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"Only the old, the fat, the prudish and the clergy do not find [the new mens' fashions] exciting. Hence the widespread disapproval among contemporary chroniclers [...] they blame the men for displaying very short skirts and well-packed hose, and they blame the women for being delighted by what they see."
-Ian Mortimer, The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England: A Handbook for Visitors to the Fourteenth Century
June, 1389
Leulinghem, Normandy, Kingdom of France
It was an unseasonably windy June in Normandy that year, and Arthur was grateful for it. If the wind ruined the hairdos of everyone around him, no one would be able to tell that his hair naturally looked this bad. Perhaps horrible hair and thick eyebrows would one day be the fashion, but it was not, he suspected, liable to happen anytime soon, least of all in France.
And they were truly in France, now. Though they stood but miles away from Calais, that fortress would be England's sole remaining property on the continent by that afternoon. The last twenty years of warfare had done a number on Arthur's body, to say nothing of his mind and soul, and he longed for lasting respite. However, the truce his king was about to sign would be temporary. Twenty-seven years' peace is what they'd negotiated, but Arthur new better. They would not last half that long before someone important got shot in the face. Preferably, they'd be French.
Arthur squinted into the sun alongside the rest of the English entourage while they waited for their French hosts to formally receive them.
"Sir Arthur," Richard inclined his head toward the kingdom to speak privately.
"Yes, your Majesty?"
"There are no weapons allowed at any point during today's proceedings," the king said, sounding pained. "I shall also ask that, as a matter of personal honor, you refrain from using any magic, no matter what nonsense Monsieur Bonnefoy has to say to you." Arthur clenched his teeth together.
"Of course, Sire." Damn it. "I would never dream of it." He would, actually, and had been for weeks.
After they were escorted into the massive, carpeted tent, Arthur spent most of the morning waiting around trying to not look bored and using every opportunity to avoid speaking French. Francis Bonnefoy, his bastard French counterpart, finally made his appearance just before the ceremony began. Standing opposite him at the negotiation table, he gave Arthur a smug little smile; they both knew the truce terms favored the French. Arthur scowled back at him, which only made the Frenchman smile wider. Then, he had the balls to wink.
Damn Richard and his damn his 'honor', because if there was one set of hexes that Arthur knew especially well, they were hexes meant for Frenchmen. He clenched his hands tightly behind his back and made himself focus on the two kings as the terms of the truce were read aloud—in French, of course, because god forbid the continentals learn English.
Soon enough, the papers were signed, seals affixed, and copies of the truce were exchanged between the kings' respective parties. See you in twenty seven years, Arthur thought as he glanced up at Francis, who must've felt Arthur's eyes on him for he looked up and they locked eyes. Though I doubt I'll let you live that long.
Whoever had thought it would be a good idea to have the aristocracy of enemy kingdoms mingle to celebrate the signing of a temporary truce after two decades of bloodshed was, in Arthur's opinion, the worst kind of idiot. The air was stilted and awkward as the kings expressed their gratitude for the truce, and wished their men to join in their jubilation. The nobles of either kingdom were only able to converse with one another because all of them were privileged enough to have learned French as children, though by and large they split off into distinct English and French groups of conversation, because truces could never heal the divisions that had led kings to war in the first place. Most everyone here was rich enough to have avoided fighting in the war altogether. Arthur, on the other hand, had died in battle more times than he could count, so he went directly for the wine and hovered there with his goblet until he felt a pleasant buzz coming on. He felt the outermost layer of his inhibitions and frustrations relax, and was grateful.
The negotiation table had been cleared away to make room for dancing, and the very same table now held refreshments for the assembled kings and their lords. The musicians struck up some lively tunes, and as the wine slowed, people began to laugh and relax. The English party had no women in attendance except their cook, but the royal French entourage provided more than enough female company to entertain the assembled men with dancing, laughter, and good looks. A few of the Englishmen, Arthur could see, were becoming perhaps a bit too entertained, having spent many long months away from their wives.
"Come join me in a dance," a gorgeous brunette approached Arthur and tugged on his arm. She had a dazzling smile and was both young and fit of feature, with a few tendrils of her hair slipped scandalously out of her wimple.
"No thank you, mademoiselle," Arthur told her, clutching his wine glass like a shield. "Non, je suis désolé, merci." He patted her hand. Her smile faltered, but she merely curtsied and left to find another partner. As the woman retreated, Arthur glanced all around him and hoped to God no one had seen the exchange.
After having emerged from the purgatorial throes of puberty some years ago, Arthur had come to the alarming realization that men's bodies held far more physical interest to him than women's ever would. He prayed penance for this defect daily, but it was a difficult chore to maintain. With every passing year, men's fashions at court became tighter and shorter, and some days it was truly a wonder Arthur did anything at all but pray to God for forgiveness.
Arthur suspected that Francis, who'd reached majority almost a century before him, had made a similar discovery about himself, with the caveat being that he was still immensely attracted to women. This was a fact for which Arthur despised him with a white-hot jealousy. The Frenchman was foppish and extraordinarily generous with his affections towards both sexes, and used his availability towards women to disguise his interest in men. He spoke warmly to any courtiers who approached him, and approached others for himself with a charm unparalleled in Europe.
Arthur hated him for that, too. How was it fair that Francis, that feral gothic rat, had crawled out from below Rome's heel and transformed into God's most charming gift to the green earth? How was it that he emerged from the pig sty one day and found himself kissing the hands of princes the next? Arthur had overcome similar obstacles in a similar time, but all he'd got for his trouble was a beard that didn't fill in properly, a resting scowl that drove away all but his own kings, and the omnipresent anxiety that at any moment, someone might catch him staring at another man's ass.
