Chapter Text
“I’m going to murder someone if I have to listen to another rash of fake giggling,” she whispers into the ear of the ale boy beside her.
He gives her a vague look of sympathy before he straightens up at his post.
She sucks on a tooth.
She’s been listening to the raucous jumble of festivities for the better part of two hours and god , is it grating. Such welcome celebrations are always highly choreographed, political affairs, but this one is the most obnoxious in recent memory. Count d’Alencon insisted on welcoming his guest with the biggest of spectacles, and this particular guest of honor, true to his reputation, seems to have a—
“Wine girl!”
—penchant for charming all the men and flirting with all the ladies.
She smooths down her simple linen service dress, picks up the carafe, and makes her way over to the end of the second table where she’s been called.
One of Alencon’s henchmen, already wildly drunk, requires a refill.
“Faster next time, girl,” he snaps, mouth half full of food. She does well to dodge the flying bits.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take care not to spill it!”
She hasn’t.
“Of course, sir.”
She finishes the pour and wipes the spout of the carafe with its own linen.
She counts her blessings when she makes it back to her post unscathed.
The guest of honor is now, of course, regaling the head table with tales of his latest battle victory at the port of Privas. All very impressive, she’s sure. She hardly manages to suppress the roll of her eyes.
He is, at least, every bit as pretty as they’d said.
Long ringlets of black curls where other men are balding. Good grooming. Plush lips to cushion all the lies he surely tells. Rather easy on the eyes.
His dress smacks of wealth too, of course. Rumor has it that the bulk of it has come from Alencon, and she harbors little doubt; the man has always been rather poor with his money. No doubt a serpent could ingratiate himself and manipulate the court for personal gain.
Green and gold threads weave together in a contrasting but flattering, intricate pattern reminiscent of vines, stretching across his chest and arms. Two identical coats of arms are woven subtly into the fabric of either breast—his family crest, most likely. A heavy-looking dress cloak is tied with braided strands near his neck.
She hums once in mild frustration. She can’t deny that he dresses tastefully.
She attributes his apparent lack of drunkenness to the fact that he’s a boulder of a man. He’s already called her over for refills thrice, which would be enough for nearly anybody else. Count Alencon is long gone, as is commonplace. The man spends less time sober than he does teetering on drunk.
She starts to drift away in thought when something startles her back to reality: the guest of honor himself, gesturing her forward with two thick, curled fingers.
She clears her throat, if a little ungracefully.
He stares her down the entire time she spends closing the distance between them, much as he did the first three times. She holds her own ground, though, choosing to stare back even as politeness dictates she look away.
She raises one eyebrow, just a little bit, as she approaches his place at the head table. She can’t help herself.
She pours slowly, turning the carafe in her hand to minimize runaway droplets and unnecessary aeration. As she does, she feels his eyes trailing up and down the length of her body, just as she thought he’d done before.
“Why don’t I keep you here with me,” he starts slowly as her eyes meet his: dark, smoldering, bespeckled with green and hazel. His accent is different from those in her household, rougher around the edges but full of restrained effort to sound like a nobleman. If anyone else notices, they don’t show it, and the deep, rich undertone in his voice does wonders to smooth over any concerns about his provenance. “...so you don’t need to keep running back and forth.”
She tilts her head at the obvious bullshit. “Is that why?” she asks, quietly, knowing well that it is dangerous to question a man of superior status.
A knowing sparkle enters his eyes; the side of his mouth turns up in a smirk.
“I have others to serve.”
The man shrugs haughtily, dancing on the very edge of arrogance. Then he turns his head back towards whatever Alencon is babbling on about.
She knows she would be smart to do the same.
She picks a spot on the table and focuses on it, save for the lulls in conversation when her new charge drinks from his chalice.
She refills it each time, immediately, just to make a point.
But he simply smirks, a little wider each time, until she finally sees him chuckling in her periphery.
She begins to zone out again just as she hears him speak, this time down the table instead of towards her.
“Quite the marvellous tourte parmerienne, Pierre. You have a new chef in your employ?”
Count Alencon looks up, mouth positively stuffed with mashed potato. He points, more than a little rudely, with a greasy drumstick.
“Thhawt whas—” he swallows, thank heavens, “—probably also Alla. Works in the kitchens as well. Very talented with pies.”
