Chapter Text
Mother died in the winter. Aimeric was told she had lost her footing and fallen down the stairs, overbalanced by her heavy furs. It seemed to be going around. The young King had died six months prior, when his horse had thrown him from a cliff, spooked by a summer storm; Councillor Herode had slipped on black ice and split his head open in the gardens only a week before.
The worst thing about it was that Aimeric had to leave court. Richard was gentle with him when Aimeric clung to his robes and begged. “Please,” he said. “Richard, I don’t want to leave you! It’s awful, being away from you!”
Richard’s eyes were red rimmed, and he placed a bejewelled hand on Aimeric’s cheek. “Dear boy,” he said, in a kind tone. “It grieves me too. But you must go, and be a comfort to your family.”
Aimeric’s family couldn’t care less about him. His brothers wouldn’t even notice if he never came home ever again. He said this to Richard, and cried prettily whilst he did so. He’d practised. Richard didn’t respond well to ugly tears.
Richard’s handsome face creased with concern. “Sweet child,” he said. “We must help and serve our family, however they need us.” He took Aimeric’s chin in his hand and tilted it up. “Stop crying now,” he said. Aimeric did. He brushed the tears away. “Am I not devoting myself to my nephew as his Regent, despite his… inadequacy?”
Aimeric nodded, eyes brimming. The Prince was so cruel to Richard, and so dismissive of his help.
“And besides,” Richard said, “even in Fortaine you may be of use to me.”
Something inside Aimeric thrilled. All he wanted was to be near Richard, but to be useful was a close second. “Yes,” he said breathlessly. “Anything, anything for you.”
Richard smiled his perfect smile, and took Aimeric into his arms.
Fortaine was awful. Nothing happened there. His brothers were loud, and when they weren’t loud, they were messy, and when they were neither it meant something terrible was about to happen.
Everything smelt faintly like cabbage, too. Aimeric was learning that cabbage was one of their primary exports, largely against his will.
Worst of all, news from court took weeks to arrive. Aimeric had never had any particularly close friends there - why would he need them, when he had a lover as completely enthralling as Richard - but it took so long to receive letters from court that those he did have, he largely stopped communicating with.
His days were full of lessons: learning about the estate, learning about the life-cycle of the cabbage, learning about irrigation channels, learning about how to talk to a peasant about what had befallen their smallholding, learning how and when taxes and tithes were to be collected, i.e learning how to be of use to Tomas (his eldest brother) when he took over the estate. Aimeric would rather eat cabbage every day for the rest of his life than be of use to Tomas.
Six months in, Aimeric did receive a bundle of breathless letters. It was like everyone he’d ever known at court had decided to write to him at once.
Fortaine! I write with the most shocking news…
Aimeric, you will not believe it…
Mimi, your eyes are going to fall out of your head when you read this…
Aimeric didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. So the Prince had been given some sort of Achielon (disgusting) slave (worse) and then he had treated it just as horribly as he treated everyone else, and then he had… what, lost it? Theories abounded. One of his friends thought the Prince had killed it. Another one thought he had sold it to a brothel. Yet another had suggested the stupidest theory yet - that he had let it go free.
That one also went on about the slaves’ appearance ad nauseum, alongside some florid descriptions of how the slave had looked standing next to the Prince, and the - glances? exchanged? which honestly turned Aimeric’s stomach and encouraged him to discount the entirety of the missive.
Anyway, apparently the Regent - dear Richard - had been so upset at the Prince for disregarding (so cruelly!) this peace offering from the new King of Achielos, that he’d stripped the Prince of some lands or something. Aimeric hated the Prince for causing trouble for Richard.
There was no letter from Richard himself.
Aimeric’s heart ached for him.
He couldn’t blame him for not writing. He must be so busy, cleaning up the Prince’s messes. So Aimeric flung himself down at his desk - well, a table he had retrieved from the old nursery and crammed into the corner of his tiny room - and penned off an impulsive missive. My darling, he started. Then he stopped. What if Richard didn’t like that? What if it was too soppy for him? Aimeric had called him darling before but that had been when… well. He blushed to recall it.
Dear Richard, he wrote instead. He stared at the paper. Oh no. The Prince had got in trouble, hadn’t he, for disregarding niceties (amongst other things). Maybe such a tender informality would bring to mind some action of the Prince’s, and upset him. He had been angry in the past, when Aimeric had spoken in a way that seemed too like the Prince.
Your Grace. There, that was safer, more deferential. It spoke too, to Richard’s elegance of manner. He was pleased with himself for the first time in months.
The rest of the page glowered emptily back at him.
