Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

August of the year 1138 in England was stiflingly hot, the sort of thick, oppressive heat that felt as though a storm were perpetually looming just at the horizon. It put Erik in mind of his years spent in the Holy Land, the sun baking into his skin and searing armor and weaponry until every sword burned like the wrong end of a poker. That had been a dry heat, though, rasping at the lungs; summer here was heavy and damp.

But the acrid smoke and stink of blood hanging over the besieged town of Shrewsbury recalled the Crusades all too well.

"They say the king will put an end to the siege at first light," Brother Henry said, stirring some sharp-smelling ointment over the little brazier in his workshop in the abbey herbarium. Even with that small flame he had going, it was still cooler here in the shade among the herbs than without. "God willing, it will come to a quick end, one way or the other."

Erik leaned back against the bench with a smirk. "That's somewhat bloody-minded for a monk, isn't it?"

"Pragmatic, rather," Henry retorted. The young monk had become accustomed to Erik's sardonic sense of humor these past few years. "If there must be killing, better make a clean end of it so that we can start to heal and rebuild." He gave his concoction a sniff, considered, then plucked a few leaves of yarrow and stirred them in. "What's certain is they'll have need of my medicines by nightfall tomorrow, so I'd best make proper shift of it. King's men or Empress's, they all bleed the same red."

"And you have no opinions as to their cause? You are an Englishman yourself, after all, even cloistered away in here."

Henry shook his head in distaste. "I can hardly think well of any nobleman who would willingly rip their own lands apart just for the sake of a crown. What will it gain either of them in the end? But then, I suppose I wouldn't know, innocent as I am of such worldly matters." He rolled his eyes as he said it. Though Henry had been brought to the church as a child oblate, and grown to manhood within this abbey, he had an abundance of both intelligence and curiosity, and could hardly be called ignorant of the wider world. But he was ultimately far more interested in his plants and potions than in politics.

"Anyway," Henry went on, "you were the soldier, once. I can scarce believe you don't have your own sympathies." He leaned back on his haunches and looked up at Erik over his brazier. "The Empress is also one of God's Gifted, after all."

As were both Henry and Erik, the original source of their unexpected friendship. Those born or grown into unusual and diverse talents, impossible to quantify by any normal human standard. Gifted by God, said the Church, and so they were known here in Christendom; the Jews called them mevurachim, and the Arabs had their own name for them as well. But Gifted was a good enough term for Erik. Some of these Gifts were outwardly physical in nature, like Henry's strange and flexible feet; others, like Erik's affinity for metal, manifested in more subtle ways. For the most part, they were considered blessings, minor miracles.

But those without Gifts were often inclined to fear them, all the same. When the old king had died, three years earlier, he had left his daughter Emma as his only heir. The peerage of England thought it bad enough to have a woman rule; but such a strange woman as the Empress Emma?

Some took her Gifts as a sign from God that she was, in truth, the rightful Queen of England. And indeed her ability to change her body into glittering diamond seemed fittingly regal. But she also had the ability to whisper directly into men's minds, to read their thoughts as though they were nothing more than lines on vellum. That sort of Gift would make anyone nervous. So when the old king died, his un-Gifted nephew had seen an opportunity and taken it, swiftly and decisively. With the support of half the noble houses of England and the Church's blessing, he had marched upon Westminster and been anointed King Anthony Stark of England while the self-styled Empress Emma was still far across the sea in her husband's lands in Normandy. To his credit, King Anthony was said to be both intelligent and chivalrous, with a temper that flared hot but just as quickly burned back out into good humor. Perhaps he might even have been a good ruler, were he given the chance. But the Empress was not one to go down without a fight: her claim on the throne was clearly valid, and she still had a strong base of support in the north and west of the country.

And so the civil war dragged on, and had finally reached this particular corner of Shropshire.

Shrewsbury castle held for the Empress, and had survived a month now under siege from the King himself. But every battle has its breaking point, and Shrewsbury's fate would soon be decided, one way or the other.

Erik closed his eyes against Brother Henry's curious gaze, and breathed in the thick, pleasant scents of the herbs and ointments. It was quiet here, within the abbey walls. He'd come to appreciate the slower pace of peace. He should have known it couldn't last. "I hold for neither King nor Empress," he said. "I wish them both well away from here. They can rule or they can rot, it makes no difference to me. So long as they have done with this fratricidal folly and leave us in peace."

"I don't know that peace is an option," Henry remarked with a sigh. "Not for some time yet."

Erik grunted in agreement and opened his eyes again, looking out the open door to the gardens beyond this little hut. "At least you've got your work to occupy your time. With the town under siege and the King's army swarming about the place, I've little and less to do with each passing day."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Really? With your touch with metal, I'd have thought that soldiers from both camps would be breaking down your door with weapons needing mending."

"They've got their own armorers for that, and the town has its own blacksmith. No reason they should come my way." Erik had once made his living crafting swords and pikes himself, back in Syria, but he rarely worked with weapons these days. He preferred finer craftsmanship, with any form of metal -- iron and steel, yes, but also bronze or silver, and even some very occasional work with gold. He kept his shop and home in the Foregate leading up to the town, as one of the abbey's tenants, and did a respectable business with both the Church and the townspeople. "Strangely enough, few come looking for decorative metalwork in the middle of a siege."

