The Kings' Crusade [France]

[England]

July, 1190
Marseille, Francia

Beneath the late afternoon sun Marseille was saturated with the roil of men and arms, spilling skittish horses and bright standards back out along the beaches and even up into the cold stone walls of the Commandry. Even preparing for a war he looks like a cake, England thought, crabby beneath his own bodyweight in chainmail. He was following a step behind the King as Richard and his nobles strode through the long stone halls, taking each chance to glance out of the narrow slit windows and down at the town – and sea – below. The clink and heavy rustle of armour followed them eerily, muffled by the tapestries and high ceilings. This was no place to be wearing arms as far as Arthur was concerned, the goosebumps creeping slowly up along his arms. When you stepped into a House of God, so the priests were so fond of reminding him, you stood with God; he saw you and heard your prayers (prayers England filled with nonsense, when they managed to corner him into those cold stone rows at all). The Knights Hospitaller would have work enough soon enough, without standing in their midst with swords to be witnessed by judgemental, martyred statuary.

They’d come here, of all places, for tomorrow they sailed for Sicily—and tonight the kings would sail for oblivion, as they always did, on plenty of French wine and tartery. A man like Cœur de Lion had as little time for absolution as he had prodigious need of it—one point on which England didn’t resent him. Better than a whinger like Philip.

As they got close to the chapel doors, monks were appearing in greater and greater numbers, scurrying along the corridors like mice with their brown sides close to the walls. Some disappeared into low spired doorways and England watched them, wondering which ones were on their way to tell Francia – and his king – that Richard was here. (Because the sodding great column of men didn’t give it away?) Despite the flurry of activity no-one came to bar their path, showing some sense, and England stopped with the others outside the door Richard alone stood before, his armoured hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“All of you will wait for me here.” The King’s voice was deep and powerful, and the easy French made England scowl with the familiar twinge of betrayal—being in the Kingdom of France was all the more reason not to speak French! And Richard would have no word of anything else beyond Brittany. Arthur had already lost this battle along the road, biting his tongue to seethe silently. (Richard was as a man what a destrier was to a horse, and right now he needed a strong king.)

“Can I go ahead to find Francia?” England asked, too blunt, before the door could more than creak. It took an effort, and he didn’t think he’d done it perfectly, but he was trying not to scowl. Not that he ever, willingly, threw himself back into the other Kingdom’s company (after all the time he’d spent getting the bastard off)-- but England’s collarbones were sore beneath the weight of chainmail, and between the choking smell of incense and the choking smell of perfume, he would gladly dawdle as long as he could in pursuit of his enemy rather than face another hour on his knees.

Richard’s stare told Arthur he had failed to hide his expression; and if it hadn’t, the irritated flick of the King’s hand did. “Go. You can warn them to expect a very hungry party within the hour,” he added, to the general agreement and chuckles of his companions. “And Albion—keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“At least until after the soup,” someone added.

England bowed and left amid the laughter, torn between being amused and being annoyed. There’d been a lot of talk and daydreaming about the upcoming feast—if it was half of what they’d managed to dream up, he was almost looking forward to it, but he wished they’d shut up. Anyone would think they were starving, and he didn’t want Francis hearing any of it.

Sunlight was still filtering in from the stained glass windows, and beyond them the Genoese fleet bobbed in the jewel-toned sea. Marseille was but four days march from Aquitaine, but the water here was bright with Greeks legends and old Roman blood. It wasn’t the deep blue-black of the channel, with its comfortable surly rock, or the Bay of Biscay with the unknown stretching out beyond it. On this side of Francia there were all the old wars and all the new, religious fever. And knights, Arthur noticed, pausing by one of the windows to peer down—forehead pressed a little to the cool glass. Their tents bloomed up like fleurs-de-lis all along the beaches, though he knew the knights themselves would be in town. Their squires were left to set up the spectacle, the gilded embodiment of the true faith.

