The Raven and the Lion (closed)

[Maka]

The church’s shadows were cool and welcoming after the white-hot Palestinian sunlight outside. It was empty for once – the crowds of pilgrims, monks, and wild-eyed flagellants swept clean away as if by the hand of God. Stephen knelt at the altar and tried to pray. He was a tall man with the commanding, aquiline features of his Norman forebears, of imposing height and leanly muscular build, with storm-blue eyes that could be as cold as distant glaciers but also flash hot with passion. There was a faded scar on his cheek, running from below the left eye to his ear.

This was without a doubt the holiest place on Earth, the axis mundi, the place where God Himself had taken human form and been slain for the sake of human sin. Stephen closed his eyes, tried to block out the heat, the irritation of his new dark beard, the ever-present pain of old wounds physical and mental. He tried to contemplate what it meant, to be here in this place where Christ had walked, a place held sacred by bishops and emperors for ten centuries.

But when he thought of bishops, he thought of mad Ambrose, the sadistic fanatic. When he thought of the lords of this earth, he thought of William de Lacy, consumed by his own greed and power. He had known wise and saintly men of god, if not many, just as he had known good and just nobles, though they had been even fewer. But lately, he had been unable to keep the doubts from rising in his mind. Was it all just a cruel lie? All of his life, he’d taught that the Almighty was both loving and just. What love and what justice were these in this world? Had Christ died for naught, when more than a thousand years after, men still killed one another in the name of God?

These were thoughts that would gladden Ambrose’s heart, Stephen knew, thoughts that even now could deliver him straight into the torture chambers of the Faith. What had she believed? He knew she was no witch, no disciple of Satan, whatever they’d said about her. But had she kept her faith, until the very end? Or had she yielded to despair?

He would not have blamed her if she had. Nobody had saved her, after all. Not God, not Mary, not the saints, and certainly not Stephen de Valois. Why had she not left well enough alone, that day in the greenwoods, three years ago? Raven would still be alive, as would her family. Stephen would be dead, gored by a boar, but then…

The clank of metal stirred him from his brooding. Two men, hauberks of heavy chainmail worn in defiance of the blazing sun outside, were striding up the aisle towards him. They had borne their swords even into this holy place. They had found him, as Stephen had known they would eventually. And he knew what this meant. He felt no anger towards them – after all, they were just men doing a job. He stood

The men at arms knelt.

“Your Majesty. The city is restless. We cannot guarantee your safety away from the Hospital.”

King Stephen of England nodded curtly, and led the way out into the blinding sunlight.

 

[zora_little]

The tall man stumbled out into the street, and the closing door behind him shut off the music and sounds of the tavern. He swayed momentarily, having had too much wine. Strands of greying red hair were plastered to his forehead. The damned heat of this city! Even nightfall failed to bring about any relief. He cursed under his breath, stumbling over a sleeping cat who scurried away, finally leaping over a low wall. He was alone again.

“Cursed be this god-forsaken land and this heat,” he mumbled, wiping his forehead. This would be the last tour for him. One last tour, to fill his coffers with enough gold to comfortably live out his days back in England, and to never have to worry about a steady supply of wine, whores, and other amusements. One last tour before he would settle down, once and for all. He scratched his crotch absent-mindedly, a smile on his lips.

So far he had always been on the side of the winners, or at least smart enough to turn his cloak just in time. Fate had been generous. Having made himself useful to the right people he now owned a small title and a nice piece of land, back home in England. His wife, a somewhat dull girl who knew when to shut up, and who endured his cruel moods and tastes with the patience and loyal love a good wife owed to her husband.

His steps echoed through the narrow, dark street. The scent of jasmine mingled with that of urine and rotting garbage. The promised land! He scoffed to himself.

The slender figure suddenly stood before him as if it had grown straight out of the ground. James gasped, momentarily taken aback, before he found his voice again.

“Get out of my way, lad,” he grunted. The other did not move. A pair of dark eyes was all he could see, as the rest of his face was covered. He waved his hand at him as if he was a pestering fly. “Get out of the way, you Moorish bastard. Have you not yet understood who your masters are in this city?”

The boy did not answer, but did not show the slightest inclination to step aside. What did he want? Was this Short Gerald’s idea of a joke? Was this maybe one of the pretty boys he had spoken about all night? A gift to honour their friendship? He smirked.

“Look, you little shit, I am not in the mood for whatever it is Gerald told you about me. Not tonight. Now fuck off.”

Still nothing. He made a tentative step forward.

“I have waited a very long time for you,” the shadow said calmly. “Long James.”

James stared at the other. Through the haze of too much sweet wine, an uncomfortable shiver ran down his spine. Nobody had called him by this name since he served in the cursed armies of the North.

“Who the fuck are you?” His voice was hoarse, tinged with an edge of fear. He squinted at the figure across from him, trying to remain steady on his feet. “If you know who I am you should be smart enough not to make me mad.”

The shadow did not reply. James growled. He badly needed to take a piss, and all he now wanted was his bed, and the cool shade of his lodgings in the Hospital. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.” He felt for his sword. If this Moorish dimwit did not understand words, maybe he would understand the caress of his blade.

But before he could even draw, the shadow lurched at him. He moved silently, seemingly without any effort, impossible to avoid. James stumbled back, clutching his throat, trying to spit out a string of shocked curses that ended in a gurgling cough. Blood spurted from the wound as the shadow stepped back, watching James drop helplessly to his knees while still trying to lash out at his attacker with one free hand.

The shadow gracefully stepped back from the man in front of him.

“Three down,” the slender figure whispered, looking down at the dying man, waiting. “Four to go.”

***
Soft late afternoon light shone into the courtyard, the only sounds that of a murmuring fountain and lazy cicadas. The scent of roses and herbs lay heavily in the air. The faint sound of the call to prayer could be heard in the distance.