"Perhaps not," Henry said. "That explains why you're here pestering me instead, I suppose. You know, if you're bored, I could use an extra hand in the gardens today. They say idle hands make for the Devil's work."

Erik chuckled. "Subtle, Henry. Haven't they given you a new assistant yet? It's been months since your last lad hared off. Wasn't he still a novice?"

"Yes, and thought better of taking his vows, so now he's off fighting for the King down in the south somewhere," Henry grumbled. "And I'd just got him broken in properly, too. The Prior did give me a new boy to help with the summer harvest -- just this week, in fact. But he's too young and slight for the heavier digging." Henry was still a young man himself at twenty-three, but the Abbot had seen his value from the start, and placed him here in the herbarium where he could tinker and brew up medicines to his heart's content. "There, you can see him out by the cabbages."

Erik peered out, and sure enough, a lad of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years was indeed doing his best to shovel compost into the cabbage crop. He had sandy brown hair that curled at his temples, and working in the sun had burned a pink gloss into his fair skin. "He does look young for a novice."

"Oh, he's no novice, or at least not yet. He was orphaned, so his aunt brought him in to be trained as a lay servant, a year's endowment with him. He goes to school with the other boys, and I suppose he might yet decide to take vows himself, if the life suits him, but there's years yet before he needs to make that choice. But he doesn't mind working hard, and God knows I can use any help I can get right now."

Erik gave Henry a sidelong glance. "You could do the heaviest work yourself, if you wanted to spare him." He didn't look it, skinny as he was, but Henry's Gift granted him strength far surpassing that of ordinary men.

"I meant to," Henry admitted, glancing around his workshop with a frown. "But I've other work to attend to that takes precedence. Any man can dig and harvest, if shown how, but it takes a deal more time and study to tend to my herbs and medicines. The boy's a quick learner, but it's far too early for him to manage those."

"And I'm little help to you there, either. But I suppose I can manage a bit of gardening." Erik got to his feet with a sigh, but really, he'd never been inclined toward idleness. And he didn't mind working under the sun. "I can even teach him how to handle a sickle, if it comes to that."

Henry covered his relief poorly. "If you're sure you don't mind…?"

"Not at all. What's most urgent, after the cabbages?"

Brother Henry directed him toward the pease field, which sloped down toward the brook, and supplied Erik with the necessary tools. Some short time later, after Erik had gotten into the flow of the harvest, Henry reappeared again with his young assistant in tow.

"Erik, this is Bobby Drake, consider him your apprentice for the afternoon. And Bobby, this is Erik Lehnsherr. He's been kind enough to agree to help us today, and he's a metalworker normally, so he knows his way around a sickle. He'll show you how it's done. I'll come and fetch you when it's time to clean up for Vespers."

And he was off again just as abruptly. Young Bobby stared after him for a moment, nonplussed.

"You'll get used to it," Erik told him. "Brother Henry is far better with plants than with people."

"So I'm learning," Bobby said. "But he's kind enough, in his way." The boy turned his ice-blue eyes on Erik instead, studying him with interest. "You're not a monk."

"Hardly," Erik agreed drily. He wasn't even a Christian, but that explanation could wait for another time, if ever. "But I am a tenant of the abbey, and have a friend or two among the brothers. Henry is one such. So here we are." He handed Bobby the spare sickle. "Have you used one of these before?"

Bobby blinked at him, then at the tool in his hand. He took it cautiously. "No, but I've seen them used. I can learn."

And so he did, and quickly, too, with a lithe strength despite his youth. But it was clear that he'd never worked a field before. A town lad, perhaps. That might explain why his aunt had packed him off to the abbey, for safety in this time of civil strife. Particularly if any of his kin had partisan leanings. Erik noticed that Bobby's gaze often flickered up across the abbey's grounds and roofs, toward Shrewsbury's battered castle towers. Small wonder that it should. The smoke hung like a pall over the whole shire.

Though Erik was content to keep his own counsel, Bobby was clearly cut from a different cloth. Once he'd got the hang of the sickle, and had worked for some minutes in silence, he began trying to prod Erik into conversation. "Have you any kin in the town, Master Lehnsherr?"

"Just Erik is fine. And no."

Bobby waited some moments, as though expecting further response, and Erik sighed. Well, the lad was still trying to get a sense of his new situation. Erik supposed it couldn't hurt to indulge him.

"I'm not English by birth," he said, relenting. "I came here about four years ago."

Bobby grinned, happy to have provoked a reply. "I thought not! Your name sounds foreign, and I can't place your accent. Where are you from?"

The boy couldn't know the unpleasant memories stirred by his simple question, so Erik kept his tone brisk and dismissive. "I was born in Cologne, but I lived many years in the East."

"In the East -- in the Holy Land?" The boy's eyes lit up. "Were you a Crusader?"

"No," Erik said shortly, focusing on the smooth heft of his sickle as it cut through the stalks of pease. Metal was strong and impartial. It knew of no earthly concerns. "I was too young."

