My Man Godric

by Cooper, R.

Staring through the wet strands of his hair, Bertie couldn’t see much, but he gasped at the brief second when Godric did not relinquish the towel, and he was surrounded by Godric’s arms. His shiver as they left him was not for show, just as it wasn’t only exhaustion that made him ache.

  It had been so long since he had been with anyone, and this was his Godric. He was burning with need at the barest touch.

  “Godric, please,” he whimpered without shame. “I beg of you. Don’t call me “my lord” again.” In the early days of knowing him, Godric had addressed Bertie as everyone else but Aethir did, as Lord Aethelbert. Of course in those days, Bertie had not realized his feelings and so had not sung them at every opportunity and become the bane of Godric’s existence. He didn’t think it was entirely in his mind that he and Godric had grown close in that far away time, though he sometimes daydreamed about the morning they had shared a bowl of the daisy tea favored in the South. He had only himself to blame that those times were over.

  “It offends you?” Godric lowered his voice even more to ask the simple question, seeming to choose his words carefully. Bertie shut his eyes tight and set about rubbing away the wet chill as Godric kept talking. “Am I not addressing you correctly? I can never be sure with you Northerners, but a lord is a lord. It’s not wise to forget that. I learned that at a young age and have been reminded of it often since then.”

  Bertie stilled with one hand in his hair, his throat dry and tight.

  Godric was low born, it was true, but it was not a subject ever directly questioned, not with his worth proven, not with the king’s esteem for him. Others might still scorn Godric for his way of speaking, his frankness of manner, everything that made him who he was, but Bertie never had, not even when he itched to sew new clothes for him and keep his armored polished. He looked over.

  His beloved had turned from him and was seated with the cat in his lap. His hand dwarfed the dainty creature but it seemed content enough.

  Godric petting Godric, the cat that had nearly… no, it had not been the cat, but Bertie’s reckless mouth. Elated from so much time spent in the company of the country’s hero, and yet relieved to be at the Keep and no longer on the road, Bertie had been a bit over exuberant, as usual.

  It was a trait that the people of the valley had always seemed to regard fondly, unlike the stuffier members of his brother’s court. Maybe it was something about the valley people, a difference in attitudes as large as the difference in customs between Camlann and the southern cities. In the valley below the Keep they kept their feet bare in the summer as well as in the warmth of early autumn, and held all children, especially those conceived outside of marriage at the harvest, to be sacred.

  Bertie joining them with his feet bare beneath his skirts only seemed to delight them. He did not know how it made Godric feel, if it upset his sensibilities or pleased him or merely amused him, but it made Bertie wonder and dream more. Sometimes about dancing with him, sometimes about someday seeing Godric’s feet. It was yet another reason to adore the annual trip to the valley with all its rituals; it gave him a tradition that might mean he could see Godric tipsy among the fires and hay, and that someday he might see him laughing.

  Arrival at the Keep began with a welcome by old friends and an exchange of gifts that was a carryover from a tribute of centuries ago. When Bertie had been offered a kitten by one delightful child instead of the usual gifts, he could not refuse. Aethir got casks of wine and a stag, Aethelbert got a kitten. He did not mind.

  “How was I to say no?” He had explained later at the head table during the banquet for their arrival, after the kitten had poked its head from his bodice to sniff at his plate. Bertie had been wearing a puffed bodice, not tight, and the kitten might have gone unnoticed if it had not gotten hungry.

  The courtiers with them had laughed. His brother had merely smiled and asked for his new pet’s name, and then, as an afterthought, wondered why the cat had been hidden in his clothing.

  The poor thing had been cold. Bertie should have said that. Instead he’d looked over to see if Godric had laughed too.

  Seated not far from dear Aethir, Godric had not been smiling. He rarely did at court functions, but he had seemed to hold the same softness in his gaze as had the king, that same fondness for Bertie. It had been remarkable.