What knights Richard had brought were not so important. England’s true contribution marched slowly on the town in their nobles’ wake: eight thousand strong and despite the Pope’s disapproval. King Richard cared for success before he cared for anything; King Philip cared for the steady weight of the crossbow’s certainty, and his friend’s boorish ambition bequeathed everyone the smell of brutal victory.

Somewhere in the depths of the commandry a chant was beginning. Arthur shivered and wrinkled his nose in their direction, picking up his heels after all. If he happened to find Francis, at least it would be far away from this.







notes .


. For reference, France and I have decided that England would be roughly 15-16ish here, and France 17-19.

. ‘Engla land’ had started to become ‘England’ in various guises and spelling since AD 897, however Albion had the deeper breadth of connotations. Eleanor of Aquitaine brought her son up, for all his boorish qualities, in the culture of the French courtly tradition. Therefore Richard tends to refer to Arthur as Albion when he’s in a good mood, and England to attribute his faults to Anglo-Saxon characteristics when he’s not.

. There was a Commandry of the Knights Hospitaller of St John of Jerusalem in Marseille, serving as a monastic hospice during the crusades. It was later incorporated into Fort Saint-Jean in 1660, but the original building dates from the twelfth century. Since I can’t find an exact date for its construction, I borrowed it anyway. >>;


. England and France’s contribution to the Crusades were somewhat different. Richard I brought eight thousand men; Philip II brought a disproportionately higher number of nobles, supposedly totalling 650 knights and 1300 squires. They also agreed on the inclusion of a large contingent of crossbowman, they being considered the most effective weapon of the time. This was significant because the Vatican’s official position was that the weapon was unfit for Christians or Christian warfare. I’ve attributed the greater bulk of these to Richard’s forces due to the nobility ratio; the crossbow was the weapon of commoners and mercenaries.

. The isle of England would not, itself, become the central focus of the English Kings until the 13th century. Richard I was also Lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine, Duke of Gascony, and Count of Anjou at the time. Indeed he was known for a certain disdain of England itself—while raising money for the crusade he publically suggested he would have sold London had there been a buyer. While he had little more sympathy for his French holdings, his mother Eleanor of Aquitaine supported his political ambitions. If he were to claim any cultural heritage, it would likely have been that of Aquitaine. The situation caused a certain amount of contention between Arthur and the Plantagenet kings.

. Eleanor of Aquitaine accompanied her husband, Louis VII, Philip II’s father on the Second Crusade along with her own company of female troops. Though they were officially there to care for the wounded, they were blamed for the failure of the Crusade.

. Though it was Henry II and Philip II who agreed to fight the crusade, Philip II militarily supported Richard I’s forcible challenge to his father’s throne at Anjou. Henry died in on July 6th 1189, and so this is exactly one year on, practically the anniversary. England dislikes Philip intensely for this, though in the year between then and now he’s warmed to Richard’s ambition and strength.

. If not to Richard’s binding order that Arthur speak Norman French rather than the newly emerging Middle English.

[France]

The atmosphere was thick with excitement and anticipation this fine, sunny day. Not just because there was to be an elegant feast later on, but perhaps because now Francis and his knights and nobles were beginning to feel that sort of electrified anticipation for their mission to come. They would be leaving soon, on the most holiest of journeys and at this point it would be hard to dampen any of their spirits. Even knowing that England himself was to accompany them was not enough to bring France down from his happy thoughts of religious glory. Which was really saying something, since whenever they had a tendency to meet it ended in negative feelings. No, let Arthur be his usual cranky self for all France cared. He was to accompany his king on a mission truly befitting of a great nation like himself.

Francis was not currently with his king, having instead chosen to wander the large Commandry alone while waiting for their English guests to arrive. King Philip always seemed to be surrounded by his favorite nobles these days, which was usually fine with Francis, but every now and then he relished the chance to be alone with his thoughts and look around. There were many of these large stone structures in his lands, and yet he still never tired of exploring each and every one. And of course, if he happened to bump into any gorgeous youths while wandering about, then all the better. Even though he had the appearance of a young man, France was older than he looked, and a sly and crafty creature when it came to seducing young women to the point of distraction. Young men too, if he happened across any that were open to his advances. He figured it best to encounter these types now while in Marseille, since he sort of doubted he would have much of a chance for romance while traveling and fighting.

