Chapter Text
Aziraphale was in the middle of putting away the bowls from breakfast when the church bell tolled, announcing the call to service.
Noon already. Biting back a noise of frustration, he worked faster, pottery clattering as he stacked them.
It had been like this since dawn, everyone rushing from task to task as the abbot snapped out orders to do a thorough cleaning of the abbey and its grounds.
It wasn't every day Baron William visited the abbey, along with his wife, affianced daughter, and the Easterlings, his future in-laws. Tadfield was one of his smaller fiefs and the Baron was more wont to send a a representative to deal with legal matters and collect rents. But Lady Adela, the Baron's sole heir, apparently had fond memories of Tadfield as a child, and her parents doted on her, and so this was where she would be wed at the start of June, a little over two months away.
It gave time for the two families to meet and smooth out some final sticking points about the dowry, or so it was said.
Easter had come early this year and was safely past, taking the privations of Lent with it, so a proper feast was the order of the day.
The kitchener was half-run off his feet, so Aziraphale asked Newt if he'd mind terribly getting the candlesticks and silver reliquary in the church polished (honestly, they'd just been done a couple of days ago, but Sandalphon declared they needed it again), and volunteered to get the neglected dishes from breakfast washed while the kitchen staff concentrated on the food.
That was one good thing, being surrounded by the wonderful smells of bread and pastry. The laybrothers were roasting a heifer in an outdoor firepit, too, which had been permeating the air with its toothsome scent since before dawn.
Monks weren't supposed to sup on such fare, but the abbot was pulling out all the stops to give the Baron and his guests a lordly welcome, and Aziraphale certainly wouldn't be protesting.
He hadn't tasted beef since before he left his parents' home, though it had been an increasing rarity there, too, before the end.
As he stepped out onto the stone-paved walkway to join the other monks and novices hurrying to the church, pulling his hood up against the brisk spring wind, he stopped short, his breath catching.
The daffodils had come out. Yesterday there was nothing but bright green stalks and tight buds, today they were in glorious bloom, a patch of cheery yellow next to the cloister entrance.
His eye followed them as his steps slowed, a small ache in his chest. His mother had loved daffodils. Father had brought her a bunch of them every spring, even near the end when the debtors clamored at the door.
It had been two springs since her passing, six since his father's, and he supposed he would be forever reminded of them by the flowers.
It marked the time when he first came to the abbey, too. Yearning bloomed within him, though for what he didn't know. He supposed it was because of youthful energy that needed to be tamed, as the Novice-Master would have it. In any case it was as unexpected as the daffodils, as was the sudden resentment that he didn't dare look at too closely.
Such ingratitude, he chided himself. He had nothing to be resentful about, surely. The abbey had given him a vocation, food, shelter, and purpose in God's service, and he was lucky not to be among the beggars gathered at the gate, waiting for the leavings of the feast. He would pray for humility and obedience, and ask God to tear out this selfish dissatisfaction from his heart.
The clip-clop of horses' hooves from the forecourt heralded the arrival of the Baron and the other noble guests, spurring him out of his musings. He passed under the archway and entered the church.
Though he wondered, later, if the secret yearning of his heart that came forth at sight of the daffodils had been heard by God, and the Almighty had given him answer.
God, or the devil.
- - - - -
The church was already quite crowded, with the abbot's own stewards and knights that held his lands, along with other assorted worthy guests there to pay homage to the Baron, mostly aldermen and higher-ranking professionals from Tadfield proper. At least all the packed bodies provided a little extra warmth.
From his position among the other novices, Aziraphale watched as the nobility and their combined entrourages filed in. He wasn't the only one, of course. Every eye was on them.
The Baron and Baroness, then Lady Adela walking next to the man who must be her intended, Sir Gabriel, a square-jawed handsome sort, very much the image of a noble knight. The man's own parents, Lord and Lady Easterling, took places next to their son near the front, where space had been saved for them.
Fine silks and fur trim adorned the men's robes and women's gowns. Wimples bleached to perfection. Brilliant cloth dyed red, blue, and green, and golden belts and other ornaments shined within an inch of their lives.
Aziraphale studied the finery. As the son of clothing merchants, he retained an eye for such things. Exquisite silk and fur trim of costly mink were the order of the day, and the brocade on the gowns of Lady Adela and her mother must have cost a small fortune.
A shock of red hair caught the morning light streaming in through the entryway. For a few moments the beam of sunlight illuminated his narrow handsome face, the proud curve of a nose and high cheekbones, and a pointed goatee.
