Chapter Text
Belle had become disenchanted by war stories long ago.
It was an unfortunate by-product of being the daughter of a man who’s entire life had been spent in armour: Sir Maurice had done nothing but fight and defend since he was old enough to hold a sword. It was all he knew, and thus all he talked about. It had grown ever worse once Belle’s mother had died, too, for suddenly any story of peacetime was clouded with the memory of what had been lost.
Mostly, therefore, Belle kept to her rooms and her books, or wandered the gardens, keeping her distance from her grave-eyed father and his grim tales. Their estate was only very small, only large enough for Sir Maurice, his daughter, and a handful of servants most of whom lived in the village that bordered the edge of their lands. The relatively minor size of the estate was the other reason why Belle was so deeply bored of the war-talk of old soldiers: every time a knight of any stature rode through their lands, Sir Maurice insisted they dine and stay in the manor.
This was just good politics on his behalf, of course. After all, any man who started as nothing more than a cloth-merchant’s son and thus had risen to the status he now possessed – a knight, no less, with an inheritable title – on the back of his own skill with a blade, required as many friends as he could find. Unfortunately for Belle however, especially now that her mother was gone, this meant playing hostess to every old war dog in the realm. It meant listening to their stories, laughing at their jokes, being pleasing and kind and beautiful to behold. Worst, and hardest of all, it meant pretending every time that she hadn’t seen and heard it all before; that every man who visited was fascinating and enthralling, a mighty hero, and she a fawning damsel.
This was why, when her father came to her one spring morning and told her, with a broad smile, that Sir Rumpelstiltskin of the Frontlands had accepted his invitation to dine with them and stay a few days in their hospitality, Belle groaned.
“Father, please,” she began, “may I be excused this time?”
“Whatever for?” Sir Maurice replied, “You’re the lady of the house now, my girl, think of how it would look if you were absent.”
“But these dinners are always so boring,” Belle protested. “And there’s a full moon tonight, a clear sky too – I wanted to watch it over the lake, like mother and I used to.”
“Belle,” her father sighed, having heard this argument many times before, “we’ve discussed this before, and there are always other moons. I need you tonight, end of discussion.”
And Belle, knowing that to argue further would be to incite her father to make her spend the entire evening with their guest as opposed to excusing herself the moment dessert was cleared, agreed.
“Alright, father,” she said, “I’ll come to dinner. But you must carry the conversation this time: I am running out of topics to discuss with soldiers three times my age.”
Sir Maurice just laughed at that, “You’re a treasure, my Belle. It hardly matters if you repeat a comment more than once.”
“It matters to me,” Belle replied, primly. “And it mattered to mother.”
“Yes,” he agreed, nodding, that misty, grave look returning to his eyes, “that it did.”
With that, he nodded his goodbye and left her to her own devices. Belle sighed, and rolled her eyes to herself before returning to her reading: it would be another long, dull evening, but at least she had a good book to return to once she’d excused herself from their company.
She heard hoof beats outside her window some time later, and, curiosity and boredom having gotten the better of her, Belle peered out her window to catch a glimpse of the famed hero. She’d heard all the stories, of course: the rescue of Princess Cinderella’s lost newborn; how he’d saved the Princess Regina’s sainted mother Lady Cora from her wrongful imprisonment in King Xavier’s tower; his single-handed capture and taming of the dragon formerly known as Maleficent the Sorceress. He was a hero, there was no doubt about that, but Belle had known many men who had claimed that title, and a life of heroics seemed only to make a man self-important and long-winded.
The man on the white horse drew up to the stables. He had his visor down, and to Belle’s surprise his breastplate, helmet, and every inch of his armour was gold-plated. Even his cloak was deep, rich ochre velvet, and the fur lining it was almost golden in the sunlight, rich and pale brown.
“Well,” she muttered to herself, “Someone has a liking for gold.”