Sadly, most of the young women-and even men-present at the commandry were busy making ready for their guests, leaving Francis to wander the stone halls and study the elegant tapestries that he encountered hanging here and there. They were certainly beautiful, with their fine detail and vivid colors. Definitely befitting of being hung in one of his magnificant stone structures.

It was not too long after he had left Philip’s side that the Frenchman heard the sound of marching not far off. His suspicions that he knew what that sound had to mean were confirmed as a monk approached, telling him merrily that King Richard and his forces had arrived. Not that he had needed the monk to inform him of this. The sound of the armored men in motion across the stone floors had more than been enough. Fully armored men could be many things, but quiet was not one of them. Not waiting a second longer, France started towards the chapel, his own chainmail and armor clanking as he moved. He wasn’t so much eager to chat with Arthur and welcome him to his homeland in the civil manner his king would undoubtedly prefer, but he did want to seek the other nation out. Perhaps just so that he could have someone to barrage with questions and annoy. There was a sort of enjoyment to be had getting the English nation more cranky than what he usually appeared to be.

A chant was beginning from somewhere not far off, echoing through the stone corridors. It was a cheery chant, and one which seemed to put Francis in an even better mood as it made victory seem somehow all the more within grasp even though they had yet to start on their journey really. The wavy-haired blonde Frenchman picked up his pace, blue eyes searching for his rival as he drew closer to the chapel area. And then he saw him.

England appeared to be trying to put distance between himself and the merry sounding chants. No doubt they had not struck the same chord in him as they did in Francis. The other nation had not noticed him yet, and Francis smiled deviously before leaping out to finally bar the Arthur's path. “You seem to be in a hurry to go somewhere, Arthur.” He stated, crossing his arms over his chest. Despite being older than he appeared, the deviousness of youth had yet to leave Francis, and he gave his rival a playful sort of smile. “You’re heading the wrong way though, all the excitement seems to be going on back there.” He shifted to the side a bit, keeping his eyes on the other nation.

He really didn't like having to have Arthur along with him on their quest, but he did see the sense in it. How much better things would be though if he and his king could have all the glory for themselves. If they could single-handedly re-claim and control the Holy Lands. Ever the prideful sort, France had already decided that he would play a bigger role in this mission than England possibly could.
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((Thanks for the notes. ~ They were very helpful. Sorry I did not give as background info as I could have for this post. I have been a bit light-headed and sick these last few days, and wrote this in clunky pieces. Hopefully it makes sense.))

[England]

The building was a bloody marvel, all right: whichever corridor Arthur escaped down, the sound of chanting was snug and sanctimonious on his heels; just like France, it clearly had no intention of being outrun before it’d had its say.

Whatever the other Kingdoms said about him, it wasn’t a matter of faith; it wasn’t even a matter of devotion. England had sworn his service to the cause, hadn’t he? And he’d damn well do it. For the sake of his house and for the sake of his people, Arthur had kept his peace with the Church (and his trap shut). If he’d sometimes wobbled, it wasn’t his fault: churches were plump and rich and drew raiders like bears to honey. But that was centuries ago, and the words of the Latin mass had spread to his heart, too. England could at least respect them as the language of the stronger sword; the last rite of an empire no-one had ever matched. The leaders of his childhood had abided Rome while they had reason to, and taken back the groves when he’d fallen. Now they had reason once again, and he was here traipsing about in ridiculous amounts of metal for the honour. Nothing short of Holy War was worth cooperating with the French, that was for sure. The chants, however, were nothing of all that. Ireland had spread them through his house, all the way down to Brittany, where France had added a bit of music and punted them back upstream again. The three of them had shared a religion, once - how couldn’t he hear the old ways drowned in it?

