by JL Merrow
Late in the afternoon, Sam was walking past the castle’s visitor centre, on his way back to his Portakabin with a cup of tea, when Bran appeared. Sam gave him an automatic smile of greeting, but it was met with the darkest look Sam had ever received.
Bran’s voice was icy cold. “I have to question why you think yourself suitable to curate this exhibition. As I find you subscribe to the view that Edward of Woodstock was a mass murderer.”
Christ. So they were back to daggers drawn, were they? It was on. “Excuse me, where in that report I sent you does it say anything like that?”
“Does the Siege of Limoges ring any bells?”
Yeah, he’d had a bad feeling about that bit. Not that he’d change a word of it. “Nowhere do I say he was guilty of massacre.” Sam tamped down his temper. “If we’re going to have this discussion, we’re going inside.”
“Don’t split hairs.” Bran followed him into the Portakabin and shut the door with a slam that shook the whole structure. “Your proposed display repeats the slander that he was a mass murderer—and you even link it to him becoming known as the Black Prince.”
Sam managed not to slop his tea as he put it down on his desk. “I’m not slandering anyone! I said it’s been suggested that’s why he was called the Black Prince, that’s all. I simply present the conflicting historical records. Froissart said he killed the entire population of Limoges after the siege; Edward himself said he didn’t. It’s not cut-and-dried. We have these reports passed down to us—we can’t just ignore them. It’s important for context, for the complete picture—”
“‘Complete picture’? Complete fabrication, more like.” Bran made a wild, angry gesture, his dark eyes flashing. “You call Froissart a reliable source? And massacring the entire population of a city wouldn’t even make sense. It wouldn’t be a stamp of his authority on the citizens of Limoges—it would have been seen as an admission that he had no authority over them.”
“Oh, and people never do stuff for daft reasons, do they? Edward of Woodstock was ill. His mum had just died, and the Bishop of Limoges—one of his best mates—gave the place up to the French without a fight. You’re telling me it’s beyond the bounds of possibility that he lost it and lashed out? Seriously?” Sam’s fists clenched so tightly they ached, but it was better than what they really wanted to do—grab hold of Bran and shake some sense into him.
The worst of it was, they ought to be on the same side. Sam didn’t even believe the Black Prince had killed all those civilians, but Bran’s refusal to allow any other point of view made him see red. Couldn’t he see there was a place for sticking rigidly to your guns, and historical debate wasn’t it? “We can’t just ignore all the people throughout history who’ve assumed that’s why he’s called the Black Prince. Do I like people equating black with bad? Fuck, no. But it happens a hell of a lot, even now. Six hundred years ago? How many people do you think even thought to question it?”
“And yet you’re happy to perpetuate it?”
“Oh, for— What the hell am I supposed to do? Pretend it never happened? It’s part of history. Black heart, black magic, the devil’s not as black as he’s painted—people say all kinds of crap linking black and bad even in this day and age. You can’t tackle an issue if you refuse to admit it exists.”
“We don’t have to admit it—the whole point is that it’s what people already assume.”
“So we tackle it head-on. Denial doesn’t solve anything, and it never has. You’re like one of those bastards who go around spouting homophobic bollocks who turn out to be so far in the closet they’re covered in bloody mothballs!”
Bran took a step back, looking like Sam had punched him in the gut.
Sam stared, his anger draining away. “Seriously?”
“That has nothing to do with the subject under discussion.” Bran’s voice was ragged, and he’d gone so bloody pale he was almost grey.
Sam couldn’t bring himself to twist the knife further, even if the bloke was a total dick. He tried to make his tone conciliatory. “Look, what I think about the Black Prince has nothing to do with him being called black. It’s about what he did.”
Bran swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice was stronger. “Waged successful campaigns to protect English interests from the age of sixteen? I fail to see what’s so despicable about that.”
