and offered to give evidence against Jean-Paul Deliet, liar,
subversive and corrupter of minors.

Jean-Paul had kissed his hand in gratitude; and Will had pulled
away, and hasn't spoken since.

The others are far better off.  Whatever they've done, they're
Capless within the law.  They are children, and know no better.
Beanpole had pointed out with some bitterness that Will must be
tried as a child, but may give evidence as un sous-adulte, an
adult-in-waiting.   And Henry must be deemed responsible for his
acceptable behaviour, and not for that which offends.

And Henry's stayed calm, because someone has to.  He holds Beanpole
tighter, kisses him again.  Fuck the law.  They'll find a way out of
this.  They have to.

People spat upon them all as they drove away.  It shames Henry to
admit it he understands it all too well.  He'd felt the same, when
he'd stumbled on Will and Jack, originally.  In the presence of
something far, far outside his experience, something alien and
unimaginable.  And if he'd been Capped, well.  He'd probably have
wanted them whipped.  Like it or not, he's a Wherton boy, and always
will be.  Will, too; he'd have been the same if Jack hadn't forced
the issue, and he knows it.  More than Henry, probably.  He's so
bloody conventional.

What haunts Henry most is the incredulous sadness on Abrivert's face
at Will's words, as he reluctantly called younger Guards to take
arms and stand beside the doors.  Will had primed him the night
before with the story that formed their defence, talked freely with
him of the place of the grand journey in Wherton custom.  To find he
was lied to had hurt and bemused the Guard dreadfully.  He had
wandered away briefly to compose himself, the breeze meandering in
through the stained-glass windows of the Mayoral hearing-room
ruffling his thick white hair as he had struggled to understand.

He'd turned his back on Will and Beanpole, waiting by the Maria;
spoken to Henry as the most familiarly patterned, the most
comprehensible of the three; the only one who looked ashamed.  Had
said, with sorrow, this custom of Capping so late is wrong, and
spoken gently of the understanding to come.  And looked at him with
such compassion; compassion and disappointment.

Because the others were liars, but Henry is through and through a
farm boy; because he could see that Henry understood.

And Henry's the worst liar of all.  It's no consolation to remember
he'd had to hide, for Kirsty's sake.  She'd expected him to love his
cousin.  But having Jean-Paul behind the treading vats would have
been a little harder to explain.

The worst thing is that he'd have told her everything, if they'd
stayed; he knows he would.  He can't bear the thought of Kirsty
finding out from strangers.

Or even from Daniel, who would be kindness itself in the telling.
Even now, Daniel is treating them the way he always has; with
courtesy and consideration.  And silence, once their journey had
begun.  He is forbidden to converse with them alone, for his
protection and theirs.

He must have known it wouldn't stop Beanpole trying.


=== * ===


Beanpole, safe in Henry's arms and resigned to the uselessness of
reason, watches the way the breeze disturbs Will's hair as they
travel; studies the lines of pain around his eyes, and tries to
remember how he'd looked when they first met.   Less thin, of
course; more naïve, and so very, very beautiful, with his anger and
his dark and unspoiled dreamer's eyes.  Full of temper and
loneliness, overflowing with love and desire and the wish to know
more.

He'd wanted Life, and Life had had him for breakfast.

Four months, is it only four months since we met, he thinks with
surprise.  It seems far, far longer. How ridiculous to feel so very
much part of someone so soon.  Especially someone so young, so very
much a child.

But Will's not a child any more.

If Henry knew everything, Henry would say that Jean-Paul never
really thought he was; and that is why Beanpole chose him.  But
Henry would be wrong.   Will is very much a boy.  The Château
changed him, tore parts of him away, but he is still the dreamer
Henry dismisses with such love.  Seeing what he wants to see;
meeting grand pain with grand gestures, susceptible to grand
temptations and fighting grand wrongs.  Given to all or nothing,
someone who understands instinctively why what Jean-Paul asks must
be done; holding, stupidly and bravely, that a promise must be kept.
A boy who is now tearing himself to pieces wondering why there are
no words to defend what he has done, but who will speak again when
he can, and learn from the pain.

It is a great relief to know that he was right, that Will has the
strength Jean-Paul had hoped for.   Henry could not have done this,
if Will had failed, or if they had been caught in Will's absence.
Henry is a farm boy, and understands about kindness to wounded
animals.  But Jean-Paul was never sure he could be trusted to put a
blind Vagrant out of his misery, and he is certain now.  Henry
thinks too much; his heart and his fairness get in the way, and he
would fight to the end.

He must.  Jean-Paul is relying on it.  Jean-Paul will be sentenced
first, and the Guards will learn nothing.  It will give the others a
little leeway; a chance, perhaps, a time to run.  And if there is a
chance, Henry can be trusted to do what must be done.

Jean-Paul himself is calm.  Too calm, perhaps.  But he's had a very
long time to get used to the idea.  He knows the law, backwards and
forwards; stole books and taught himself in Calais, when Marc became
a Guard.

Just in case.

He looks at Daniel, turned resolutely away and focused on the road.
A soft-skinned, honest man; a friend, despite everything, who can be
trusted to argue in Jean-Paul's best interests.

Beanpole has been foolish, but fortunate.

Daniel fascinates him; the Guardsman is very, very like the boy in
Calais he lost to the Cap.  He told Henry so, under the vines one
afternoon, when they had stolen away for sex first marred and then
improved by Jean-Paul's preoccupation.

He had been thinking of Marc, on his last night in Calais; guarding
les Anglais, smiling as his friend delivered food for the
prisoners and Vagrants in his care.  Marc had let him pass, happily,
stopping him only on the way out, to take an apple from his basket.
For Marc was fond of apples, and Jean-Paul always stole one for him
from the market, just in case.

Green one day, red the next; whole and unbruised and always taken
fresh.  An habitual and adept thief, Jean-Paul was seen and caught
and cautioned many times in those last months.  Punished, and beaten
too, once he turned sixteen; harshly by his uncle, worse by the
Guards, and sometimes even by Marc.  And always over apples.

He had no need to steal.  His aunt despaired; she bought enough,
always, and would give one happily, if asked.

But that was not the point.

And that night Marc had taken his apple, because his apple was
always there.  He had not looked for it, or at it, because he had
not needed to.  And he had failed to see Ozymandius' map, tucked
openly beside the prisoners' food for safekeeping; failed to notice
that he failed to hear the cell door lock behind him.  Smiled warmly
after his dear friend Jean-Paul, l'aliéné, le voleur, l'enfant
who insists on remembering indiscretions best forgotten; the boy who
provokes him with nonsense, and will come to understand when he is
Capped why one must put away childish things, like the taste of
apple on a lover's lips.

And Daniel is just the same.

Perhaps all Guards are the same.

Beanpole remembers the night he first met Daniel well.  They'd
returned from the vineyard late, with Will and little Lucy riding on
the grape cart, and laughing.


=== * ===


Maison Vichot, France, September 2089 AD


Will is finally well enough to leave the cottage; Lucy, instructed
to take him for a walk, drags him around the vineyard showing him
the grounds and all her secret places.  It is tiring, but Will
enjoys it tremendously; it is not so long since he had and treasured
secrets of his own, and he is young enough to have found showing
Ozymandius Jack's den a daring act.

She revels in his indulgence, and shows him many of her favourite
things: here, where butterflies gather, and here, where the dolls go
to school, and here, where Will's friend Jean-Paul takes off his
shirt and pretends to be a girl for Henry.

"Your friend has such pretty hair," she says, with more than a
little jealousy, for Beanpole is dark and all the Vichot girls are
blonde.  She is the youngest of six, and heartily sick of being just
like everybody else.

She should like to marry such a pretty boy, she says, but not if he
demands as many kisses.  Because boys eat such disgusting things,
don't they, like olives and tripe, and Lucy can't abide olives.
She supposes Henry mustn't mind, because he's a boy too, and will be
used to the taste.  And they're so rude... why, if she was even to
think half the words Jean-Paul says, she'd be smacked and sent to
bed.

She can't imagine why Henry swears back.   Henry's always seemed so
nice, she says.  He's much quieter when he kisses Kirsty.  But then
they're usually standing up.

And Will has to smother sudden laughter, his first for many days,
and distract her by making up stories.  Stories of a pretty
princeling, far away, with long dark curls and the whitest, whitest
skin, who only swears in languages that no-one understands, and
never, ever eats anything Lucy wouldn't like.  A boy who lives
shoeless by the beach and makes wonderful inventions with steam and
sand.

By the time he's finished the first tale, they're both half in love
with him, and must hear more.  And while they talk, they walk,
helping Beanpole and Helen; carrying full buckets away and empty
ones back, watching the grapes fall and Jean-Paul stretching through
the leaves.  Beanpole pretends not to listen, and Will pretends to
be interested only in the vines, and it's impossible not to smile at
each other when their fingers touch on the splintered wooden stakes.
And Will meets Beanpole's eyes, properly, for the first time since
Beanpole laid down the knife and held his head when he was sick from
fear and pain.  It is a long time before either looks away, or wants
to, and the day seems warmer, somehow, when they do.