More importantly, how could both of them not? It was dark sunsets and sky stones to England, and it set his teeth on edge to hear it beneath the Virgin’s alabaster gaze. Lost in grumbling, the short hair on the back of his neck on end, England wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. That was his story and he was sticking to it, as he struggled to pry off one of the heavy mesh gloves. England would rather chew his way out of his own armour than admit France might – might – have snuck up on him. The fool had jumped out in full chainmail – that wasn’t exactly subtle! With an undignified noise, England’s fist tensed around the glove, ready and willing to clobber France ‘round the face with it – for no good reason other than he was France, so he deserved it. Oh, and the small matter of a dead bloody king.

"Then sod off that way and enjoy it," England snapped, obviously. He might have been looking for Francis, but finding him was a different story. The frog could cheerfully flounce himself straight off again. Just not—that way, he realised. Then he’d be closer to Arthur’s king than Arthur was. He might not like Richard all that much, but his gut still turned slowly at the very thought. England narrowed his eyes and, under the guise of pulling off the other glove, edged back into the middle of the corridor to make sure the other kingdom wasn’t going anywhere.

"Who let you into a monastery, anyway?" he asked, suspiciously. “Don't get any intelligent ideas about praying. One look into your soul and we’re all doomed.”






notes .

. The Gregorian chant evolved, most prominently in France, between the 10-13th centuries, out of the Gallican chant of Christian Gaul, which itself evolved out of the Celtic and Gaelic Rites, a form of Christian worship that developed in Ireland, then spread across England and into Brittany. Centuries before that, and before Rome began to homogenise Europe, the three formed a broad area of Celtic identity and religion.

. I'm in a massive creative funk right now, so please bear with me. I figure it's better to keep rolling somewhat less than perfectly than grind to a halt.

[France]

"Then sod off that way and enjoy it.”

The Frenchman chuckled slightly at the other nation’s usual unfriendly demeanor. Typical Arthur. He wouldn’t know tact if it came up and slapped him in the face. Not that France would ever expect tact from England. In fact, the day Arthur said any kind or tactful words to Francis would surely mark the end of the world and humanity as they knew it. So in a way, the usual “sod off” was a good sign.

“Ah, don’t mind if I do then. I imagine that Richard is a far more appreciative and respectful guest than his country, after all.” But England had made it impossible for Francis to head off down the corridor in the appropriate direction, by placing himself right in the middle of the corridor. It was amusing and annoying at the same time. Amusing in the fact that Arthur clearly did not want Francis anywhere near his king alone, despite the grievances he imagined Arthur and Richard must have had between them. He was not perfectly knowledgeable about Richard in every way, but from what he did know, Arthur and his new king surely had some strong disagreements.

"Who let you into a monastery, anyway? Don't get any intelligent ideas about praying. One look into your soul and we’re all doomed.”

Francis frowned, his annoyance finally winning out over his amusement. His soul was beautiful and pure! How dare Arthur claim otherwise! If there was one thing France knew without question, it was that The Almighty loved him and his people, and that there was no way the Lord would get upset with him and damn them all because of it. Why would he, when France followed almost all the religious teachings carefully and with true belief? Sure there were the more sexually inappropriate things that he did sometimes that he was sure God would frown on, but he always remembered to ask for forgiveness afterwards. It was only human to fall to temptation every now and then, right? So as far as he was concerned, God was understanding about these things.

“Why so surprised? I go into monasteries all the time.” Brushing some strands of wavy blonde hair from his eyes, he studied the English nation without even bothering to mask his annoyance at the implications of Arthur’s words. “My soul is purer than yours by far, so why should the Lord doom us all for that. If anything, I should be worried about him looking into your soul and decided to damn us to Hellfire.” Not even considering that pride was a sin, France loved to consider himself as superior to other nations. Especially rival countries.

“But our mission is the same, so perhaps we should at least try and be civil to each other, non? Or more appropriately, you should try to be more civil. As hard as that might be for someone like you.” Regaining some of his cheerful demeanor, the Frenchman gestured towards the corridor he had just come from. “If you wish to avoid Their Majesties a bit longer, perhaps you would accompany me on a quick tour of the building. As I am sure you are realizing, I have some truly magnificent architecture to show.”