Hours later, the floor was littered with drafts. Aimeric blotted his paper carefully, and fanned it carefully to let it dry, before he sealed it carefully, and stamped it - carefully, what else - with his own ring. That had been a gift from Richard. He hoped he liked the touch.
The message read -
You Grace,
It grieves me to hear of the difficulties that Events have set before you. Since we last spoke, I have endeavoured to live up to your last words to me: to help and serve my family is a great honour. I dearly wish all of your subjects would recognise your Wisdom and Nobility of Spirit.
Your eternal Servant, however I may be of Use,
Aimeric of Fortaine
He really felt that the capitals added something. He rang for a servant, who took it away to be sent, and then went around his room picking up the discards, so his brothers couldn’t find them later and ask annoying questions.
Richard didn’t reply.
But a month later, a letter came for father that had its own messenger to deliver it, on a dapple-grey stallion that looked very little like the normal dun nags the post-men rode. The letter itself had three fat gold tassels on it -
“Two!” Clotho said, with his mouth full.
“It was thee,” Aimeric protested hotly.
Raoul wrinkled his brow. “It was four,” he said uncertainly. Everyone knew Raoul’s grip on numbers was tenuous at best, so they ignored him.
“Anyway,” Tomas said, sitting in father’s chair at the head of the table. “Father has gone to Arles, in answer to the letter that the Regent sent. He said he might not be back for a few months.”
“Arles,” Aimeric said with despair. “Why didn’t he take me with him?”
“Why didn’t he take me with him,” Clotho mockingly repeated, before taking advantage of father’s absence and shovelling a second helping of pudding into his bowl. “None of the rest of us ever got taken to Arles!”
“Because you have no manners!” Aimeric hissed. Clotho sneered. The custard in his mouth made it particularly disgusting. He hated all of them, and Clotho in particular. “And because you’re a g-”
“Aimeric!” said Tomas sharply. “Don’t talk to your brother like that!”
“Who’s Aimeric shouting at now?” Jean asked mildly, entering the room. Baby Lutyens, the youngest, was perched on his shoulder. “I thought that with father away, Lutyens might like to join us at suppertime.”
Lutyens burped in agreement.
“You missed dinner,” said Clotho. “I ate your helping.”
Jean shrugged. Jean was pathetically enamoured of Lutyen’s wetnurse, so he probably didn’t mind. “You’re a growing boy,” he said.
Aimeric howled. “He’s not a b-”
“Aimeric!”
Aimeric was sent to his room without finishing his dessert.
Clotho forgave him three days later, which meant he went back to ignoring him quietly instead of loudly. This was not enough for Tomas, who Aimeric bitterly thought had gone mad with power, who believed that Aimeric should have an actual punishment instead of just a custard-less evening.
The punishment was looking after Lutyens for two hours a day, so he could work off some of that excess energy his lessons clearly weren’t helping with. Who could devote that much energy to the life and times of common cabbage pests and their management? And furthermore, Aimeric knew this was more for Jean’s benefit than his, given that the wetnurse was always a bit flushed when she came to collect the baby, and made a spiteful mental note to tell father about that inappropriate attachment when he returned.
He told this to Lutyens. Lutyens blew a nose-bubble in response.
Despite being a baby, Lutyens was actually the quietest sibling - apart from Aimeric, obviously. This meant it was actually quite relaxing to have him outside in the garden. Fortaine looked alright in the summer. There were big blowsy beds of flowers, and tall stands of silvery plants that smelt nice, and bright wildflowers in the meadows. Sometimes they even sprouted in between the cabbages. Aimeric could remember loving summertime when he was younger. He’d been away at court a long time, actually, acting as Father’s page. Five years. But he was seventeen now, and he couldn’t devote himself to childish pursuits like sunbathing and swimming anymore. Richard liked his skin as milky as possible, though nothing would really do for the freckles. This was a personal failing that Aimeric held close to his heart. He adjusted his uncomfortable hat, and handed Lutyens a flower to look at. Aimeric wished that he had something to look at. Something exciting, like a tourney, or a ring fight. He blushed involuntarily.
“Ugly hat isn’t doing much, is it?” Clotho remarked, as if from nowhere. “If you’re that red.”
Aimeric, taken by surprise, had no witty repartee beyond - “Shut up!” He snatched the hat from his head.
“Shut up,” repeated Raoul, who came straight through the flowerbed in Clotho’s wake. He stepped directly on Lutyens’ flower. Any other baby would have wailed, but Lutyens simply looked disconsolate and tried to eat a grasshopper. Clotho swiped it from his grasp with expert speed.