Riding back on the cart at sundown, Will feels Beanpole's hand
resting softly on the small of  his back.  And when they are back at
the house, he has colour in his cheeks; he lets Henry help him
dress, and says softly that it has been a good day.  Perhaps they
should stay until the end of harvest, after all.

On the way down to meet Jeannie's mysterious young man, Henry goes
ahead with Kirsty, leaving the others to find their own way into the
golden light spilling up from the crowded, noisy kitchen.  Will
stands on the stairs, suddenly dizzy; smells roasting chicken, a
rare treat, the birds bartered for with last year's wine in Dole.
It is the first day he has not been involved in the preparation of
the evening meal, and it feels strange.  Dislocating.

The house is filled with the sound of Vichot's playing; strange
tunes worn smooth by time and custom, played with closed eyes by a
pleasant, simple man of very little language.  Once handsome, now
grey, and shyly bemused by this houseful of women who bear his name.
A man of clear eyes and weathered features; a very happy man.

His music is not mannered, or calm; one could almost believe Vichot
unCapped, the feeling he brings to it.  And Madame Vichot, warbling
French words with the accent of Leith, sings with infectious
passion.

The last time Will had heard music, it had been quiet and tasteful
and ignored by everyone;  played by people fed in the kitchens and
paid to perform.  He had watched the players, quietly, doing what
they must do, as he did the same; seated at the table of honour with
his new parents, doing his duty.  Setting an example, as befitted
the son of a count; showing only joy at the great honour they had
all received, and the proper appreciation at Sarlat's bestowal of
it.

He had performed well; his last hours at the Château were bathed in
strong and loving approval.   And Will had smiled and chatted and
burned the image of Sarlat into his mind, so he could remember him
properly: gold-skinned, magnificent in candlelight.  Sharing Will's
wine, and smiling with the closest thing to love of which he was
capable.

What I cannot have, none shall have.

And it hurts worse, so much worse, than losing Jack; Jack was Capped
and gone.  Sarlat was still where he belonged, unchanged and every
inch himself, regarding Will the way he always had.  Will could walk
out of here now, walk back, with a lie about adventure, and be
forgiven.  And punished, of course, but in ways that made sense and
made him welcome.

Whatever Will does, wherever he goes, Sarlat will be there.  And
he will never change.

He had not thought it possible to miss someone so very much.

Beanpole, behind him, touches Will's shoulder, gently.

"You do not have to attend."

Will shakes his head.  "Yes I do.  Lucy... I promised to dance with
Marie-Jean."

"Lucy knows you are not well."

"Neither is Marie-Jean."

They share a wry grin. Lucy's doll has been horribly injured, it
seems; the whole family knows it.  She has spent days telling anyone
who will listen that whatever is wrong with Will is wrong with
Marie-Jean, in the desperate hope someone will tell her how he came
to be hurt.  Will won't, and nor will Madame Vichot, who has gently
bullied trust and truth from Beanpole in private.  One cannot tell a
child that Tripods may harm them, after all.

Lucy has made up a tale of pirates and grape thieves, out of pique;
evil red-haired men who carry great big swords like the one her
mother keeps in the attic.  Poor Marie-Jean has been tortured for
days, she says, and not allowed any supper at all.  But tonight she
shall have wine, with Will, and dance.

"Beanpole... I..."

Will has so much to say; so few words.

"You told me once that you were here, if."

"Yes."

"Then if.  If if bloody if.  Please."

And Jean-Paul's arms slide slowly round him from behind, under the
sling, careful not to press on his wounds, and Will still can't look
away from the light, from the suddenly indistinct colours and
shapes. The noise is overwhelming.  The last time Beanpole held him,
he could not walk; before that, they had feared he was a Black
Guard.  And before that...

He won't cry.

"You have done too much today.  Go to bed.  I will tell Madame."

"No.  I'm fine.  It's just..."

Beanpole rests his chin on Will's shoulder, ignoring the ache in his
back.  He has been stooping over vines for days now, with very
little respite, and it is taking its toll.  He'd forgotten the smell
of Will's skin, the feel of his too-long, unwashed hair against his
face.

"You miss them.  Him."

And all Will can do is nod, ashamed.

"I can't help it."

"We do not expect you to."

Will looks around, resigned.  "So Henry knows?"

Beanpole shrugs, lightly.  "I have said nothing.  But he has eyes.
And is surprised nobody follows."

"But they did, didn't they."  Will concentrates on the colours of
the kitchen, on the deep scarlet of Madame Vichot's dress as she
sweeps back and forth.   "I... Sarlat knew I'd go.  I think he sent
the Tripod after me.  He knew what it would do."

"You cannot be certain of that."

"Oh, I can."

"No."  Beanpole speaks softly. " You hope it will hurt less if he
does not love you.  That is all."

"What would you know about it?"

"I know choices hurt.  If you cannot bear this, go back and make
none."

He speaks quietly, without accusation or bitterness; speaks, and
sees, clearly.  And Will knows it must be as hard to say as it is to
hear.

"You tell yourself stories.  Henry and I saw many Tripods near the
Château.  This one finds you by accident, I think; you break curfew,
and it is curious. You wish him to have sent it, to bring you back
to him.  When this does not happen, why, then he makes you his spy.
And the pain is his fault, not yours."

"No."

"Yes.  You are not so very complicated, or clever.  Nor he."
Beanpole squeezes him gently, as he would any friend.  "If you wish
to go back...?"

"No.  Yes.  More than anything."

 "Will... " Beanpole weighs his words, carefully; keeps his voice
level.  "I stayed one year in Calais, for Marc, and was nothing to
him, with no hope.  At least for you it may be possible, if.  I do
not think any worse of you, for wishing."

"Does Henry?"

"Henry has other things to think about."

"So I've noticed."

It's said fondly, a little enviously perhaps.  Will pulls away, sits
down on the small landing.  Beanpole joins him, grateful for the
chance to rest; sits close, but not crowding him.

"Henry and I-"

"Are very loud, and need a new hiding place.  Lucy has seen you."

"Merde.  Is she frightened?"

"No.  She thinks it's funny, some kind of game.  But I don't want
her learning words like... well, like that.  She showed me where...
It's too near the road.  What if someone else sees you?  Kirsty, or
Helen?  This isn't Calais."

"And Madame is not my aunt."

"But-"

"She knows I love you."

And it's said before Beanpole thinks about it.  Will doesn't look at
him.

"And Henry?"

"Would be harder to explain, but not impossible."

"Vichot might not agree.  Or Kirsty."

"That is Henry's business.  Moi, je ne feins pas."

"It's a big risk."

"One he chooses to take.  Will, if you do not wish me to see him,
ask honestly."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"He can live without me happily.  But he does not wish to.  If you
cannot respect this..."

Will pulls away, aggrieved.

"I don't care about that.  About you two.  It's just... "

"You were happy.  Let him be."

"Look, I just don't want him to take stupid risks..."

Will's voice has risen, and it attracts a curious glance from
Shelagh, passing below.

"He is careful, Will.  We are careful."

"Not careful enough."

Beanpole stands up, exasperated.  "There is no harm done."

"Yet."

"This is jealousy speaking, I think.  Or fear."

He starts to walk away, and Will stands, catches his arm, ignoring
the pain as his shoulder collides with the bannister.

"All right, all right.  Maybe.  I'm sorry."

"Sharing Henry is not so easy as sharing me, I think."

And there's a little bitterness in his tone.

"Don't be stupid.  It's not a question of... I mean, we're not... I've
never seen him so happy."  Will can't keep the amazement, or the
affection, out of his voice.  "You and Kirsty... and being here.
It's wonderful.  I hardly recognise him."

"Then let him be."

Will closes his eyes in exasperation.  "You don't understand, do
you?  This is like home, Beanpole.  It's a small place.  The rules
are different.  Madame Vichot is one thing, but  everyone else...
For all we know they could have the Guards down on you.  And before
you say it, yes, all right, it is fear.  I'm scared.  I'm scared all
the bloody time, now.  I can't help that, either.  I just don't want
him to lose her because... I mean... And I don't want you to... "

"What do you want, Will?"

"I don't fucking know."

Beanpole scowls, darkly.  "I hope you do not use this language in
front of Marie-Jean."

And he holds the frown with a smile in his eyes until it makes Will
laugh, shaking his head; as he looks at Jean-Paul with very real,
very deep affection, and a trace of despair.

 "Oh... hell, Beanpole.  Are you fed up with me yet?"

"Fed...up?"

"Pissed off.  Annoyed.  Irrité."