The knight pulled up his visor and removed his helmet, before dismounting his horse and handing the reigns to Andrew, the stable boy, with a firm pat on his shoulder, and a gold coin in his hand. That did impress Belle, a little grudgingly: he was the first knight she’d seen be kind to servants when no one else was around.
He was rather shorter than Belle had expected, small of stature and clearly lean rather than stocky beneath his armour. He was almost as old as her father, with a careworn face and flowing dark hair to his shoulders streaked with grey, and a long nose. He looked up at the house, and for a moment, just a moment, Belle thought she saw just a flicker of discomfort flash over his face, before his shoulders straightened and his mouth set in a firm line. His eyes were dark, warm brown, with kind laughter lines at the corners: a man who smiled, and smiled often. Belle liked that. Belle almost wished she hadn’t noticed.
So caught up was Belle, in fact, in her scrutiny of the new arrival’s features, that she utterly failed to notice that he was staring right at her.
“Well met, my Lady!” he called, sweeping a bow to her with a small smile that almost made his motion a self-parody. His hand had a little flourish to it, his eyes a little sparkle, and she found herself laughing in earnest as she leaned out the window properly, and folded her arms on the sill.
“Well met, Sir Knight!” she returned, formally. “Were I more dignified a Lady, I should have met you at the entrance with my father.”
“Were you more dignified a Lady, my dear, I am certain you’d be a Queen.” He returned, with a wider grin, and Belle once again caught herself laughing at his sheer audacity, as well as the sarcasm implicit in his tone. He was mocking her, this man she’d only just met, and yet it was such gentle mockery that Belle found it far more amusing, even charming, than insulting.
When was the last time she had been charmed by one of her father’s guests? There was no memory ready to answer such a question, which Belle supposed explained how novel the whole situation felt.
“Certainly not,” she replied, primly, “A Queen would not trade quips with a stranger out of her bedroom window, in her housedress no less, without so much as an introduction.”
“Indeed,” he inclined his head, “forgive my lapse in manners, my Lady, I seem to have forgotten myself.” He bowed again, “Sir Rumpelstiltskin, the knight, at your service.”
“I could have guessed the ‘knight’ part from your attire alone, sir,” she teased, and he stared at her a moment before chuckling, a deep and honest laugh that made Belle feel oddly warm for having inspired it. “Lady Belle, of Marchland House, daughter of Sir Maurice, honoured to make your acquaintance.” She did a little curtsey as best she could while kneeling on her window seat, and saw him smother another laugh
“Honoured,” he replied, a little drolly. “Now, if you would excuse me my Lady, your father awaits inside. I highly doubt my welcome would be warm, if I were caught pulling his daughter from her books without his consent.”
“How did you know that I was reading?” she asked, with a small frown.
“Your hands, my Lady, are smudged with ink,” he replied, gesturing with one leather-gloved hand to her own palms, where – sure enough – she had once again smeared ink all over her arms.
“Oh, Gods above!” she cursed, and then slapped that same hand over her mouth, giggling hysterically at having just used such language in front of a stranger – a knight, no less, and one of her father’s guests! – “Forgive me, sir,” she said, hastily, “I had not noticed the stains!”
“You are quite forgiven,” he managed, his lips twitching helplessly at the corners, and Belle quite thought – knew, in fact, without a shadow of a doubt – that he was laughing at her. Her face flushed, embarrassed and something else she could not name, and she shook her head.
“You must go inside now, sir,” she said, at last, “and forget this encounter, before I shame myself further.”
“My lady Belle,” he replied, earnestly, the smile leaving his face for just a second, “rest assured that it would be impossible for me to ever forget a moment of this encounter, for the remainder of my days.”
Belle stared at him, torn between laughing and throwing something pointy at his smug, handsome face. She settled for making a small noise in the back of her throat – disgust, or maybe shame, or laughter, or all of the above – and closing her window quite rudely in the face of his open laughter.
She hid in her room for the remainder of the afternoon, electing to avoid their new guest as far as possible until she absolutely had to engage him again. It wasn’t that she’d found him crass or cruel: rather the opposite, in fact. Despite Belle’s best judgement she’d found his gently mocking manner and warm eyes utterly charming. And, of course, therein lay the problem.