If it hardly scratched the surface of the full tale, at least it was not a lie. And it seemed to resonate with Bobby, who nodded thoughtfully. "I know what it's like to be thought too young to fight."

Perhaps another man might have laughed, but Erik's own childhood had been stripped from him far too young. He would not wish it on any other. "Whoever told you so was right. Let the men grown do the fighting, boy. You'll have your turn at it all too soon."

Bobby scowled at that, hacking haphazardly with his own sickle. "Not soon enough! They say the castle can't hold much longer -- that it might even fall tomorrow."

"If not tomorrow, then not long after," Erik agreed. "I've seen enough sieges in my time to know the signs. It's admirable enough that they lasted so long, but it's been too long without respite, reinforcements, or any hope of rescue, and the people of the town begin to grow fractious. If the king throws all his strength at them in one bloody thrust, they cannot hold."

"But it isn't fair!" Bobby burst out, his eyes flashing fire for a moment. "They're only upholding their sworn oaths to the Empress! The old king named Emma his heir and had all his barons swear fealty. She was his only living child, she should be queen! And yet when Count Stark seized the throne and had himself crowned, half of them forgot their oaths and went trotting off like dogs to their new master. Where is the honor or justice in that? To betray their rightful monarch just because she's a woman -- and Gifted."

The bitterness in that one final word was telling. Erik slowly lowered his sickle while he studied the boy anew, more intently than before. To all appearances, Bobby was an ordinary English boy, likely of mixed Saxon and Norman blood like many in these parts -- and perhaps some Welsh as well, this close to the border. He was beginning to grow coltish as boys do in their teenage years, hinting that he might be a middling tall man one day; his voice was still high and pure, not yet cracking even when he spoke in passionate anger. Thirteen at most, Erik judged. About the age that many of the Gifted first show signs of it.

"People are always inclined to fear that which they do not understand," Erik said with deliberation. "And the Empress is a distant figurehead. Even were she more beloved, her champion here in Shrewsbury is not. Lord Marko has not been a popular sheriff in this shire. Many of the townsfolk would see King Anthony as a liberator, should his army win the day, disregarding any higher allegiances."

The sheriff was the primary secular authority in the town, upholding the law and maintaining order within the whole of the shire. For a borderland like Shropshire, that also could mean defending against any incursions from the Welsh. Lord Cain Marko ruled the garrison with an iron fist and uncommon brutality, and was far more concerned with protecting the rights and property of his particular friends among the nobility than with the common folk. Few would miss the man if he fell in battle tomorrow. From the face Bobby was now pulling, he agreed with that much, at least.

"And you should be wary of speaking so freely before a stranger, even outside of the town," Erik continued, not unkindly. "The abbey gates are open to all, and all manner of men pass through them. In times such as these, some try to buy favor by carrying tales. Best keep your thoughts safe in your own head -- although, in fairness," he added with the barest hint of a smile, thinking of the Empress's particular Gifts, "I suppose they may not be safe even there."

Bobby stared at him a moment, eyes wide. "I didn't think -- the monks are all -- but you're no soldier, are you?"

Erik sighed. There was no mistaking the boy's youth and relative innocence now. "Not anymore. And I take no sides in this fight. Bobby, you have nothing to fear from me, or from Brother Henry." With a gesture, he tugged at the iron of Bobby's sickle and gently pulled it out of the startled boy's hands, letting it hover lightly in the air between them.

"Oh," Bobby breathed. "You...you're one of the Gifted, aren't you?" His face was far too open -- it was easy to watch him put the pieces together. "And Brother Henry as well? I couldn't help but notice his feet, but I wasn't sure…"

"His feet, yes." Hard to miss them, since Henry had long since given up on the usual monastic sandals and simply went about barefoot whenever the weather permitted. "And he's far stronger than a normal man, though that isn't so obvious to the eye. He was given to the abbey when he was scarcely more than a babe, likely by parents who were all too relieved to be rid of him. Luckily for him, the Benedictines are a tolerant sort, since Saint Benedict himself was said to be Gifted."

"So I've been told," Bobby said, still gaping at the floating sickle. "It was part of why -- why my aunt sent me here." His eyes darkened somewhat. "To keep me safe."

"As safe as any, in such troubled times," Erik said quietly. "Don't curse it too strongly. You've been given a chance to reflect, and to do some growing up of your own. Use it while you can. And in the meantime," he added, more briskly, "Henry won't thank me if we leave his field only halfway harvested." He waved a hand, and the sickle dropped into the grass at Bobby's feet, blade pointed carefully away where it would do him no harm.

He didn't ask the boy if he himself was indeed Gifted. Let the lad open up in his own time. There were others of their kind here at the abbey who would be better at guiding him than Erik, anyway, especially if he had only recently come into his Gift. Erik thought perhaps he might drop a word in Brother Armando's ear before returning to his own home for the night.

But first, pease.

