Chapter Text
Captain Henry Tudor, distinguished officer of the Royal Navy, sat across from Captain Gloucester holding a snuff box of his own. His blue frock coat and bright epaulettes contrasted markedly against the dimness of the room. His linen shirt was immaculate and his cravat, elaborately knotted. New gold, new blood. Those were strange times, Richard reckoned with a hint of displeasure, strange times indeed. Some decades ago, none would dare to think that he, the youngest son of a duke, would share the same officer rank as a man dispossessed of the virtue of birth.
Captain Gloucester was a well-off gentleman, and had made his entire military career in His Majesty’s Naval Service. All of his life, he had had comrade-in-arms who wore their estates upon their backs as a badge of honour. Yet, as much as it would please Richard to think of his fellow naval officer as some jumped-up son of the gentry, he knew, most begrudgingly so, that Henry Tudor had risen far and high according to his own merits and expertise; a man that had, as they said, ‘made himself a name in the war’.
That particular night they were staying at the reputable Hotel of B–. Waiting for the closure of the evening, all but a few ragged officers had already retired to their own lodgings, be it for the lateness of the hour or the strength of the brandy shared during supper. The few men still standing devoted their attention to the game going on at the billiard table. Henry Tudor, it seemed, was the sole soul who still followed through Richard’s train of thought.
“I daresay,” he concluded in his most imperial voice, “That this most pitiful attempt at peace with the French will be the downfall of Britain. Do mark my words, gentlemen.”
“Well, I daresay, Captain Gloucester,” Tudor replied, his voice carrying its usual trace of mockery, the subtlest of hints, but enough to make Richard grit his teeth. “That this talk of peace has done much more for Britain than any childish squabble so far.”
“Childish squabble? Good grief, Captain! What of Lord Nelson’s sacrifice? Has it been for naught? Give me some good twenty ships, I say, and as Lord Nelson himself at Trafalgar, I shall wound the French so deeply Hanover will be restored to our good King George.”
“Some twenty ships, you say, but where would you find the numbers to man them?”
“Why, my own men could do the work! And naturally, whomever else the Admiralty chose to grant me. Loyal men to King and Country, that is all I need.”
Richard breathed in, pride swelling his chest, and thought of his own valiant ship, the HMS Loyalty. Tudor was having none of it.
“To entertain such ideas in times of peace is a strange notion, Captain. A man would be a fool to leave wife and children to go to war again, and if he says otherwise he is no more than a liar. Nay, Captain Gloucester.” There again, the subtle trace of a mocking smile. “Men are not moved by the love of a country, but rather, a generous sum of money.”
Richard’s infamous short temper got the better of him. “Perhaps your men, Captain Tudor! I trust mine to be honourable.”
Henry Tudor only blinked. “If you asked for my frank opinion, and an honest opinion it is from friend to friend, I would say you trust your men too much. Far too much I should add.”
“You call me delusional, Captain? For trusting them to do their civic duty?”
“Those are your own words, Captain. Not mine.” His eyes twitched with something akin to malice. “Were they mine, I would certainly phrase them differently. One does despise being caught red-handed.”
Richard silently fumed. His nostrils flared as he watched Captain Tudor nonchalantly open and close his silver box to take a snuff as if their conversation had not disturbed him in the least. Henry Tudor looked tranquil and well-rested, even amused. Richard suspected that was not his own case, a suspicion that was only confirmed as Captain Tudor glanced in his direction once again and grinned.
“Why, Captain Gloucester, I do believe I have angered you. You have the most peculiar expression on your face. Most peculiar, indeed!”
Richard’s humour was dark, devoid of any good cheer. “Does my countenance amuse you?”
Henry Tudor leaned in, propping himself up on one elbow. “I must confess, Captain, that you have the most peculiar countenance I have ever seen.” His eyes scanned his face, unabashedly. “Something about the way you move your brows, I think. A man does not easily forget a face like yours, no. Do trust me, Gloucester, for I have seen much and learnt a great deal in my time in France. I was certainly not idle there.”
And he says so with such pride. “Tread carefully, Captain. To hear you talk, one could think you sympathise too much with the French.”
“Ha! I dare anyone to say so.” His face turned mischievous. “Though I must admit to having taken a certain… fancy… for the Corsican Fiend. To be called the nightmare of Europe is no small feat, I presume.”
Richard found himself in such a state of apoplexy he could not utter a word, but Henry Tudor only laughed at his inability. “Have I done enough to be accused now, Captain? Or should I furnish you with other such treasonous thoughts? Should I say Vive l’Empereur, Vive Bonaparte, to make it easier for you to charge me?”
“Gracious heavens, Captain! You jest! I had half a mind to call you a traitor, yes.”
Captain Tudor delighted in his triumph. “I jest, yes. You see, I would loathe for us to part on bad terms.” Again, the barest hint of a smile played on his lips. “I know what a formidable foe you can be. A cruel one too, if what they say is true.”
He scanned his face again, searching for something. “But not to worry, Captain. I tend not to heed evil words.” His voice dropped. “We are all sinners in the eyes of God, are we not?”
Their eyes met, clashed and subsided. “You say the most disparaging, wicked things with such a serious face, Tudor. I never know when you are joking.”
“Perhaps that is one trait we have in common, Gloucester. You are often times too serious. We should remedy that fault together someday.” Captain Tudor got up from the table, buttoning up his coat. “À demain, my friend.” And with a small nod, he took the stairs to his room.
I am not your friend, Richard wanted to tell him, but he only stared after him. In his mind, he saw Tudor’s triumphant smile again and again. He would like to erase it from his face, he would like to do something cruel to that smiling mouth. Many people called him vicious, half his men were afraid of him. Let them be; Richard would give them all a reason to call him ungodly. He could show Captain Tudor what foul deeds cruel hands and cruel lips commit after dark.