The Impossible Ballads - Chapter 24

[gwenchan]

 Fandom: Hetalia

Prompt: Ultima volta

The Trial

"They will have to change the floor if you keep walking. I don't think the Treasurer will appreciate it."

Arthur kept walking. In the last hour or so he must have walked the perimeter of his apartments five times already, mumbling under his breath. Whining, Orvar scratched his calves, insistently. 

It had been Howard's idea, thinking it would help Arthur calm down instead of covering the distance from Flanders to Albion by force of walking. All he obtained had been to have two pairs of paws more to ruin the floor, now with Orvar following his master closely.

"Sir!"

"What?," Arthur snapped. It wasn’t his fault his body refused to stay still and he couldn’t go for a ride in the middle of the night. Each time he stopped and sat down, thoughts swarmed over him, a terrible tangle. Then Horward had talked him out using his archery equipment inside and Arthur had had to admit he would finish to cause some serious damage. Just like he knew inside marching like this would only give him sore feet and nothing more.

"I am telling a maid to bring you a chamomile from the kitchens," Howard said calmly. "Then we will sit down and talk through this."

"Talk!" Arthur's voice cracked up. "About this?"

He had wanted to talk with Emma, discuss the situation till they solved it, but she instead had vetoed it. She had said it was too late, that they needed to rest and return onto it with a fresher mind. She had said it with seed of doubt already in her words, the doubt that he could even be objective; that she could trust him. 

"Yes. I know you and I know how that mind of yours likes to imagine the worst scenarios. Nobody is in mortal danger and this is all a great misunderstanding."

Orvar barked so to say he approved, before returning to demand Arthur's attention, so insistently Arthur had to relent

"What if it isn't?" He retorted, as Orvar pushed his head against his palm for some scratches. 

"It is. I will be right back. Things will be fine, I promise."

Crouched onto the floor, with Orvar's head on his knees, Arthur wished he could believe it. Drinking something warm, however, did seem like a good start and there was something in holding the pet that was already having a calming effect. It helped against the constant fidgeting, giving Arthur something to do while he waited for the chamomile.

When it arrived, Howard set the tray with the carafe and the cups on the little table in Arthur's parlour and it wasn't long before Arthur found himself sitting on the edge of an armchair with Orvar comfortably set in his lap, which made it unthinkable to stand up again in the immediate future. 

He gingerly brought his cup to his lips, mindful of the hot liquid, and finding already a certain comfort in simply feeling its warmth. 

"What did Her Majesty say?" Howard asked, sipping from his cup.

"Not much. That she will have to discuss with the council and she wanted to sleep on it before. That I had to sleep on it too. But I don't need to sleep on it." Arthur sighed. "I bet she doesn't trust me. Why should she? Given the circumstances she must be thinking I am an accomplice."

Probably she was regretting having named him regent, wondering if she hadn't fallen into an elaborate plan to overthrow her. 

"I mean, it makes perfect sense, asking my lover to kill her so to have my freedom back and-"

"And this is, with all due respect, absolutely ridiculous."

Howard was right and Arthur knew that, knew how those thoughts were borne from paranoia and would crumble if put under a more rational light, but paranoia was strong and dangerous and its honeyed whispers hard to ignore.

"For once, If she doubted you so much, you'd have guards outside these doors now. Second, you know better than haste brings imprudence. Did you pressure her to name you regent?"

Arthur shook his head. Up to a few weeks ago the fact didn't even cross his mind, and he had asked Emma if that didn't feel too rushed. Truly a convoluted plan his, if based on the vague chance of others' making certain choices. It would be more logical pry the regency before the attempted murder, instead of relying on the possibility Emma would be scared enough to offer him it.

It didn't add up, the recent events only a matter of ill-timed coincidences. Too bad often ill-timed coincidences were enough.

"Fine, let's believe the queen doesn't suspect me yet. But Francis? I saw the look in her eyes and it wasn't good."

Suspect and mistrust, that was what he had seen and what must be growing now in Emma's mind. 

"Are you sure of that? That you aren't only projecting?"

Finally tasting his chamomile, Arthur shrugged and looked down into the cup, into the liquid mirroring his uncertainty.

"I told her he didn't do it. She didn't answer. What should I think, tell me?" 

Orvar whined, shifting a little to better accommodate onto Arthur's legs and watching him with his dark, liquid eyes that seemed to wonder why his master was so upset. He seemed to say whatever worry Arthur had to face, he was there to help him. Adopting him had probably been Arthur's best decision. 

"We all have doubts, sir." Howard folded his hands, leaning forward. He would spend the night talking Arthur out of his worries if Arthur asked, but his tone said he'd rather sleep. "It is part of being human."

"But she could be right."

"Do you think she is?"

"I don't … No, no … he isn't a murderer. He isn't. He isn’t,  right?"

He had gone over this already, once. Francis was the opposite of a murderer with all his talking about love. He wouldn’t have any reason, not when Emma knew about them and had given the nearest thing to a blessing she could. 

"He isn't," Howard repeated. "And you know it."

"But what if he was? What if he had pretended up to now? Oh Goddess, I am in love with a murderer."

He buried his face in his hands, pressing the lukewarm ceramic to his forehead. He cursed himself for his own naivety. 

"You don't really think that, sir. You think it is a misunderstanding. You are thinking that vial isn't what it seemed or somebody placed it to mess with the investigations."

"But why him?" 

Something was missing, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Either the person trying to frame Francis wanted a war with Dauphiné or they knew he was Arthur's lover. Arthur couldn't choose which was more plausible or worse. Probably the latter.

