Chapter Text
In the xviiiith year of the civil wars, the people at last found a reprieve. Men returned to the fields and disease no longer stalked the land. At the coronation of the new king, a rainbow could be seen across the sky, and all gave thanks to the gods for blessing his reign. Father Benedict had a new shrine to Navras raised in this year.
(from the Chronicle of Densbury, by an anonymous monk at Densbury Abbey, circa 1450-1500)
James did feel blessed. His life so far had been a marvel: he was born after his own father’s death, so he’d held a title even at a day old, and his mother’s inheritance meant that they’d commanded half the land in three counties. And then he’d become the heir apparent to his second cousin, a failing and beleaguered king, and then the king had died and he’d become the hope of the entire family and its vassals … and then he had won. He’d commanded armies into victory after victory, routed the usurpers, won over those who’d followed them, and was welcomed as the rightful monarch by the kingdom.
He didn’t know why the gods had chosen him, but he agreed with the priests that they must have. More than a month after he took the throne, the omens continued to be good, and even his dice games of an evening went in his favor. There were still remnants of the usurpers to deal with, of course, but his lords’ armies were doing a fine job of finishing them off.
Perhaps they’d chosen him because they knew he would be a good king. Not, perhaps, a brilliant one — his arena was the battlefield, the long military campaign — but he could make people get along with each other, and that seemed the main thing. He’d started taxes being collected again and was putting the money into a sensible amount of luxury, enough to keep himself head and shoulders above his lords but not enough to draw grumbles about wasteful decadence or to bankrupt the country.
This was helped along by the tribute periodically brought to him by the families of the failed claimants to the throne. Rarely as crass as trunks full of gold, they were more likely to give him rich silks, furs, and so on, that he could then use in decorating himself and his palace; books, too, which he accepted as valuable gifts despite his total lack of interest in them. And then there were the hostages.
Nobody called them anything as blatant as hostages. James certainly didn’t use the word. He just asked politely for certain members of certain families to come to court, a request that couldn’t be refused, and then those families would have to think long and hard about rebelling when he could have those sons and daughters and cousins executed in the blink of an eye. It was a system that worked very well, and truly, he didn’t think most of them minded it. Lord Thomas Piltcharney certainly didn’t think of himself as a hostage: he was too busy getting excited over the joust announced in a fortnight’s time. Lady Blanche Marris didn’t seem to either, nor her friend Sir Robert Hartshorn, to whom she’d probably be betrothed in a few more weeks. James was very determinedly cultivating a court that at least superficially seemed to be beyond the wars that had split the country for years and years.
This was why it was so surprising when Lord Atfrey strode into the small presentation room, bowed, and announced, “Your grace, I bring you a hostage.”
“Oh?” James tried not to look surprised. “How very good of you. And where is this hostage?”
Atfrey cleared his throat theatrically, and two of his burly sons came forward on either side of a younger man who was very obviously not of their party. Slim, short, and dressed in rusty black wool, he seemed like he ought to have been picking pockets or opening locked doors down in the city — though that wasn’t fair, James rebuked himself; it was just that the lad looked like he could melt into a crowd with that ordinary face and slip through a chimney with those narrow shoulders.
“I have the honor of bringing you Simon d’Azy.” A murmur started to race around the room, and James couldn’t stop the fillip of his own heart. Simon d’Azy? Duke of Mendon? The last claimant who actually had a direct claim to the throne — one technically even better than his own? The man who didn’t stand a chance of winning, but kept very successfully making raids with tiny war parties on James’s forces even though he should have understood that he’d lost?
“Well, that is an unexpected …” No word seemed exactly correct, and James dismissed the sentence. “Thank you, Atfrey. I hadn’t even heard that you’d engaged in battle, let alone won, though it’s not surprising.”
“It was just yesterday, your grace. We traveled all night to bring him here.” Atfrey and his sons were practically glowing, knowing that this was the ultimate triumph and better for them than giving the king half a dozen prosperous estates. D’Azy was just glowering.
“You have my gratitude.” The sons should be given titles, but they could be figured out later. Everyone understood that rewards would be coming.
James meant to get to his feet slowly, ponderously, in a way that showed his utter control of his person, his court, and, really, his country. Instead he found himself doing it briskly and then striding forward to see his prisoner, making Atfrey and his sons move out of the way at speed. This was, admittedly, more interesting than the entry of most of his hostages. They were important, but not on a personal level. He’d never cursed any of them for being a thorn in his side.
D’Azy didn’t blanch when the king came toward him, nor did he fall into a bow. His hands formed fists and then relaxed in what was surely a conscious choice — so he was also making a conscious choice not to make an obeisance. Interesting.
Up close, his face was a bit more distinctive, with a long nose and heavy eyebrows; grey eyes that burned into James’s with something that wasn’t quite a glare. He wasn’t broken, and it was easy to see the determination in him that had led him to keep fighting well past the point when hope had been lost.