Beanpole cradles him gently against his chest, kisses his forehead
softly, learning again the differences between the cousins.  He is
used to Henry, now, although they rarely embrace when upright; Henry
is too short, and finds it oppressive.  Will is a little taller,
just a little; thinner, and much more frightened than Henry ever
was.

"Always.  Vraiment, tu m'irrites.  Tu me frustres, aussi, et tu
m'apportes la tristesse.  Shall I send you away?  Back to your
Duc.  If he still wants you, as you are such a pain in the throat."

"Neck.  And what if I don't want him?"

"You will always want him."

Said quietly, matter-of-factly.  And there's tremendous forgiveness
in Beanpole's voice, and Will shuts his eyes, just holds on, as best
he can, listening to Jean-Paul breathe and the effortless way in
which Vichot segues between tunes; the sound of the girls laughing,
and someone dropping plates. Beanpole's arms are warm on his back,
and the fraying and beaded ties on Beanpole's trousers - an old pair
of Jeannie's, perhaps, rescued for vinework - sway between them,
gently.

 "Can you forgive me?"

"Quand les poules auront des dents."

"How can I make it up to you?"  His voice doesn't seem to be
working.

Beanpole tightens his arms around him, gently.  "Stupide.  This
is done. You are here."

"It's that bloody simple, is it?"

"For me, yes."

"Do you... really... I mean... "

"What?  Love you?  Yes.  And you cannot even say it."  Beanpole
takes Will's face in his hands, gently.
"What do you feel for me, Will?"

And it's real, and strong, but nothing like what he feels for
Sarlat, nothing, and they both know it.

"I don't know.  I don't bloody know."

"You did not leave him to be with me."

"No.  I'm sorry."

"Why?  You have better reasons, more important.  Thank you, for
being truthful."

Will rests his hand on Beanpole's, on his shoulder; peers up into
his shadowed eyes.  "It doesn't mean I don't care."

"I know."

"I don't want to hurt you."

And Beanpole just shrugs; there's too much to say, or not say, too
much already done.

"Can we...?"

"Resume?"  Beanpole takes Will's good hand in both of his own.  "I
would like this, very much.   But.  If I am what you want, not just
the bed.   With Henry it is one thing, we are friends.  But you..."

"To be honest, Beanpole, I don't care if I never... you know.
Again."

"This will change."

"Don't bet on it."

"It will.  I will change it."  Beanpole grins, wickedly. "I am
irresistible.  You fall at my feet, so.  Like all the people in
your little story.  Who I notice were boys, so do not tell me I am
making Lucy astray."

"They had to be boys.  Boys are disgusting."

"If one is lucky."

And Will laughs, openly.

"You may not be.  Jean-Paul... J'ai seize ans, maintenant."

"When?"

"Today, I think.  Or tomorrow.   I've lost track, a little."

"Merde.  Tell no-one, no-one, until you must.  Will Henry
remember?"

Will shakes his head, reaches up, strokes Beanpole's cheek.  Speaks
softly.

"Be with me, Jean-Paul."

"Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes.  Nous sommes des gens libres."

Beanpole looks at him, long and hard.  "You understand, I will not
be like him, for you?  None of this."  And Beanpole touches Will's
wrist, gently, fingers light on bruises almost vanished, and steely
sadness in his eyes.  "Never.  Il me dérange, et je ne le ferai
pas.  And if Henry wants me, I will go with him."

Will takes a deep breath, and nods.

"And..."  Beanpole takes Will's chin in his hand, a deep urgency in
his voice.  "You promised me  something, once.  Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"Good.  Because it is vital, now.  If we are together, then there
can be no hiding.  I will not, and you must not ask me to.  Must
not.  And I cannot let you, either.  Can you face this, for me?"

"Yes."

"I will not be Capped."

"I will not let you be."

"Then come here, mon pauvre cassé..."

And Beanpole is so much taller, a head at least, and rests his
wrists gently on Will's shoulders; moves in,  his unbuttoned cuffs
catching gently in the long hair at the back of Will's neck.  And he
must bend, gently, to kiss him, his hair falling like a curtain
around them, its movement against Will's skin more exciting and
upsetting than anything else.  But he doesn't quite touch, waits for
Will to come to him.  He's careful not to rest his weight upon him;
Will's good hand rests upon Beanpole's hip, at first, then rises to
tangle in his hair. And Will kisses him, gently, tentatively, as if
he is afraid of causing pain; with compassion and longing and a
sense of home.

It upsets them both, a little, and more than a little; they hold
each other in silence until they trust themselves to speak.
Beanpole pulls away first, but not far; his voice smaller, and
steadier, for the loss of tension it has held for weeks.

"I love you, Will Parker.  But you need very much to bathe."

"I know, I know.  After supper...  Madame says everything is healed
enough, and is keeping the water for me."  Will smiles, a little of
his old mischief returning to his eyes.  "There may even be enough
to share.  You will help me, of course?"

"We shall see."

And Beanpole kisses him again, a little roughly this time; not too
much, but enough to tell Will that he is wanted as well as loved.
They break apart just as Henry, puzzled at their absence, peers up
from the kitchen with Kirsty on one arm and Lucy on the other.
Daniel will be here soon, and Madame wishes a toast to her guests,
first.

Lucy pelts up the stairs and pulls Will away, not gently, demanding
to touch Beanpole's hair since everyone else is permitted to.  And
he bends goodnaturedly, and lets her pull his curls, kissing her
hand with great ceremony; and she squeals in disgust because he is a
boy, after all.  But it stops her noticing the tears Will is
fighting to hold back.

They follow her downstairs, Beanpole's arm around Will's waist; lean
close together against the fireplace with glasses of last year's
wine, listening to Vichot play and the girls squabbling over the
table arrangements.   It is not long before Madame Vichot approaches
them, quietly, and draws them a little away from her husband.

"Well now.  It is good to see smiles between you, at last; I was
beginning to think you misled me.  But..." she leans closer, on the
pretext of replenishing Beanpole's glass, and pokes him gently but
firmly in the chest.    "S'il faut baiser, dans votre chambre
seulement, et doucement.  Je ne veux pas vous entendre. Et si vous
ne dansez pas avec mes filles, j'aurai vos couilles pour boucles
d'oreilles.  Vous comprenez?"

"Madame!"

Beanpole sounds shocked, but he is grinning at her.

"I learned many things aboard my father's ship, young man.  It would
take more than a dockside vagabond like you to surprise me."  She
smiles, then looks between them seriously.   "Your way of life is
your own, Jean-Paul.  However, this is a small house.  My house.
There are courtesies, and the feelings of others to consider.   So
behave.  I should say the same to any married man."

"Of course, Madame."

She looks at Will, shifting uneasily at such openness.  "And that
applies to you, too, malade.  If you are well enough to cuddle
you are well enough to dance.  But rest first.  Mind that my Shelagh
would appreciate your company."  She cups Will's face fondly, and
sweeps away to stop Lucy picking at the sweets set aside for later.

"Exceptionelle.  You see?"  Beanpole smiles after her.  "I told
you."

"All the more reason to be c-- "  Will breaks off, abruptly, as
Henry joins them, Kirsty close behind but distracted at the last by
pleas to fix Fiona's plaits.

"I was beginning to think you two had disappeared.  I tell you what,
trying to get this lot organised is a nightmare.  They carry on
like... well, like a pack of girls..."  He is flushed and happy; his
ankles stained by grapes, sleeves wet from washing salad greens, and
blisters on his hands from the wine press.  The whirl and chaos of
Vichot family life suits him tremendously; there is always something
to do, and someone congenial to do it with.  He is liked, and
learns, and his practical skills are respected.

"There was much to talk about," says Beanpole, meaningfully, and
draws Will a little closer.

"I can see that." He looks closely at Will, at his reddened and
tiring eyes.  "Are you all right?  You look awful."

Will smiles, gently.  "I'm fine."  And he means it. "We've... sorted
a few things out, that's all."

Reassured, Henry reaches out, squeezes his shoulder gently, above
the sling.  "About bloody time."

He smiles at Vichot, and Kirsty, now chasing Lucy indulgently around
the room, and lowers his voice.   "So... what are we doing about
beds?"

His voice carries no hint of awkwardness or embarrassment; nor
preference, although it is Beanpole he looks to for guidance, rather
than Will.   Good old Henry, thinks Will, getting the practicalities
sorted out first, and then tenses, suddenly, at the implications.

"There is no need for change, I think."

Beanpole speaks softly, but firmly; and Will is relieved.  He hadn't
thought so far ahead; he does not want to have to choose between
them.  Not now, not so soon.

Henry and he still sleep without touching, as they always have, but
when the darkness gets too much, he is able to put out a hand and be
held in peace, without fear of desire.

He would not like to be without that, now.