  Thus, what Bertie had said had been the loud, and stupid, “Because how else would I keep my Godric with me at all times?” He had named the kitten, humiliated himself, and embarrassed Godric in one fell swoop. It was a natural talent.

  The others present had found this hilarious, but then, there was very little about Bertie’s public devotion that they did not find amusing. The king’s half-brother blindly in love with the duke of war himself, a man who, to most of them, was still a stable boy and always would be. Godric would keep them safe and win their wars and fight their battles, but he had rough hands and broad shoulders and had taught himself to read and write his name when over the age of twenty and so would remain a peasant, just as Bertie was always the child with the foreign mother, tolerated and sometimes courted because he often had the king’s ear and because their father had made certain that his bloodline could not be denied by giving him his mouthful of a name.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I am hardly a lord, Godric. My mother was not a lady, and regardless of my father’s generosity, I do not have any real title at all.” Unless he counted bastard. He had been given lands and money, had been treated well and loved by his family, but it was true, he was no lord.

  “I am afraid I must disagree, my lord.” Godric scratched, ever so carefully, and the cat purred, obscenely happy. It was truly the strangest cat, throwing itself at strangers instead of running from them. Perhaps it had grown so used to being carried next to Bertie’s heart that it sought out the rhythm with others.

  Without warning Godric raised his head and Bertie ended his daydream of lying with his ear to Godric’s chest. “I have watched you for some time. Along with your brother, and one or two esteemed generals often at my table, you are one of the few I have met with a true claim to nobility.”

  Plainspoken and true, it hit Bertie like an arrow, or perhaps that was Godric’s gaze. The towel fell right from his hands but somehow he felt warm. Not warm, hot.

  “I… It’s well known that I’m a fool, Godric,” Bertie whispered, not certain why he spoke, why he’d argue if Godric had finally ceased to find him a complete nuisance. Godric shook his head and then gently placed the cat on the floor before standing up.

  “You are the brother of a good king and your great father’s son, my lord,” he disagreed quietly. “You are noble to your toes.” He paused, then firmed his lips. His face seemed to grow darker. “There is food there, and clothes,” he waved at the table, glancing over Bertie before politely averting his eyes once again, “if you wish to visit with your people before I figure out how to best get you all safely away, and in the meantime….”

  “Clothes?” Bertie looked over and saw fine cloth. He wrinkled his brow.

  “The king, your brother’s.”

  “Why do you have my brother’s clothing in your tent?” Bertie demanded sharply, shutting up only when Godric’s expression filled with disbelief.

  “He left them here.” With hindsight, this was obvious, and Bertie almost ducked his head at his jealousy. He settled for a shrug and then a small smile when Godric went on about how he did not think the clothes Bertie had been wearing suited his soft skin. It was not an insult when Godric said it. “In the meantime,” Godric finally finished, pointedly, “my tent is yours, my lord.”

  “You….” Bertie’s breath left him. “Where will you sleep?”

  Godric froze for one moment, then inhaled.

  Bertie ignored his discomfort or Southern prudery or embarrassment, whichever it was. “Your bed is lovely, Godric, but I won’t push you out of it.” He wasn’t teasing, not even a little. He would never push Godric out of any bed.

  Perhaps knowing t
hat, or used to him, Godric’s lips briefly turned up and he slanted a look at Bertie that was surprisingly warm. “The ground is good enough for me, my lord.” Then he half-turned away.

  “I’ve slept on the ground too, Godric beloved, and I don’t care if you were a stable boy, the ground isn’t fit for anyone, much less the man with a nation relying on him. Sleep in your bed.”

  “Is that an order?” Godric returned quietly, with all manner and respect, then scratched at his chin, which was bare and clean-shaven, a fact that Bertie had so far nicely and properly refrained from mentioning. He gave up that attempt in the face of Godric’s stupid sense of honor due him.

  “I didn’t order you to do that!” Bertie insisted, a touch shrilly, only to fall silent when Godric smiled again. His smile was as stunning as it was unexpected.

