Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Prodigal Prince
The Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap thrummed with its usual revelry. The scent of ale and roasting meat mingled in the thick, smoky air, the fire in the hearth crackling like laughter in a warm embrace. Tankards clashed in riotous toasts, spilling frothy ale onto the already sticky floor, and the low hum of chatter rose and fell in waves, punctuated by the occasional bellow of mirth or the off-key strains of a drunken song.
At the heart of the chaos, Hal lounged at his usual table, his boots propped against a vacant stool, his smirk as careless as the crown he had long forsaken. His golden hair, made unruly by drink and disregard, fell into his eyes as he half-listened to Falstaff, who was, as ever, in the midst of some great and terrible lie.
“…and there I was, surrounded by twenty men, each one wielding a blade sharper than the last! Did I falter? Nay! I stood my ground and—”
“Ran for the nearest horse, no doubt,” Hal cut in smoothly, lips quirking as laughter erupted around them.
Falstaff gasped, hand to his chest as though Hal had struck him a mortal blow. “My lord, you wound me!” he lamented, rocking perilously on his feet. “I assure you, my courage is as boundless as the sea!”
Hal raised his tankard high, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “To Sir John Falstaff, the most valiant coward in England!”
A roar of agreement rang through the room, and the toast was met with a hundred eager gulps. Hal drained his own tankard in a single swallow, licking a drop of ale from his lips as the revelry resumed.
It was then that he saw her.
A barmaid wove her way through the crowded tavern, balancing a tray of drinks with practiced ease. Though her dress was plain, there was something in her bearing that set her apart—the way she held herself, the quiet confidence in her step. The firelight caught in her long, wavy red hair, making it glow like embers, and when she turned her head, her pale skin stood out even in the dim haze of the tavern.
Too refined, Hal thought. Too self-possessed for a place like this.
His gaze lingered, curiosity piqued, as she approached a table and expertly set down drinks, her voice too soft to reach his ears but touched with something light—something pleasant, though not familiar.
Beside him, Mistress Quickly bustled past, apron in hand, ever occupied with the demands of the house. Hal reached out lazily, catching the edge of her sleeve.
“Mistress Quickly,” he drawled, eyes never leaving the new girl. “Who’s the flame-haired wonder?”
Quickly followed his gaze and gave a knowing chuckle. “That’s Sophie, that is, my lord. New girl from the countryside.” She wiped her hands on her apron, glancing toward the barmaid with something almost fond in her eyes. “Came in a few nights ago looking for work, and well—I’ve got a soft spot for those with nowhere else to go.”
“Sophie, is it?” Hal leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs. “She doesn’t seem like the usual sort who ends up here.”
“No, she don’t,” Quickly admitted, hands on her hips. “She’s a hard worker, though. And a smart one. Picks things up quick.”
“She’s an odd fit.” Hal swirled the last remnants of ale in his tankard, tilting his head. “Almost like she doesn’t belong.”
Quickly shot him a sharp look. “Don’t you go scaring her off with your charm, my lord.”
Hal placed a hand over his heart, all mock innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But his eyes flicked back to Sophie, and something in him knew: dreams had a way of forming all on their own.
Sophie approached the table with careful precision, her tray balanced effortlessly despite the weight of fresh tankards sloshing with ale. The air around the prince’s table was thick with laughter and the acrid scent of spilled drink, but she kept her expression neutral, steady. She had been warned about Prince Hal’s reputation, his silver tongue his fondness for charming women into trouble—but seeing him in person was an entirely different matter.
He lounged in his chair as though the world itself were made for his amusement, exuding a careless ease that belied the sharpness in his gaze. His blue eyes missed nothing, taking her in with an interest that sent a ripple of awareness through her.
“Ah,” Hal drawled as she set down the first tankard, his smile the picture of mischief. “Our fair new barmaid. Tell me, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
Sophie placed the last tankard with practiced grace, ensuring not a drop spilled. She straightened, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Earning my keep, my lord.”
Hal arched a brow at her composed response, clearly entertained. “Is there anything else you require?” she added, her voice steady, professional.
“Plenty,” Hal quipped, his smirk deepening. Beside him, Falstaff let out a wheezing chuckle. “But for now, your name will suffice.”
She hesitated. A fraction of a second, but Hal caught it—he caught everything.
“Sophie Poole, my lord,” she said finally.
Hal tipped his head back slightly, rolling the name on his tongue as though testing its weight. “Sophie Poole,” he mused. “Tell me, Sophie Poole, have you heard of my many heroic deeds?”
Sophie hesitated again, but this time, a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—ghosted across her face.
“I’ve heard a great many things, my lord,” she answered lightly. “Whether they’re true remains to be seen.”
Falstaff erupted into laughter, nearly knocking over his drink as he slapped the table. “Oh, I like this one! She has spirit, Hal, she does!”
Hal studied her, interest sparking in his gaze. Most people—especially women—played along with his flirtations, eager for his favor. This one, however, met him word for word, neither flustered nor fawning.
He raised his tankard in a mock toast. “We shall see, Sophie Poole. We shall see.”
Sophie dipped her head, stepping back. “Enjoy your drinks, my lords.”
With that, she turned, vanishing into the swirl of movement and noise before he could summon her back.
Hal watched her go, his smirk lingering. Yes, there was something different about Sophie Poole. And he had every intention of finding out what.
The evening wore on, the tavern swelling with the raucous energy of men well into their cups. Laughter and slurred songs tumbled through the air, mingling with the thick scent of ale, sweat, and roasting meat. The fire burned low, casting flickering shadows across the wooden beams, while tankards clashed together in a never-ending chorus of revelry.
Sophie moved through it all like a ghost, weaving deftly between staggering patrons and precariously balanced drinks. She had learned quickly—keep your head down, keep your hands steady, and keep away from trouble. And trouble, she knew, had a name: Prince Hal.
Though she took care to skirt his table whenever possible, she could still feel the weight of his gaze on her now and then, an idle curiosity threading through the blue of his eyes. He was watching her. Assessing, perhaps. Does he suspect? Or was he simply amused by her quiet refusal to play into whatever game he wished to start.
She was halfway to the bar when a hand caught her arm.
“Don’t be shy, lass,” drawled a voice, thick with drink and good humor. Ned, one of Hal’s rowdier companions, grinned up at her, his hold loose but insistent. “Come join us for a drink. His Highness here could use some pleasant company.”
Sophie kept her expression smooth, though her fingers curled slightly around her tray. “I’m afraid I’m too busy for that,” she replied with polite detachment, gently but firmly tugging her arm free. “Perhaps another time.”
“Oh, come now,” Ned pressed, his grin widening as he reached again. “Surely you—”
“Let her be, Ned.”
Hal’s voice was light, almost lazy, but there was an edge beneath it, quiet and unmistakable. He leaned back in his chair, the flickering firelight catching in his hair, his gaze fixed on Ned rather than Sophie. He had not raised his voice, but there was a subtle shift in the air—a tightening, an expectation.
Ned hesitated, blinking as though considering whether to challenge it. Then, with a grumble, he let his hand fall away.
Sophie flicked a glance toward Hal. A brief, fleeting thing.
A second of gratitude, perhaps.
And then she was gone, moving back into the swirling throng of the tavern, vanishing into the sea of noise and motion as if she had never been there at all.
Hal watched her go, his fingers absently tapping against the rim of his tankard.
Curious.
Most women sought his attention. Sophie Poole, it seemed, was trying to avoid it.
That, he thought with a slow, thoughtful smirk, only made him all the more interested.