Definitely the latter.

Somebody had tried to kill Emma for still unknown reasons and they knew he had an affair with the Dauphinoise Ambassador, enough to use that to their advantage. 

"And I thought we could finally be … as if it could ever be possible."

Each time he dared to believe they'd have at least the ghost of what other lovers had, each time Fate had said no. This time it could have been if not perfect, probably the best arrangement they could ever hope for. 

"And you will be again. Have faith."

Taking a new sip of his now cold chamomile, Arthur couldn't share the optimism, his mind keeping thinking over it till tiredness eventually shut his brain. He woke up at dawn. Emma, as he discovered, would be busy for the whole morning. He had some time before his first duties, but neither riding nor archery brought him much comfort.

After that, he dived into work as a distraction. If he had hoped to face the issue with Emma that evening already, things didn't go as planned as the meeting with the council had been delayed another day. Francis wouldn't escape, not with guards stable outside his doors, and, though hard to believe, more pressing matters required Emma's attention, all the work that had piled up during the period of her illness.

Meanwhile Francis' rooms had been searched thoroughly. From what Arthur heard, things weren't good, as he struggled to keep his detachment. As consort it was his right to know about the investigations but he couldn’t allow an excessive interest, and the thread was too thin to balance. It didn't matter that he was innocent and Francis probably - No, surely - was too, not at court where appearances and rumours reigned free. Flanders made no exception. It wasn’t a matter of truth, but of what people believed. Above all, of what the queen believed, and each refused meeting left Arthur praying Emma's justified doubts hadn't sprouted into something bigger.

Before he knew it, a week had passed. Emma summoned him one evening, right after a dinner Arthur hadn’t really consumed..

By the look on her face, it was immediately clear her week had been as stressful as his. Sitting, Arthur repressed the need to trample her with questions about what the council had said and what she planned to do. 

"I have to write to Dauphiné. I do not know where to start. One wrong word and the next letter we receive from them is a declaration of war. If we don't send them one before."

"Which you don't plan to do, I hope," Arthur said, mortally serious. 

"Not if I can avoid it. But part of the council presses for it and there is the possibility he acted under Dauphiné order."

"Which could have simply paid an assassin."

"I know," Emma sighed, falling into her armchair, looking older, tired and lost. "But as their ambassador, he technically acts in the name of his kingdom."

"Did they find any letters? Orders?"

But it was silly to ask, thinking one wouldn't burn any paper evidence once received; or that Dauphiné would admit they had tried to assassinate the Flemish Queen. 

"No. Only some notes about poisons. He said they weren't his. But they were in Dauphinois."

Arthur bit back a curse. Asking now if the note was in Francis' handwriting would be superfluous. He bet whoever planted them among other papers must have commissioned a good forger. He refused to accept any other explanation. 

"I see. What are you going to tell Dauphiné?  Can I know?" It was meant to be a sincere question but it came out harsh and bitter. For years Emma said they were a team, a close unit that would work in tandem, but now she excluded him for a whole week. It made him want to ask her if she regretted having named him regent and if she wanted his copy of the document to destroy it. The fact she hadn't yet only partially comforted him.

"Yes. On the contrary, I wanted to ask you a little help with it. I fear my Dauphinoiseisn't as good as yours."

It was hardly proof of trust, as Arthur doubted he was the only one at court to speak the language. Maybe Emma did not consider him a suspect, all things considered. Or maybe it was a test.

"What are you going to write?"

The clock tickled, each stroke thundering in the silence as Emma pondered the question, counting her thoughts on her fingertips like a child would do. "From the beginning, I suppose." 

When not knowing where to start, the beginning was always a good idea.  There would be explaining what happened, telling them about the investigations and how they were still on going. That last part would be of extreme importance, underlying how nothing was yet definite. 

"Specify there will be a trial here, that we promise in our honour it will be carried out in all possible fairness,” Arthur hastened to remind. 

Some people at court wouldn't take that well, with the nostalgia of when even the shadow of doubt would be enough to be sentenced to death. In the greater scheme of things, however, every concession was a step away from everything dissolving into war. Some people would regret that as well, people who could become dangerous; but between having to face infightings and the spectre of the whole Dauphinoise-Swabian army, he would choose the former with no hesitation.

He wondered if in the long hours of tutoring, Lord Bonnefoy ever imagined one day the skills he so painstakingly taught him slow day after slow day would be used to save his son from the gallow and two kingdoms from going to war. 

"Maybe add that while we require them to take responsibility, we are not accusing them directly."

"That is a tricky one." Emma made a face, clicking her tongue. 

It would take one wrong word, one that could be only vaguely misinterpreted the wrong way, and they would be all one step closer to having Dauphinoise troops pressing at the border. 

"We have to take the risk. Tell them we still treasure our relationship deeply and want to preserve it. And let's hope it will matter more than the rest. You can draft the letter. I will translate it. As a start."

Hopefully, with something down on paper it would be easier to choose the right words, better than trying to get a hold of his thoughts, there on the verge of spiralling out of control. Words on paper became real. There was a certain clarity in crossing them out till he found the perfect one, rearranging sentences as he would do with pieces of a puzzle. Like generals moved armies in miniature on giant models, often able to foresee the outcome before a single shot was blown.

If Arthur thought about the outcome with which the ordeal could end, a cold grip tightened around his chest, terrible and unforgiving. He searched Emma’s face for a silent answer to his fears and to a question he still had to ask. 

"You have to promise me one thing," he said, barely containing the urgency in his voice. "Please."

"If it is in my power."

"It is. Promise me he won't be sentenced to death."