“Good day, my Lord Mendon.”
“Good day.” A long pause, long enough to make their audience lean forward in anticipation. “My Lord Bencham.” The use of James’s old title set every tongue going like a horse in canter and probably every mind turning to acts of attainder, but he could have laughed out loud in delight at the challenge.
“You don’t think another title might be more appropriate at this time?”
“No, my lord.” D’Azy looked around at the tapestries on the walls of the presence chamber as though he were surprised to find himself there. “My lord is the Duke of Bencham, isn’t he?”
“He is indeed, since he hasn’t given it up.”
“Well, Bencham Castle’s a very fine seat.”
“It is, it is. It’s in excellent repair, very comfortable, and isn’t damp in the slightest. Better than most of the others I own, although there are a few that are too grand for it to stand up against. Hexam Palace, for instance.” Hexam had been finished fifty years ago by a king famed for his lavish spending, and it looked it; James’s predecessor had used it as a summer residence for his family and the court, and James intended to continue the custom in a month or two, before the city became unhealthy with miasmas off the river.
D’Azy only shrugged at this, which was a little disappointing — though it was still unimaginable, wonderful rudeness.
“So, then,” said James, bringing around the main business, “you aren’t giving up on this claim that you should be considered the king?”
“No, my lord. Of course not.” D’Azy cocked his head to one side, ignoring the hisses and gasps around them.
“Really?”
“Really.”
James tapped a fingernail against the golden crown that sat on his head for mornings spent in the presence chamber. It was a weighty thing, heavy enough from the density of its metal and made heavier by the rubies and sapphires as big as hens’ eggs set into it: something you certainly couldn’t forget about while wearing it, and it seemed very noticeable to those who were looking at you as well. “Yet I’m the one wearing this.”
D’Azy shrugged again. “Kings aren’t a matter of crowns. Do you think a crown prince only becomes king during his coronation, or the moment after his father dies?” A beat. “And besides, my lord, you haven’t had your coronation yet, even though you’re wearing your crown already.”
It was a good argument. Coronations took months to arrange, and sometimes didn’t even happen for years if the political situation was too unstable. “What’s a king but a man who’s been proclaimed as such, and followed by his people?” he countered.
“A king is the rightful heir of the rightful heir, going back as far as you can. Someone might be the heir of a usurper, but that doesn’t make him a king.”
“Because that’s you, in your eyes. Or in your mother’s.”
Raising his chin a fraction of an inch higher, d’Azy certainly looked like he thought himself a king, but he said nothing. James suddenly remembered that there were others present and glanced around the presence chamber; the assembled courtiers were stunned into silence, watching with wide eyes and involuntarily clasped hands, as if they thought they were about to see an execution. It was foolish of them. James would never jump to a death sentence, much less carry one out with his own hands in the middle of the court, especially when there was so much benefit to be gained from keeping the guilty party around. Oh, he would be rewarding Atfrey and his sons — titles and estates for everybody and marriages to heiresses where applicable.
“Well,” said James, and deliberately turned to put his back to Simon d’Azy as he strolled back to his throne. His throne. “I’m the one sitting under the cloth of state, and I’m the one whose orders are followed, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t much care for your mother’s proclamations about bloodlines.” He settled himself into the cushions very comfortably, and gazed out at the crowd of courtiers who were visibly easing. This was about the show, now, not the conversation. “Since you’re to stay at court, you’ll need something better to wear than … that.” A titter. D’Azy’s face flushed. “A poor showing for a member of a king’s retinue, let alone a king, don’t you think? We must have you properly clothed and shod. Piltcharney?”
Thomas was nearby, which was his prerogative and his requirement as Groom of the Gauntlets, a position that theoretically consisted of keeping and handing over royal gloves when they were wanted. “Your grace?”
“Take our young friend to the wardrobes and have the tailors fit him with something appropriate to his station.” Thomas knew exactly what he meant, and grinned. Yes, this hostage situation was working even better than intended.
“Of course, your grace.” Sweeping into a grand bow, Thomas removed his own plumed cap, then backed down the crimson carpet until he reached d’Azy. The whelp wasn’t going to go without some force, clearly, and Thomas grasped his arm and pulled him back several more steps until they were at the midpoint of the room, where they were allowed to turn around without implying any lack of respect. They hurried out and the spectators closed back in, not leaving any indication that Simon d’Azy had ever been there.
They seemed pleased. The murmurs that James could make out were full of praise for how the king was full of mercy, how the king had outwitted his opponent, how d’Azy would learn to show respect. It was enough to make a man smug, and he did let himself bask for a moment in his triumph — you had to, when a battle went well, in order to keep up morale.
D’Azy would learn respect. James would either see him turn his coat like all the others who’d been defeated in the war, or see him break. And in the meantime, he would be an excellent source of entertainment.