Chapter Text
David hadn’t fought for glory or gold. At the time, he thought he’d stood for God—that the king’s cause, which he so readily made his own, was not only legitimate but justified both on earth and in the eyes of Heaven. More than five years later, carved into adulthood by the sword’s blade, his body a hardened knot of scarred skin, his throat ravaged by his own roars of rage and anguish, David knows better. That he had gone to war simply because he had been foolish. Because he’d been a young man but had still looked at war with a boy’s eyes—half a solemn duty, half a game. Something that would be done and done with satisfaction.
There have been ceremonies and feasts and parades held and titles bequeathed and statues constructed, all to honor the kingdom’s efforts and the people's sacrifices, the actions and achievements of its brave warriors, but David knows the truth of the matter. That both the singular task and only satisfaction there is in war is to survive. But still, the king had promised property and land to his greatest soldiers, and in his eyes there are none greater than his own cousins.
David has known both the king and Raymond for their entire lives. The three of them were close as children, attending and avoiding lessons together, playing soldiers with sticks, and then, once upon a time, brothers in battle. David’s affection for them has waned considerably in the past few years, to say the least. The war that left an untold number dead, that had drained any of the youth and gentleness from David and countless others, had started because of the king’s bruised ego and only ended when it was soothed, his power and prestige acknowledged in the form of unconditional surrender and more than half a decade’s worth of bloodshed. And Raymond, who had been a petulant, callous child, always more prone to anger and cruelty, had blossomed into a monster. He had always been covetous; just of toys and horses at first, but then, as they grew older, the riches and power of those in the court—their titles, their clothes, their homes, their lovers. The war had given him the power to take.
It hurts and angers him to listen to the king, still as flippant and carefree as he was when they were young. It sickens him to see Raymond after all he did in the war, both inside and outside of battle. David wants nothing to do with their schemes anymore, but the king’s fondness for Raymond and himself continues to bind the three of them together. That’s why David is there in the king’s private chambers tonight, desperately hoping that, whatever it is his cousin wanted to discuss with them, he gets to it soon. The king and Raymond have been eating and drinking for hours now. What remains of the dinner the servants had brought up to the room lay cold on silver plates scattered about the table. Chicken gizzards boiled in stock and red wine and served on toasted bread. Lamb glazed with a sauce infused with garlic, rosemary, and saffron. Cuts of cow tongue, studded with cloves and wrapped in strips of bacon and roasted. A thick stew of beef kidneys, onions, red and white wine, seasoned with pepper and ginger. David cannot stomach it—neither the meat nor the excess of it all.
Raymond lounges on the couch, a bottle of wine in hand while the king leans against his bedpost, throwing red grapes into the air and catching them in his mouth. David sits on a chair he’d dragged near the fireplace, head bowed, hands on his knees, listening to his kingly cousin tell him of the very brilliant plan he’s hatched and can no longer bear to keep secret.
“I’ve completely solved it. You’ll be set for life, David. Acres and acres of land—you won’t be tending it yourself, of course, it’s a ways away, so we’ll leave that to the stewards to handle—but you were never made to farm, were you?” He winks. “And a fresh, young husband for you as part of the deal. Two birds with one stone, wouldn’t you say?”
What David says is, “What?” It’s a low, raspy thing, his voice, made harsh by battle like the rest of him. Once men had fled from the sound of his crazed, bloodthirsty roaring on the battlefield. And then when his vocal cords simply gave out from the strain it’d been the fury in his eyes and the precise, methodical way he cut through flesh and bone that sent soldiers running for their lives. Now people must lean in to hear his rare utterances, must have a fine and sympathetic ear to decipher his hoarse words.
But this one surprised exclamation is apparently either quite clear or the expected response because the king continues, “The paperwork’s already been drawn up, so don’t worry your big, empty head about that. You’ll have a very sizable annual income and a very lovely little virgin to play with whenever you want.”
From the couch, Raymond chimes in, chuckling, “You can only play with a virgin once.”
The king slaps his knee and lets out a bark of laughter. “Ah, true, very true. But you’ll be able to give him a plethora of new experiences, David. The boy was going to be a monk.”
Ignoring Raymond’s cackle, David asks, incredulous, “A monk?”
“Yes, indeed. Youngest one in the family. Destined for a life of piety and austerity, his share of the inheritance going to the monastery. It would have been a pity. Good thing I found out his father’s more eager to secure a place at court in this world than alongside God in the next. His youngest son wedding one of the king’s most favorite cousins? He practically threw in another house. You can summer in it, if you’d like. And they say the boy is quite pretty, besides.”
Raymond sneers. “What, prettiest in a monastery? Of course he would be. His only competition is a bunch of scraggly old men. Virginity won’t be of much boon if you can’t stomach to take it from him. Is his monastery one of the ones that teaches their monks to brew beer, at least?”
The king clucks his tongue, looking thoughtful. “Oh, I never asked. Wouldn’t that be lucky, David?” When David doesn’t deign to answer, he stands up straight, frowning, looking like a petulant child. “Aren’t you happy, cousin? I thought you would be happy. I promised I’d take care of everything for you.”
David ignores him and listens to the crackling of the fire. He should have known something like this would happen. The king is many things—impatient, laid back to the point of carelessness, quick to upset—but he has also always been true to his word and warm to his family. He’d vowed to destroy his kingdom’s enemies and he had, albeit at the cost of thousands of his own people. And he’d sworn that David would be rewarded for his valor in the war, the loyalty and support he’d shown. But David had expected, if anything at all, a mill or a herd of livestock. Something to have to collect passive income, or to just sell or use whenever he saw fit.
But no, his cousin has used his power and influence to pluck a young man meant for the cloth from his home and arrange for him to marry David, who’s no match for anyone. He’s a wreck of a man, only known for his skill at killing, at murder. Would his husband want to hold him, with his body a mess of scar tissue? Could David tell him sweet nothings with his ruined voice? Would he want to be touched with calloused hands that have crushed men’s throats? All this and more awaits the poor former novice. If David does not incite fear he will no doubt incite disgust and pity.
Better to make a deal with a devil or a fae than be owed a debt from a king, David thinks, bitterly. At least with them you knew, from the hundreds of thousands of warnings in the form of folktales and bedtime stories, that you’d be getting the shit end of the bargain when you agreed to their terms. But no one warned you against the determined generosity of your monarch.
The king puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks concerned. They way his brows furrow, how his eyes squint, as if trying to find the root of problem on the surface of David’s face—it’s familiar. He looks like the boy he was all those years ago, long before he was king and when David had adored him. “David,” he says, voice warm and pleading, “You’re the best of men. You deserve this, cousin.”
David says nothing.
Raymond rises from the couch, wine bottle in hand, smiling like a rabid dog. “Leave him be. Can’t you see he’s speechless? Struck dumb by his good luck. To David, and his little monk.” He drains the bottle and smashes it to the ground with a whoop of laughter.
David shrugs off the king’s touch and makes for the door, glass shards crunching underneath his boots.
“To a lifetime of wedded bliss,” Raymond calls.
David grits his teeth and slams the door behind him.