It seems he is expected to say something, to protest, perhaps, but
is rescued by the burst of welcome as Jeannie, having waited outside
for what seems ages, returns on the arm of her fiance.   Daniel
Montagnon proves every bit as splendid as Madame has promised.  She
has spoken of him as tall, slender and strikingly handsome, with
tight blond curls, and a great deal of charm.  And she is right.  He
carries himself well, this lad; of eighteen summers at most, and
very grown-up in his uniform.

For Daniel, Madame has neglected to mention, is a Black Guard; he
holds himself proudly, firelight gleaming on his polished buttons
and the warm gold of his Cap when he bows.  And reflecting in his
eyes, when he proffers his hand with a restrained warmth that sends
Beanpole's pulse rocketing.


=== * ===


"Well, I liked him," says Henry, eventually.

"I too," says Beanpole, softly.  "He was very pleasant company."

Much, much later, when the girls have retired, and Vichot dozes
quietly to one side in the rocking-chair, Will sinks thankfully into
his first bath for days.  The others have dragged an old, enamelled
tub, with ornate feet in strangely wrought metal, in front of the
fire for warmth.  It is hideous, and a legacy of Vichot's forebears,
Madame says, which lives in the courtyard most of the time for the
laundry.   To fill it for one is a shocking waste of good warm
water, but then Will cannot be expected to manage at the pump like
everyone else.  And if he is quick, the others may share in his good
fortune.

It seems unlikely.  His intentions are good, but once he's settled
comfortably, he's most reluctant to move, and the others are content
to pull chairs close to the fire and let him soak in peace.  For his
part he's just glad to be clean.

Comfortably fed, pleasantly dazed from good wine and good company,
they are relaxed and happy, and stay that way by keeping the lights
low and not looking at the burns on Will's body.  Almost healed now,
there are three in total, shiny patches of skin on his back and
chest and inner thigh which are hard not to look at once one knows
they are there.

They exert a dreadful fascination over Beanpole, who first saw them
in a much rawer and untreated state; the memory upsets him, and he
busies himself massaging Henry's tired feet, dyed deep red and
speckled with fragments of embedded stem.  Henry, for his part,
simply does not look; closes his eyes, and luxuriates in his ability
to enjoy the French boy's touch.  It remains something new and
wondrous; he will never take it for granted.

Daniel is the perfect distraction.  He is used to finding strange
things chez Vichot, says Madame, laughing; after her, three
scruffy travellers is nothing.  Daniel is a favourite of Madame's,
and her trust in him is reassuring.  For his part, he takes his
impending addition to the family very seriously indeed.

He has no brothers and few friends, so to find himself among other
young men, even foreign ones, had been something of a treat.
Affable and friendly, fond of a joke, he had welcomed the moderate
licence that an evening of male conversation brought.  They all had.

Will stays silent, keeps his expression neutral.  Daniel was indeed
pleasant; good-humoured and remarkably incurious.  But... He closes
his eyes, thinking about the faces he's sure he saw inside the
Tripod; tiny figures peering down at him as he was lifted into the
light.   Before he blacked out.

He's sure, as sure as he can be, that they were human, and wore the
distinctive hats of the Guard.  If his memory can be trusted, then
Daniel, and all his kind, cannot be.

Not that he was ever easy with the Guards, even before he was taken.
They seem such alien men, so thoroughly creatures of those they
serve.  Universally, dreadfully calm and kind; concerned and gentle
as one would wish a father to be.  Doing nothing without one's best
interests at heart, even when they beat, or jail, or kill.
Compassionate and merciless.

He had never seen any  in England.  Perhaps they are not needed;
perhaps the English make better sheep.   Sheep who herd themselves,
and happily, if Wherton is anything to go by.  Although Rimney had
been very different, unruly and wild, with trouble enough for those
who cared to find it.

What must it be like, he wonders, to lose a lover to the Guards?
Beanpole had told him the truth about Marc, eventually; in Paris, in
a crumbling shopfront piled with mildewed, decaying books.  School
texts, it seemed; they had fumbled their way through tomes and
tomes, stained and barely readable, stuffed with ideas beyond
imagination.  With machines that thought or cooked or flew, or let
men in one house converse with those in another.  The most wondrous
things, spoken of without wonder; marvels known, and understood, by
children!

Incredible, truly incredible.  And Beanpole had despaired at how
stupid the world had become.  At the fact that the Guards were
respected and feared; that their simple Baccalaureate was the
measure of brilliance, when their grandfather's grandfathers made
pictures - pictures! - quicken and talk when they were but infants.
And he had wandered off, alone and untouchable; returning hours
later, red-eyed and angry.  And Will had held him for hours among
the dying books, as he talked about the boy he had loved, and the
Guardsman he loved still.  About Marc, for whom he stole apples, and
whose soft and salty lips now spoke only of Jean-Paul's best
interests.

And if I am caught, he said, do not let me be Capped; and if I am
Capped among strangers, do not suffer me to live.  And if you are as
I am, swear.

And Will had sworn.  Without an understanding of the law; without an
understanding of himself.  But knowing, knowing it was right.

The offer he made to Jean-Paul at the Château will haunt him for the
rest of his life.

"Will?"

Beanpole's hand startles him, brushing wet hair away from his face.

"What...  Oh, he seems friendly enough."

"Unlike you."

"I was perfectly friendly, Henry."

"He is tired.  Let him be."  Beanpole tugs the hair on Henry's
ankle, playfully.

"I'm not surprised.  Listening to you carry on... it was enough to
wear anyone out."

"What do you mean?"

Henry grins.  Madame has insisted they speak only English while they
are here, to help her girls learn.  And, he suspects, because she
misses it.  But Daniel, like Vichot, speaks only French, and
Beanpole had taken full advantage of the opportunity to return to
his native tongue, talking at length and with an animation the
others have rarely seen.  It locked Henry out of the conversation,
but he hadn't really minded.  There were so many other people to
talk to, after all, and Kirsty or Will translated the good bits.

"You.  Chattering on like... like some tavern maid or something.
Hanging on every word, like Shelagh with Will.  You were all over
him."

"He had much of interest to say."

"And your chinois was listening," says Henry, matter-of-factly.
"He's a Guard.  And Jeannie's boyfriend.  What's the point of us
being discreet if you're going to carry on like that?"

"C'est moi, Henri."

"C'est folle, Deliet."  Henry wriggles his foot in Beanpole's
lap, to take the sting out of his words.

"Very well, very well.  I forget myself, perhaps."

"There's no perhaps about it.  I saw the way you were looking at
him.  No wine next time, if he comes again.  You can't be trusted."

"Ah, but you like me that way."

"Ah, but I'm not Daniel."

"Rabat-joie.  Do you not find him attractive?"

"Putain.  He's a man, Beanpole, in case you hadn't noticed."

 "So am I, in case you haven't."   Beanpole kisses Henry's toes, and
begins to work on the other foot.

"That's different.   Will, tell him."

Will shakes his head, grinning affectionately.  In fact Beanpole had
behaved perfectly normally, for Beanpole; smiled brilliantly and
listened, asked detailed, flattering questions.  He had monopolised
Daniel, a little, and touched his arm when talking, but that was
all.   And Beanpole touches everyone.

Including Will, for the first time since his return.  Tentatively at
first, then, as they both relaxed, absently and proprietorially, as
he always has.  Perfectly normal for them.  And Daniel had taken
their evident affection in his stride; asking only, as the men
walked quietly under the moon between courses, how Jean-Paul came to
be without the Cap, so late, and so very, very far from home.

He had commiserated with Jean-Paul on his history of unfortunately
timed illness.  Having dealt with such cases himself, from time to
time, he hoped people had not been cruel to Beanpole for his
difference.  Had smiled and said: you must be looking forward to
manhood a very great deal by now.  To be voteless and to own no
land; have no home, and no wife, and no right to either - these are
terrible things to bear.

And Beanpole had smiled back, and changed the subject; for he and
Daniel are much of an age, after all, and there were many other
things to talk about.  What it is like in Dijon, where Daniel took
his examinations, for instance; for were there not great ruins
there, and splendid government affairs?   It must keep the Guardsmen
very busy.   And Daniel, a farm boy raised by sisters half a day
from Chaumergy and simple enough to find any town remarkable, was
happy to talk at length about life in the capital and the rigours of
rural service in the Guard.

Jean-Paul's great skill is listening, and he employed it well,
tonight.  But there had been a softness in his eyes as they talked,
and he had called the other Marc, once, absently.

Will had noticed, and said nothing.  It is never wise to caution
Jean-Paul when he is happy; it provokes him to silliness, or greater
risk.  There is much of the boy in him, yet, and Will is never sure
of the extent to which the need to control it is realised.  But...

"Henry does have a point.  No, listen."   He squeezes Beanpole's
thigh, gently.  "Daniel took you as you are, and liked you.  And I
like him for it.  But he is a Guard.  We cannot afford to forget
that."