That would be too much to bear. He would anyway, repressing all personal involvement like he had been taught to do, and beneath the surface would be an incurable wound. The Prince would take it, but not the person. 

To his surprise, Emma attempted a smile, though tired and void. "I don't think executing a diplomat would be a good idea."

"Or executing an innocent."

Arthur spoke without thinking, and yet for the first time in the past days he did it certain of his words. "Until the sentence, he is. You said there will be a fair trial. If you don't believe he might be innocent, you can avoid having a trial altogether."

"Everything points against him,” Emma said, opening a drawer to retrieve a new inkwell, paper and pen for the important message she had to prepare. 

She was only stating the facts, keeping above the situation and trying to prepare him for the most likely outcome. Arthur still wanted to scream, grab her by the shoulders and shout to open her eyes. They had nothing but a note and a vial that any maid could have put there. 

“Yet, I would avoid writing that in your letter.”

His chair made a terrible sound, scratching against the floor, when he pushed it to stand up. “If you excuse me, I am quite tired.” He didn't wait for her reply.

He helped with the letter to be sent to Dauphiné. While Emma spoke a more than decent Dauphinoise, Arthur was largely better, even after years spent not speaking the language. 

***

Arthur paced the palace aisles, looming dangerously close to Francis' apartments. It was strange seeing this area of the castle during daytime, and to think less than a month ago he would be there for a totally different reason. It was hard to believe it was only a few weeks ago. One day he was strolling down town repeating the impromptu tour was not a date, the next his paramour was held captive for having supposedly tried to poison the queen.  One day he was the happiest he had been in ages, the next all had crumbled down.

Howard had warned him about the break it would cause on his relationship with Francis, something he risked to pay forever when this whole ordeal would finally be solved and past them. Real love was seen in dire times. Having someone stay in the room with them would suffice in keeping rumours of complicity at bay and as prince consort he was fully in his rights to visit a prisoner. He just had to measure his words and his reactions, but until he didn't tell Francis he'd help him escape from under the guards' nose he had nothing to fear. He thought about warning Emma, discarded it because he didn't need her permission, and chose two guards known for being faithful to the queen to accompany him.

Francis was already standing when Arthur entered, next to the chair when he must have been sitting till now. 

"Arthur, dear Goddess." He took a step only to halt the moment after. His eyes went up and to the guards behind Arthur, widening in fear. "Are you here to take me away?" 

His chuckle was on the verge of hysterical, like a person slowly realising something was no joke and yet pleading others to prove him wrong.  A cruel part of Arthur wondered how Francis could ever take real imprisonment if he showed signs of derangement  after only a few weeks in a gilded cage. But it wasn’t not being able to exit, not as much as not knowing what was happening, what would be of his life, with a charge as heavy as attempted regicide hanging over his head. He knew that feeling, the uncertainty, the inevitable wondering if the worst outcome was really on the platter. For him, it had been to be locked away for the rest of his life. For Francis it was having his pretty head detached or his nice neck broken. The more time passed, the more the worst scenario became less far-fetched, and to his credit, Francis did not know Emma had already decided she would not send him to the gallows. 

"Arth- Your Highness, I swear it,  I am innocent."

Words he must have repeated many times in the past days only to be ignored. He held his hands over his stomach, but by the intensity in his gaze, he would sooner grab Arthur’s arm.

He would have, if they had been alone, and Arthur told him he knew.

He knew he was innocent, knew he was going to pay for someone smarter than him, knew he had no real motive. He would say all this if they were alone, coaxing Francis to sit down on his couch and sitting next to him. He'd take his hands and swore he was going to fix everything, whatever it took. He had a feeling it might end like in those Dauphinoise poems with tearful goodbyes and he would allow it.

"There will be a trial," he said instead. Francis dropped back into his chair, shaking his head as he massaged his temples. 

"A trial. I suppose I should consider myself lucky."

Lucky to be tried for something he didn't do and with all the chances to be condemned for it. 

"Yes, you should."

Lucky that he had spent years building his relationship with Emma, so that now she trusted him enough to trust his judgement about Francis. Above all, lucky they lived in a period where kings couldn't sentence people at a whim. Only a century ago Francis would be waiting for an inevitable death sentence, and the trial, if held, would be a formality. In some other kingdoms things were still like that.

Instead, Francis would have a fair trial and if charged guilty, at least he'd stay alive to see one day those same charges dropped. It was a meagre consolation but one nonetheless. 

"We wrote to inform Dauphiné of the situation."

"What did they say?" 

Arthur grabbed a chair for himself, the guards still looming behind them, listening to their every word. "I can't tell you."

Francis looked at him outraged. "You can't? Arthur!"

"What? You are a suspect, the main suspect. What do you expect?"

"Seriously? What do you think I'd do? Escape?"

Francis' wide gesture toward the guards, the door and the window at the third floor was eloquent. "Oh, I see. Afraid it would put you in a dangerous position."

Arthur didn't deny, not when it could be read all over his face and he'd delayed this visit for days. Francis was right, but also unfair in his accusations, a strange combination.  

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

So to say, it was up to Arthur to choose the right words for not being accused of fraternities and by now he should have learnt to do that. 

"We are still waiting for their reply."

"You are!" Francis retorted, even more outraged, but closing his mouth on whatever he was about to add, like it didn't matter in the end. It wasn’t hard to imagine, the frustration of receiving this little after all of Arthur's reluctance. 

"And I suppose that isn't a good sign."

"It takes a while to go from here to Avennio."

"A while."

"I know."