The king's siege camp sprawled across the entire land approach to Shrewsbury Castle Foregate. That late afternoon, as Erik and Bobby were finishing up their harvest in the abbey fields, a lady approached the main guard at the entrance to the camp, flanked by her own men. When she told the guards that she was here to offer up her family's fealty and services to the king, one immediately took off in search of some higher personage. It could not have been unusual, these past weeks, for various minor local lords to come pledging their troth; but lords, surely, most of them were. Far fewer ladies. She held herself with quiet dignity, as befitted her rank, and kept her chin tilted high, clearly the equal of any man in this company.

The guard returned with another soldier -- an officer, as evident both in the fineness of his dress and the confident authority he wore like a cloak. His dark eyes studied her with approval; though she was past the first bloom of youth, her beauty had matured into a handsome elegance. She did not blush, but matched his frank appreciation with her own. He cut a fine figure of a man.

"Captain Remy LeBeau, at your service," he said, bowing over her hand. "And a pleasure indeed it would be to serve you, my lady. You seek audience with the king?"

"Yes," she said coolly. "My name is Moira MacTaggert. My father, whom we buried just two months past, was always King Anthony's man. I come to offer the fealty of my house in his place."

Remy's eyes softened in sympathy. "Madam, I grieve to hear of your loss. May his memory be a blessing to you. Of course I will bring you to the king." He glanced at her small but sturdy entourage. "Your men shall be made comfortable here while they wait."

Moira agreed, having expected no less, and took Remy's proffered arm to be escorted through the camp toward the king's pavilion.

"Where do your family's lands lie?" Remy asked, perhaps to distract her from the stares of the soldiers as they passed. It was unnecessary; she paid them no heed.

"In the northeastern part of the shire, near to the border with Staffordshire," she replied. "We have been on the road since early this morning, and came directly here upon our arrival. I confess I have hardly even taken thought to my own lodgings for the night! I have not been to Shrewsbury myself since I was a child, though my father made the trip often before he took ill."

Remy gave her a smile, quick to divert her from the renewed press of grief. "Well, we can't have that! I will make sure that the king sees you quickly, so that you will still be able to make provisions for your party before nightfall. Have you friends nearby?"

Moira sighed and shook her head. "None so close, unfortunately. But I hoped to stay at the abbey guest house -- the Benedictines are always kind to travelers in need. I believe it is not too far from here. Has it been spared the fighting?"

"Just across the river, and quite safe," Remy assured her. "I can arrange a boat to carry you once your business here is concluded. You will find no better lodgings than there. Why, I'm sure you'll even get there in time for the evening service, should you wish to attend."

"Yes," Moira said seriously. "There is much to pray for tonight."

Remy left her just outside the king's tent, promising that he would return shortly. It seemed that Moira was not the only petitioner this afternoon. Another man waited there, likely another local lord. He appeared about her own age, which was close to thirty, lightly built and boyishly handsome, with bright blue eyes that were alight with intelligence. He gave her a pleasant smile, then exchanged a nod with Remy as he passed.

"I have not forgotten you, either!" Remy told him with a grin. With one last lingering look back at Moira, he vanished inside.

Inside the tent, King Anthony was conferring with his chief advisors: Obadiah Stane, who led his army, and James Rhodes, the captain of the Flemish mercenaries hired to help Anthony secure his crown.

"You must set an example here," Stane was saying, as Remy returned to his post with a quick bow. Stane had long been a friend to the Stark family, and had proven a ruthless and effective general in wartime. "I know it's in your nature to forgive, and to favor penitents with generosity, but you cannot afford to be so chivalrous tomorrow. The barons in the north have no respect for mercy, only strength. It's time to strike terror."

Anthony poured himself a fresh flagon of wine and gave Stane a sardonic smile. "I might actually need to take the castle first. Hard to strike terror from a position of retreat. Although, if anyone could, Obadiah--"

"Your Grace may have your jest, of course," Stane said drily. "But the point stands."

Anthony waved a flippant hand. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not in a forgiving mood. Four weeks we've been stuck here, enduring taunts from the castle walls, while the Earl of Chester consolidates power in the north and the Welsh princes nip at our borders. I mean to have done with it."

"Let the soldiers taunt us; we have bigger fish to fry, and they'll not have breath enough for insults come dawn," Rhodes remarked, unflappable as always. Despite or perhaps due to being a soldier for hire, he tended to be the voice of moderation. "It's Marko and Holme that we need to make examples of, not the commons of the garrison."

And in fairness, left to his own devices, the king would have been happy enough to take his revenge solely on those two leaders of the resistance -- Cain Marko as its liege lord, who had declared and held this castle for the Empress; and the strongest of Marko's vassal lords, Dirk Holme, who had brought with him the majority of the castle garrison. So just those two men, in a nice big public execution, and Anthony would be perfectly content to conclude his business with Shrewsbury.

"Your Grace may do as you will," Stane said, with a dark glance toward Rhodes, "but I would recommend the harshest form of justice for all. Certainly Marko would not hesitate to do as much, should your positions be reversed; the man wouldn't spit on his own mother if she were on fire. Brutality is the only language men like that understand. This resistance must be stamped out entirely, or you may leave sparks untended that will catch the whole land aflame against you."

Anthony cordially disliked heavy-handed metaphors, but he knew the argument had merit.