  “We all have our reasons to do what we do, my lord,” Godric offered seriously, even with that faint, warm pleasure still in his eyes, and then left the tent while Bertie stood there, stunned and naked, behind him.

  ~~~

  He dressed as quickly as possible and was not ashamed of how fast he stuffed the offered food into his mouth, though he did not eat so fast that he did not taste the seasonings in the cold chicken or feel the grains of flour on the crust of the hard bread. For once he did not stop to make certain his hair gleamed or to straighten his clothes, or even to shave the roughness from his jaw.

  He had matters to attend to, and, as it happened, Godric had seen him look his worst and had not objected. Godric, Bertie’s mind whispered dizzily, had found him noble. If Bertie could not have a declaration of love to answer his own, then that would do. Besides, if being unshaven was the look of peasants and soldiers, then it ought to do for the dead king’s bastard.

  Outside the tent was much hushed activity—as hushed as armored men and horses could get, which was not much. But there was a marked difference in their movements from how they had been at the Keep months earlier with everyone brimming with excitement. Heaviness was with them now, impatience and a hint of worry.

  The air around them was crisp and the sunlight pale. It would be warmer nearer the capital, but no one was slowing in their work, and no one was frozen with fear.

  They were preparing to decamp, he realized with sudden alarm, and he could not see Godric. But even as he wondered what had happened last night to bring this about, he knew, and allowed himself one short, rare, frown of displeasure. It was part of Godric’s duty to protect Bertie, but Godric was to serve the country and his brother’s wishes first.

  Of course, after an hour of searching for Godric and receiving stunned, perplexed stares from soldier after soldier that always seemed to turn to irritating grins, he got distracted by his group of survivors. They were doing well, or well enough, considering many of their friends and loved ones were dead or hiding in the mountains, and they would not see their homes again until spring, and that only if all went well.

  Bertie found the widow and her children in the company of Godric’s fierce Captain Torr, which was surprising until Bertie remembered how the widow’s young sister had woven flowers into Torr’s hair the morning the soldiers had departed with the king.

  She had survived the raid on the Keep with scars of her own but had stayed with the others in the mountains to watch for any more raiders. The locals knew the mountains better than any invaders, and they would not be taken unawares again.

  More surprising was how the angry captain bowed low to Bertie at first sight of him and then offered another nod when he had finally taken his leave. Considering that the captain’s words to Bertie at finding them all near the ruins of the Keep had been, “Thank the gods you are not hurt,” followed quickly by, “So few of you left?” Bertie had assumed the man had blamed him for the Keep’s destruction and thought that a warrior prince like Aethir might have saved it.

  There had been no time to send a messenger ahead to Godric to ask for help, and no one to spare in any case. The decision had been made there, right there. The captain had insisted that his orders were that Bertie could not remain and that he had to get Bertie back to Godric, until Bertie had invoked his position and insisted that the injured and helpless must come back with him or he wasn’t going, Godric or no Godric.

  It had perhaps been the maddest thing Bertie had ever said, and a surprise even to himself as he had said it. The captain’s face had changed, something dawning in his expression before he gone blank and offered Bertie another slow nod.

  The captain’s undoubtedly reluctant mission of rescue had been turned into a grueling journey back. He and the other men had barely spoken to Bertie in that time, only watching the small group’s progress with obvious impatience. Torr had not mentioned the widow’s sister, but dried flowers had hung from the man’s saddle. Bertie should have made that connection before.

  Many of the men closest to Godric had come to the Keep with him each harvest, and Torr had not been the only one to ride from its courtyard two months ago with a late-blooming flower in his hair and who now had a posy to remind him of a loved one awaiting his return.

  Bertie would not blame them for their anger if being ordered to protect Bertie was taking them farther from the battles needed to end all this and bring them home.