They had sent the courier with the letter with the express order to reach Dauphiné the fastest possible, and by now the missive should have reached Dauphiné court. It was logical to assume now was on Queen Adelaide's desk, the centre of plenty of discussions, which in turn led to hope. 

"But we still haven't received a declaration of war yet."

Francis gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes. "That is a good start. I have always known Her Majesty as the calm type. You are lucky she is not her grandmother.

"The one who personally led her troops in battle?”

Her portrait in battle attire had been among the very firsts he had seen when he arrived in Dauphiné. 

“Queen Therese. Yes, her." 

Francis said it like when they would revise the long history of the Dauphiné royal family together, only the two of them for a couple of long hours each day. Without the guards, or the fact they were talking in Flemish to avoid raising any suspicions, it would be the same. 

It wasn't. 

"You should go," Francis called him, gently, and silently screaming the opposite. 

They should have run away when they got the chance, forget their roles, their duties, everything else, and restart somewhere. There must have been a place where his Lord Father wouldn’t reach them and the more he thought about it, the more the colonies did sound like a good plan. 

Francis' eyes crinkled with a smile and there was what they could have had, the pretty picture of a life together in the Dauphinoise countryside. It would have been nice and now its impossibility hurt. It hurt for each second he stayed there, for the tiny spec of hope that persisted, claiming a sentence hadn’t been pronounced yet, that things would solve. 

Even if Francis’ miraculously was pronounced innocent, his reputation would be too stained to stay at court. 

“Right. I will make sure you are kept updated.”

***

Dauphiné's response arrived by the end of the summer, while the court was busy packing to return up north like a beehive in full activity and buzzing with the same intensity. 

"They are ready to accept the trial will be held in Flanders," Emma said, passing the letter to Arthur, "but they want to send here a team of their lawyers for the defence."

"It's a fair request." Arthur considered. Emma, however, didn't look as convinced. "Do you plan to not accept?"

"It sounds like they don't trust our lawyers to be impartial."

"Now you are being unfair." He scanned the letter, the formal Dauphinoise still familiar though not as much as the manner of speaking he got used to with Francis. It brought him back to a time of long, tedious afternoons learning treaties or helping Queen Adelaide with her correspondence with Albion. "They could have insisted for the trial to be in Dauphiné. That would have been a real proof of distrust."

No party wanted to seem weak in the eyes of the other, lest it would retort against them, while also having to balance on the frail line that was compromising. It often took a single misstep to lose everything. 

"And they offer to send a ransom." Arthur's eyes widened as he checked the name on the letter a second time. "Princess Marianne's son."

"Yes, a sign of good will."

"To use a euphemism."

Offering to send any hostage of a certain status was already, but choosing the crown princess' first born though not able to heir was on a whole different level. It was the closest to crawl Dauphiné could come while still maintaining an appearance of strength and dignity. They weren’t offering the heir herself and they demanded a ransom as important from Flanders. 

"Do you plan to accept?" Arthur turned the letter in case he missed something. The message ended there. "You should." 

It was an excellent offer and the request was fair. Certainly, there was always the chance Flanders could obtain more by playing hard, strong with being the wronged party, but they could lose all advantage as well.> Dauphiné could decide they didn't fear a war - or believe Flanders wouldn't go all the way. 

By the way she closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath, Emma was aware of that and more. For how hard the last weeks had been, Arthur didn't envy either Emma or Queen Adelaide and the responsibility that came with the crown.

"I will talk with the council about it." She folded the letter before storing it in the drawer. "But, yes, I think too we should accept."

"And if the council disapproves?" 

Acting against the council wouldn't shine a positive light on Emma and the crown, and that plant the first seeds of discontent, breaking the silent oath Emma swore when accepting the crown. 

"I will have to convince them. They will say we have the right to demand more from Dauphiné, to keep them on edge. But the sooner this ends, the better."

She buried her face in the cradle of her hands, as the clock ticked the time. Being too eager to accept Dauphiné's offers meant weakness; too demanding and they would be a step closer to take offence and decide to clean it with Flemish blood.  It mattered little having kept a strong negotiating position if the price to pay was an annihilated kingdom.

"Make it clear Dauphiné will not offer a better deal than this and we need it more as an ally than as an enemy."

A laugh escaped Arthur's lips. If his younger self could hear him now, advocating for Dauphiné's friendship, he'd sooner thrown himself out the window. 

"I know we have to consider the future and our reputation as well, but from what I see, we have almost nothing to lose from it now. We even have an advantage. The trial will be held here and with a Flemish jury."

Slowly, Emma lifted her head, and in the candlelight her face looked ten years older. The shadow showed a new strictness. "And for the hostage? We have no children or relatives to offer. I can impose the decision ..."

"But you'd rather avoid it. Present it as a great honour, or mask it as an important assignment, and above all assure a proper compensation." That always helped. "But someone has to go and that is not negotiable. Unless, of course, we renounce having a Dauphinoise hostage."

This time it was Emma 's turn to laugh. "I don't think the council would be happy with that."

"Then it's decided." Arthur clapped his hands once. "I'd say you should summon the council now, but it's late and people are always in a better disposition when rested. Dauphiné can wait a day more."

On the door, he held his hand on the handle without turning it. They should warn Dauphiné they had received their response.

"Is there something?"

Dauphiné hadn’t warned them.

"No, nothing."

One week later and some extra days, Arthur found himself editing a new missive, this time to negotiate the exchange of hostages. He should talk with the steward about hiring a nanny, too.

***

Prince Herbert arrived at Broekzele palace on a fresh afternoon of early autumn, along with the Dauphinoise lawyers, and a couple of old and unexpected acquaintances.