"Oh, I am not likely to."  Beanpole smiles, privately.  "Il est
vraiment magnifique, dans son uniforme.  Do you not agree?"

Will laughs, and stretches.  "Perhaps.  If you like that sort of
thing."

"Now now.  We cannot all secure a pretty princeling."

Will laughs and splashes him, stops abruptly as he notices Henry
scowling.

"What?"

"That was bloody well uncalled-for."

"It's all right, Henry... He didn't mean..."

And Beanpole's good mood is gone, in an instant, as Will's words
sink in, and he looks at Henry with shock.

"You think I would joke about this?"

Pointing at the burn on Will's chest; incredulous, and hurt.  And
Beanpole shoves Henry's feet to the floor, and stalks upstairs.

"Oh, well done."

"I'm sorry.  I just thought..."

"No, you didn't."  Will sinks back into the bath, exasperated.
"You never bloody do."

"Look, I'm sorry, all right.  I'll go and apologise."

"No... Give him a minute.  He's upset anyway."

"About what?"

"What do you think?"  Will hasn't the heart to be angry, really;
Henry's appalled enough at himself for both of them.  He throws the
soap at him, relatively gently, as a peace offering.

"How long have you known?"  It's harder than he could have imagined,
to ask.

"About Sarlat?  Long enough."

"I suppose you think I'm pretty stupid."

Henry meets his gaze, steadily.  "Yes."

"I loved him, Henry.  And Eloise, before you say anything, so
don't."

"And that makes it all right, does it?  Don't tell me, he did that
when he realised you were interested...  Like Jack all over again.
You really are an idiot."

"It's a bit more complicated than that."

"If they're Capped, they belt you.  Which bit are you having trouble
with?"

"The same bit Sarlat did."

Henry laughs.  "Pull the other one."

"I'm serious."

Henry looks at him, understanding and dismay chasing each other
across his face.  "That's not possible."

Will just nods, slowly, eyebrows raised.

"But then... Why?  I mean...?"  And Henry gestures helplessly.

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Fuck no."

But there can be no hiding, now, so Will closes his eyes and leans
forward so Henry can look at the branding on his back without
embarrassment.  For there are other scars that Sarlat made, and
Christophe dressed, and Will has never seen; but Madame told him of
them, with tears in her eyes.

They do not show, when he is bandaged.  And Henry forgets himself,
kneels by the bath in horror, cannot help but trace the tiny,
elegant letters healing in the small of Will's back.

quand tu seras un homme
tu m'oublieras
quand tu étais mon homme
tu t'as oublié

Perfectly centred, perfectly formed; cut deep and coloured gently
with ash and herbs.  They may fade with time, or they may not.  Will
doesn't expect them to.  Sarlat does nothing without care.

And he feels Henry move away, and sits up again.  Henry won't look
at him, for a long while, so Will concentrates on the play of
firelight on the low ceiling, and waits.

"You let him do this?"

Will just shrugs.  Yes.  No.  Sometimes.  It had felt like a choice
the first time, with Sarlat inside him and Christophe's hand over
his mouth.

He hadn't known they were words; hadn't cared.  But then he hadn't
known he would leave.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing important."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what, exactly?  That I loved him?  That I loved being held
d-"

"Stop it!  Just - stop.  Shut up."

"You see, Henry?  How could I have said anything?  You'd never have
understood.  Not then."

"I don't now."

"Yes you do.  Mon brute."

It is what Beanpole calls Henry, sometimes, when he forgets that
Will is there, or thinks he is asleep and calls Henry softly to his
bed.  Said always with affection, and intent to provoke.

And Henry looks up, blushing a little.  And the room stills around
them; the silence overwhelming and dangerous, somehow.

"I know you do," says Will again, softly.  And Henry goes a far, far
deeper shade of red, so horribly, mortifyingly embarrassed that Will
can't help but smile.  And Henry smiles back, out of nervousness,
and they both collapse into conspiratorial giggles, hurriedly and
incompletely stifled as Vichot stirs in his chair and mutters
something about replacing the bolts on the press.

Close as brothers, but never friends, it is the most open with each
other they have ever been, and when Henry throws the soap back at
Will, with force, it's as good as words.

"I know what he's like, Henry, and I'm... I'm the same.  But it's a
game, with him.   I needed...  I mean..."

"Shut up.  I mean really shut up, right now.  I don't want to know."

"I knew you'd say that."  There's tremendous affection in Will's
voice; he sounds the most like himself he has in weeks.

"Was he worth it?"

"Yes.  No.  I don't know."

"You don't expect Beanpole to-"  and Henry breaks off, looking at
Will's face.  "Stupid question."  He turns away, busies himself
building up the fire.  "Look, Will... if you two are..."

"Oh, shut up.  He's good for you, Henry.   And I love him all the
more for it."

"It's just... "

"Kirsty?"

Henry nods, looks back.  "I'm not like you, you know.  Not..."

"Does it matter?"

"Not to me.  But... tell him for me, will you?  It gets embarrassing
sometimes."

"Oh, he knows.  He's only teasing.  Of course, you could always say
no."    And he has to laugh as Henry blushes even deeper red.
"Anyway, since when has he ever listened to me?"

"You'd be surprised."  Henry pauses, unsure whether to speak.  "You
know he's terrified you're going to go away again, don't you?"

"So was I, until this morning,"  says Will.  Very quietly.

"You'd have had to go through me first."

"Good."

"I mean it.  You don't deserve him."

"I know."

And Henry's dead serious.  "No you don't.  You haven't got a bloody
clue how he's been.  If you're staying, you treat him properly, or
you'll answer to me."

And Will nods, wordless for once; holds out his hand, the strongest
promise a Parker knows how to make, and Henry shakes it, solemnly.
And neither knows quite what to say next, so Henry stands, kicks
stray embers back into the fireplace.  "I'd better see how he is..."
He nods upstairs.  "Look..."

"Don't come up for a while?"

"Get stuffed.  I was going to say don't forget to put Madame's stew
back on the fire, when you've finished.  She wants it falling off
the bone by morning."

But he stokes up the flames before leaving, and ruffles Will's hair
on the way past, in a way that means yes; then pauses at the stairs,
comes back.

"Will... Happy birthday.  For tomorrow.  I didn't want to say, in
front of anyone.  But... I'm glad you're staying."

And he ducks down quickly and kisses Will on the forehead, panic-
fast and radiating embarrassment, then makes for the stairs, head
down and faster than he needs to.  And Will's happy to stay put,
thinking in the quiet, warm kitchen with only Vichot's snores for
company.  Thinking about the harm he's done; about Jean-Paul's voice
as he cut the Tripod button from Will's body, speculating quietly
and calmly on the possibility of steam-powered flight, staunching
blood with steady hands and horror in his eyes.

The scars and burns, Sarlat's verse, had shaken him to the core;
Will could see it.  But he hadn't said a word.  And Will had known
then, with a certainty that banished all pain, that he could do what
he had promised.

All is quiet when he finally joins the others; Henry propped upon
the bed and mending a shoe by candlelight, with Beanpole's sleeping
head upon his thigh.  And Beanpole is at peace, lunettes askew
and a book about herbs, stolen from Paris, fallen shut beside him.
Friends, more than friends and a world to themselves; but one in
which he is welcome.  Will wonders suddenly how he could ever have
thought otherwise.

Their affection seems more straightforward than his own; more honest
and forgiving.  He sits quietly beside them, as Henry re-fastens his
bandages, then takes Beanpole's bed, alone.  Certain he will not
wake that way, he succumbs to sleep wondering how to broach the
subject of Daniel.


=== * ===


Daniel is a frequent guest, when his work permits; the boys see him
every couple of days, and his visits soon take on a pattern.  He
first greets Madame and whoever may be at home; spends time with
Vichot in the vines, and sees Jeannie alone, for a brief time before
he leaves.  But there is always time to spare for Beanpole, who will
wander absently away from his work, and sit with him behind the
house or in the arbour, sharing wine and anything else Madame
chooses to spare for her eldest's sweetheart.

They are oblivious to company at these times, their discussions
giving way to complicated, mischievous arguments.  They disagree,
entirely, on many topics, and bully each other gently about the way
the world works.  Sea boys and farm boys are natural opponents,
after all; it is sport, not conflict.   They grow fond of each
other, and make much fun at each other's expense.

Everything is fair game.  Daniel's unwilling submersion in the
minutiae of Jeannie's wedding plans, Beanpole's insistence on
stealing kisses from Will whenever possible.  Daniel's pride in his
spotless uniform, Beanpole's careless disregard for his appearance.
Daniel's gentle certainty that everything that need be known is
known, and Beanpole's vehement, playful insistence that the world be
pulled to bits and quizzed.

They mystify each other, pleasantly; submerging mutual suspicion in
gentle parody.