  But what had seemed like anger on the road did not seem it in the camp. By the time Bertie had temporarily given up his search for Godric to see to his scattered people, he had been saluted more than he had ever been in the capital. Even stranger, he found that soldiers who came by to wish his people well and ask about those left behind had offered him that same slow nod that Torr had given him.

  It was puzzling. While Bertie had not been hated, he was not the king. He was an embroidering lover of poetic tales who had repeatedly humiliated their commander. He was a joke if anything.

  He intended to ask about it from the one person who was not his brother who was guaranteed to be honest with him, but when he returned to Godric’s tent just after midday, it was again filled with knights and generals. They all immediately rose.

  Bertie waved them down. “We’re leaving? Where are we going? North?”

  “That is under discussion.” The Count rolled her eyes. Bertie assumed it was for the interruption, but then she looked to Godric as though he was at fault. “We were waiting here to assess the threat. It has now been assessed.”

  “They can come from any direction, as they’ve proven. If they reach the capital we are lost anyway,” someone Bertie did not know by name insisted, but stopped to waste time worrying about Bertie’s supposed sensibilities. “I apologize if the topic upsets you, Lord Aethelbert.”

  “Upsets me?” Bertie blinked. “I’ve already seen a place I love destroyed. What would upset me would be doing nothing while it happens again.” He lifted his chin. His tone was less imploring and more demanding but he did not alter it. He thought it rather ridiculous that others were concerned for his feelings with so much else going on, and if Bertie found it ridiculous then it must truly be so. “What is being done?”

  “Pray do not take offense, cousin, but this is hardly an area of interest to you,” the Baron began, then shut his mouth when Bertie opened his.

  “It is of interest to me, cousin, when my people are ravaged, killed, and dragged from their homes before my eyes. It is of interest to me that my brother have a capital to return to, and that those seeking refuge from these horrors be welcome behind Camlann’s walls.” He bit out each word. “Furthermore, as I have recently been reminded, I am my father’s son, and as long as someone of our blood occupies the capital, we shall remain undefeated.”

  Or so the legend went, but as with so many of those stories, Bertie wasn’t convinced that his ancestors hadn’t simply made it all up to keep their thrones or to calm a frightened populace during another crisis. He was sure many fallen kingdoms had once had similar legends.

  But even if it was only a story, others believed it, like the villagers around the Keep, who swore that someone of royal blood had to b
less their last harvest to ensure success in the years to come.

  Bertie’s gaze was drawn back to Godric at the thought, at the memory of explaining that very thing, his voice quavering at the blazing force there to be read in Godric’s expression. He had known without it being said that Godric could have told him every single horrible thing that could and would result from his one decision and that he was only adding to Godric’s long list of burdens, but that one decision had also been the right thing to do. He’d been certain of it.

  “Lord Aethelbert has his brother’s regard and has sat in during other councils,” Godric spoke at last, watching Bertie in return for another long moment before he faced his people again. “His opinion will likewise be valued here.”

  “For what it’s worth, I agree.” The Count, however, also sighed. “But with the mountains so vast, we cannot take forces away to protect the capital anymore than we could have spared them to protect your family’s holdings in the valley.” Her smile hinted at regret without actually offering any.

  Bertie could not have cared less about her feelings. “We’re going west? There are survivors ready to join you there.”

  “Some of us.” Another reluctantly broke the silence that fell at his question. “The north, above the old wall, is still where they can land and gather enough of their forces.”

  “Land enough at once,” Godric interrupted and Bertie could tell from his tone that something bleak had occurred to him. “If that is even their wish. We have already seen what they are capable of in these small raids. Even if they are eventually driven back to the sea, if they destroy our farms as they destroyed the fields and vineyards they found in the west, they can return next year when we are weakened by hunger.”

  “The south lands are fertile. The yields of grains alone….” The tent was filled with sound again, outrage tinged for the first time with real fear as this dreadful realization sank in among everyone else. Bertie could not stop a shudder.