He didn’t know why when they were such fierce rivals, but hanging around Arthur somehow sounded more fun than returning to his king right away. It was odd, since all they could do it seemed was disagree and fight. But perhaps just the fact that England was another country made him more interesting to be around. He was familiar, and familiarity breed contentment, no matter how harsh of rivals they could be at times.
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((Apologies for the delay. I hope I gave you enough to work with here too. France loves to talk, so don't drown in the sea of light sky blue text!))

[England]

“Ah, don’t mind if I do then. I imagine that Richard is a far more appreciative and respectful guest than his country, after all.”

It must have been an innate French trait, saying something so obviously full of bollocks with a perfectly straight face. It was where Richard got it from, he was certain. Respectful guest? Had they met?

“He’s praying,” England snapped, “and he doesn’t want to be disturbed until the feast. So unless you’re carrying it in on a tray, I wouldn’t expect a respectful anything.”

England had moved into the way as a precaution, and didn’t look at all happy when France glanced around him. Unhappy enough to square his shoulders and widen his stance just a touch – enough to make plain he was tired, crotchety and not in the mood. (All things that, in brutal honesty, would give France the edge if it came to blows – not that the irritating sodomite didn’t always have the edge, with his stupid knights, but Arthur had become very adept at finding ways to knock his knees out from under him lately and he wasn’t above brawling in a monastery if Francis wanted to try him.)

“Why so surprised? I go into monasteries all the time. My soul is purer than yours by far…”

England scoffed out loud, before he could help himself. France‘s intentions in a pit of virgins? Pure? But he didn’t interrupt, crossing his arms over his chest with the dense rustle of armour. The way the simpering pleasantness darkened at his little jab gave England the first good feeling he’d had all day, even as the tirade went on and on. Arthur could almost just about stand Francis when he was angry – occasionally he’d slip up and actually say what he meant for a change, and his gestures got more annoyed and less infuriatingly foppish. England’s brows furrowed in a self-conscious scowl. …even if the prissy sweep of France’s hair, clean elegant fingers irritated, made England uncomfortably aware of how grubby days on the road had left him. His own nails were scuffed and cracked, leather residue settled into crooked lines of his palms; to top it off, half the land’s mud was splattered up the back of his calves from the ride. France might have been dressed up in real armour, but it was still buffed and shined to within an inch of its sodding life. Some pretty little ‘pure’ maiden had doubtless strapped him into it that morning, given it another polish, and as a reward left bow legged and well beyond salvation.


“But our mission is the same, so perhaps we should at least try and be civil to each other, non? Or more appropriately, you should try to be more civil. As hard as that might be for someone like you.” ”Funny, it’s only hard around you,” England muttered, as France continued talking over him airily. “If you wish to avoid Their Majesties a bit longer, perhaps you would accompany me on a quick tour of the building. As I am sure you are realizing, I have some truly magnificent architecture to show.”

“Are you done?” England asked, after a deliberate moment of silence, just in case France decided he’d forgotten something else he wanted to add. He wasn’t going to be told when and when not to be civil, and not by France of all people. But he couldn’t deny that ‘avoiding Their Majesties’ sounded like exactly what he wanted to do right now. France was the only way he was going to get away with it, and the frog knew it. Still glowering, England had got the other glove off, and balled both up in his fist as he made up his mind. Beyond them, he could see servants hurrying around with baskets and fresh piles of linen, their heads down as they hurried past the pair of arguing knights. One gave France a bright-eyed smile, all billowing skirts and bonnet, and England felt his patience fray another few inches. “I want out of this palaver if you’re going to put me to sleep with masonry. Some of us haven’t been sitting on our arses getting fat, you know,” he snapped, taking a jab at France’s midsection with the balled up chainmail and stomping past him. In the vague general direction he’d seen the bedchamber linens going. (So what, he thought uncomfortably, if it was France's house; France hadn't minded making himself at home in his, had he?)

[France]

Seeing Arthur all defensive never got old for Francis. He thoroughly enjoyed making the other upset and uncomfortable. It just felt…so right. Almost as though it was his job in life to make the younger nation highly pissed off and irritated. He didn’t even stop for a second to consider the idea that the elder should set good examples for the younger. Arthur was not that much younger than him anyways, and as many times as he had heard such ideas, he could not push aside his childish desire to aggravate where some nations were concerned.