This must be the second son, the bastard, the disappointing one whose mother was a Saxon washerwoman, of which there'd also been a certain amount of gossip. Sir Anthony.
Unlike the other noblemen who were clad in brightly dyed floor-length robes, Sir Anthony wore a knee-length tunic of midnight black as if he was attending a funeral, black hose, black shoes, black belt, the man was shadow from neck to toe, a sharpness against both the bright sunlight and gloomy grey of the church's walls. Glints of light in the fabric at neck and sleeve suggested a few costly gems had been sewn onto it. Opals, maybe.
It suited him, the unrelieved black setting off his fascinating profile, and contrasting with his pale skin and that brilliant red hair.
He practically swaggered as he took his place next to Lord Easterling. As if sensing insolence in the air, the older man cast a scowl at him, and Sir Anthony's lips twitched and he bowed his head slightly, just enough to show proper respect in the house of God, though somehow the man made the gesture itself seem mocking. Lord Easterling fixed his stern glare on him for another moment or two, then seemed to be resigned to the fact that this was the best that could be expected, and turned back to the front.
Monks were as prone to gossip as anyone else. It was said that Sir Anthony never went to confession and barely set foot in any church, choosing to spend most of his time betting on horse races and going to tournaments and brothels. All told with disapproving shakes of the head.
It didn't sound too different from what most noblemen got up to, in Azirpahale's opinion, but he knew better than to voice such thoughts, especially when the elder monks were on a tear about Godlessness in the youth these days, with occasional pointed looks at the novices in their charge.
Though perhaps there was a little bit of truth to it, with that pointed goatee and slight half-mocking smile, not to mention the overall air of disinterest in the recitation of the Psalm echoing through the church, Sir Anthony did seem to have a bit of the devil about him.
Devilishly handsome, Aziraphale thought.
As if he'd heard his thoughts, Sir Anthony's eyes met his.
A wave of heat burning his cheeks, he dropped his gaze to his clasped hands.
After a few moments when the roof failed to cave in, he peeked through his eyelashes to see what was going on. Sir Anthony was facing the altar again.
- - - - - -
After the service the nobles and the other worthies of the town retired to the abbot's quarters for their repast, along with the prior and the other senior monks.
Aziraphale went to the dining hall with the rest of the brethren, sharing a trencher with Newt as they so often did, and filled up on roast beef. It could well be the last time anything as decadent as this came around again. He recalled the people at the gate who must be shivering in the wind, and with a pang of guilt and a heartfelt prayer for them set aside an extra portion of meat to give to the almoner to pass on to them.
Despite the chill in the air, the sun shone bright, and he ought to get to the scriptorium and set to work right away while the light lasted. He'd gotten a few pages of the Moralia completed in the last weeks and hoped to add to the stack. The recent busyness had meant that he hadn't gotten to the scriptorium yet today.
Returning to the scriptorium with the other scribes, he rescued a stack of costly vellum from an inkpot Newt knocked over, helped him clean up his desk before Brother Sandalphon saw it, and had only just gotten seated at his own desk by the window, when the door opened again.
The party of guests entered, led by Brother Sandalphon, with Sir Anthony strolling along at the back. Of all times for a tour.
Aziraphale jerked his attention back to his own desk while Sandalphon gestured the group toward where Brother Jerome was seated.
“We allow commissions of holy works, mostly,” Brother Sandalphon said, his voice echoing off the rafters. “If, however, one wishes to make an additional donation, then works of a more secular nature may be agreed upon. With the abbot's permission, of course. Here, Brother Jerome is illuminating a page from the book of Genesis.”
Among the words of polite interest, Sir Anthony drifted away from the group.
And strolled across the room towards Aziraphale.
Aziraphale felt a tingle across his scalp, amazed that his hand stayed steady enough to finish the final stroke of the 'a'.
Was the man going to chastise him for staring at him in church? For witnessing the silent exchange between him and Lord Easterling? Aziraphale's heart pattered.
Carefully, he placed his quill back in the inkpot and got to his feet, offering a nervous smile and a quick bow as Sir Anthony stopped by his desk.
“Forgive me for disturbing your work, brother,” Sir Anthony said in a warm drawl of Norman French that shivered down Aziraphale's spine and back up again, “but I couldn't help noticing the neatness of your penmanship.”
Aziraphale glanced at the stack of parchment on the edge of his desk, wondering how the man could have judged the quality of his handwriting from across the room, but he wasn't going to question it. Especially if Sir Anthony was going to keep talking to him in that voice.