For Belle had a plan, a plan she’d had since her mother died and her father had forbidden her from riding anywhere or exploring beyond the next village without a full retinue. And that plan certainly did not involve catching the interest of a veteran knight, a wealthy hero of the lands, whose proposal Sir Maurice would be hard pressed to refuse. Sir Maurice was ageing, and Belle knew the time to decide her fate was drawing near. If she remained unmarried, a maid left caring for her father in his twilight years, then his title and lands would pass to her in inheritance upon his death, and she would be free at last to travel, explore, and have adventures as her mother had promised she might.
If she married, then the title would pass through her to her husband, and then to their sons, and she would go from one man’s house to another without any chance to break free.
Better that Sir Rumpelstiltskin thought her rude, unladylike and odd rather than pleasant and charming. She had managed to avoid an offer of marriage from any knight thus far by giving just that impression to any unmarried man who crossed the threshold, and she had no intention of breaking that streak.
At last the bell rang for dinner, and Belle had to put down her book, wash the ink from her hands in the basin, and change into a fresh dress. She was lost in her thoughts, her mind still on the latest chapter of her book, and she dressed in a daze, allowing her maid to dress her without much input. She chose the yellow, the silk ball gown that fell to her toes with the crystal beading on the bodice. Her maid left her hair in ringlets around her face, sweeping only the uppermost portion into a small bun at the back of her head.
Belle took the book down to dinner with her just for good measure: she’d found that the very notion of a woman reading tended to put off most men in want of a wife, and a blunt-force reminder of her intellectualism couldn’t hurt.
“Ah, there she is, at last!” her father cried, a note of reproach that only Belle would catch lying beneath his greeting. “Sir Rumpelstiltskin, may I introduce my daughter, the Lady Belle?”
Sir Rumpelstiltskin’s lips twitched in response, and Belle cringed inside, knowing that he was remembering their earlier meeting. Belle glared at him, and he had the audacity to wink in response!
“Belle?” Sir Maurice prompted, and Belle belatedly dropped into a curtsey.
“It is an honour, Sir Knight,” she said, again, and Sir Rumpelstiltskin’s smile widened.
“Indeed, the Lady’s preoccupation is my fault. I’m afraid that she and I have already been introduced,” Belle’s wide eyes flicked to his in alarm, and she tried to shake her head without her father noticing, to warn the knight off his chosen subject.
“Oh?” Sir Maurice frowned, confused, “And when would this have been?”
“Only this afternoon, sir, I assure you,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin said, smoothly, “your daughter was kind enough to welcome me upon my arrival. I believe I interrupted her walk, I do apologise.”
“I… yes, indeed,” Belle’s mind caught up quickly: it would be hard to hide that they weren’t total strangers to one another, since she had a feeling that Sir Rumpelstiltskin was incapable of being cool and polite even if he tried, so changing the story to one acceptable to her father made sense. “I was out for a walk, and Sir Rumpelstiltskin arrived through the gates on his horse. I gave him directions to the main house.”
“Ah,” Sir Maurice nodded, mollified, and smiled to them both. “Well then, now that we’ve dealt with introductions, shall we eat? We have some fine venison on the estate, Sir Rumpelstiltskin, and our cook is the best around.”
“Indeed, lead the way,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin smiled, and Belle’s father nodded and turned to direct them into the dining hall. The moment his back was turned and he’d stridden off ahead, Belle turned to the knight beside her, and her polite smile twisted into a scowl.
“I told you to forget what happened before!” she hissed, but he just smirked down at her. Thankfully for Belle, he was no towering giant: she came up to past her shoulder, and could look him in the eye easily to scold him.
“And I warned you that was quite impossible,” he replied, mildly, “And I hardly think you’d have wanted your father to know that you engaged in a rather indecorous conversation with a perfect stranger, while leaning out of your bedroom window in your housedress. Or am I wrong?”