There was a moment of silence that fell right after France has spoken, and his smile faltered once more as he studied the Englishman expectantly. He didn’t care much for silence when he was in the company of someone like England. This was not a romantic and meaningful silence, such as Francis was accustomed too sometimes with the blushing, young women he met with. No, this was an entirely different sort of quiet. An uncomfortable quiet.

“Are you done?”

For a comical moment, France opened his mouth as though to speak, only to shut it again and settle for shooting an indignant frown at England. Fierce blue eyes shifted to study England’s hands, as the other nation removed his last glove and held them in his fist. His look of complete irritation though was short lived as one of the pretty servant girls caught his eye as she passed the two of them. “Bonjour ma chère.” He exclaimed softly, blowing the woman a kiss even as she smiled at him. The sinful French knight watched her fleeting form like a hungry wolf eyeing a lamb. That was one thing he would surely miss about this place while he was away on crusade. The beautiful, polite, ever innocent servant girls. There were so many of them too! It made the cold stone of the building itself seem somehow more warm and welcoming. And then England spoke up, and that feeling of lust was washed away in an instant, to be replaced with more annoyance.

“I want out of this palaver if you’re going to put me to sleep with masonry. Some of us haven’t been sitting on our arses getting fat, you know.”

France scoffed, putting on his best “holier than thou” expression, even as he was jabbed. “Fat? My people and I are far from fat.” It wasn’t necessarily true of course with France’s nobles, but better to ignore them for the sake of this argument. His eyes followed England for a moment as the other stormed past. Deciding that he needed to follow in order to best argue his case, France jogged up alongside his English guest. “You are clearly just jealous because my men and I don’t look like we trudged our way through a bog. We actually look like knights.” His smile returned as he examined one of his well maintained hands. He had just had his armor polished that very morning, and he was sure Arthur had to have noticed it. No doubt the grouchy English nation was mentally cursing Francis’ good looks and shiny armor right now. Yes, that was surely a look of black jealousy on his face, wasn’t it?

“I can understand the jealousy though, Arthur.” He quickly added, not liking it when his rival had much time to defend himself verbally. “It is common knowledge than my people are the most beautiful in all the world.” It was perhaps the most vain and arrogant thing France had said in a long time, but it felt good to say it. And he had heard that somewhere before. From his own citizens of course.

Their footsteps echoed on the stone floors as they made their way down the passage. They were heading towards the guest chambers, which had probably been where those busy servants had been bustling off too. No doubt they were doing last minute preparations for the guests. Sad as it was to him, France doubted he would get a kind “Why thank you, Francis, for providing us with such nice chambers” from England himself. Not that he would have ever said the same to England if the situation were reversed and they were meeting in England’s lands. Well, he might in mock good manners. However, with their history and interactions thus far, England would surely see through such false words.

“So how was the ride here?” The French nation finally asked. Why not attempt a few pleasantries regardless? “Hopefully your men will be well rested tonight in preparation for tomorrow.”

[England]

England almost thought he’d got away with it. France had looked indignant all right, standing there flabbergasted, and for once perhaps he was offended enough to leave Arthur alone.

No such luck. As the other kingdom caught up, jogging easily under the heavy chainmail on a good night’s sleep (and probably the added buoyancy of his own ego), England felt annoyed and slightly relieved.