The man took Aziraphale's hesitation for incomprehension. “Again, I apologize,” Sir Anthony said, changing seamlessly to perfect midland English. “Do you not know French? No matter.”
“No, it's quite all right,” Aziraphale squeaked. He cleared his throat, and managed to respond more normally. “I do know French, but we can use English if you prefer, Sir Anthony.”
“Ah, a fellow midlander.” Sir Anthony's eyebrows lifted. “You have me at a disadvantage, brother, I don't believe we've been properly introduced. And I'm sure that I'd remember meeting you.”
Aziraphale had rarely been the recipient of such courteous language, and combined with the appalling faux pas of using the man's name just like that, as if they'd already met, he felt heat rise up his neck. He'd best rectify this quickly. “Brother Aziraphale,” he blurted. “I mean, that's me. My name. I'm just a novice, really.”
He stopped the babble, cleared his throat, and strove to get himself together. “Are you interested in the work?” he managed to say in what he hoped was a normal voice.
“Indeed.” Sir Anthony gestured at the finished pages. “Mind reading some of it for me?”
Aziraphale complied, wondering if he was going to get into trouble for this. He was only doing as he was bid, but Brother Sandalphon generally found a way to find fault no matter what he happened to be doing. Quietly he read a few lines of the Moralia, the sacred Latin floating into the air.
Sir Anthony raised a finger to halt him. “Very good. I'm glad you know how to read. There are scribes that barely recognize their letters, and copy what's in front of them without understanding what they're writing in the slightest. Not that I'm one to judge,” he said with a careless shrug. “Can barely write my own name. But I do appreciate a man with skill.”
Sir Anthony winked. Actually winked at him in good humor, as if inviting Aziraphale to discern a secret meaning behind his words. Aziraphale felt a smile break out on his own face, feeling a ridiculous swooping sensation in his belly.
“So, what part of the Bible is that from?” Sir Anthony asked.
“Oh, actually, it's the Moralia in Job, a commentary by St. Gregory the Great.”
“Ah. I'm afraid my Latin's never been what you might call fluent. What does it say?”
Aziraphale bit his lip for a moment. “St. Gregory is admonishing his readers to take care of where one's gaze falls, for it is through the faculty of sight that sin, particularly lust, can enter one's soul.”
He could feel heat creeping up his neck again and he wished he hadn't mentioned 'lust,' even if it had been what he'd just been reading.
A lopsided grin stretched across Sir Anthony's features and one of his eyebrows quirked. “Interesting. You know, brother, I think old Gregory is right.”
Aziraphale barely fought down a completely inappropriate urge to giggle. He ought to have been affronted by the man's casual reference to the esteemed saint. And the rest of it, what did Sir Anthony mean? Was he seriously suggesting that...
Brother Sandalphon loomed at Sir Anthony's elbow.
It was enough to squelch any hint of levity. Aziraphale took a step back and arranged his face into a neutral expression.
“I see you've met Brother Aziraphale,” Sandalphon said, voice dripping with disapproval. “His penmanship is merely adequate. However, if you're looking to commission a work, my lord, might I introduce you to one of our other....”
“More than adequate, I'd say,” Sir Anthony said, voice curt. “He has just the steady hand I'm looking for.” His brow furrowed, annoyed by the interruption.
Sir Anthony turned to Aziraphale with a wide smile that brooked no argument. “Might you show me the grounds, brother? It is my desire to discuss the manuscript with you.”
Sandalphon sniffed, but he grunted a sort of approval, giving permission for Aziraphale to do as Sir Anthony asked.
- - - - - -
Which was how Aziraphale found himself out in the brisk spring day alongside the distractingly handsome Sir Anthony, who if he didn't know better he'd say was flirting with him, struggling to find something interesting to say about the fishpond.
Old Gregory was right. About what? About the dangers of temptation entering through the faculty of sight?
The implications of that were too much for Aziraphale to take in just at that moment, so he concentrated on the more grounding topic of fish. “We get most of our fish from our own pond. Eels, too. Brother Eustace does a fantastic smoked eel, quite lovely. Oh, and the whole baked trout served with parsely and butter, I usually share a trencher with Newt at table.”
“Newt? You have a pet?”
Aziraphale blushed anew, and he silently cursed his fair complexion which seemed designed purely to embarrass him at every turn. “Brother Newt. Well, his full name is Newton, we, that is, his friends, we call him Newt.” He wrung his hands. “Um. He said it was all right.”