"Lady Lisa," Arthur greeted first the woman who walked right behind Prince Herbert, along with one that must be his closest nanny. "That is quite the surprise. I am sorry we have to meet again in similar circumstances. How was the trip?"

"Quite good, thank you," Princess Marianne's now lady-in-waiting said, a protective hand curled on the little prince's shoulder. She gave the boy a little nudge. "Or they will think we have no manners."

Princess Marianne and Prince Ludwig must have instructed their son aplenty about etiquette as the toddler produced an impeccable, albeit a bit goofy bow. 

"And?" Lady Lisa pressed.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Your Highness."

The sentence as well was almost perfect, surely the product of hours of practice, till the words became sound without meaning. 

"And I hope you will enjoy it here." Arthur smiled, crouching to be at the toddler’s eye level, as if he was on a holiday and not a bargaining chip to prevent a war. 

He didn't hide, standing rigid and a little unsure in a manner that reminded Arthur of Ludwig; neither he cried now that a maid came to collect him from his Dauphinoise nanny. 

Watching the child stop in the middle of the hall to look over his shoulder, to ask if truly his nanny or Lady Lisa weren't coming with him, Arthur wondered how much his parents told him about the situation. How much he could understand. Peter hadn't understood when he became a hostage for Gothia, though hopefully Prince Herbert wouldn't remain in Flanders that long.

"Your rooms are ready," Arthur returned his attention to Lady Lisa and the rest of the Dauphinoise entourage. "Please make yourself at home. For all the time you wish."

"Thank you " Lady Lisa's voice was the epitome of glacial courtesy, so different from the woman who had cheerfully talked gossip with Arthur at Princess Marianne's wedding. "But we will leave tomorrow morning. Our job here is done."

Prince Herbert couldn't travel without an entourage, for how small, but now that the boy had been delivered safe and sound it had no reason to stay around. Otherwise it might seem Dauphiné didn't trust Flanders to treat their precious hostage well. It was a proof of trust on Dauphiné's part but one the circumstances obliged them to give.

"I understand. But if you need anything do not hesitate to ask. Me and Her Majesty would be happy to have you at dinner."

"Thank you. I appreciate it" Lady Lisa said, and it already sounded like a refusal. She had just excused herself when  a man stormed into the hall, red in the face for the effort. 

At twenty-three Gilbert still had the same brashiness and disregard for politeness of his younger days.

"What the hell is this story?” he called,  inches from Arthur's face, clearly displeased with the situation. The same protectiveness he had toward Ludwig must have translated onto his young nephew. For a brief moment Arthur wondered if he was angrier with them Flemish or with Princess Marianne, the degenerate mother who gave away his son as a hostage. Probably both.

"Prince Gilbert, glad to see you well. Your visit is quite unexpected."

A gentle way to say he showed up uninvited, adding one more problem to the all too many Arthur already had. Technically Flanders borders were open for anyone to cross with the proper documents, except Gilbert wasn't just anyone. He was the hostage’s uncle and the heir to a powerful duchy which certainly would side with Dauphiné in case of war. On top of that, he was Francis' friend. Arthur took a quick mental note to keep an eye on him. 

"What? Did you need a warning? Of course I am here. First Lutz writes to me to inform me that my nephew will spend some time here. And when I ask him why, I discover my friend is on trial for attempted regicide. Did I forget something?"

Gilbert’s rant echoed in the hall, the Swabian in which he had slipped harsh, grating and oozing outrage, an outrage that Arthur didn't reserve. Except that Gilbert didn't know all the story. Arthur would be happy to fill him in and all things considered was exactly what he needed. With Gilbert he wouldn’t have to mind what he said, not as much as he had now. For one, Gilbert knew about his relationship with Francis and once adjourned, he'd hopefully be on Arthur's side.

"Only a couple details. I was planning to go out for a ride, why don't you join me? The weather is perfect. "

“It is. Yes, a ride is a good idea,” Gilbert confirmed. 

***

"Well, that's some fucked up shit" 

Thus was Gilbert’s eloquent comment as soon as Arthur had told him about all the events of the last two months or so: Francis' arrival at court,  Emma discovering about their amorous relationship and accepting it, what happened at her birthday banquet, the terrible hours of the aftermath, the investigations and Francis' arrest. By now Broekzele palace was all but a dot in the distance and their mounts panted from the exertion, while the sun lowered on the horizon tinted with a deep orange.

"But you think he is innocent," Gilbert continued, holding the reins in one hand so as to use the other for emphasis.

"For the last time, I don't think that. I know it."

"Well, you didn't seem that much convinced a few moments ago."

"I had reasonable doubts, Gilbert," Arthur exclaimed. He lightly kicked his stallion in the flanks to make him turn. They had strayed enough from the castle and evening was already falling.

"Reasonable doubts ..." 

"He has the motive and the opportunity."

He hated to be reminded of that, but it was the truth, or the one the prosecution would likely pursue.

It left him praying they would stop at the weapon and the fact Francis approached Emma’s during the banquet, leaving the motivations in the background. Otherwise he'd sooner prepare for everyone at court knowing about their affair, something for which the only lifesaver would be Emma knowing already. 

Unless the prosecution didn't decide Francis acted on Dauphiné's behalf, dragging them all into an inevitable war. He should have to check they weren't all warmongers in their team of lawyers.

"Damn it, what's the matter with you?" Gilbert’s brisk voice demanded his attention, and Arthur humoured him with an eloquent look. 

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, you are talking like you believe he is guilty. I mean, it's Francis we are talking about!"