No, because you’ve got your head so far up your own arse you could lick your tonsils. Sam didn’t say it, because he didn’t kick a bloke when he was down. “You can’t ignore the human cost. The Black Prince rampaged through France, pillaging what he could take and burning the rest. Thousands must have starved as a direct result. Chivalry, my arse. It just meant they treated anyone with a title like they were all mates and this was just a friendly game of cricket, and the common peasants—the mums and dads and brothers and sisters of those very bowmen who won the battles of Crécy and Agincourt for England—got shafted. Why do you think the peasants eventually revolted under Richard II? When people react with violence, it’s usually for a reason. You can only kick a dog for so long before it turns and bites you.”
Bran’s face darkened again, as if he was a hair’s breadth from reacting with violence himself, and oh crap. Had Sam just implied it was Bran’s own fault he’d got mugged? “Are you suggesting—”
“Have you two murdered each other yet?” Jennifer Solomon’s dry tones cleaved the atmosphere like a broadsword slicing through armour.
Sam whirled.
“You do realise you’re scaring the staff, don’t you?” Jennifer continued. “We’ll have no volunteers left come summer if you two don’t kiss and make up.” Bran startled, and her eyes narrowed. “Figuratively speaking, of course,” she added with unnecessary archness.
“This is ridiculous,” Bran snapped, and strode away from them both, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor.
There was a silence.
“That didn’t go very well,” Jennifer said at last.
“No.” Sam cleared his throat. Had she heard what he’d said to Bran? Selfishly, he hoped she hadn’t. “No, it didn’t.”
She sighed. “I’m asking you, Sam, as the reasonable one, to make an effort. If you can’t manage a peace treaty, then a cease-fire would be acceptable. Nobody likes working in a war zone.”
“I’ll try. He just . . .” Sam threw up his hands in frustration. “It’s like he’s a keg of gunpowder, and I’m a spark. Or the other way around.”
“Or he’s a festering boil, and you’re the doctor’s scalpel?”
“Yeah, thanks for that image. Really, thanks. Christ, what a shit-storm.” Sam grimaced.
“I wouldn’t mind, but the man’s not even a historian. He’s just read a few books and now thinks he knows all there is to know about the subject.”
Okay, that seemed a little unfair. Bran might be pigheaded on interpretation, but from what Sam had seen, he knew his facts inside out. “He was okay with some of the changes, though. He didn’t say a word against the ones intended to balance out the gender ratio.”
She snorted. “And if that’s not bloody typical, I don’t know what is.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, I am. Just frustrated to find it apparently takes a man to get through to him.”
Sam winced. “Sorry?”
“Don’t worry about it. You can’t help it, after all.” She left, then, leaving Sam in an office that seemed too quiet, even with the echoes of the argument still bouncing around the walls.
Was Jennifer right? Had Bran listened to him, and not her and Dr. Banerjee, because Sam was a guy? Sam found he didn’t want to think it was true. Bran was . . . Okay, he was a dick about some issues connected with the Black Prince, but that was because he cared so much. He’d been pretty reasonable about other things, once they were explained to him. Of course, the trick was getting the bloke to climb off his high horse and hear the explanation in the first place.
And what about that lucky guess he’d made earli
er about Bran being a closet case? From Bran’s reaction, Sam had hit the nail right on the head. If that was true, if Bran was gay, did it change anything? Being gay didn’t make him any less of a git, but Sam couldn’t help feeling some kind of kinship with the bloke.
Whether Bran would see it the same way, though, was a whole other matter. Sam had yet to see one single sign that the bloke actually liked him.
Sam laughed out loud as a ridiculous thought hit him. Did Bran maybe like like him? Was all this business of getting on Sam’s case about the exhibition just a grown-up version of pigtail-pulling? Okay, not that grown-up. But he’d jumped a mile when Jennifer told them to kiss and make up . . . Sam shook his head ruefully. All these arguments must really be getting to him. The options were (a) Bran was a dick and (b) Bran fancied him.
No sane person was going to pick (b).
Oh God. Bran had had to get away.