A self-righteous smirk of her own comes over her before she can stop it.
The man before her looks momentarily stunned. Truthfully, she finds it a bit offensive, something which she tries to telegraph with the very briefest of glares.
He sits back, sparkle still in his eyes. “Alla,” he says, softly, echoing her name.
“You want the recipe?”
He ignores her outright.
“That’s not a French name, is it?”
She swallows, suppressing the sudden urge to cross her arms. “No. Moscovian.”
“Ah. Are you all the way from the Grand Duchy?”
“No,” she says flatly, “the Catholic orphanage in Saint-Germain-du-Corbéis likes to name the babes after Saints.”
His expression changes, just for a flash of a second, much too quick to read.
“ Saint Alla.”
She nods curtly.
“Granted Sainthood for—?”
“She died screaming as she burnt to a crisp inside a Christian church for refusing to renounce her faith,” she says casually, topping up his glass when he sets it down again.
This time, his eyebrows raise. There’s a small smile on his face. It’s a horrible thing to say over a dinner table, much less to a guest of a noble house, but he looks much more amused than slighted.
“Mhm,” he ponders with a glint in his eye, swirling the wine before him. “And now they give her namesake to similarly stubborn women, I take it?”
She smiles for real this time. “Precisely.”
A few beats pass before he asks.
“Don’t you want to know mine?”
“Everyone knows yours.”
He holds a hand to his chest in mockery, as if touched. “You flatter me.”
“With a reputation like yours, who needs an introduction?” This time, she looks him up and down. “Or wants one.”
That glint in his eyes only brightens.
“And what reputation would that be?”
Alla keeps her mouth shut. She’ll flirt with insubordination, but blatant rudeness seems a poor choice given all the present company.
“You can tell me,” he cajoles.
“I think you already know.”
“Do I?”
She does a once-over of the head table, mostly to have an excuse to look anywhere else.
Then she drops her voice low enough that no one else can hear over the general volume of the hall.
“Isn’t Privas landlocked by mountains, my lord? I’m shocked to learn they have a port.”
When she looks back at him with a knowing glance, she finds a bemusing mix of warning and surprise written into his face.
“And your exploits with the ladies,” she continues, quietly, “I can’t help but wonder if perhaps those are lies, too?”
To his credit, he picks the gauntlet up quickly.
“Come find out, then.”
She laughs low in her chest.
“ Noli prohicere maccaritas ad porcos. ”
His brows jump again.
“ Dum spiro, spero, ” he returns just as quickly.
She half shakes her head, unable to banish a smile.
“You are very charming. This is the one compliment I give you.”
“The first of many.” He leans forward in his chair and regards her with renewed curiosity. “Now you’ve truly captured my interest. A servant who quotes Latin at me—if poorly pronounced—”
She wrinkles her nose in slight offense.
“—and a woman, no less.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure they shant replace you with me at Court.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
She squares her shoulders a bit haughtily. “You haven’t asked one.”
“How does that happen?”
He says it with an air of seriousness; he wants a straight answer this time, verbal sparring apparently suspended until further notice.
She clears her throat uncomfortably.
“I listen,” she looks at her fingernails as she speaks. “Bits and pieces, that’s all. And poorly pronounced, as you’ve so helpfully pointed out.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Count D’Alencon bangs on the table at a joke told several seats down, sending a splash of wine onto the table before her.
She wipes it clean.
“What other talents do you possess, little Alla?”
His words give little away, but his tone betrays his meaning. Clearly his blood runs hot.
“Mostly staying quiet and doing as men tell me,” she returns with a dry, acerbic sarcasm.
Its biting edge isn’t lost on the man before her. It is, however, apparently lost on Alencon, who drops back into the conversation with all the grace of a mule.
“That’s why she’s—” he swallows a mouthful of wine sloppily, “—one of my favorites.”
“A favorite of many, I’m sure,” the guest of honor says softly, still holding her eyes.
“Are you monopolizing my wine wench, Jacques?” Alencon tsks loudly from his seat in the middle of the table. “You’re not my only squire you know, though I often wish you were.”
That gets a few laughs, but his point is made.
“Pleasure,” she says curtly, nodding to the man with just enough politeness to get by without anyone else noticing something.
“All mine.”
He extends a long arm in an intricately embroidered sleeve, holding his ring hand out in a fist.
