Work Text:
With a rousing swell of instruments, and no small amount of barely-restrained groaning from the assembled guests, The Duke's personal minstrel launched into the twenty-second verse of "The Ballad of Fair Isolde".
Henri looked to the young knights about him and shared a knowing glance, lifting his empty goblet up to eye level and shaking it gently. A few chuckles and nods marked his slipping from the group and venture towards the refreshments, pressing through the crowds with the grace and decorum of a siege tower. Setting his cup beneath the spigot of an aged barrel, he let out a contented sigh as the wine began to flow. The fruits of Artois were famed for their ability to make a beverage so sweet as to turn spite to camaraderie, so warm as to lift the dying to youthful vigour, and so strong as to render hour-long ballads almost tolerable.
As the minstrel prepared yet another simile for the curves of Isolde's cheek, Henri rolled his eyes and knocked back a mouthful of wine.
"Be careful, sir Knight," she had scolded him, playfully. "Too much from my father's vineyard and you will be round of belly and red of face far before your time."
Henri had stared at her, in a manner far from becoming of a Knight of Bretonnia. He had, he thought, at least kept his mouth from gaping open. So that was a small blessing, at least. With far too much trepidation, he swallowed the wine.
One brow arched playfully over a rich green eye that threatened to cut right through Henri. A twisting lock of auburn hair fell against an unblemished white cheek before she cast it idly aside. She had smiled at him, and he had nearly crushed the glass in his hand, smiling witlessly back in response.
"My lady," a voice had said, and for a moment Henri had thought it was his own, before a familiar grip landed on his shoulder, "I assure you that my good friend Henri here can turn a very fetching shade of scarlet without any help from the vine. Ah, see, there he goes now."
He turned his head slowly, as if the delay could make the intruder vanish.
René of Carcasonne was grinning up at him, curved lips framed by that dusting of dark hair that would perhaps one day become a fine beard. He had winked quickly, brown eyes twinkling by the candlelight as he gave one small squeeze of Henri's shoulder.
"And besides," René continued, "a strapping young man such as he can more than handle his wine. Which is more than I can say for some people." He motioned with a faint nod towards two of the castle's elderly officials, circling one another with bloody intent, quivering on drunken legs as they hurled half-formed insults at one another.
"Ah, gentle sers, please excuse me. I should handle this." The young woman had said before marching away towards the budding battleground, a trio of heavily-muscled men-at-arms flanking her in an instant as she did so. In a moment the waves of her hair and the burgundy of her dress had been obscured by her silently-summoned bodyguards.
The two young knights stood in silence, watching her go before Henri wheeled on the newcomer.
"And just what, exactly, did you think you were doing?" He demanded, trying to keep his voice low. Not that he really needed to. When arguments and fights broke out at court, the assembled nobles were always able to raise the volume of their own chatter to hide it. It was almost at a subconscious level, an evolutionary urge to help others save face.
"Saving you." Came René's blunt reply, giving a playful wiggle of his head before raising his own wine glass to his lips.
"Saving me from what, pray tell? A terrifying evening of delightful conversation with a beautiful woman?"
"From making an arse of yourself in front of the Duke's daughter."
Henri had opened his mouth to say something, but only a small strangled squeak came out. Something akin to a duck trying to clear its throat. He pointed in the direction the girl had ventured off, then back at himself.
"Yes, fair Henri, that was Emilie d'Artois, the daughter of our esteemed host. And you were already at a loss for words, so I thought I would step in and stop you from embarrassing yourself."
"I suppose I should be thankful," Henri said glumly, looking down at the other knight in distrust.
"My dear, you are a very capable warrior and you have the strength of a dozen raging bears," René patted his bicep through the man's dark blue tunic. "You can even exhibit more sparkling wit than anyone I've met, once you're comfortable. Catch you off your guard though and..." René trailed off, offering a forced smile.
"And what?"
René stared blankly and kept up his smile before loosing a long sigh and finishing his drink.