Fuck, he'd been staring at Francis' ass.
It was, infuriatingly, a very nice ass. The only reason he could tell was because Francis was wearing tights that were so, well, tight, that Arthur could see the creased edge of his braies when he moved. He dared not hazard a guess at what the front of his trousers looked like, but Francis' tunic was cut nearly as high as his belt, and Arthur's imagination happily filled in the details. He scowled at the universe and took a large gulp of wine.
Mustering his courage and clutching his goblet, he marched across the tent and demanded:
"What the hell are you wearing?" Which prompted the object of his attention to pivot, dance-like, to face him, and oh, Christ, the front of the trousers was worse than the back.
"Hmm?" Francis Bonnefoy's expression was one of surprise and innocence. His cheeks were tinged pink by the alcohol, and Arthur hoped he could blame his own blush on the wine. Francis gave a rakish grin.
"Ah, so Angleterre deigns to speak to me at last. What an honor," he gave a sarcastic flourish.
"You look like an idiot," Arthur told him.
"Careful, mon cher," Francis sipped at his wine, "Your King must pay homage to Charles later, I do not think I would be outside my rights to demand the same from you." Arthur's eyebrows came down like thunderclouds.
"You wouldn't even dare ask such a thing,"
"Wouldn't I?" Francis asked, sipping coyly at his wine.
"It would be the last thing you ever did."
"Oh, how tempting," Francis made eyebrows over the edge of his glass. "Four whole hours of armistice, and I find peacetime ever so dull." Arthur continued to glare. Eyes inevitably flickering to the exposed breeches once again, he decided to change the subject.
"Did you forget your tunic at home?"
"Ah, you've noticed," Francis turned and… modeled, and God, it was so much more distracting to see him in motion. "The newest fashion at court. La courtepie," Francis gestured to his top, which Arthur could not possibly call a tunic. It was royal blue and embroidered with fleur de lis and barely long enough to cover his belt. "All the most fashionable young men are wearing them."
"It's short enough to fit a child," Arthur accused, and Francis gave him a deadpanned look.
"Surely, Arthur," he propped up a hand on his hip and turned in such a way that his groin, in all its hosieried glory, was put on full display. "I do not look like a child to you."
"Christ, you're vain," Arthur turned away and drank his wine in order to hide the fact that his face was red once more. Francis shrugged and followed suit.
"Aren't we all?"
"You weren't wearing it before."
"The occasion did not call for it, before."
"You changed dress expressly to flirt with your own nobility?"
"I could flirt with you instead, if you like, but I fear you might stab me in the neck like you did at Crécy."
Arthur choked on air, sputtering.
"Come now, Arthur," Francis leaned in to Arthur's personal space, prompting the shorter—barely shorter—man to lean away, keeping his goblet between him and the Frenchman, "the courtpie is the popular fashion in England too, I saw for myself just a few years ago. Don't pretend you've never seen them just because you can't afford one yourself." He stood back and downed the last of his wine. "Though I shan't blame you if you've never seen one on so fine a specimen. English thighs are not built for it." Arthur saw red.
"You absolute, backwater, pox-mongering—"
"Careful, mon ami," Francis sing-songed, "there are ladies present." the Frenchman paused before giving Arthur a scrutinous look that made him immenselyuncomfortable, "Then again, perhaps feminine favor is not something dear old England is after, non?"
Arthur stared at him, paralized for a moment by the horrible realization that Francis may have deduced his secret just as he had deduced the same of Francis. The shock wore off as quickly as it'd arrived, and then the anger surged forth. He bared his teeth and leaned forward to tell Francis in a low, furious voice,
"There is no world in which I would ever pay homage to you, or anyone like you, no matter how many kings told me to. By the time all is said and done, Aquitaine will be mine, and your knights will pay homage to me." He stalked off in huff, crossing back across the tent to fetch more wine.
Arthur spent the remainder of the evening eating and drinking, stewing the entire time. Francis, of course, continued flirting. To his never-ending despair, Arthur found his own eyes straying to the Frenchman's rear more than once as the evening wore on. I wonder what I would look like in a court piece, he found himself thinking, for Francis was right on that count: He'd never worn one, because there was no money or time to tailor one while at war. He tried to imagine it, but his mind's eye fell short. Not nearly as good as he does, he found himself thinking, and cursed aloud. Richard looked over at him, surprised.
"Is something amiss, Sir Arthur?"
"No, Your Majesty," Arthur said quickly. "It's nothing."
Night closed in around them, and soon both parties were retiring to their respective camps, where they would regroup before their respective journeys home. Arthur donned his cloak with urgency. If he never saw a speck of France for the next twenty seven years, it would be too soon.
While the kingdoms themselves had re-emerged from their indulgences unscathed, most of the humans remained tipsy and sleepy. Therefore, there was no one to notice when Francis went over to Arthur as he reached the tent's entrance and pressed his face in close to Arthur's and said:
"One day, Arthur, no matter how this war turns out, I am going to ask you to pay homage to me, and when I do, you're going to say yes." Arthur narrowed his eyes at him.
"I would rather die," Arthur snapped back, breath stirring the curls of hair around Francis' face.
"Oh," smirked Francis, raising an angled eyebrow with relish, "that can certainly be arranged. Until next century, Angleterre."
Francis stepped away before Arthur could make any reply, so the Englishman stood there in silent indignation while the Frenchman strode out into the night. Just as Francis' broad shoulders disappeared beyond the door of the tent, Arthur realized that the entire man was actually quite beautiful, not just his ass.
God, he hoped he got to kill him a few more times before the war was over.