01-06-2012, 06:09 PM
(ooc: Can't wait. I apologise for the giant, cumbersome post of doom! Feel free to run a little timeskip- or give us a glimpse of Evelyn's conversation with her mother- as you see fit.)
While the vast difference in their beginnings imposes its own distance, going to war together has its own etiquette, and the two men have a shrewd understanding of each other. Wolfe knows this King is one of the good ones, that he is a noble warrior, faithful to his family, loyal to his people. Indeed, he owes a singular debt; King Jude took him up as an unmannered boy, recognising in a child's play the makings of a great swordsman. He even flouted the rules of the day- as one only can in such a mannerly backwater kingdom- and took on a serf's son, first as a mercenary and then, unthinkably, an officer. In another life he'd have married a local girl, working the fields until he died as befits his birth. And yet the most recent campaigns have seen Wolfe ride as the King's second, his preferred guardian on the field of battle. The other officers spit on the ground when they speak of it- or used to- calling him “some peasant's son”, but he was never moved by their disdain. They bore for him the only respect he has any use for; they feared him in battle. The King's respect, perhaps, was more profound; he knows Wolfe to be a sober and powerful commander, a chaste man distinguished by his compassionate treatment of those who have nothing to offer him.
Their understanding, while stilted by blood, runs deep.
It is with surprise, therefore, that he sees his pleas for their monarch to lift the men's spirits fall on deaf ears. The King's grave expression is disheartening, and Wolfe knows that if he feels it thus, his men- much wearied and grieving for lost comrades- will take this a heart's blow. He struggles not to allow himself to speak up, and almost loses the battle. While he keeps his face composed, one who knew him better would see him square his shoulders, agitation tautening the lines of his body. However, he is moments from protesting when Evelyn saves him from himself, stepping in herself. Wolfe is the only one close enough to see the exchange that passes, all but wordless, between them. He watches the princess shrewdly as her father steps past her to do his duty. It is a relief to know that it no longer falls to him to raise their spirits. They are good men. Above all, Wolfe stands to see justice done.
He'd sooner lose his tongue than speak of it, but it is with grudging respect that he surveys the young princess now. He has never really looked at her before, thinking of the King as his contemporary and the girl child, therefore, as just that- a child. He catches sight of her in a new light when he sees her behave so shrewdly, and with such compassion. She is older than her years, perhaps- children always are, in times of war. She has become a young woman in the time since he looked at her properly.
The men depart with hope and a sense of accomplishment that Wolfe- never a man of many words- was unable to conjure for them. They are a sorry sight- lean and hungry now, bruised and heavily bandaged- but they take up arms with bright eyes and he is thankful for that.
It is not until he kneels before the girl that he realises she hadn't known what was to come- perhaps she'd known she was to have a guardian, but he is certain that he sees a flicker of alarm in her eyes. It must be the realisation of who he is and what he is to become to her. It is perhaps a mark of exactly how thick-skinned he has become in his years of being unmarried and surrogate father to his men that he is not hurt by the stricken look she struggles to hide. Her lips part, and for a moment she casts a look of alarm at her father, whose face is impassive. No doubt, Wolfe supposes, he looks to be every bit the brute, seeming roughly mannered to a girl so delicate. He feels no sting, only pain for her.
This close, she looks as weary as he feels. She's still just a girl, and she will become a woman in a deadly world, all politics and intrigue and daggers in the dark. Girl or not, however, she conjures a civil and distinguished response. She calls him 'Sir', which in its own way strikes a chord- that would be too far, even for their progressive and reasoned leader, to knight a serf's son. Lieutenant is sufficient scandal for any company. But he is charmed to hear her say it and not unmannerly enough to correct her- she is hardly mistaken, technically. It is unheard of for an officer not to be of noble blood. She may not even know.
Wolfe, while in his own way an exception to his birth, is no rebel; he believes what so many believe, that nobility of person is divinely given, that class is as concrete a condition as age, sex or height. It pleases him that she speaks in a manner that befits a royal, despite her shock. 'How quickly they learn', he thinks, and bows his head solemnly to accept her greeting as the men begin to disperse. Later, there will be much great cheer and carousing; they'll eat well and take home food to their families. Now, they are wearied and so is he- but there is no question of his returning to his own bachelor's home. He can't remember the last time he was there; now, as ever, the King has need of him. After all, of the officers who went away, he is the only one who has returned.
Beckoned over, he stands and makes haste to his King, sheathing his sword. “My liege,” he says, gruffly, as the great doors are opened for them to enter. As custom dictates, the ladies enter first, followed by the two men. Wolfe's footsteps ring clearly in the vast hallway, whose flagstones are worn- a fact he notes with some satisfaction. His mind, while half attending to King's urgent monologue, is on the task at hand- security. The carpets have been taken up; any entrant's footsteps will ring out through the vast stone hallways. So much the better.
“It is a great pleasure,” the King is intoning as Wolfe reminds himself to attend- “to see you returned. The last messenger spoke so gravely-”
The younger man nods shortly. “It was hard fought, my liege. It was not until their commander was unhorsed-” he falters, remembering the presence of Evelyn and the Queen scarce steps ahead of them, and clears his throat. It is considered indelicate in the extreme to speak frankly of war in front of women. “Saving your presence, your majesty, my lady-” he adds, and changes direction awkwardly; “And yet here we are, thank the Lord.”
The King closes his eyes in observance of this, as is appropriate. They have come to the great arching staircase at the West end of the ballroom, which the ladies will ascend to dress for dinner. However, before they can move to retire, King Jude clears his throat. “Evelyn. It is to Lieutenant Wolfe that I have entrusted your safety. He's no stranger to you. The kingdom cannot afford to lose its princess, and I cannot bear to lose mine.”
Wolfe looks uncomfortable to be witnessing this, and looks away, to find the queen hiding a smile- it is so unusual to see her grave husband so sentimental. “God willing, he can protect you better than any man in these difficult times- inside our walls and outside. I see no need to curtail your freedoms as long as you undertake to keep him in sight.” he smiles fondly at his daughter, eyebrows raised. “It does my heart good to see you ride. There's precious little beauty to be had in times of war.”
At this, discomfited though he looks, Wolfe nods. There is nothing on Earth he understands more profoundly than he understands this.
|