She sighs with the kind of quiet exhaustion that only comes from serving others all day, but lays her hand beneath his and dips her head, as is custom.
She presses her lips to the golden cygnet on his smallest finger—the Count’s crest—and then to the larger ring on the next finger.
Only he seems to notice that she bites the gemstone.
Alla doubles over the wooden counters of the scullery, parched and starving. Feasts provide great entertainment for guests but little pleasure for servants, who slave away all day—sometimes several days—in preparation. She has been no exception: on her feet all day, first making pastry, then filling, then whole pies, all in the hot, humid, cramped kitchen. Serving her betters is no light work, either. It means nonstop service, unfailing politeness, more standing, and usually more than her fair share of being chastised or screamed at.
She is exhausted, but she refuses to go to sleep without eating something first.
A small bowl of oats sits atop the counter, flanked by the few leftover chestnuts that she managed to disappear without being caught.
She stands like this, back all hunched over, shoveling the porridge in her mouth so she can take her rest soon.
That’s when a floorboard from the staircase creaks loudly.
Alla jumps. It would be very bad news indeed to be found with—
Her train of thought screeches to a halt when she sees him standing in the doorway, leaning to one side with his arms crossed.
“Christ,” she hisses.
“No, just me.”
She practically groans as heavy steps grow closer.
“You’re here less than a day and already up my ass,” she grits out, dropping all pretenses of politeness now that they find themselves alone.
It’s the kind of language that absolutely warrants a beating, but she takes the risk anyway. He’s obnoxious enough to make it worth it, and besides, she’s growing increasingly confident that he doesn’t care much for rules.
“Not yet,” he says smoothly, “but I would like to be.”
She sets down her spoon with a small, dull thud. “Ah, so the truth outs. You are vulgar.”
“And you,” he reaches across her when he reaches the counter, snatching a chestnut from by her side before popping it into his mouth “are rude.”
She sighs and turns back to her meal, intent on ignoring him.
“These are shite,” he says.
“Well, I was eating them.”
“Yes. Why?” He peers his head over her shoulder, and all at once she becomes aware of his full height. “That looks shite too.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m only saying. Where are your pies? I meant it, they were lovely.”
“That kind of food isn’t for servants.”
“Why not? You made them.”
“Ask your liege. You’ll find that the Count is not so liberal when it comes to servant expenditures.”
He hums, closer to her ear this time. It unnerves her to have someone—a man especially—right behind her.
“Just take a few next time.”
“I could be whipped.”
“I could sneak you some,” she swears his breath is getting closer to her ear, “We could form an alliance.”
“I’m not trading food for sex, but thank you for your most generous offer.”
“Are you quite sure?”
Yes, his breath is definitely in her ear now. A moment later, she feels the ghost of a hand smooth over her ass, and—
Alla rounds on him, just small enough to make the turn between his body and the counter.
“Did you know,” she breathes dangerously, half-impressed she sounds so confident when she has to look that far up, “that one can make a poison from the pits of cherries?”
She pauses when he raises a brow.
“It’s tasteless. Scentless. I keep some pits,” she nods at a row of jars on the far side of the room, “for enemies. Do you have enemies, my lord?”
He chuckles once, deep in his chest and seemingly more from disbelief than amusement. “I do,” he says slowly. “And I’m not particularly looking for any more.”
She looks him up and down once.
He takes one step back.
“I’m so very glad to hear that.”
“You are something else,” he breathes—more to himself than to her, she thinks.
She folds her arms. “You may leave.”
He just shakes his head, an expression of mock disapproval forming on his face. “I dismiss you, not the other way around.”
“Well. I was eating. And I have nothing to say to you.”
He glances between her and her bowl. “But I have plenty to say to you . Come with me to my rooms. You can eat—and drink with me.”
“No.”
He frowns a little bit—it’s almost a pout.
“You would enjoy yourself.”
“Uh huh,” she hums through a mouthful of porridge.
“You don’t even know the things I could do with you—”
“Yes, yes,” she waves her hand, “I’m sure you fuck like an animal or whatever. Good for you.”
He looks momentarily shocked.
Then he bursts out laughing—a real laugh, with real warmth and a richness in depth. She nearly smiles in return, but catches herself just in time.
“Is it possible to love someone you’ve just met?”