If the ground would just open up and swallow him about now, that would be lovely. Here he was babbling about his favorite dishes and friends' nicknames, it wasn't as if Sir Anthony would be interested in any of that. Probably had loads more important things to think about.
“One must always consider the feelings of one's friends,” Sir Anthony said. “Very commendable.” There was an amused twinkle in his eye, but not unkind, and Aziraphale felt his shoulders unclench, just a bit.
Sir Anthony said, “You may call me Crowley, if you like.”
“Crowley?”
“My mother's surname. It's what my friends use.”
“I-I don't...I mean I...” Unease tightened its hold, and he twisted his hands in his belt, wondering how on earth he was expected to answer such frank openness, how he could respond without giving offense. He suspected that his great-uncle the abbot wouldn't approve of a novice becoming too familiar with the son of a nobleman, especially if that novice was Aziraphale.
Sir Anthony cleared his throat. “I merely meant that I hope we can become friends, Brother Angel. I wasn't taking into account how secluded you must be, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I only meant that you can call me Crowley, if you like.”
Aziraphale was relieved that Sir Anthony had so quickly understood the difficulty, and he opened his mouth then shut it again with a frown, as his brain caught up with him. “Um. I think you may have misheard. I'm Aziraphale, not angel.”
Watching Sir Anthony's high cheekbones turn red was a fascinating process. “Eeerhm.” He scratched the back of his neck, grimacing. “Yeah, I caught your name, actually. Just that, when I first saw you in church, the light coming in the window behind you, it lit you up like you had your own halo.”
Remember what St. Gregory said about eyes being the windows of the soul? Well, this is it, an inner voice chided him, but it was a sanctimonious, pedantic voice that was quickly being drowned out by some other altogether remarkable emotions.
Emotions he hadn't felt since he was thirteen and fell rather helplessly, and in retrospect ill-advisedly, in love with Hugh, the boy down the street from his parents' shop.
This man, this handsome, well-spoken knight, had noticed him, sought him out, and whisked him out of the scriptorium to talk privately with him. It made Aziraphale feel bold, and quite reckless.
He said, “I must confess my own eye was caught by your hair, Sir Anthony. When you first entered for the service. It really is quite striking.”
So maybe St. Gregory was right, as you say, he thought but couldn't quite bring himself to speak it aloud, having used up his store of boldness for what felt like the next year.
The side of Sir Anthony's lips quirked up in a way that was fast becoming the most alluring thing Aziraphale had ever seen.
Aziraphale cleared his throat and smoothed down the front of his white cassock. “I'm flattered that you even noticed me, actually. I mean, my work,” he added hastily, making an effort to get back onto solid ground.
Those fascinating eyebrows quirked up again. Sir Anthony really did have the most remarkable face, going from complete stillness to a range of emotion, all conveyed by the merest quirk of lips or brow. “I like to think I recognize quality when I see it. I think that you, and your skills, will suit my tastes very well.”
He spoke lightly, but his voice dropped to a murmur, as if he were again inviting Aziraphale into a confidence.
But a voice shouting from the foregate forestalled any more talk.
“Anthony! We're leaving,” the elder Lord Easterling bellowed.
“The summons of a loving father,” Sir Anthony said, sighing. “I've enjoyed our talk, brother. Perhaps when I return, you can show me that garden I spotted behind the herbalist's. For now...”
He stuck out his hand. As if they were equals. Aziraphale, finding one last reserve of boldness, reached out and grasped it. His hand was encased by long fingers and a large palm.
“God go with you, Crowley,” he said, stammering just a little. Well, the man did ask that Aziraphale call him that, but an odd fluttering was in his belly at taking such liberty.
He was glad he did, finding it well worth it to see Crowley's face break into a pleased smile. There was a hint of triumph there as well, which made Aziraphale's knees wobble ever so slightly.
“And with you, angel,” he murmured.
A brief squeeze of hands, a firm shake, and then Crowley was striding away to the foregate where his family gathered, having their horses brought to them from the stable, a cart for the ladies, with all the fuss and flouncing of everyone getting their robes and gowns decently arranged.
Crowley, in his short tunic, swung into the saddle of a spirited black mare in one easy movement, without any fuss, and set his horse to a trot as the entire party at last moved out, his own movements precise and without flare, a consummate horseman.
Not that Aziraphale was staring or anything.
It was only much later during vespers that Aziraphale realized Crowley had called him angel again.
And he hadn't mentioned the name of the manuscript he wanted copied, either.