Will hears them sometimes; listens from the kitchen while helping,
or the attic, while exploring Madame's room of manmade wonders.
Their conversations are beyond him much of the time, full of
regional subtleties and tiny personal digs opaque to foreigners.
And although Beanpole flirts outrageously, it is usually in English,
and therefore safe.   As Henry says, if they take him to task, he'll
only go and do it in French.

After a week or two, the cousins decide it is useless to worry;
however difficult it is, he must be trusted.  If he thinks himself
monitored or cautioned, Jean-Paul is sure to react with mischief.
And privately, each has to admit that there are very worldly
benefits to this association.

Will has held to his promise not to hide; his acceptance of
Beanpole's tenderness and affection, even -perhaps especially - in
front of a Guard, helps to heal the lingering damage between them.
Jean-Paul is not ashamed to love; and if Will is not ashamed to be
loved, then there is hope that things may in time be well.  Henry
begins to rise early and leave them in their room together; what
they do in that time is quiet and private.  It may be nothing, and
he does not want to know.  But Will has earned it.

And in Henry's view, the increased demands on his time produced by
Jean-Paul's attraction to Daniel can only be described as pleasant.
Beanpole has always fantasised about Guardsmen, although he will not
admit it without considerable provocation.  To be so open around
Daniel makes him more precocious than usual.  Vigorously, frequently
so; and Henry can't help but respond in kind.   He has his own
vexations to contend with.   Kirsty of course, which he is used to;
and now the more insidious visions roused by Will's honesty, visions
of his cousin white-knuckled with pleasure on the dark sheets of his
Château bed.  They disturb him, tease him, wake him stiff-pricked in
the night; come unbidden to mind when they sit together, when he
watches Will sleep, or talk, or pinch his lip in thought.  He
ignores them as best he can, but needs release more than ever, and
Beanpole is always happy to oblige.   There seems something wickedly
exciting in the acknowledgment that they are both aroused by others,
and choose to relieve it together.

Finally mindful of Will's warnings, they have found a new place for
intimacy; far from the picking, and further from the road.  Screened
on three sides by vines and the fourth by a fence; out of the way,
and safe from prying eyes.  It is a haven that Lucy showed Will.

But all the girls know where it is, and that is where Daniel, on the
way to register a drowning and taking what he thinks of as Jeannie's
short-cut through the vineyard, finds them; with Beanpole naked and
begging to be fucked harder in gutter French, like the kind one
hears from the worst sort of Vagrant.  And Henry above him, red-
faced and oblivious, obliging with enthusiasm and a truly atrocious
accent.

Daniel, like all Guards, knows that such things occur between those
who have not yet received the blessing of the Cap.  Privately, he
thinks no worse of the younger boy; a man must take pleasure where
he can, and Deliet is clearly efféminé.  It is honourable of
Henry Parker, he thinks, to respect the chastity of Madame's
daughters until his passions are controlled.  Perhaps Will Parker
does the same, given the affection that he and Deliet openly
display. Although this could perhaps be simple friendship on his
part.

Daniel and Vichot have privately agreed that Will has the air of one
who is yet to discover his prick.  He is young for his age, and
Shelagh's attention seems almost to frighten him.

But the charming Jean-Paul has always disquieted him; the English
boys travel, so they say, according to custom, and they have eight
months legitimately before being put in the Cap at home; four by
French law, if they stay.  But Deliet is eighteen months and more
beyond his time.

Daniel has thought many times about this.  To miss one Capping Day
is unlucky, but to miss two, when Tripods may be called at any time
to make good the situation...  Either Jean-Paul's interests have
been sadly neglected, or the question of subversion arises.  It is
difficult to judge.  The boy's conduct, and his opinions, could
easily support either interpretation.  And he has no family, no
guardian, by his side.

Jean-Paul is certainly wilful, he thinks, and cannot help but smile.
He must know that papers are required, to traverse between regions,
and yet carries none.  He omits to mention Henry, when speaking of
love.  He flirts with Daniel in English, and thinks he does not
understand; but Daniel needs no words to know that he is found
handsome, or to understand the lingering touch of someone on his
back when wine has been taken.  It is flattering, if
incomprehensible.  And harmless.  But...

The relationship with Henry troubles Daniel most; Jean-Paul has been
honest about everything else.   What reason could there be, to hide?
He is not given to shame, although it would be understandable, in
this instance.   To put oneself beneath a foreigner, and one without
papers!   And one whom Madame hopes so openly will return for her
third daughter...  It seems disloyal.

Daniel watches, dispassionately, as Beanpole groans his pleasure
against the dark wood of the boundary fence.  Whatever the truth, to
behave in such a fashion where they may be found, especially by
young women, is an abuse of hospitality.  And one who would abuse
hospitality in one way is likely to abuse it in another.

It distresses him.  Daniel is young, with less than two years'
service in the Guard.  He is an honest and hardworking man, who
wants to do well, to serve well and fairly; and it seems to him that
he must take advice on these matters.  He will postpone his visit,
and return to Dole to consult his Captain.


=== * ===


Daniel returns the next day, and questions the travellers together.
The harvest is nearly over and they will be moving on; but the law
is clear, they cannot continue without papers.  A formal interview
is required to register them as visitors to the region, especially
les Anglais.  It is, he says, incredible that they have come so
far without proper documentation.  He will arrange it for them, of
course.  They must leave it to him; he will return in two days, to
celebrate the end of the grape-picking, and bring the papers then.

And he smiles, and turns as if to leave, for he has much to do...
but he has forgotten something, or perhaps, yes, he cannot resist
another argument.  If he may just have a word with Jean-Paul?

The morning is cool, and still, and the appealing scent of dampened
leaves pervades the air.  Daniel leads the way towards Madame's
vegetable garden, close by the house.  It is flanked by old and
comfortable chairs; battered by the elements and dotted with the
charcoal roses left by a sleeping Vichot's pipe, but still
serviceable.  It is a pleasant place to sit and talk, and they use
it often.

And Daniel sits, and smiles, and takes Beanpole's arm reassuringly.

"Please, you must not think that I wish to speed you on your way.  I
enjoy our conversations a great deal, and our arguments more.  Who
shall I talk to, when you are gone?"

Beanpole smiles, warmly.   "Madame is remarkable, as are her girls."

"But she is busy, and they are children."

"As am I, according to you."

"Only in law, Jean-Paul, only in law."

"Ah, but you are the law..."

Daniel laughs.  "My Captain, he would be very offended to hear
this."

"Would you not tell him that a child may be forgiven his
impertinences?"

"Not if I valued my hide."

"And do you?"

"It has served me well."

"As I would, if you let me."

Daniel shakes his head, amused.

"This barbarous language... I have found you out.  Either you laugh
at me--."

"Never."

"Or you are flirting."

"Constantly.  Do you object?"

"It seems to be a habit.  You should not."

"It is difficult not to.  You are very handsome, Daniel.  It appeals
to my compulsions, as you call them."

"What would your friends say, if they heard you?  Have consideration
for them, if you have none for me."

"Will would say that I am behaving very badly.  And I would agree,
and ask Henry if he wanted to watch when I took you in my hands."

"You are impossible.  I should ask Madame to teach me English, so I
can reprimand you properly.  It is clear you have no respect for
your countrymen. "

Beanpole smiles, gently.  "I am only teasing."

"I know."  Daniel leans forward, touches his arm, gently.  "This
worries me, my friend.  You seem unable not to.  You must learn to
control this impulse.  When you move on... This is a land of
farmers, who think with their hands.  Others may not understand that
you require forbearance."

"Then I am glad you tolerate me so well."

"You should be.  Your behaviour is truly uncivilised."  Daniel
grins. "But I suspect you know this."

"Of course.  You tell me every ten minutes."

"Someone must.  Jean-Paul..." Daniel hesitates.  "I was not
completely honest.  As you are sous-adulte, I must ask some
other questions.  Private ones."

"At last!  How wonderful.  I warn you, I am not easy to seduce.  Or
perhaps I am.  Begin."

"Oh, stop it.  Are you not lonely, as you are?"  Daniel's concern is
real.  "At our age, you should be married.  Have you plans, when you
return to Calais?  Madame has spoken to me of your friendship with
Helen."

"I need no wife.  I have my friends."

"Your friends, of course..."  Daniel raises an eyebrow. "The elder
Parker?

"Will is precious to me, yes.  It is no secret."

"And Henry?"  And it seems to Beanpole that Daniel looks at him a
little longer than he needs to, but he dismisses it.

"He has never objected."

"Henry is a remarkable young man.  Very obliging, I think."

"I have certainly found him so."

"You are intimates, of course."

"Oh yes.  He knows me very well."

"And lovers?"

"Yes, we are.  And when he rides me, I think of you...  Next
question."