"We'll discuss this further tonight," he said. He needed a great deal more wine for such heavy thoughts. In the meantime: "I have a petitioner waiting, don't I?" Anthony waved an imperious hand at Remy LeBeau, who was still waiting patiently by the entrance. "Bring him in!"

Remy was Stane's favored lieutenant, and popular among all the King's command for both his prowess on the field and his sly good humor; his position of trust permitted him to hesitate before obeying. "Your Grace, you have another visitor as well," Remy said. "A lady. She gives her name as Moira MacTaggert, and says that her recently deceased father was ever your loyal subject. The hour grows late -- perhaps you might see her first, so that she may safely find lodging before evening?"

"A lady, eh?" Anthony grinned. "And pretty, I'll wager, for Remy to stand her champion." Remy inclined his head with a faint smile. "By all means, ladies first."

The lady in question was indeed quite lovely, a slender vision in dark mourning dress, with pale cheeks and soft chestnut hair beneath her wimple. She did not seem at all intimidated by the royal presence, making her reverence and pledging her fealty with grave self-assurance. Anthony admired her forthrightness as well as her pretty face. Her lands were modest, and she had few knights and men-at-arms to offer to his service, but she made a thorough and honest accounting of all, and accepted his condolences on the loss of her father with grace and without any simpering. And she was bluntly honest on one further point: "You should also know, Your Grace, that I have a younger brother who does not hold faith with our family, though by rights it should be he who stands here in my place. He and our father quarrelled bitterly over it, and Father cut him off when he left to fight with the Empress." Color rose in her cheeks as she said it, perhaps in shame, but she kept her chin up and did not waver. "This was over two years ago. I do not know where he is now. It's possible he is here in Shrewsbury; Lord Holme was known to our family, and Kevin -- my brother -- he counts his friends among Holme's knights. He may well have come here. But I don't know. I hope you will not judge my house's loyalty by his actions, for he does not speak for us."

"Madam," Anthony said, with a grim smile, "believe me, I know what it is to be disappointed in one's family. Never fear; I accept your fealty with all my heart, and thank you heartily for it." He kissed her cheek, cousinly, which she accepted demurely. Strange that so handsome and self-assured a lady should yet be unmarried, at her age; but perhaps her father's extended illness had kept her at home. Well, there was more than one reason for a woman such as this to attend a king. She might find far better marriage prospects here among his officers than in her quiet and lonely corner of the shire. Assuming they survived the coming battle!

The second petitioner had been passing the time pleasantly enough with the guards, keeping one ear pricked to the goings-on within the tent. It was not difficult to hear all that transpired from where he waited just outside. Once Moira had been escorted away, the charming Remy LeBeau told him he need wait only a brief moment longer, and ducked back inside.

"So who do we have next?" Anthony asked, settling back into his chair.

"A lord Charles Xavier of Maesbury," Remy said. "Shall I bring him in?"

The king glanced at Stane. "Xavier? That sounds familiar."

"There was a Brian Xavier who married the sister of the Earl of Chester," Stane said consideringly. "I do recall that his lands included the manor of Maesbury. That was thirty years ago or more, though. Likely this would be their son, which would make him cousin to the current Earl."

"Nathaniel Essex of Chester is the Empress's ally." And a real thorn in Anthony's side, too, with a shrewd eye toward expanding his own lands. Borders of petty earldoms become malleable in times of civil strife.

"Yes," Remy agreed, "and last week I would have said that Maesbury, like much of this shire, held strong for the Empress. Moreover, Xavier is said to be betrothed from childhood to the daughter of Dirk Holme, who is second in command to Marko here in Shrewsbury."

At this point, Rhodes took an interest in the conversation, his head coming up sharply. "Holme's daughter? You know, I've heard rumors that he never had a chance to send her away out of the castle before we closed the way north. She's said to still be within the town walls. She could certainly prove valuable, if found. And now her intended husband seeks audience? Your Grace, I suggest that this might be an interesting meeting to take."

Anthony smiled to himself. A little palace intrigue always did soothe his soul. "Well, there's only one way to find out. Remy, send the man in."

Finally summoned, the ever-patient petitioner stepped within the tent and made his reverence to the king. For a few brief moments, he studied Anthony's face with clear blue eyes; then he smiled faintly, as though having reached some sort of conclusion. "Your Grace," he said, almost smoothly enough to cover the initial hesitation, "I am Charles Xavier of Maesbury, and I and all I hold are yours to command." He made a brisk listing of the men he could provide for the king's service and their qualifications, then settled to await his sovereign's response.

Anthony regarded him coolly. "Your name we know. Also that you are close kin to the Earl of Chester, who broke faith with us and stirs dissension in the north. Also that you formerly kept company with Lords Marko and Holme, who now hold Shrewsbury against us. So tell me, my lord Xavier: whence comes this change of heart? And so belatedly, at that? We have been encamped here for a full month. You have had ample time to pledge your allegiance, yet no word until now, on the eve of battle. Rather late in the game, wouldn't you say?"