You can only kick a dog for so long . . .
Was that why Bran had been attacked? He’d known certain of his business practices had made him less than popular with tenants, but he’d always prided himself upon sticking to his guns and never letting anyone take advantage of him. If he hadn’t managed his business with an iron hand, he wouldn’t have been able to invest in the Black Prince exhibition centre, which would benefit tourism, bring more jobs to the area . . .
You can’t ignore the human cost.
The Edes had acted like he was some kind of monster, accusing him of turning them out of their home before its official tenant was cold in his grave. But Bran had thought his actions, at the time, entirely reasonable. He’d needed to get the house up to scratch for the next tenant, and the contractor had been adamant they had to start work straight away. And it was his house, damn it.
But then, that was only because of an accident of birth, wasn’t it? The same kind of accident that made some men kings and some commoners. Oh, he’d added plenty to the family fortunes over the years—but it wasn’t like he’d had to start from scratch. Perhaps he could have behaved with more compassion. The Edes had just lost a family member who, by all accounts, had been well loved.
His hand ghosted over his still-painful ribs. Was that what the attack had been? Retribution for perceived oppression? It wasn’t a new thought, of course. He’d wondered from the start if the Edes, so vocal in their righteous outrage at his actions, had something to do with the attack. But for the first time he found himself wondering: had he deserved it?
No. No, that was absurd. He was in the right, legally speaking, and they were in the wrong. Completely.
And yet . . .
Bran swallowed. He’d found it almost physically painful to listen to Sam’s passionate tirade on why Edward of Woodstock was not, in his view, wholly admirable. Could he bear it if that fierce judgement were to be turned on him, Branok Roscarrock? Could he stand to listen to his own failings, listed in that voice, coming from those lips? From that man? It would be a damning list, he knew.
Father would have been so disappointed in him.
Bran wished he’d never met Sam Ferreira. What gave Sam such power over him? Was it that he saw in Sam what he’d struggled so hard to deal with in himself?
So far in the closet you’re covered in mothballs?
Shame tightened his chest, and he hated Sam, Jory, and all the rest of them for not feeling like he did. How could they be so easy in their skin, be out and proud? All his life, Bran had lived swamped by the certainty of how bitterly disappointed Father would have been to know his eldest son was a homosexual. He’d told himself it didn’t matter, so long as nobody knew. And now Sam had guessed his secret on a few days’ acquaintance, and tossed it out as casually as he might a used tissue. It only made it worse that Sam was so bloody good-looking, with his hair and his smile and those strong arms . . . Bran had tried not to notice, had tried to ignore his attraction to the man. He’d told himself it was merely physical, a bodily urge he could easily overcome. But it wasn’t just that. Sam was confident in himself, passionate, and principled. And he quite clearly thought Bran no better than some oppressive tyrant who’d deserved all he’d got at the hands of his attacker.
Bran couldn’t bear it. God help him, he wanted Sam to think well of him.
Bran didn’t go near the castle for the rest of the week. With his now-reduced workload, he found himself with too much time on his hands. Time to think about what a mess he’d made of things.
He even found himself considering responding to Craig’s calls. What harm could it do now? Apparently it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that Bran was as queer as they came, so why not give in to what Craig wanted? Live openly in a relationship with a man? Craig was good-looking enough, intelligent enough, good enough company.
Bran wasn’t sure he wanted enough. But he was clearly never going to get what he suspected he did want, so why not make the best of a bad job? At least . . . at least Craig wanted him. And they’d had some good times together. Mostly in bed, it was true, but there had also been quiet dinners together. Nights at the theatre. Bran had been content with his life, back then, hadn’t he?
He missed that feeling with an ache in his chest wholly unlike the pains his ribs were causing him. What was the point in suffering, when . . . if not happiness, then perhaps contentment, was there for the taking? Who knew how long he would have left in this world?