"Jean-Paul..."  Daniel laughs, exasperatedly.

"What?  What answer do you wish me to give, Daniel?"

"A truthful one."

"Well, then.  This I have done."

Daniel fights back a smile.  "You are not being fair with me,
child."

And Beanpole just laughs. "Children are never fair."

"You do yourself no good with this behaviour.  Are you refusing to
answer?"

"Daniel, you must know I can refuse you nothing.   Come now, I have
set you a challenge.  Everyone in Madame's family learns English...
and so must you, if you are to become part of it.  It would be
another excuse to spend time with your Jeannie, would it not?"

"I need no excuse for that."

And Daniel's demeanour has changed, a little, but he is not easy to
read.

"Well... My answer stands, so.  Is there anything else?"

"Where are you going, next?"

"Why?"

"Madame says you return home, after your grand journey, yes?   It
occurs to me that your ...closeness... with Will would perhaps mean
that you wish to be Capped together."

"If it is done, I wish him by my side."

"Must he return to England for the ceremony?  Or will he stay with
you, in France?"

"He has a fiancée in the City of Gold.  I do not think he wishes to
be far from her."

"Or from you, I think."

"No."  And Beanpole smiles, brilliantly, shyly, with great
happiness.

"Does Will hope to serve in the City also?"

"He would certainly regard the opportunity to visit it with
enthusiasm."

"And Henry will stay here, perhaps?  For Kirsty's sake?"

"Were we to return this way, I think he would."

"You have much to learn from these young men, Jean-Paul.  However
did you meet?"

"Oh, in jail," says Beanpole, lewdly.  "Do not tell me this
surprises you."

"Not particularly," and Daniel is suddenly very serious, although
there is mischief in his eyes.  "What had you done?"

"Me? nothing.  On that occasion, anyway.  I brought them food."

"And their offence?"

"Not speaking French, mainly.  Let this be a lesson to you; it is
always worth experiencing another tongue. One never fails to grow."

"I shall remember that.  And were you not afraid, to be with foreign
offenders?"

"Mistakes were made.  They did not remain imprisoned long. "

"And they went on their way, with you beside them.  Did you fall in
love so quickly?"  Daniel's tone is only half-mocking.

"If I say yes, you will tell me I am lonely, and mistaking
friendship for something it is not.  And if I say no, you will say I
am a slave to physical compulsion.  Either way, you deny me
responsibility for my actions.  I cannot win with you."

"You might, if you did not insist on winning."

"And you might, if you did not insist on making me want to."
Beanpole holds up a long finger admonishingly, as Daniel starts to
speak.  "Stop.  It is my turn to ask embarrassing questions.  How
did you meet Jeannie?  Did you arrest her, perhaps, for walking on
the wrong side of a horse?"

"Do not be impertinent, barnacle.  I supervised her Capping.  I was
first in my class, at the exams."

"Well done, my friend.  People say Le Bac is very difficult,
especially for those with straw between their ears.  Did you find it
so?"

"Do not tell me you wish to study for the Guard?"

Beanpole smiles, sadly.  "No.  A friend of mine took the uniform, in
Calais.  I helped him learn, before the Cap, and after.  He too was
first in his class.  He would have supervised my Capping, if I... if
I had not been ill."

"Was this the first illness, or the second?"

"Both.  Does it matter?"

"Perhaps not.  And you studied the law, yourself?  And comprehend
it?"

And there's only the slightest pause, before Beanpole says "Yes."

"I see.  And how does he treat you, now?"

It is a professional question, as much as anything.  Daniel has seen
boys like Deliet, beaten by former friends.  It is a risk one takes,
if one is not Capped at the proper time, and cannot, or will not,
observe the proprieties.

"As the law demands.  I have not seen him for some time.  I am busy,
travelling."

"And how will he regard your return for the ceremony?"

"Oh, I am sure he would be very pleased for me."

"It will be a happy day.  Tell me, do you think about it, about what
it will be like?  To be free of these ...compulsions, at last?"

Beanpole looks down, his face unreadable, hidden behind his hair.

"Oh, but you must not be distressed.  Truly, you will be.  I have
seen this.  Perhaps you have not been told?"

"Yes."  Beanpole's tone is sharp.  "My friend... it was so with
him."

"He was like you?  And in the Guard?"  Daniel whistles.  "What good
fortune.  He must have studied very well.   Were you very worried,
when he took the Cap?"

"No.  All went very much as I expected."

He cannot keep the bitterness from his voice.

Daniel squeezes his shoulder, gently.  "It must seem very unfair,
that he is free of this, and you are not.  It is not well done, to
separate friends in this way."

"No, it is not well done.  I miss him."

"Then the sooner you are home, and Capped, the better," says Daniel,
kindly.  "When you are well-"

"I am not ill,"  says Beanpole, quietly.

"The law states-"

"The law is an idiot, Daniel.  I know this is not the correct
opinion, but..."  He shrugs.  "I do not care."

"You have an unquiet mind.  Do you not wish to be happy?"

"I am happy now."

"But  when you are calm, and a useful citizen..."

"I am useful now, also."

Daniel laughs.  "A sea boy in the mountains?  This is not useful,
Jean-Paul.  You have a trade, and a place.  Think of your family.
What was your father?"

"I do not remember him."

"But others must, and keep a place for his son.  What are you,
here?"

"Travelling.  Working.  Helping Madame with the harvest.  If I was
Capped, she would have no help."

"And you would be with your close friend, and happy.  You defeat
yourself by protesting."

"On that, we must disagree.  Madame was also a sea child.  Do you
say she has no purpose here?"

Daniel smiles broadly.  "She is a woman.  She could cook, or clean,
anywhere.  The matter does not arise."

"Of course... I was forgetting.  But me, I was raised by innkeepers.
Could I not build a tavern?  In Dole, or Dijon, or even in your
little Chaumergy?  Would that be useful?"

"Of course, if you were Capped here, and chose to stay."

"I should welcome it as much here as anywhere."

"Would you do this, truly?  Be Capped here?"  and Daniel's voice
takes on a strange intensity.

"Certainly not.  Lucy would never forgive me for cutting off my
hair."  And Beanpole laughs, choosing not to see the disappointment
that flickers across Daniel's face.

"It is no joking matter.  If your home means nothing to you, at
least here you would be among friends.  And...  There is no easy way
to say this, Jean-Paul.  With your ...deficiencies, that could be
important."

"That makes very little difference to me."  Beanpole straightens up,
hugs himself tightly.  "I grow cold.  Let us go back."

And Daniel stands, and offers him his cloak; drapes it gently around
his shoulders and speaks with great compassion.

"You are in error, Jean-Paul.  Grave error, and you endanger
yourself."

"And you, my friend, are looking at the apple."

"I say this as one who has your best interests at heart."

Beanpole stands, pulling Daniel's cloak around him.  "I believe you
do."

"Then answer me honestly.  Do you wish to be Capped?  Yes or no.  In
French.  The truth."

"No."

"What frightens you?  That the Cap would not work?"

"Perhaps that it would."

"Tell me you are joking, please.  That you do not believe this.  For
your own sake."  And there is something in his tone that makes
Beanpole look thoughtfully at him, but they are friends, after all.
And Beanpole has sworn many things since leaving Calais, and more
since the Château;  has made himself stark and painful promises, and
will not renege.

"I cannot, Daniel.  It is what I believe.  Will you arrest me for
this?"

"I may have to, my friend."

"Then I have nothing to lose."

And Beanpole leans forward and kisses him, quickly, unexpectedly.

"There, it is done.  Do what you must."

And to Beanpole's shock, Daniel does not hit him, or step away, and
his face displays only indecision; so Jean-Paul kisses him again, to
help make up his mind.


=== * ===


In Daniel's pocket, not far from Beanpole's tentatively caressing
hand, is a parchment signed by the Guard Captain and witnessed by
the conseil des anciens of Dole.  A short document, and to the
point; authorising one Daniel Montagnon, officier de cette
arrondissement, to take whatever measures he deems necessary in
the investigation of the suspected subversif Jean-Paul Deliet,
minor of Calais.

Daniel must use his judgement, the Captain had said, sealing and
stamping the order.  Deliet's companions, from what he says, are
quite probably innocents.  Seduced, perhaps; the elder Parker
certainly, the younger... well, it is difficult, as he makes
acceptable use of the Deliet boy's perversions, and one must assume
his actions are actions of honour.  He is of good background,
demonstrably stable, and would be a valuable addition to the
vineyard when Capped.  Daniel must encourage his association with
the family.

Of course, Deliet may be innocent also.  To be ill in this way is no
crime, and nor is to travel.  And to come late to the Cap when one's
friends and family enjoy its blessings is surely punishment enough.
Not wanting to be cured proves nothing, according to the Captain,
who speaks with the benefit of many, many years in his profession.
It is unreliable as evidence.  Those who are ill may not know they
are, and may not have the wit to wish for change.  This may be
intransigence, or it may be symptomatic of the illness itself.  One
cannot tell, until the Cap.