She glared at him, but was forced to mutter, “No.”
“Then can we chalk it up to protecting your honour, and continue as friends?” he suggested, and Belle glanced at him in surprise, suddenly feeling a little open and vulnerable.
“Friends?” she asked, “But sir, we’ve barely met.”
“Do you not wish to be friends with me?” he asked, his hand to his breast as if scandalised, although that merry sparkle remained in his eyes. “And here I thought we were getting along so well: you even changed your dress to match.”
Belle stared at him, and then glanced hurriedly from his clothing to her own, her mouth going slack with shock. She hadn’t noticed until he noticed it, but he was quite right: his doublet of soft, tan leather and ochre trim, coupled with his slightly darker leather breaches and boots, all with gold accents and clasps, appeared the perfect masculine compliment to her own golden gown. She had dressed herself to match his signature colour, and hadn’t even noticed.
“You are insufferable!” she scolded, but even as she said it she wanted to laugh. He just looked so happy, and there was no denying that already she actively wanted to be in his company, knew that if he stayed longer than one night she would seek out his company. He was funny, irreverent, sharp and a little unusual. Like she was, she supposed. “Fine, fine, friends. We can be friends, if you wish it so much.”
“Thank you, my Lady,” he grinned, sarcastically, “never have I felt so blessed.”
Belle resisted the urge to swat him with the back of her hand, knowing that such a breach in courtesy would be a step too far. The urge was there none the less.
“I feel as if I have missed a whole conversation,” Sir Maurice remarked, when they reached the dining room and he finally returned his attention to her. “Belle, I hope you didn’t talk the poor knight’s ear off in my absence.”
“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin remarked, as they took their seats. “I had noticed the lady was carrying a book that is quite a favourite of an old friend of mine. I was only about to enquire what she thought of it.”
“You know someone else who’s read Her Handsome Hero?” Belle asked, in surprise. “It’s a fairly obscure little novel.”
“The Lady Cora’s daughter Regina was fond of it in her younger days,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin explained, “it was one of the few books she would abide as a distraction from her riding.”
“I adore it,” Belle sighed, “I’ve read it twice already, it’s just so deep and poetic, the knight and his queen, it’s so…”
“Insipid?” Sir Rumpelstiltskin suggested, a gleam of challenge in his eyes.
Belle glared at him, and drummed her fingers meaningfully on her book, which she’d placed beside her on the dinner table. “Romantic,” she shot back. “Come on, forbidden love, a hint of magic, the baby plot in the second act? It’s the stuff of romantic poetry!”
“I apologise if court intrigue, the games and infatuations of royalty and nobility, holds little weight with me,” he shrugged. “The real world is messier than that novel would imply it to be.”
“It’s conceptual!” Belle argued back, eyes flashing. “Beautiful! It’s not supposed to be gritty realism! A fact you would understand if you got off your horse long enough to read more than one book a year!”
“Belle!” her father interjected, cutting her off before she could add injury to insult. “That is quite enough of that! I apologise, Sir Rumpelstiltskin,” he said, hurriedly, “I have no idea what has possessed my daughter!”
“No, no,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin held up a hand, as he dug into the venison served to him by a servant, “it’s quite alright, I started this little fight, and I’m interested in a woman with convictions. You think the book is a concept piece, and thus should not be held as a mirror to reality?”
“I think the book is a work of poetry, told in prose,” Belle explained, a little taken aback by his interest, his unruffled acceptance of her heated words… his acceptance, even admiration of them, in fact. “The plotline is streamlined, emotions overblown and practical realities shrunken.” She gestured with her fork for emphasis, waving a piece of meat around in front of her to her father’s horror. “It’s an exploration of love and desire, and then of loss and despair. It’s not meant to be a political treatise or a biography of a real life.”
“Intention is all well and good,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin allowed, “but emotion is meant to be felt and experienced, not laid bare and clinically examined through insipid, uninspired prose. Emotion means nothing if it’s not being felt by a real person.”