“You are clearly just jealous because my men and I don’t look like we trudged our way through a bog. We actually look like knights…”

Nix the relieved. “You look like confectionaries,” England retorted, crossly, like he’d never seen anything more ridiculous in his life. And that was saying something, having lived alongside France all these years. He looked pointedly sideways, to where France was gazing lovingly at his own hand like the face of Christ was about to appear in it. The younger kingdom looked away in disgust, and absolutely no jealousy. Why would he be jealous? France was a pretty and useless idiot, full of pretty and useless people, full of pretty and—not very useless land, but Arthur had had almost a third of that off him. If one came with the other, Arthur didn’t want any part of it. France ought to get on with it and pick one and stopped being an insufferable twit as far as Arthur was concerned. All this talk of cooperation had only made that obvious. Despite his perfect hair and his pretty hands, France needed England and his mud splattered archers. He obviously didn’t like it, and Arthur liked it even less, but if Francis had been able to do it all on his own England had absolutely no doubt he would have done it on his sodding—

“I can understand the jealousy though, Arthur. It is common knowledge that my people are the most beautiful in all the world.”

Of all the…!

“Beautifully fat,” England agreed, about as blatantly mature as his human age suggested. He didn’t look back to see France’s face, though he could imagine it as he picked up his pace smartly after the flow of servants; he’d recognised some of the trunks and cases as Richard’s, and was following them towards what had to be the King’s temporary quarters. He wouldn’t get something as grand, he knew that, but it should have been one of the nearest doors. Picking one at random, England shouldered it open like a boor. If France was never going to treat him like a gentleman, that was fine with England. He had absolutely no intention of ever being one.

Inside, the stone walls were hung with only a couple of sconces as befit the religious intentions of the building. The only tapestry was the one rolled up above the narrow window, with its double corner slits overlooking the water. It was an excellent room for keeping an eye on things and an excellent room for a draught. Rolled down the heavy weave would keep out the worst of the wind, but it never kept out all of it, and Arthur wasn’t sure he’d actually ever roll it down. Considering where they were, it probably had a torture-faced Christ sewn into it. Things like that didn’t, of course, have anything to do with his reluctance to be alone. That was just a prudent desire to keep his King for at least a full year before anything happened to him. The furniture was heavy wood and solid, minimally engraved and Spartan by vocation. It wasn’t France’s normal fare, but he thought he could detect an echo of self-serving smugness in it. Look how humble and pious I can be, it said. For a night it was fine. England rather doubted Francis had stayed here much longer than that, either.

(Of course he wasn’t going to compliment France’s hospitality. France made enough noise about how draughty and cold England – and all England’s castles – were. He’d made such a sodding fuss that he’d set up hundreds more when he’d come and parked his unwelcome arse over the channel. But his fascination with Arthur’s normal mode of discomfort stretched to the rooms he often assigned the English, Arthur was sure of it. If the fire was already lit and burning cheerfully in the grate, then that was only because—because no-one had bothered to tell the servants that.)

The table, polished and clean, took the gloves England dropped onto it and his sword soon after, a bit more carefully lain down. As loath as he was to disarm himself around France, there was never a time when Francis would be less likely to attack him. He’d be attacking his own chances of glory, and England knew which mattered more. Well. Most of the time, anyway.

“So how was the ride here? Hopefully your men will be well rested tonight in preparation for tomorrow.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“What does it look like?” he asked, muffled beneath the upwards shove of his own cowl. “It was full of mud and French people.” England only just stopped himself from dumping the physical proof sarcastically at France’s feet; possibly on his feet. He hadn’t used to be this bad, he thought distantly, draping it over the back of the chair instead. It’d been the occupation. It had been all the ‘What ‘orrors are you doing to my language?’ and ‘This will never do, you cannot dress like a peasant now you are part of my Kingdom!’. The harder France tried to beat refinement into him, the more crass England had gone out of his way to become. It was a war of wills, and it was almost impossible to go back on it now. It wasn’t like anyone in Europe had thought better of him to start with. Beyond his own wars and his own borders, England was a counter-weight; he was additional troops that fought dirty on the chess-board of Europe, useful to tip the balance of other wars. And right now, France needed his help in this one.

“And they’ll be hung-over and pissy, just like all yours,” England grumbled, dragging the pitcher of (cold) water towards him and tipping it into the bowl with a splash. Maybe it was the cold water, or maybe it was the relief of finally being out of the armour (or maybe it was the sobering thought of the morning to follow), but he’d simmered down a little bit. “As long as they’re on the boats tomorrow, and your Italian junkers don’t sink out from under us, we’ll do what we’re here to do.” Like fight while you do your hair. Dipping his hands under the water with a grimace (cold!), England tried to get the worst of the dirt off before cupping fresh water from the pitcher and doing the same thing with his face. It didn’t work especially well, but at least it felt good.