"Thank the Lady you're pretty, Henri." He said before taking his leave, wandering off into the crowd.
"And what, René?" Henri called out after him. "René?"
"René of Carcasonne!" The call from the crowds pulled Henri back from his daydreaming.
Sure enough, ahead of him and at the centre of a clearing in the assembled nobles, a familiar young man was stood atop one of the tables with lute in hand. He bowed to the cheers of the onlookers, and the venomous glance of the Duke's minstrel, flashing a smile as he turned on the spot.
"Friends and compatriots," René began, "brave knights of fair Bretonnia and all those who serve The Lady. I come before you to offer up a song in honour of gracious host."
A cheer rocked the hall and a toast was raised in the Duke's name. René's skills as a troubadour were famed across the Kingdom, and it was rumoured that the Duke himself had personally requested his presence at court, just to hear him sing.
"Three years ago I made my first visit to Artois," René continued, "and I met so many delightful people who were far kinder and more welcoming than I would ever have hoped for. This song is to rouse the spirits of the brave, the strong, the beautiful," Henri swore that the would-be bard flashed a glance and a fiendish smile in his direction, "and all of the above."
He gave the bristles of his slender moustache a twirl before giving an initial strum on his instrument. His singing was impeccable, the words humming along the walls of the hall, almost raising the firelight of the torches as his voice reached them. In the last few years, René had never fully managed to shed the lilt of his home Dukedom and it lent a seductive foundation to his singing. Every line conjuring images of rich sunsets over the warm plains of Carcasonne.
No warmth nor love have I, a need to find
For in the forest I have been twice blessed
Companionship and mirth, Artois provides
Under the boughs I long to take my rest
From behind him, somewhere in the masses, Henri heard two tankards clash together. Steel sparked, punctuating the recital with a screech of metal.
Henri brought his blade down in a great arc over his head, the width of the double-handed sword eclipsing the noon sun. Below, a crisp swing caught his weapon right at the tip, pushing it to the side by just a fraction of an inch, but the momentum and weight were enough to throw the knight off his balance and almost drive him to the floor. He let his blade sink into the soft, damp soil of the training ground and let out a chuckle.
"Excellent work," he said, grunting as he hefted the sword back up and onto his shoulder. "When your opponent goes all-out on the attack, do not waste effort trying to match them. Throw them off centre, let them fight to maintain balance, allow them to defeat themselves through exertion."
"He becomes such a poet in the heat of battle." René mused from under the cover of a wooden awning, his own sword sheathed at his belt and his shield bearing the blue, red and gold devices of his homeland resting nearby.
Henri's sparring partner hummed in amused response as she removed her helmet, letting her auburn hair loose. She had cut it much shorter than when the three of them had first met, a more martial and severe appearance, though the unmistakeable glint of mischief remained in her emerald eyes. Emilie nodded in agreement, looking Henri up and down.
"I'd say he is, at that." She laughed, "soon he'll be your rival in verse."
Henri scoffed, "Doubtful. I think I'll leave that world to the bards, the minstrels-" he shot a glance and a grin at René, "- and the jesters."
René feigned a wound, clutching his chest in mock anguish.
"You two, honestly." Emilie swatted at Henri, her gauntlet pinging off the shining metal of his armoured arm. "Bretonnia would have nothing to fear if the two of you were as expert in combat as you are at your clash of tongues."
"Our dear troubadour over there refuses to spar with me these days," Henri sighed, folding his arms. "I think René fears how big and strong I've gotten."
"On the contrary, I have become quite amazed with how big and strong you've gotten, dear Henri." René leaned over, resting his arms on the wooden post that separated them. "One day, though, we'll all be questing on missions of errantry. Hunting monsters, saving maidens, liberating castles. There's only so much glory to go around, so you can't expect me to go sharing all my martial secrets, can you?"
"Ah, do you perhaps have a secret technique where you sing your enemy to sleep with a tedious poem?"