The suspect's behaviour is the key, particularly in the case of
sous-adultes.  Deliet may importune Daniel, and be open about
his lovers.  If he does, then he is most likely ill, of innocent
purpose, and may be treated as a minor.  Daniel must do as the
situation demands.   But if Deliet lies when his behaviour attracts
no charge, then there must be criminal purpose.  If Daniel is right
and Jean-Paul hides his trysts with Henry Parker, this is enough to
warrant further investigation.  For Henry himself can have no reason
to hide; why would he, when his cousin does not?

Guardsmen are rigidly fair and honest.  Entrapment is no more
possible than preferential treatment.  It would not occur to Daniel
to initiate intimacy for deceptive purposes; and it does not occur
to the Captain to forbid it.  But Daniel's Cap will permit certain
responses for the purpose of verification.

To bestow a kiss is an act of provocation, and is prevented.  To
accept one, however, may be required, in the interests of the
investigation, which is to say in the interests of the suspect.
After all, there are regulations governing these occasions; it is
perfectly correct, and when Daniel's cock rises at the touch of
Beanpole's hand, at the collision of their tongues, it causes him no
alarm.

Actual intimacy is not required by the court, and must be
discouraged, unless it would attract suspicion to do so.  A kiss is
enough for evidentiary purposes, and may be taken in isolation as
indicative of sexual intent.   A Guardsman cannot lie, after all.
But, and the Captain has stressed this particularly, the decision is
subjective.  It must be, because each situation is different; and
the appropriateness and form of any response will change.  One must
be fair to the suspect.

And the fact that Jean-Paul kneels before him should be enough, for
a court, but Daniel finds himself believing that it would in fact
attract suspicion to stop; and believing it more once Jean-Paul's
hands are on him, once he has slid dry into Jean-Paul's mouth, and
emerged wet.

An innocent would importune a Guard; he would not be able to help
it.  A subversive would not; he would not risk the attention.  Would
not offer himself, here, where anyone could see.

There are many things a subversive would not do, and more come to
mind every moment. Surely he owes it to Jean-Paul to allow him to
prove himself redeemable.

And Daniel is pleased, so very pleased, to find his friend innocent;
although it is some time before he can think it with any coherence.


=== * ===


Daniel leaves quickly, dishevelled and pleasured, and having shaken
Jean-Paul's hand in fervent friendship.   It does not occur to him
to wonder what their next meeting will hold.  There will be
regulations to guide his behaviour.

He rides all afternoon to present his findings, to complete the
paperwork and close the file; only to be met excitedly with new
intelligence.  The Captain has received reports of an English boy,
taken while travelling many miles away and followed to Le Jura, with
his cousin and his lover; verified subversives with plans against
the City of Gold, and - he whispers, to avoid alarming the younger
recruits - the possibility of organised contacts in the mountains.

Daniel's instincts are remarkable, says the Captain, shaking his
hand vigorously.  Truly, he was born to be a Guard!  To have
suspected this Deliet, from the first; magnificent work.  He and his
friends are clearly expert in deception.

But what to do?  Papers must be issued, he says, and at once.   And
Daniel must follow them, when they move on, and discover their
headquarters.  Imagine, my boy, he says: a chance to take such
criminals in our jurisdiction!  These things happen once a lifetime,
if one is lucky.

And Daniel must concede their tremendous good fortune, and
celebrates at dinner with the Captain and his wife while the papers
are prepared.


=== * ===


Beanpole, returning to the house with a quiet, melancholy smile,
says nothing to either Will or Henry; is a little hyperactive for
the rest of the day, perhaps, but that is understandable.   Even
Madame Vichot is a little worried by Daniel's sudden insistence on
formality.  It is strange he has not broached the topic before.

She is aware of the boys' intentions, up to a point; they confided
in her after the revelation of her room of treasures.  Her Vagrant
love for the works of Man convinced even Henry, at last, that she
could be trusted; while to Will and Beanpole she has spoken,
privately, many times of love and freedom, of sadness and loss, and
other things the Capped no longer understand.   She is no puppet of
the Tripods.  She understands their fight, and asks them to
understand hers.  That she has chosen to stay where she is, and live
as she does; to love her man despite his Cap, and give her daughters
as required, for their sakes.  Her choices are hers and hers alone,
and she is sensible of the great gift she has received in being able
to make them.

She has asked no detailed questions; kept their secrets even from
her girls.  And now, she says, you see why.  Daniel is no problem;
she can tell him anything, and be believed.  But his superiors are
another matter.  Papers or no papers, they must go as soon as
possible.

But after harvest, she says; there is only one more day, and I would
not see you go without the proper thanks.  We could not have managed
nearly so well in your absence.  An evening of celebration is in
order, and is organised; music and dancing, and even Will is well
enough by now to sweep Shelagh off her feet as Madame requires.
Although he spends most of the evening, and most of the day before,
with little Lucy; she knows without knowing, as children do, that he
is to leave, and is inconsolable.

Daniel, punctual as ever, brings their papers and stays for the
feast.  And he is friendliness itself; praises Beanpole and Helen on
their repair of Madame's strange musical box, dances with Jeannie,
and argues with Jean-Paul as he always has, although he seems a
little reserved.

Beanpole expects and ignores it, and the slight coolness between
them dissipates very rapidly in wine and good humour.  They talk and
joke as always; it may as well never have happened.

He has thought well on what he has done.  The situation is
exhilarating; he has fantasised for many years about Guardsmen, one
way or another, having a weakness for the uniformed and the
authoritative.  For Marc to become one and be lost to him was a
cruel joke indeed.  But he cannot regret his actions.  In one way he
has had his revenge on Fate; in another, it has revenged itself on
him.  In either case, he has harmed no-one, and enjoyed himself
tremendously in the winning.

He is relieved that there is no ill-feeling, and farewells Daniel
with genuine regret and friendship.  He should not have liked to
have parted on bad terms.


=== coda  ===


France, October 2089 AD


"Pardonne, Daniel.  Mais c'est très nécessaire..."

What upsets Jean-Paul most, and Henry too, is the way that Daniel's
eyes fail to blaze with anger or resentment, as he looks up at them
over the gag; he is distressed at his captivity, but more at what
becoming fugitives will mean for his friends.

For the prisoners, whatever else they are, whatever else they have
done, are his friends.  He only wants the best for them.  He has
said so all along; he says so now, although they cannot make out his
words through Abrivert's chequered handkerchief.

For Jean-Paul, whose long arms held him through the bars, and who
apologises, muttering strange words of steam as he ties him to the
cage; for Will, who used Henry's belt to choke him, and whose
desperately brittle laughter while setting free the horse sends
shivers up his spine; and for Henry, who stole the Black Maria's
keys and stands to one side, ashamed.  His words are
incomprehensible, but Daniel hears "Jeannie" and "friend" once or
twice.

It does not surprise Daniel.  No farm boy would leave another out
here in the cold, without his hands or voice.  Locking the Maria
would be sufficient.  To bind and gag him as well is barbarous and
humiliating.

"It's him or us," Will had said; and although Daniel hadn't
understood the words, he'd understood the coldness in his eyes.  He
wonders how he could ever have been so blind as to think that Parker
was harmless, a misled child; there is steel in him and something
that enjoys this brutishness.  The danger, and the violence; the
fear and the need to fight.

He is truly, thoroughly uncivilised, and makes Daniel afraid.

But Will stays away from him, watching after the horse and sorting
out the bags; and Jean-Paul brushes Daniel's hair from his forehead,
gently; traces the outline of his Cap with a warm finger, and
crouches beside him to explain.

He's in no real danger here; the road above the quarry in which they
are leaving the Maria is well-used, and Jean-Paul is sure that there
are markets in the district tomorrow.  At most Daniel has only one
night in the cold to face, and that not unprotected.  Henry has
taken blankets from the iron strongbox on the front of the wagon,
and Jean-Paul has draped them around his shoulders, gently.

He may even be found before nightfall, if he is lucky.  The quarry
is sheltered, and there are little piles of charcoal here and there
which testify to the regular presence of campers.  If he is, and
released, he must not follow, on his own.  Suspected subversives are
one thing; escapees another.  The law forbids it, for his own
protection.

And Jean-Paul whispers appréciez ta pomme, pulls down the gag
and kisses him goodbye, gently, replacing it before Daniel can
protest.  He locks the Maria and hurls the keys into the sun, not
watching where they fall; walks away with a straight back and his
protector by his side.  And Henry, poor Henry, a child among men,
follows miserably, trying so very, very hard not to look back.

And Daniel sits in the straw and watches him go, so very, very
saddened that he cannot save them.


=== © arjuna 2003 ===