“You… seem to have quite a knowledge of literature, sir,” Sir Maurice intervened, confused beyond reason by the turn of conversation.
“My manor is of comparable size to yours, Sir Maurice,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin replied, “and as I have little use for a second guest room, I have created for myself a little library. It is woefully understocked, of course,” he added, and his eyes incongruously turned to look at Belle, his gaze intense and meaningful, although Belle could not divine its intent, “it requires a true bibliophile to tend to it as it deserves. But books are an interest of mine.”
“Then it appears my Belle is in luck, this evening,” Sir Maurice said, a little uneasily, “She is quite the book-lover herself, as you can see. She is often bemoaning the lack of more scholarly company around here.”
“I am hardly a scholar,” he replied, “I simply discovered a long time ago that what one lacks in breeding, one must make up for in personal qualities. A lowborn solider must be thrice the swordsman, equestrian, and scholar of the lord’s son simply to break even. It is for this reason, for the most part, that I began to read.”
Sir Maurice nodded, and Belle could see the understanding and kinship grow in her father’s eyes at Sir Rumpelstiltskin’s earnest words. No one had worked harder than her father, Belle knew, to make up for exactly that lack in bloodline.
“A noble sentiment,” Sir Maurice agreed, “I myself as a young man found myself set just such a disadvantage. I found extra hours of practice, discipline, and displays of leadership and courage the only method to gain any respect in the corps.”
“Exactly so,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin nodded, “heroism cannot be overlooked, no matter the circumstances of one’s birth.” He looked at Sir Maurice speculatively, “If you don’t mind a somewhat impertinent question, Sir?”
“Go right ahead,” Sir Maurice invited, “you are our guest, you must speak your mind.”
“Indeed, Sir,” Belle agreed, a slightly dangerous edge creeping into her voice that, she could see, caught the knight’s attention. “Do ask.”
“It is only that you appear to empathise with my sentiments,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin said, carefully, “Where most knights of your stature and renown are blind to the struggles of the poor, and the disadvantage such circumstances cause to a young man in the corps. I wished to ask how you acquired such an understanding, if I may?”
“Ah, a simple question,” Sir Maurice relaxed, and spread his hands, “Like you, Sir, I was not born to title or lands. My father was a cloth-merchant, and I was to follow his trade, and I am not ashamed to admit it. It was a good business, a good life, but my brother was better suited to it than I. My dreams lay in my scabbard and saddle, and I followed them.”
Belle resisted the urge to roll her eyes: she had heard the speech a hundred times, and knew how fond her father was of that final turn of phrase.
“A worthy tale,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin said, with a broad smile. “Not unlike my own, in fact. I too was born to such a trade, a spinner and weaver. The women who raised me trained me well, and I intended to follow in their footsteps. Then, one day, a sword was pressed into my hand, and I discovered there was a whole other life I could have, if only I could embrace it. The work was hard, it always is when it’s worthwhile; I have never regretted a moment of it.”
“I can drink to that,” Sir Maurice grinned, “To hard work, and no regrets.”
“Here, here,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin agreed. Belle watched with a sinking heart as their glasses joined over the table, and pushed another piece of meat into her mouth to hide her grimace. She had so hoped earlier in the conversation that tonight might be different, that this knight might have more to him than moralising and war-stories. She dearly hoped she hadn’t been wrong.
“You said you had a library, sir?” she asked, presently, and Sir Rumpelstiltskin turned to her with a smile.
“I did,” he agreed, and she smiled back, unable to help herself.
“So if you’re not capable of appreciating the romantics, what is your favourite work of literature?”
“Hmm, that’s an interesting question,” he thought for a moment, “I assume whatever choice I make you will mock mercilessly, my lady?”
“That depends on how terrible and predictable your choice is,” she countered, and he grinned, inexplicably pleased at her response, and inclined his head.
“I enjoyed The Tide of Saracen,” he said, after a moment longer. “I’ve reread it a number of times, in fact.”