Raven sat at the table, her brows knitted in concentration as she tried to roll up the wine leaves tight enough for them not to come undone in the pot. This time she wanted them to be perfect. But her mind was elsewhere. With a soft curse, she shoved the bowl with rice away.

Her attention was drawn to a piece of parchment on the table, a letter, written in a hasty, barely readable script. But Raven had no trouble understanding the meaning of the words. Her heart leapt at the thought. Finally. She had waited such a long time.

When she felt a pair of hands on her shoulders, she looked up, smiling.

“These look wonderful, my love.”

Raven put one hand of that of her husband.

“Nobody should be able to mock you for having taken a wife who cannot even prepare your favourite dish.”

 

[Maka]

"I was a lady of high renown
As lived in the north countrie;
I was a lady of high renown
When Stephen de Valois loved me."

The plangent strains of a lute accompanied the mournful song, echoing through the narrow alleyways of the Crusaders' quarter. Stephen's escort tensed, and looked about them for its source.

"I can find the minstrel and silence him, sire," one of the knights suggested. Stephen shook his head wearily.

The song, told from Alys' point of view and lamenting his cruelty and neglect towards her, had followed him all the way from England. Of course it said nothing of the reasons for that cruelty, nothing of the events in the north and the high cost of Alys' indecision and divided loyalties. But minstrels seemed to love the story, and the song that had come from it, and Alys was a generous patron to all of them, and so it circulated. Even after he ascended the throne, Stephen made no attempt to stop them playing it. He'd been called worse things than a cold, unloving husband.

He and his wife had reached an arrangement, over the past three years. Northern support was key to his regime, and so he and Alys sat in state together at all formal occasions. She accompanied him on his travels, sailing on separate ships with separate entourages. And they slept apart, in separate wings. Stephen had not spoken a word to Alys since the day he had liberated her, weeping and trembling, from Castle de Lacy -the prison which she had voluntarily entered. She had begged his forgiveness and he had denied her.

She was young and beautiful still but it was a mournful, wraith-like beauty. The roses were gone from her cheeks and her silky golden hair framed a lost and lovely face, large, imploring blue eyes like those in the face of a starving child, though what she lacked was not food but affection. It was little wonder that the poets sang their sad songs about her.

Stephen reached the agreed-upon meeting place and waited. Tonight, they were to be hosted by Frederick, Crusader king of Jerusalem, so once again they must present a unified front. Alys even now would be making her way from her own quarters to meet with him. Another hour in her company, another of cold silence and false smiles, and he could return to the company of his silent unyielding God... and the ghost of Raven.

 

[zora_little]

Alys looked at the modest iron wedding band in her palm. It was the only thing she had left, the only keepsake. Her throat tightened as she gently traced the edge of the ring with one finger. How happy she had been on that day, when he had taken her hand, gently, to vow to love and cherish her forever.

No, not forever, she reminded herself. How did the words go?

Til death do us part.

Horses whinnied outside. The wind had picked up, and the shutters of her chamber rattled in their hinges.

A wretched thing it was, her marriage to Stephen de Valois, the King of England. She had escaped the fate of being married off to de Lacy only to end up serving another man’s ambition. The loneliness was not the worst of it. Alys had always enjoyed silence, had always enjoyed to keep her own company. She did not require to be entertained or amused by others to fill her days. But his coldness towards her was difficult to bear. Stephen would never forgive her. The massacre at the convent of St. Phoebe lay over four years behind them, and both she and Stephen had paid for the decisions they had made then with losing those they had loved most in this world. She wondered if he had agreed to their marriage as a form of self-punishment, because he had been unable to protect the peasant girl, Raven.

What she dreaded most of all was when she did have to see her husband. When she had to smile and pretend that the respect and love he put on display were not just an act. When she had to face the admiration and envy of those watching the royal couple, and who only saw a picture of grace and beauty, and the way the king seemed to dote on his radiant queen.

Stephen had become an excellent actor over the years, and sometimes, even she wanted to believe that the spark of desire in his eyes, the playful kisses of her fingertips at royal banquets, the way he held her when they danced for their court and their guests, were all real. But as soon as the curtain had descended on the play that their life together had become, it all ended.

The only time he had shared her bed in the past three years had been during their wedding night. He had not looked at her, had not caressed her. Alys was quite certain that he had not even talked to her before climbing on top of her to make her his wedded wife. He had simply consummated their marriage as part of their contract to unite the country and keep peace in the north, a mechanic act performed skilfully, but without affection. The memory of that night still stung. Stephen never mistreated her. His cruelty was never violent, never physical. After he had finished he simply got up, bade her goodnight, and left. His distant politeness had hurt her more than any slap could have. Alys had never asked him to join her in their marriage bed again after that, and he never expressed the wish to do so.

But since Stephen had been crowned king, the need for her to give him sons had become not only more pressing, it was considered her duty. In London, the whole court had been alive with vicious whispers and ill gossip about her being unable to lure her own husband into her bed, about her being in some way malformed, or simply disagreeable, while northern minstrels and poets composed song after song lamenting the fate of the beautiful lonely Queen of England who wished for nothing more than to regain the love of the king.

Did she? Alys looked at the ring in her palm and her chest contracted in pain. Stephen, for all his cold anger towards her and what she had done, never knew that he had married a young widow.

“Your majesty, we need to leave. His majesty the king will be waiting for you.” She flinched in surprise. Her maid smiled shyly, trying to pretend that she had not seen her mistress scramble to hide the cheap iron ring in a wooden box by her bed.

“Thank you, Reed. I am ready.” Alys threw a thin scarf around her head, to protect herself against the scorching head and the dust of the city. “I would not want to make him wait.”