“You’re both so annoying,” Aimeric said with feeling.
“Alright,” agreed Clotho. “Does that make you feel better? I came to ask you a question.”
Aimeric fumed. “For the last time, I don’t know where father keeps his money.”
Clotho sat down in the grass next to him, and delicately placed the grasshopper on one of the silvery bushes. “Shame, that. I mean, you were his page for so long, why wouldn’t you know where he keeps his moneypurse?”
Aimeric rolled his eyes. He’d been busy, obviously, being a comfort to Richard. His brothers simply wouldn’t understand.
“Why do you think father’s gone to court again?” Clotho said abruptly. “Why would the Regent summon him, when he knows we are without Mother, or anyone to do Mother’s work?”
“What work?” Aimeric said, bitterly thinking of Arles.
Clotho turned to stare at him. Aimeric was never entirely sure how much Raoul understood at his age, but he said excitedly, “Mother works hard!”
Clotho blinked slowly. “Really, Aimeric? Mother runs,” - he swallowed - “ran Fortaine. She was the Chatelaine. Half the lessons we have are about that job. Tomas and Jean and Claude are flat out trying to fill in.”
Aimeric blinked. Mother had never - spoken to him of this. She had written to him twice a week, but he had only seen her once a year, really, since he went away to Court. This was one of those times when the lives of adults set a yawning void underneath your feet that hadn’t been there mere seconds ago.
“I don’t know,” he admitted bitterly, and hugged his knees to his chest. He felt younger than seventeen for a moment.
“Father was excited to go,” Clotho said. “Raoul heard him whooping.” Raoul nodded proudly, but he often did that when he heard someone saying his name.
“He did not whoop,” said Aimeric in disbelief.
Clotho nodded vigorously. “He did! Do it, Raoul!”
Raoul made a noise like - wa ha ha ha HOOO!
“Whooping,” Clotho said smugly. “See?”
Claude - the second oldest - came to stay the next day. “Liliver wanted to come,” he said in explanation, walking straight through to the solar. Liliver, his wife, waved at Aimeric from under a mountain of bags.
“And Father needed us,” Claude said, arranging himself on one of the divans. “He wrote and asked for our presence.”
“Really,” said Tomas. “So it has nothing to do with this letter I got from the bailiffs today.”
Claude went purple. Aimeric would have commented on it, but - “there was POST?” He exclaimed. “And you didn’t say?”
Tomas rolled his eyes. “There’s letters for you on the bureau, somewhere.”
Aimeric scrambled over to the desk.
Jean said, “really, Claude. Was it gambling? Brothels?”
The letters had been stuck behind a small bust of some ancient lord of Fortaine.
Claude squawked. “Brothels!” He said. “What do you think of me?”
There were two. Neither of them were from Richard.
“No,” Claude said. “I invested… unwisely.”
Aimeric sighed. The waiting was beginning to chafe. He opened the first letter. The writing on it was unfamiliar. “Not the flowers again,” Tomas said.
There was an embarrassed silence.
“Really, Claude,” Jean said disapprovingly. “They’re never going to catch on.”
No, Aimeric thought with horror. He ripped open the second, more familiar missive.
“Tulips are a growth market,” Claude protested. “The Patrans are going to go wild for them!”
Aimeric staggered back to the settee and sat with a thump.
“Aimeric,” Jean interrupted. “Are you alright?”
Aimeric thrust the open letter at him.
Clotho appeared in the door, baby Lutyens under one arm and Raoul holding his other hand. “Oh, hello Claude. Did the tulips thing go tits-up?”
Claude held out his arms to Raoul, who broke away from Clotho and clambered into his lap. “At least Raoul’s never cruel to me,” he said mournfully.
“Tits up!” Raoul repeated cheerfully.
Jean finished reading the letter. “The Prince is… coming to visit?” he said, raising his head.
“Really!” Clotho said. “Why?” He bounded over and grabbed the single sheet of parchment.
Aimeric moaned.
He passed the second letter to Jean. This was from the gossipest of his friends.
Mimi, it began, what a turn up! Your father is the envy of all of the court - and what a match…
Jean joined Aimeric on the sofa. Tomas seized the second letter.
“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Claude said, irritated.
Clotho put a hand over his mouth. “No,” he said. “Aimeric! The whooping!”
Tomas lowered the letter, and looked at them all with horror. “The Prince isn’t coming to stay,” he said. “He’s married.”
“What’s that got to do with us?” Claude said, bouncing Raoul on his knee.
Aimeric cleared his throat. “He’s married,” he said, “to father.”