He said it like there couldn’t be anything more ridiculous or far-fetched. Francis used to hate the sight of blood and the idea of killing, but Emma hadn't been stabbed. She was poisoned, and not a single drop of blood was spilled. 

"And you once told me he had a penchant for vengeance, remember?"

He halted the stallion to evaluate the shortest and best route for the return. The animal huffed, shaking his head as the rays of the lowering sun hit him right in the eyes. Arthur slightly veered on the left, into a cooler patch of shade followed by Gilbert’s voice.

“We were kids. I was talking about childish pranks, him running to his father claiming I had pulled his hair, things like that. Not that he would kill someone.”

If weeks of reasoning, Howard and finally love hadn't already proven for Arthur Francis' innocence, Gilbert’s rant did the trick. If Arthur had been told a few years ago, he would have laughed. 

“Gilbert, I don't pretend you understand, but it's not that simple.”

By his grimace, Gilbert was ages away from understanding, his dark eyes narrowed into slits and mirrors of the clogs going on into his mind. Maybe he was cursing having similar friends and Arthur couldn't blame him. 

"Inside I know he would never do it. I know him. I ..." He rubbed the stallion's neck, his mane coarse under his fingers. "I've been labouring over it for days. And the more I do, the more I can see what will happen during that trial."

"Then why hold a trial at all?"

This time Arthur didn't bother humouring Gilbert with an answer. He wasn't down to explaining to the heir of a powerful duchy why people had the right to a fair trial.

"How long do you plan to stay?"

Gilbert’s eyes widened. "What kind of question is that? Till this whole mess has ended and my nephew is back safe and sound at home.”

“Till things are solved …”

Normally an uninvited guest wouldn't be a problem, they still had some spare rooms and in case around the palace were plenty of lodging. People come and go, it was a normal routine. It was always better, as well as polite, when guests warned of their arrival and it saved Arthur several blemish but some impromptu wasn't the end of the world.

Gilbert, however, wasn't any normal guest. Though not Dauphinoise himself, he was brother in law with the Dauphiné's heir, which in the eyes of some courtiers was pretty much the same thing. They were already rumoring for the delegation of Dauphinoise lawyers, they wouldn't accept Gilbert and Arthur wasn't down to take the risk.

"No. It's not possible."

"What?" Gilbert cackled, "Did you finish the rooms?" He cackled louder when Arthur explained his reasons. 

"You are kidding me. Lutz might have married their precious princess, but I have nothing to do with them."

“Maybe. But here you are not only prince Gilbert, heir to the Duchy of Swabia. You are Dauphiné crown princess’ brother in law. Do you think that will not antagonise some people?”

“I do not care about some people”

“Well, I do.”

“It is not my problem,” Gilbert replied, stubborn. “I am not—”

“Yes, you are,” Arthur snapped. He had enough problems already without adding another element to another too fragile equation. “Listen”, he continued, after a slow breath to calm himself down. “You cannot stay at the palace or even in town. Please Gilbert.”

He didn't want to force Gilbert out of Flanders, not if he could avoid it, both because he was a friend and he preferred to keep on good terms with Swabia, but he would if needed. Hopefully Duke Beilschmidt was a smart man and would blame Gilbert more than Flanders. Hopefully removing Gilbert would help in preventing a war not the opposite. 

“Fine. But I am doing this for Lutz. He already has enough problems.”

“I am sorry.”

***

The first hearing was held that summer was long past and autumn showed the first signs of winter, the ever present drizzle falling cold through the fog as Arthur and Emma's carriage crossed the town to the imposing building that hosted the tribunal. After weeks of discussions with the Dauphinoise delegation, it had been decided it would be more neutral than B. Palace. It certainly wasn't more reassuring, enough to make Arthur wonder if they weren't regretting their choice; or they must have considered here or at the palace, it wouldn't make much difference in the great scheme of things. 

The next ten days of trial were both the slowest and fastest in Arthur's life, the defense countering every single evidence in hour-long sessions against a prosecution just as fierce. Watching them, it felt like on the stand wasn't only Francis but the whole queendom and, strictly speaking, it was exactly the case. 

Sat in the seats reserved to the royals, Arthur covered his mouth to hide a yawn he couldn’t afford to show and squinted his eyes with the excuse of a speck.  Next to him Emma didn't look any fresher, the latest months vexing on her even more than what the poison did. 

Paradoxically, Francis appeared to be the most rested. Once determined he would be charged but not pay with his life, everything else became acceptable. Even more when the Dauphinoise lawyers must have already presented him with the alternatives. With his hair well combed, he wore a new and fresh suit, the most sombre Arthur had ever seen on him. Apparently, it helped in making him look more favourable in the jury eyes. For Arthur, more than making things better, it avoided making them worse.

He grabbed the cloth of his jacket to stop from fidgeting, the smooth texture of the fabric soothing under his sweaty fingertips. It would be fine. After all their efforts to keep the peace, they wouldn't ruin it by sentencing to death the Dauphinoise Ambassador. Emma promised. 

In the back of the room, the public didn't share the sentiment, courtiers going to a trial like to watch a theatre performance, and rumouring that the show was late to begin. A man, a marquis and a common presence at court, claimed loudly any sentence less than death would be merciful. Some seats over three women were insistently muttering behind their fans, so much Arthur wanted to stand up and ask them if they didn't want some pastries too. It must be easy when they weren't the ones on trial. At the end of this, they would return him with a new story to tell and continue with their lives like nothing happened. In the first row, Lady Chiara gloated so much it was a surprise she hadn't exploded yet. 