The same glint from before dances in his eyes.
“No, and you should get that checked out. You sound hysterical.”
“Only women catch hysteria.”
“Then you’re the first documented case of it jumping the sexes. Well done.”
“Well,” he hums. His thumb skates over her upper arm when she turns away for a bite. “There’s a first for everything.”
“There’s not,” she shoots over her shoulder. “It won’t happen.”
“Not tonight, I take it.”
“Never.”
Alla hears another low, rich chuckle. It grates on her how much she likes the sound of it, of his voice.
“We’ll see.”
“I’m not trying to catch something.”
The hand on her arm moves up, onto her shoulder. He grasps it firmly and uses his leverage on it to whip her around.
“Now that ,” he says with much more sternness, “I find truly rude. I should whip you myself.”
She puffs out her chest. “Do it then.”
He hesitates for a moment. “I prefer not to hurt my women.”
“Luckily, I’m not part of your harem. Perhaps you’re not man enough to do it.”
He smirks again, this time dangerously.
“One way or another, you will find out exactly how much of a man I am. Perhaps I should whip you when I take my leave of this estate, once for every time you have disrespected me by then.”
She leans back against the counter and scoffs. She isn’t entirely sure what to make of him, the filthy rich playboy liar with pretty hair.
“I’ll be waiting,” she murmurs, breathy as she can muster, verging on seduction.
A stretch of silence passes between them. She follows his gaze down her body, then slowly back up.
He extends his hand after a while, palm up, and it’s clear what he wants.
Instead of placing her own in it delicately as custom dictates, she moves to shake his hand as another man would.
She gets away with it for a fraction of a second.
Then she finds herself flush up against him, having been yanked forward, his other arm encircling her back.
“You are not my equal,” he says in a near-whisper, turning her arms to gooseflesh, “and you will not act as if you are.” He pauses. “If it’s a power struggle you want, then you shall get it in my bed, where you belong.”
She has to force herself to swallow, half suffocated in his grasp anyways.
“Are we clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Good.” His mouth moves from side to side for a moment; he looks down to the place where her breast meets some part of his abdomen. “Good girl.”
Then reaches with his free hand and brings her right one to his lips.
He kisses gently across the knuckles, a gesture typically reserved for higher status ladies. He holds her gaze as if he hadn’t just given her a verbal lashing at all.
He lets go, then, and she stumbles backwards a pace.
“It was lovely making your acquaintance,” he says, apparently reverting back to polite formalities.
Her own mouth hangs open for a second. “And yours.”
He turns with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish of his cape and only looks back at her when he reaches the foot of the spiral staircase up to the manor. “We will discuss this later,” he says rather as if he’s just left a business arrangement.
He climbs a single step, then seems to think better of it.
“Sleep well, little Alla,” he calls back.
And then he’s gone, leaving her to wonder if she’s just dreamt of the strangest encounter of her life.
Her heart pounds heavy in her chest, pulse racing. She has to brace her arms and rub hard to make the gooseflesh disappear.
The thought of enjoying the rest of her oats is long gone now. Now she needs to run to bed, to dispense with the pulsing heartbeat between her legs.
“Alla.”
The girl yelps and clutches at her chest, wheeling around to find the source of the noise.
A figure emerges from the shadows of the spices and flours room—a matronly woman, Hélène, who typically makes flatbreads alongside her in the kitchen.
“Dear Jesus, I hope people will stop jumping out at me.” Alla gulps in an effort to fully catch her breath. She straightens up from where she’d been bracing herself on the counter. “God,” she murmurs as it fully dawns on her, “how long have you been there?”
Hélène takes a few tentative steps forward, just enough to where she can wipe down her own section of prep counter. “Long enough, dear girl.”
“God.” She hides her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Alla.”
The sound of her name makes her look up again.
The other woman shakes her head slowly, as if in warning. “Jacques Clyde Le Ren may be a trusted advisor of Count d’Alencon, but he is not trustworthy. He is a powerful, dangerous man. More dangerous than you can imagine.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head once more. “Do not involve yourself with him, child.”
She nods quickly, sniffling once. She wipes a hand over her face as if it might work magic and clear her mind. “Yes, mum. Thank you, mum.”
The woman casts a single rueful glance her way, and there Alla sees a lifetime of experience imbued in the look.