Belle gave a snort of derision, and ignored her father’s glare. “Oh, come on, you’re making this too easy.”
“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow, “Please, do educate me, how is my adventure epic even a match to your bland romantic idiocy?”
“Epic?” Belle giggled at that, “Come on, now. It’s a male power fantasy, plain and simple. That’s such a male book to choose!”
“And yours isn’t a little girl’s dream of love? All dashing knights and swooning ladies?”
“Better than gratuitous blood and entrails flying left and right, and one woman in the whole text… and that woman used as a prop for a man’s emotional journey!”
“Belle!” Sir Maurice cried, “Please, at least watch your language. I will not have you using such graphic talk at the dinner table!”
“Is that not what you expected me to say, however?” Sir Rumpelstiltskin challenged. “The soldier with the wartime epic?”
“It wasn’t unexpected,” she admitted, then narrowed her eyes, catching his game. “Please tell me you didn’t choose it just to bait a response.”
“Then I shall have to keep my lips sealed,” he replied, an irresistible smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “for I will not lie to a lady in her own hall.”
“You’re infuriating, Sir Rumpelstiltskin,” she managed, torn between laughing aloud and simply gaping at him. He was so unlike any other knight she’d ever met, and he managed to both set her completely off-balance and make her laugh with every other word. It was unsettling, and Belle had no idea how to proceed.
“And you are a delight, Lady Belle,” he replied, grinning slyly, a smile she felt was meant just for her.
They passed the rest of the meal with less meaningful conversation – Sir Rumpelstiltskin explained he was returning home to his manor through a long route to avoid the spring marshes, and expressed his gratitude for their hospitality once again – and when the meal was finished, Belle rose to her feet. Even though he’d said nothing for the past quarter of an hour to unsettle or unsteady her, she still felt the pressing need to return to her rooms and be away from the knight for a while, to regroup and collect her thoughts if nothing else.
“How long will you be with us, then, sir?” Sir Maurice asked, and Sir Rumpelstiltskin spread his hands.
“A week, perhaps, if it is not too much trouble? The rains in the south plains have been particularly bad this season, and I would like to forstall a little to avoid the worst of it.”
“Of course,” Sir Maurice smiled, “you are our guest, you may stay as long as is needed.”
“Thank you,” Sir Rumpelstiltskin smiled genuinely to them both, “Truly, your hospitality is very much appreciated. I hope we shall part as very good friends.” He looked directly at Belle again as he said this last, and she felt the odd knot in her stomach that had been forming for a while tighten once more.
“I’m sure we will,” she replied, her voice tight. “Father, would it be possible for me to retire now? I have a matter to attend to.”
“Of course,” Sir Maurice inclined his head, and Belle thought he looked a little relieved that she was leaving. She wondered if he had caught onto the odd tension between herself and their new arrival, and if it unsettled him too. She wondered if that was a good thing. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said, and she curtseyed.
“Goodnight, father,” she said, and turned to their guest, “Goodnight, Sir Rumpelstiltskin, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure was all mine, my lady, I assure you,” he said, and while it was an innocuous phrase, Belle felt he imbued it with some kind of deeper meaning that tightened that knot still further. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” Belle curtseyed once more, and all but ran from the hall and back to her bedroom, her heart all of a sudden thudding in her ears.
A week, she thought, desperately: he was staying a whole week.
She shook her head, and glanced out of the window, frustrated to find that the moon had clouded over and so venturing to the lake was impossible. She cursed under her breath, and almost stomped her foot, her emotions heightened for some reason and causing her unnatural outbursts.
Three nights of a full moon, she reminded herself: she could go tomorrow, or the night after if need be. No need to lose her head over some clouds; nor over a warm, teasing smile and dancing dark eyes.
She shook her head, and after her maid helped her dress for bed, she curled under the covers and stubbornly buried herself back into Her Handsome Hero. She didn’t care what any stupid knight had to say: it was a work of romantic literary genius, and she would savour every word.