Arthur crushed his hands harder. Safe a couple of quick visits to inform Francis of recent developments, he hadn't seen him in almost two months outside the sessions. With him being the Flemish Queens' consort, the Dauphinoise lawyers had let know it wouldn't be appreciated. Emma had shared the feeling. Inside, she still believed Arthur would ruin months of diplomatic juggling and put his sentimental life over the lives of thousands. For Howard, Arthur was just being paranoid. Arthur had replied he had all the rights to be. He couldn't help it, not when on the stand was the only person he had ever truly loved and after today, he would lose forever. 

The jury representative's words came from underwater, but the audience's cry of exultation left little doubt on what it had been. They were wrong. They were all wrong. 

The sentence was long and pompous but also extremely simple: Francis was found guilty. He would be temporarily kept under arrest while discussing the specifics with the Dauphinoises. Two days later it was communicated the parts reached an agreement. The defendant would be permanently exiled in the most remote of Daphiné oversea possessions. 

It took Arthur all his conditioning not to break into a hysterical fit of laughter. 

Life truly had a sick sense of humour. 

Only Howard could claim things were not as bad and that they would solve, Arthur only had to have faith.

"How?" Arthur furiously nocked a arrow, the target already drilled. "Think the real culprit will feel bad and magically confess?" 

A second arrow. 

"That some new evidence is going to magically appear?" 

Third arrow.

"No. It's the end."

Last arrow. The bow string almost whipped Arthur in the face. Cursing, he gestured to Howard to not pass him the new quiver. He was done. After one last hour spent trying to calm down, it was clear archery hadn't done the trick if not acting like a temporary palliative.

"It doesn't have to be," Howard tried, taking the bow and working on the quiver belt. 

"Right. Silly me. In twenty years he could be pardoned. Maybe ten if I am lucky. Ten years are not that long, after all. It's not like I am going anywhere either. And when we will be both old he could even visit here again, no hard feelings."

They could even restart from where they left, pretending the expanse in between was only a little, insignificant puddle. It was something that belonged in fairytales. 

"They should write a poem about us. It's the perfect tragedy ladies love. Compared to us Sir S. had it good."

He dropped onto the ground, uncaring of the wet grass. He didn't feel like returning to the palace yet. Doing that would mean dealing with people, pretending he agreed with the sentence, that he sustained it even. "He's leaving," he whispered, carding fingers through the blades. "He's leaving and I will never see him again."

It was what he had always hoped for after all, a way to put an end to a doomed relationship once and for all. He had forgotten the Albish saying about being careful of one's wishes. 

"You still have today," Howard said. "You should go to him then."

Arthur tore a fistful of grass. "I can't," he snapped, jumping back on his feet. "You heard it. And Her Majesty is not going to risk all our work when we are so close to solving everything."

"I am sure she would understand."

"Even so?"

The problem wasn’t her. Arthur bet she would give him her permission right now if she could. She must have imagined what would be being in the same position. But there weren't only their lives at stake now.

"She isn't going to risk upsetting the Dauphinoise."

They had been more than clear on that point, adamantly refusing to let any non-Dauphinoise alone with Francis. If they didn't trust the Flemish or their client, that was harder to say. 

"You know. I recognised some of them from my days there. The lady with the grey hair, Lady T. I think I danced with her ten years ago."

Some other times their visits could have brought the chance for some reminiscing. They hadn’t looked past his role.

"One more reason to try talking to them."

"To say what? Ask them if by any chance they remember that Albish prince they met once years ago? Tell them about me and Francis? Ask them to please turn a blind eye on me?"

Booting toward the palace, he bitterly laughed. Howard carried bow and quiver. Arthur hadn't wanted anyone else around, not now. 

"No. For them I am only Her Majesty's consort." 

Aside from Howard, all the people with whom he could be only Arthur were gone. The last would leave tomorrow.

"I think they know already. About you and Lord Francis." 

Arthur stopped in his tracks. "Already? Yes, of course."

Francis' lawyers must have convinced him had to know everything that happened since his arrival in order to help. A story with the prince consort wasn't something one could omit. Francis was smart, he would know that. Strangely, Arthur didn’t feel betrayed. They didn't even bring that up during the trial, preferring to focus on the evidence being circumstantial, while for the prosecution he did what he did to weaken Flanders. 

"Then why make such a fuss?" 

"I think it was a precaution. Maybe they feared you would plan a love escape." 

"Oh yes, didn't I tell you?" 

Though Howard meant well trying to cheer him up, Arthur wasn't at all in the mood. He quickened the pace, cutting through the lawn to lengthen the way back. Unfortunately for him, Howard was also stubborn, and just as fast.

"Talk with Her Majesty. You were friends. You are friends. See what she can do. Or you will regret it forever. Worst thing it can happen, she will refuse."

Arthur didn't reply. Howard was right. Worst thing could happen, Emma would tell him what he already knew. Before that, however, she would have to listen to his reasons.

***

Francis was sitting in the candlelight, with a book open in front of him and the air of someone who wasn't really seeing the pages. It was a progress from last time Arthur visited him, the constant pacing and jumping  at every noise, all turned into a tired resignation .

It was in his eyes when Arthur called his attention with a quick knock on the door. 

"Your Highness," he said, standing, the surprise for the visit growing and changing into something else, as soon as  he noticed Arthur was alone.

"You will be leaving tomorrow morning already," Arthur didn't give him time to continue, speaking while staring into the void. "and I thought we ... deserved a proper farewell. Alone." He swallowed, his voice on the verge of cracking. In his pocket, the permit Emma gave him, the one he showed the guards, rustled. 