If he expected Xavier to become uneasy at this unflattering assessment, he was to be disappointed. Xavier simply nodded, as though in full agreement. "All fair questions, my liege. Yes, my cousin Nathaniel is now Earl of Chester, and I was raised to count those men and their families as my peers and friends. Some better friends than others, perhaps--" His lips twitched. "--but I was brought up to respect and honor them nonetheless." He paused, perhaps considering his words. "Your Grace, I have only recently come into my lands, and had not yet sworn fealty to any. You are said to be a fair-minded man. You must appreciate that the choice deserves some careful consideration. The Empress Emma has an honest claim to the throne. It is hard to call anyone a traitor for choosing to support her -- though breaking oaths already sworn are another matter." His gaze turned distant for a moment, then refocused. "I have thought long and hard on my choice of fealty, and if it took me overlong to reach a decision, so be it. Once made, I will not be swayed. I am here now. Those who hasten to your side at the least breath of wind," he added, "may be as easily blown loose again at another."

Anthony barked out a laugh. "You're telling me!" His eyes narrowed as he considered the man before him. "Well, you're certainly bold enough. But who's to say you won't retreat back into your former alliances the moment Emma draws near again? She's bound to have a good day eventually."

"So she is, and I don't expect you to take me at my word. I shall simply have to prove myself in time. Consider me on probation, if you will." Xavier glanced to the king's advisors, then back to Anthony. "And if you're to know the worst of me, sire, before you accept my allegiance, then I should also tell you: I am Gifted, like the Empress herself and many of her party."

The king shrugged. "And several of my own, as well. I bear no malice towards those with God's Gifts. Some small measure of envy, perhaps," his lips twisting in a mischievous smile, "but no malice. What is your particular Gift, pray tell?"

Xavier held his gaze steadily. "Much the same as the Empress's, though I have no doubt that she is the more powerful. I'm a telepath, able to hear men's thoughts."

Surely he anticipated the reactions that followed. Rhodes took a warning step forward, hand going to the hilt of his sword; Remy paled noticeably; and Stane broke in with an outraged, "Your Grace, you must dismiss him at once!" Xavier did not so much as flinch. His face seemed open, guileless; yet surely he could make himself so appear, if he spoke the truth.

If he spoke the truth. Anthony raised a hand to silence his captains' objections, continuing to regard Xavier thoughtfully. The king wasn't frightened by his cousin Emma's Gifts, any more than he was intimidated by her intelligence or physical beauty. Her supernatural abilities were simply weapons in her formidable arsenal, to be considered and countered like any others. And Anthony was a clever man in his own right. No, if this Charles Xavier had intended to spy on him while outwardly currying favor, it would have been simple enough to just keep his Gift a secret. Somewhat of a risk, perhaps; he was known to some here, who might well know of his abilities and confide them to the king. But if he were anywhere near as powerful as Emma, he would be able to wipe any doubts away from Anthony's mind; the fact that he had not done so indicated either that his Gift was weak enough to pose a minimal threat, or that he indeed came here in honest earnest.

"You were right to disclose this to us," Anthony said. "And you will understand if it takes some time to earn our trust. This would be true even if you did not have such...uniquely dangerous Gifts, of course."

"Of course," Xavier agreed calmly. "I expected no less."

Anthony considered the matter. "You were in close confidence with Cain Marko and Dirk Holme, once."

Xavier hesitated. "Our families were close. But I have not seen or spoken with either since my father's funeral, nearly two years ago now. I do not pretend to have insight into their current plans."

"And a unique insight you might have, indeed," Anthony murmured, mostly to himself. A pity he could not yet trust the man enough to ask him to listen in on his enemies' council this night. But there were limits to such Gifts; no telling how close Xavier would need to be in order to truly read their thoughts. Some with similar abilities needed to be physically touching a person in order to hear anything at all. "But I have been told that you are betrothed to Holme's only daughter."

"Raven?" Xavier gave a rueful chuckle. "Well, I certainly was, once. A childhood betrothal made by our parents. But it's been years since I saw the girl, and with the current state of affairs as it stands, I don't rightly know if the bargain still holds."

Anthony held his eyes deliberately. "Marko's family is fled, but Raven Holme is said to be hiding within the town walls. You know her father, you know the family and their friends -- you might yet have some valuable insight, as you put it, into where they might be sheltering her. If you can indeed hear my thoughts, then you will know that I mean the girl no harm. But it would not be displeasing," he added, "to have such a valuable lady in our safekeeping."

Even without his telepathy, it was clear that Charles Xavier was quick-witted. He tilted his head ever so slightly; his only acknowledgment that this task might well either secure or lose him royal favor. "I do wish to see her safely delivered from the battlefield," he said quietly. "This, too, was part of my intent in coming to Shrewsbury."

Perhaps he even meant it sincerely! After all, those two would have known one another from childhood. He should at least have a fondness for the girl. "Very well," Anthony said. "You may remain in attendance, though we have no immediate work for you. If I do need to call upon you, where would we find you?"

"If I may," Xavier said, "I intend to seek lodging in the abbey guest house."

