Espoir, Desir
by skazka

Espoir, Desir

skazka

Summary

Henry Bolingbroke is an absurdly youthful jousting champion and a man of few words. But his cousin is King of England, so that has to count for something.

Notes

Content notes in endnote, like usual, but nothing too gnarly. (In addition to the main pairing, background Henry/Mary de Bohun and, presumably Richard/Anne.)

Imported from Archive of Our Own. Original work id: 2063583.

Chapter 1

His tournament armor is splendidly worked, and had shone like the sun even coming away from the lists all muddied and bloodied, but it weighs just as heavily on him as any other harness. Henry's still sweat-soaked and half-winded, both arms aching like they're about to fall off. The earth-bound part of him wants nothing more than a drink of water and a place to collapse. He'll passively soak up the accolades he's due, and they can deliver the spoils once he's had a moment to catalogue various aches in private; elsewhere his unhorsed opponent is no doubt feeling similarly, though with less approbation and more bruises. The better and loftier part of him -- his spirits, he supposes, or his brain, though he'd stop short of ascribing the boyish pride mounting up in his chest to his immortal soul -- is still elated, and though pleased with itself knows there's still a lot to go. His armor's off now and the squire whose job it is to piece it apart off his exhilarated exhausted body has dropped in a low bow in the direction of the doorway. A piece clatters off the table to the floor, but neither of them pays it much attention.

The king stands before him in the doorway, slim and straight and golden and not even remotely out of breath. His cheeks are pink, but they often are, and he radiates pleasure. Henry gives a happy shout, hoarse as he is, and makes his own obeisances; in the same breath he turns, ready to dismiss the other boy should Richard so much as blink in his direction, but he's already gotten the picture and scuttled off like a bashful crab to relay word of the king's arrival and if they're lucky to fetch wine. (Of which there has been more than enough, which may account for the fine temper of the crowd. Henry's own throat still feels sticky and coarse.) The airless room feels small enough with only the two of them in it, and with his yards and yards of bundled-up green and gold cloth Richard brings with him a breath of the outdoors and open fields not yet churned up by horses' hooves.

The king trails his hands admiringly over Henry's armor as he passes, tracing straps and spangles. Cousin Richard, of course, does not joust; this has been decided for him in no uncertain terms, and he's never seemed particularly chafed by the restriction, content with spectatorship. Richard is as mad about hawks and hounds as Henry and the rest of his age-mates are, but he could never do what Henry does on horseback. A young king could never suffer himself to be unhorsed in full view of such a crowd -- much the less so if the challenger were to be French, what could that signify? There's something unsporting about his reluctance, but England can't afford it if its sovereign were to be killed in peacetime -- though Henry's father could probably could, Henry thinks sometimes, darkly. He can afford most anything.

(Even if John of Gaunt did harbor an odd qualm about his son and heir's martial pursuits he's not exactly begging Henry to climb down from the saddle and spend more time with his books. These thoughts have taken a sour turn, and it seems each of them is waiting for the other to say something -- about the victory, about the prizes. About whether Mary had been watching after all --she'd begun to feel dizzy after the first bout, and had been swept off to rest by Katherine Swynford. Perhaps Richard has come to bring some news of that; he couldn't have failed to notice it. It's the king's business to see everything.)

"Well done, cousin, heroically done. If only we had a hundred young knights like you in our service, we'd never stop holding tournaments -- though if they were all as fine as Henry of Lancaster we'd have to devise new feats of arms every week. They're still coming up with novel ones in Prague, there's a letter that says as much -- I should have the passage copied for you, only now I can't remember."

Richard is twisting the hem of his dagged sleeves between his fingers as he chatters away like a starling, both we and I at the same time and never clarifying if he means himself in collaboration with the King of Heaven or a more terrestrial group effort. He has a gift for looking hopelessly earnest and terribly smug at the same time-- it's something about his funny eyes. Praise from anyone Henry's own age is faintly embarrassing, but this is all out of kilter and all wrong -- there's nothing heroic about what he's done, except for doing it in the king's presence and managing not to get knocked head over heels by a mean-spirited Frenchman. He's done it before and if he's lucky he'll do it again, if he'd known how closely Richard would be watching he'd have done much better. Henry must find the right thing to say eventually, because his mouth starts moving and there's no immediate offense, but for the life of him he couldn't say where this sudden spring of graciousness came from.

Sensing an appropriate pause, Richard sweeps in for an embrace. This much has a precedent in boyhood, but something about the spontaneity of it and the ensuing clinch is too neat and too close. His kiss finds Henry's mouth on the way to his cheek, and Henry startles -- but his own mouth is open and the touch of the king's lips is clean and sweet. Out of habit Henry finds himself putting up a hand like he would with Mary, to sweep her closer, and that is enough to end it; Richard lifts his head, blinking owlishly, and Henry straightens his back with a keen awareness of his own muscles under his clothes.

"Congratulations," Richard says, breathlessly drawing back to his full height. Henry can't avoid the thought that he's trying not to stammer. He folds and unfolds his fingers, evidently surprised at the fact that salt sweat transfers onto everything it touches, on kings as well as hapless squires. They're both going to smell like horses for the rest of the evening, and Henry doesn't know where to look now -- in his eyes, at his lips. All the thoughts that surge to fill his head are thick and sentimental, altogether uncharacteristic of himself and not at all suited to clearing the air. That his sovereign is too kind, that this familiarity is an honor, that he didn't ask for his sovereign to wander in out of the heat of the day and plant one on him -- So he coughs, like an imbecile, and bows his head.

"Thank you." His French feels suddenly lamed in his throat, and the tips of his ears are burning. "Thank you, my liege."

"Wash up and go to your wife," the king says. "She's very proud of you. Don't be late to dinner."

The last of him to depart in a flash of gold and green is one of his big hands, brushing along the lintel in a gesture perhaps superstitious. Henry's mouth burns long after the king leaves and his squire belatedly returns with two cups; he can't help but feel hopelessly off-balance, as if he's missed the last step on a staircase or begun to slip in his stirrups -- Richard has made Henry's own victory all about him somehow and it's a wicked thing to do. This isn't what he wanted to remember about the day -- not the bone-rattling satisfaction of unseating an opponent in full view of men of good quality, or secure knowledge of his father's approval, but strange eyes and strange words behind closed doors.

End Notes

Content notes: teenagers kissing other teenagers who happen to be married to a third set of teenagers; reckless use of the majestic plural. This takes place in some nebulous historically flexible timeframe between '82-'84, so everyone is young and terrible.

Title's yoinked from Du Tournoi Lieu A St. Denis by Eustache Deschamps, which is not all that relevant here but cool. Anything semi-cool in this is soaked up by half-remembered Ian Mortimer osmosis; anything nonsensical is on me.