Anything he could say, any formula that came to mind, felt mundane and trivial, while the knot in his stomach grew stronger. He couldn't move, letting Francis to close the space like he always did. At least for him to say something, anything, to save them for that paralysis. To invite him to sit down to better enjoy the time they had. To take his hand if words didn't work. A caustic comment too would be better than anything, if nothing, a fight would move things. 

"It's only temporary," he muttered, though they both knew it was stupid to hope, to think the real culprit would be discovered one day by some kind of miracle. Even then, it could take years. "We've been there already ... oh."

It choked into a yelp, his body stiffening as Francis dragged him into his arms, tighter than he ever did.

"It's not the same," he murmured, his face pressed against Arthur's shoulder, so warm, gentle and safe. "You know it's not the same."

Arthur's composure crumbled. It was so stupid, as if farewells hadn't always been part of the deal, probably the only certainty in their relationship; like they weren't destined to have parenthesis of bliss in a sea of struggle and uncertainty.. He wanted to tell Francis to stop with all this useless mush, that it belonged only in his poems and certainly had nothing to do with them. He wished his heart didn't hurt as much.

"Arthur," Francis said, loosening the hug and caressing his cheek, "you're crying."

"I am not," he sniffed, his cheeks humid with pesky tears. 

"Of course." Francis chuckled in a lame attempt at joking. "As Your Highness wishes." 

"Stop it." 

With a groan, Arthur hid his face in Francis' chest as his tears didn't show signs to stop. "I hate this." 

He hated crying and doing it before Francis, like a silly love-sick maiden; hated Francis' hand cupping his nape and his soft touch. Above all he hated himself for craving more. 

"And I thought we could finally ... I'm sorry." 

He whispered, muffled by the fabric, so low Francis couldn't have possibly heard it. Francis cradled his face in his hands.

"Hey, it could be worse," he said, clearly trying to lighten the mood and failing. "We will make it work and you are lucky I am not the jealous type."

This time a punch in the chest was due. Arthur choked back a strangled mix halfway between a sob and an hysterical laugh. 

"It's not me who courts every pretty person they come across."

"You know it doesn’t mean anything. I love you, Arthur. That is never going to change."

Even if one day he fell out of love, he would still be loving him. Thus Francis had said one sultry afternoon years ago, words Arthur had never forgotten. It was a promise a part of him never wanted to abandon, strong with the perspective they would eventually meet again. 

He should now. It would hurt less. He should close this, say his goodbye before things become too pathetic, not let Francis take his hands and coax him to sit in his lap. But tonight wasn't any other night and like one so similar and yet so different in Avennio, he didn’t want to have any regrets. There would be time to heal the wound and put his armour back on. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend to be elsewhere, in their rooms in Swabia and far for all the problems. Unaware it would end like this.

"A coin for your thoughts."

Arthur looked down at his hands, idly rubbing the ruby of his ring. It was dull. 

"Just thinking about the past," he began, measuring every word. "When we were young."

When they were young and the highest of their worries was who to invite at the next ball or what to wear. When they still didn’t carry the weight of kingdoms on their shoulders.

"About how much I had to court you?" Francis teased, brushing his  nose against Arthur's nape, both squeezed onto the same armchair and arranged so as to fit perfectly as long as nobody wished to move. It saved him from a nudge in the ribs.

"Well, you were quite irritating. My hate was perfectly justified."

He had loathed that boy of the hate of youth, hated him because he had everything he wanted, unaware what he called hate was hiding a completely different sentiment. 

"But I had already fallen there, didn't I. From the first time we met. I didn't love you and I was in love already. I think that looking back there wasn't a day in which there wasn't a part of me, even if tiny, in love with you."

Francis dragged him closer, something Arthur wouldn't believe possible. 

"Romantic, are we? Who are you? What did you do to my Arthur?"

"Don't ruin the moment."

He had loved him before knowing what that meant. 

"What about tomorrow ? Will you still love me?"

There was a little uncertainty in Francis' voice, beneath the pretence playfulness. For all his proclaimed faith in love, sometimes he became more insecure than Arthur himself. 

"When it becomes yesterday." When he would look back and reason about it, he'd found the same love again. He traced vague paths on Francis' palm, words without a meaning. 

"There's a problem then. I don't want tomorrow to arrive. I don’t want tomorrow or today to become yesterday." 

Laying his head on Francis' shoulder, Arthur sighed. He didn’t want it either. "We still have some time," he said, freeing one arm before it got too stiff. Some more minutes wouldn't hurt anyone. They soon rolled into hours. They passed too fast. 

When tomorrow came, it was too early, but delaying the inevitable would only worsen things. In the palace courtyard, Arthur watched the Dauphinoise coaches till they disappeared in the horizon. 

“You could follow him, if you so wish,” Emma said, quietly. 

“No, I can’t,” Arthur replied, in a bitter whisper. It wasn’t her fault, as Queen she couldn’t have acted otherwise. But still he couldn't help thinking she could have used her power better.  As soon as news came Dauphiné had carried out the sentence, Prince Herbert would leave too. For now, he seemed to be enduring the separation quite well, and to have inherited his father's calm and sense of duty. From Ludwig he had taken the love for dogs as well. Maids said his favourite place in the palace were the kennels. Arthur couldn't blame him. After the recent events he was more and more convinced animals would be a better company than people. Hugging Orvar as soon as he was alone he fought back a new rush of tears. 

In the corridors he caught some courtiers chatting about the annual winter party, the dress they had ordered and other amenities, the incident with the Dauphinoise old story already.