"Henri, Henri," René shook his head and smiled. "your attempts to cajole me are as heavy and clumsy as that oversized meat cleaver of yours."
"And yet it's working, isn't it?"
René sighed, thought for a moment, and readied his sword.
As the cheers built up around him, Henri realised with embarrassment that he had been daydreaming his way throughout the entirety of his friend's song, lost in his memories of the previous summer. By now, the Duke himself had stepped forwards, a giant of a man in a burgundy tabard. He raised his hands for quiet, and silencing the entire congregation in an instant.
"Loyal Knights and heroes," he addressed them, his voice a rumbling quake. "Noble sons and daughters of Bretonnia. Some of you have travelled far to be at my court this evening, others of you have been honoured guests for some time, still more hail from the Baronies within my own lands. All of you, I know, are hungry to prove yourselves and make evident your honour on behalf of your lords."
A murmur rippled through the assembled nobles, though the drive for a raucous cheer had now seemed to have dissipated. Everyone knew that more serious matters were now at hand.
"Well, you will all now have your chance." The Duke told them. "At dawn, we will make preparations to ride to Gisoreux. Messengers from our neighbours in the east have sent word of an Orc horde rampaging its way from the forests. They look determined to march on the city and make their predictable brand of mischief.
Before they can reach the walls, they will hear our trumpets sound. They will know that death rides out to meet them. My good friend, the Duke of Gisoreux, thinks himself the greatest hunter in the whole Kingdom. Perhaps we can give him pause for thought when we bring down our quarry of a barbarian army."
Now came the cheer, brazen and passionate, echoing off the walls and rising in volume as every knight got to their feet and joined in the battle cry.
The call still rang in Henri's ears as he settled in for what few hours of sleep he could find before dawn.
The music was slow enough that Henri was able to actually keep track of the steps that his two companions made as they gently danced under the stars. Normally the musicians favoured frantic, energetic melodies that brought to mind the wild folk dances of the peasant folk in the countryside.
Emilie led René through the steps, though it was almost entirely for Henri's own edification. She pointed out each turn and twist, her arm around her partner's waist and resting on his hip. It was a remarkably scandalous routine, and Henri found himself glad that they had chosen to take the lesson outside. The music was still very clear, but they were away from the watchful eyes and clucking tongues of their peers.
"I think it might be dear Henri's turn." René purred, sliding away from Emilie and giving the pointed taper of his own beard a small tug.
"I don't think I've had nearly enough wine for this." Henri told them.
"Nonsense," René advanced on him, placing a hand on his waist and guiding Henri's own to his shoulder. Their free hands linked, they began to work through the same steps, the larger knight trying his best to recite them all in his head as he danced. "Not all things in this world come back to battles and wine, my friend."
"I'd feel far less awkward on the battlefield, of that I'm sure."
Another hand joined their grip, and Emilie stepped in closer.
"Then you need to learn to let go." She told him.
As if on cue, the music shifted, turning to the frenetic revelry that they had all come to expect. The night air filled with song, shouts, laughter and the scuffing of a mighty warrior doing his best to keep up.
Henri had awoken from the dream a little before dawn, getting himself prepared and to the stables ahead of his fellow knights. Eager energy was coursing through him, and he wanted to make sure that he was at the speartip of the hunting party. If he trusted in himself, he knew that first blood would be his.
Finding his horse, Castor, and giving the stallion a welcoming pat on the flank, Henri made ready to set out. Sword across his back, armour in place. He thought of the stories he would be able to share with-
"Always eager for glory," René chastised him, stepping out from the doorway, framed by the rising sun. He was in his own gleaming armour, sword at his belt and carrying his shield. "But don't think you'll be getting it all."
"No indeed," Emilie followed him in, hoisting a lance over her shoulder. "Not when clearly I'll be getting the greater share."
The three looked between each other, the same impish grin dancing between the three young faces.
Henri shook his head and sighed. Sharing stories was fine. Perhaps it would be just as good to make stories with them.