”Any word from Austria?” he asked, voice wet. He knew if there was any, it wouldn’t have come to him.

[France]

“Beautifully fat.”

The blue-eyed Frenchman had been quick to let the remark go with merely a scoff. Let England say what he wanted about his people and him. He knew they were not fat confectioneries. Most of the time, anyways. There could be no doubt in his self-centered mind that England was just jealous and wanted to strike a blow to France’s self image. Which-in his own mind- Francis thought was perfectly healthy and appropriate. It wasn’t really pride. That would be a sin after all, and he was not a nation of sin in his own eyes. No, his self love was healthy and necessary. After all, how could he love everyone the way God wanted if he did not love himself? So there was no shame in knowing he was nice looking, brave, chivalrous and all those other nice adjectives that he had accustomed to associating with himself.

Once they had made it inside the drafty, stone room, Francis had allowed his eyes to wander over the décor. So simple, yet it said good things about him and was sturdy and stable. Not nearly as fancy as he would prefer his own quarters to be if he had to stay somewhere long term, but given their location, it was perfect. Religious buildings were never to be decorated as personal palaces after all. It wouldn’t seem right, no matter how much more comfy it would have been to relax in a nice, elegant room for the stay in Marseille. As much as he loved the finer things in life, even Francis’ own quarters here were similar to Arthurs’ in plainness.

“What does it look like? It was full of mud and French people.”

“Ah, so it was a partially good, partially bad experience then?” he teased, knowing full well that England did not care for being either soaked in mud or surrounded by French people. A smile on his lips once more, Francis watched Arthur dump his clothing on the back of the large chair. Deciding to put a tiny bit more distance between them, the vain blond wandered over to stand by the window and look out at the sunlit waters. To be honest, it looks like you purposefully tried to get as muddy as possible for the journey. You can be so unrefined sometimes. He was about to give voice to his less than nice thoughts again when his guest spoke up once more.

“And they’ll be hung-over and pissy, just like all yours,”

He couldn’t argue with facts. His people would undoubtedly be hung-over and irritable the next morning. It was bond to happen after all the wine and feasting for the night. England’s voice had somewhat become less crabby sounding than before, which was always a good sign for their interactions and made the Frenchman's expression brighten a bit more.

“As long as they’re on the boats tomorrow, and your Italian junkers don’t sink out from under us, we’ll do what we’re here to do.”

France scoffed at the remark, watching the Englishman wash his hands and face in the water. “My Italian ships are finely crafted.” He was quick to defend. “They won’t sink on us.” The Frenchman luckily managed to refrain from adding the ‘I hope’ aloud. As much as he liked his Italian ships, he didn’t have as much faith in them these days as he claimed.

For a moment Francis just studied the other man as he asked about Austria. In truth, he had not yet heard from Austria or his king. Perhaps his own king had by now though? Philip was not always so quick to relay things to France himself sometimes, so it was likely. “Yes of course. Austria says to pass along the message that you are a rather sour and disagreeable nation if he has ever seen one. He says you should lighten up and stop being so pissy and ungrateful all the time.” It was an immature and completely silly thing to say, but Francis couldn’t pass up any opportunity to have a bit of fun at his rival’s expense. “He also says that you should take some pride and start dressing and acting like a proper nation.”

The words themselves did not sound very Austria-like, and the gleeful look of mischief on his face probably gave away the obvious fact that he had just made that up and had not in fact heard from Austria at all. France never had learned to be convincing with lies yet.

“In actuality I have heard nothing from him. Perhaps Philip has and just has not informed me yet.” The blonde heaved a sigh at the thought. “But I am sure we’ll hear soon in any case. Probably when we go down to the feast.”
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((Sorry! Lame short post is lame. I was not sure where to take it at the end. Hope you can use this a little for your reply. If not let me know and I can add more.