It was Erik's habit to sup with the abbey porter in his gatehouse lodge at least once a week, when he took his turn acting as lay porter during the evening services as part of his tenancy agreement with the abbey. Brother Armando enjoyed the company, and Erik enjoyed a meal he didn't have to prepare for himself. They made a strange pair in this English town, the Maghrebi monk and the German metalworker. Perhaps that was why they remained friends: in defiance of all who looked askance at such obvious outsiders.

The truth of the matter was that they had met long before either arrived in England, as chance companions on the road to Constantinople. Erik had just begun in earnest his hunt for the crusader known as Sebastian Shaw, and Armando was cheerfully roaming the world in search of purpose -- or, failing that, at least interesting diversion. In the end, Armando had proven an invaluable ally. He had helped Erik defeat Shaw, and unexpectedly found his true vocation along the way. It was only natural, afterwards, that Erik should accompany his friend to his chosen haven here at the abbey. And, having no home to return to and no further purpose of his own to fulfill, Erik had settled here as well -- with no intention of taking vows himself, of course. Shrewsbury was as good a place as any to work and live in peace.

The smoky haze hanging over the town might now argue otherwise.

"I suppose you'll be the first to cry the news tomorrow," Erik remarked, looking out from the gatehouse. The abbey Foregate was normally busy enough at this time of evening -- the more devout amongst the laity (the secular townsfolk) returning from the Vespers services, the rest finishing up their business about either town or fields and returning to their homes for supper. But tonight it was mostly deserted. No business thrived during a time of siege, save the business of war.

Armando settled down on his bench with a sigh. "I usually am. Not particularly looking forward to it this time, I must admit. Whichever way the day goes, we'll lose some good men come dawn."

"It's always the good men who do the fighting and dying, while their lords sit safe and clean to enjoy the carnage."

"Not necessarily safe, and certainly not so clean," Armando replied mildly. "They say this king doesn't shy away from a fight. And though there's plenty ill to be said about Lord Marko, he's certainly willing to get his hands dirty when it comes to the sword. Dirk Holme may be less bloodthirsty, but he's no coward, either." He leaned forward. "And speaking of, they're saying that Holme's daughter Raven is still in the town. Eighteen years old, and likely privy to some of her father's secrets. Quite the prize to hold against Holme and his overlord, if anyone of the king's party manages to snatch her up."

"Hopefully she's well hidden, then. Though it's hard to imagine Cain Marko coming to the rescue of any damsel, vassal's daughter or otherwise." Erik frowned, considering. "Raven, you called her? That's an unusual name for a gentlewoman."

Armando shrugged. "Not so rare among the Benedictines. Saint Benedict's Gift allowed him to speak with birds, and ravens in particular are sacred to him. More than a few young nuns in the Order adopt the name Sister Raven when they take their final vows. It's less common outside the Order, I grant you, but Holme is a patron of this house."

"You Christians and your saints," Erik scoffed. "With so many of the Gifted performing minor miracles left and right, how do you decide which qualify for sainthood?"

Armando grinned in a manner somewhat too worldly for a holy brother. "I guess it's all in how you use it. Anyway, I like to think there's a difference between a Gift and a true miracle."

"Let's hope so." Erik crossed over to lean against the doorway, where the breeze from the river brought at least a breath of coolness into the evening air. "Which reminds me -- Gifts, not miracles, that is. Have you met Henry's new helper?

"I think so. Youngish lad, Robert something?"

"He goes by Bobby. Keep an eye out for him, will you? You see more than most, in here."

Armando raised an eyebrow. "One of us, you think?"

"Likely," Erik said. "Though he hasn't told me what his particular talents are. But he's the right age for it, and you know how unpredictable it can be when the first signs appear."

"So I hear. It went easy enough for me." Armando set aside his empty plate. "But then, mine is purely reactive. I'll wager you caused a fair bit of chaos when you were young."

He meant it kindly enough, but Erik stiffened all the same. Armando knew more than most about his past. But despite the years they'd once spent on the road together, hunting Shaw, there were some details of his history that Erik had never shared -- with Armando or anyone else.

He had been seven years old when crusaders had passed through Cologne, and set his parents' synagogue alight in their religious fervor. He had screamed, and several soldiers' swords had flown from their hands to impale the men carrying the torches. It hadn't stopped the fire. But it had drawn the attention of their leader, and when the army moved on eastward some days later, Sebastian Shaw had taken the little boy who controlled metal along with them.

Well, that was long over and done with. Not Armando's fault that his jest had cut a little too close to home.

"Chaos enough," Erik agreed, doing his best to keep his tone level. "Hopefully Bobby's Gift -- assuming he has one -- will be less...destructive in nature."

Armando huffed out a laugh. "Man, you don't know from destructive. Have you ever met the older Summers boy, up in town? His brother's too young yet to show sign of it, and mayhap never will, but Alex's Gift is handful enough. Thanks be to God that neither of them have been given to the Church."

Erik had a passing familiarity with that family -- Christopher Summers was the town blacksmith -- and heartily agreed. "Once they're old enough for soldiering, they'll certainly be put to work. Actually, isn't Alex about that age?"

"Yes, he's eighteen himself, and spitting mad that he's not been permitted to join the fight." Armando shook his head, sobering. "He's well out of this one. If the king takes the castle...well, it's been a long, hard siege. I worry he won't be inclined to show clemency."