But how would Bea react to him living openly as a gay man? He shied away from the thought of asking her, fearing he knew all too well what she’d say. After all, she’d been brought up with their father’s principles as much as he had, and she certainly wasn’t on good terms with her other gay brother. Bran’s resolve faltered at the thought of becoming estranged from her—but then again, things had been strained between them lately in any case, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps she’d be pleased if he consulted her beforehand?
Equally possibly, though, she might be appalled. No, best to present her with a fait accompli. She would be practical, then. Would work out a way to counter any disadvantage to the family interests.
Bran’s phone had crept into his hand without his conscious awareness. It would be so easy to bring up Craig’s number and dial—
The phone rang, startling him so much he almost dropped it. He got a grip on himself, and frowned at the display before accepting the call.
“Kirsty? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. I was just calling to ask a favour. You know I wouldn’t normally, but you said you had more time to yourself now, so . . .” He heard her intake of breath. “Could you have Gawen on Friday? It’s just, Euan and I were hoping to, um, crack on with the sculpture, and it turns out Jory’s already made other arrangements.”
Apparently the thing with Euan was serious. Bran didn’t believe for one moment this was about the sculpture. Reading between the lines, a week during school holidays with Kirsty’s child by another man was becoming a little too much for Euan. Although possibly Bran was being uncharitable. “I’d love to have him. He was talking on Tuesday about the Lobster Hatchery in Padstow—apparently one of his friends went a while back—so I could take him there.”
“Thanks, Bran. You’re the best.”
“I’ll pick him up at nine.” Bran decided to dig a little. “Euan’s job has flexible hours, does it?”
“Oh—he’s, um, not working at the moment.”
“At least he has plenty of time to model for you, then.”
“Yeah. Look, cheers again. I’ll see you on Friday.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Actually Bran was looking forward to getting to meet this Euan and finding out for himself about the man’s intentions towards Kirsty and, more importantly, his attitude towards Gawen. But when he got to Kirsty’s house on the dot of nine on Friday morning, Gawen was waiting by the open front door, shoes on his feet and his small backpack full of whatever odds and ends he felt necessary to make it through a day away from home. Bran barely got to say two words to Kirsty
, let alone meet Euan.
Ah, well. It would keep. Meanwhile, he had a nephew to entertain.
He hadn’t called Craig. It hadn’t seemed necessary after all.
Sam didn’t see Bran Roscarrock for the rest of the week. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Relieved, obviously, because it made it a hell of a lot easier to get stuff done. Wary, because it was only a temporary stay of execution. And . . . yeah, if he was honest, guilty too. Sam hadn’t meant to victim-blame Bran for being attacked, but he had a nasty feeling Bran had taken it that way. The bloke clearly had his reasons for keeping quiet about his sexuality, and Sam had dragged it right out into the open. Even if he hadn’t meant to do that either.
It hadn’t exactly been his finest hour.
He found out on Saturday that he needn’t have worried about Bran turning up on Friday. Gawen came over for the day, full of excitement and bearing pictures on his phone of the lobster he’d adopted the day before—or rather, the lobster that Bran had paid for him to adopt. Seriously, a lobster? Maybe it was some kind of competition with Mal to find the least cuddly animals to fall in love with.
Gawen was a great kid, but Sam couldn’t help feeling like an outsider with him here. Mal, Jory, and Gawen were family, and Sam . . . wasn’t.
“Guess I’d better be looking for a place of my own,” he said self-consciously as they ate lunch together. “Get out of your hair.”
“Nah, more the merrier, innit, JJ?” Mal nudged Gawen in the ribs and made him giggle in the middle of a mouthful of beans on toast.
“You’ll give him hiccups,” Jory said. “You know how ticklish he is. And Sam? I said you’re welcome to stay as long as you want to, and I meant it. It’s only been two weeks.”
Mal nodded. “Yeah, dude, when we’re sick of the sight of you, you’ll know it. No more invites to meals, rat turds in your shoes . . .”
Gawen giggled again, and Sam laughed too, but he couldn’t help feeling he was taking advantage of their kindness.