Silence fell as they both considered the grim possibilities for the morrow. Eventually, the approach of hoofbeats brought them back to the here and now. Armando joined Erik at the gatehouse doorway to greet the abbey's potential visitor.

The rider dismounted with catlike grace and smiled in greeting. He was dressed practically for the road, but Erik could tell from the quality of his cloth and harness that he was a man of some means. Neither a tall nor a broad man, but lean and compact, and carried a fine, slender sword like a man well acquainted with its use. Minor nobility, at best guess.

"Welcome, friend," Brother Armando said, reaching up to stroke along the horse's neck. It seemed a pretty enough beast, a rangy chestnut stallion, but Armando had a better eye for horses than Erik ever would. "And your rider as well! How can I be of service?"

"I'm hoping to find lodging here, for the next few days if not longer," the guest said. "My name is Charles Xavier. I sent my men-at-arms ahead of me--"

Armando was nodding. "Of course, the arrangements have already been made. Let me go fetch the hospitaller."

One of the abbey grooms approached to take care of the horse, and Xavier nodded his thanks. "If it's all the same, I'll just follow along with you," he told Armando. "No need to make a fuss."

That was no trouble at all for Armando, so they set off across the abbey court together, chatting amiably. Xavier did give Erik one bright, curious glance as he passed, and Erik was momentarily startled by the intensity of that clear blue gaze. But he just as quickly dismissed it, and gave no further thought to the abbey's new guest.

Erik remained at the gatehouse to act as porter during Compline; when Brother Armando returned to relieve him at the end of the service, he found himself unable to even contemplate sleep. Armando passed the time with him for perhaps another hour before laughingly kicking him out -- "Mayhap you don't need sleep tonight, but I'd like to at least get a nap in before Matins!" -- and Erik reluctantly made his way out beyond the abbey gates.

Perhaps it was the tension of the upcoming battle; the King's camp would be making final preparations through the night, and the townsfolk likely slept only fitfully, if at all, bracing themselves for the dawn assault. Rather than turning right outside the gates and walking back down along the Foregate to his own home, Erik found himself moving in the opposite direction, along the road that led to the bridge into town.

The river Severn coiled about the town of Shrewsbury like a snake, with three-quarters of the town surrounded by water; the castle sat solidly securing the only land approach, and beyond that now lay the King's siege camp. Unless Anthony managed to secure the bridges and break through into the town by those routes -- chancy, given the narrowness of the bridges and the swift river waters -- his best approach would be a direct assault on the castle itself. Fortunately, this also kept the Severn as a natural barrier between his army and the abbey Foregate. It was unlikely that any of the fighting would spill out over here. Castle and town were the prize; the abbey and its tenants should remain unmolested.

Erik didn't try the bridge; the town gates would be barred fast, as they had been since the siege began, though the guards did sometimes permit noncombatants to pass in and out during daylight hours. Instead, he left the road entirely to make his way into the fields that lined this side of the river for a mile and more. This was abbey land still, and he knew it well, having worked it alongside the brothers and other lay tenants during the harvest season. The night air remained warm and humid, but a faint breeze came off the river, welcome and cool against his face. The town was quiet. As he walked further along the riverbank, he began to hear the faint sounds of the siege camp; muffled now, by distance and the lateness of the hour, but still humming like bees in a hive. When he reached out with his Gift, he could feel the metal of weaponry and armor. It was comforting, in its own way. He was no stranger to the buzz and hum of warfare.

Eventually, he reached the far end of the fields, where they faded into forestland. Good a place as any to turn back, especially on so dark a night as this. The sky was heavy with clouds. Moonlight occasionally poked through, lending enough glow to see by in the open air, but it would be full dark among the trees.

As he made his way back, he noticed something odd along the town walls. The river was narrower at this bend, only about a hundred feet wide, and the darkness of the night made it easy to spot the flare of a torch down by the old water-port in the wall. Someone was leaving the town by stealth, sneaking out along the river port. They doused the torch as soon as they emerged along the river, but by then Erik had spotted them and would not easily lose sight again. The distance and darkness made it impossible to make out the face, but the build was that of a man, about average height, and slender. A young man, at best guess, given the way he moved.

More out of curious habit than any real intent, Erik reached out to sense what metal the stranger might have about his person. No sword, but a thin dagger at his belt -- the sort of knife any man would keep about himself, nothing remarkable that Erik could feel. A handful of copper coins, likely in a pouch or pocket. A gold ring on his finger -- again, not particularly remarkable, but indicated that he was a man of some means. As did the large, interestingly-shaped brooch on his cloak -- it was too far away for even Erik's Gift to make out the details, but several different fine metals twined together sinuously. That work he might know again. So: a young knight or squire. Possibly even one of the town merchants -- but what would an honest tradesman be doing sneaking away from the safety of the town?

What would anyone?

It was neither Erik's fight nor his business, and he didn't remain to investigate further once the figure disappeared into the shadows of the siege camp. But still, as he followed the curve of the river back toward the Foregate and home, he wondered.