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Raymond de Merville returns to the palace in a great clamour of horses, soldiers, and much fanfare.
He had not bothered to send a runner ahead of his arrival, otherwise the palace staff would have been significantly better prepared to feed and house a company of hungry knights and their entourage, though David knows there are no servants who would be so bold as to mention their chagrin within the hearing of any of the returned soldiers. Indeed, none of them would be so bold as to mention it within David’s hearing, second tier knight and spare to a small barony in the south of England though he is, except for that by now they know that he will not tell anyone.
An assembly is called, and word spreads swiftly throughout the castle- de Merville has brought back a weapon, it is said, something prized greatly by the King, and has called for an audience to witness his glorious return. David is tempted to skip it, but another whisper catches his attention, and kindles something like curiosity within him.
They have brought back a boy with them, a foreign monk, clad in irons- for what purpose, nobody can yet say. It is a curious thing; the King has not been on the best of terms with the Church, as of late, but to place a man of the cloth under arrest- young though he may be- is a bold move, even for Raymond de Merville.
David does not join his rank of knights during the hearing, but rather remains in the shadows at the edge of the great hall, slipping into the room via one of the servants’ entrances and lingering near it. He has kept himself in his tunic and breeches, disinclined to walk around the castle in armour, regardless of who else is in residence. If it were not for the sheathed sword at his hip, he might be mistaken for a stablehand.
The great doors open with a clatter of mail and Raymond de Merville steps through, the heels of his boots striking the stone like the tolling of a bell, echoing through the suddenly quiet room. Behind him marches his men- curiously, far less than a full company, only about two dozen men in addition to de Merville. David is not certain whether the missing men are simply otherwise occupied, or did not return from the isles for some reason, though he is inclined to believe it is the latter. He can not imagine that any of them would be willing to pass up the opportunity to allow the shine of de Merville’s so-called triumph to cast favourable light on their houses.
They sweep into the room in formation, two lines of warriors, and between the heads of the two columns stands-
Exactly as rumored, a young monk.
His hands are bound in irons, another metal collar fastened around his slim throat, with thick chains leading from his wrists and held tightly in de Merville’s gauntleted hand. The young monk is dirty and bruised, the distinct impression of a handprint raised on his face in lurid purple, wearing a robe that has certainly seen better days. No scapula, either- it is the most dressed down David has ever seen a holy man, and something of the sight settles uneasily in his stomach, like spoiled milk.
Whatever the monk has done, it seems… blasphemous, to treat him as such.
Curiously, the monk has a satchel slung across his body, and from the way it bulges, there is something heavy contained within. It is unusual for a prisoner to not have been stripped of his personal effects, and David wonders idly what he might be carrying. His head- crowned with a mane of messy, unkempt curls- is bowed, and from where David is standing it looks as though his lips are moving, though the distance is too great for David to hear what he might be saying.
Raymond de Merville comes to a stop just short of the throne, raising his hand to bring his men to a halt as well. Then he kneels, bowing his head in deference to the King, and as one so too do his men. David notices that de Merville gives a harsh tug to the chain, bringing the monk sharply to his knees on the rough cobblestone. The monk does not glance up, head remaining bowed, curls falling into his face.
The King shifts in his seat, eyebrow raised.
“Sir Raymond, a warm welcome to you and your men upon your return. What have you brought to us this day?”
“A boon, my lord,” de Merville replies, rising once more to his feet, and David is reminded, vividly, of how much he dislikes the Norman. It does not take much, truthfully, and hearing that snide voice once again chafes on David’s patience.
“We have brought you a relic of great power, that it might bless your reign and prove a powerful weapon against your enemies.” De Merville pauses, for effect, then continues: “The relic of Saint Matthias.”
Nobody is looking in his direction, so David takes the opportunity to roll his eyes. Raymond de Merville was a vainglory little pest when they were boys studying to become knights, and it seems that all his years away conquering foreign lands has done little to curb him of that particular trait.
Indeed, it seems that it has done the opposite.
Although from the relative silence and muffled murmurs in the room it is apparent that the significance of this particular relic is lost on the majority of the attendees in the hall- indeed, as it is lost on David- the King leans forward abruptly at the announcement, eyes shining with anticipation.
“Is it truly?” he says, urgent.
De Merville smirks and nods, triumph written across his face and in the arrogant set of his shoulders. “Yes, Your Majesty. And its power is exactly as you have said. No-one but-” his eyes flick downwards, to the still-kneeling monk, “-a holy man can touch it without meeting their death. It claimed many lives when we sought to retrieve it from le petit voleur.”
The monk’s head finally jerks up at that, and he fixes de Merville with an impressive glare, given that he is dirty and beaten and chained.
Not one to be easily cowed, it seems. David can admire that.
“I am not a thief -” the monk begins, but he is cut off.
“Be quiet,” the King snaps, and despite the unhappy twist to his mouth, the monk falls silent.
The King looks to de Merville. “A thief?”
“He comes from the monastery that initially guarded the relic, Your Majesty,” de Merville says. “We came across him and his companions as they traveled to the coast, set to carry the relic to our friends in Rome.” He turns away from the King to cast a disdainful gaze onto the monk, who meets it with equal hatred.
“We were asked to accompany them, to ensure their safe passage. Unfortunately, our group was set upon by pagan savages, and his companions were slaughtered.”
De Merville smiles at the monk, a mean, malicious little twist of the lips, then turns back towards the King. “It was in the aftermath of the battle that he attempted to steal the relic from us. In the process, he murdered several of our men, as well as Frère Geraldus, of the Cisterian order.”
Gasps ring out throughout the hall. The Cistercian is well-known, a man in great favour in Rome. That he is dead, and that this monk apparently killed him, is shocking.
David eyes the monk, skeptical. His dislike of de Merville aside, there is something… off, about the story.
The monk bows his head again under the weight of the crowd’s scrutiny. The King leans back in his seat.
“Fetch the Bishop,” he says, to a nearby courier. To de Merville he says, “If it is as you say, and none but a man sworn to God can take the relic, the Bishop will assist us in transporting it. In the meantime,” he gestures at the monk.
De Merville nods, then steps towards the monk, grasping his chin in what looks to be a painful grip and jerking his head up to meet his gaze. “Go on then, little monk. Bring out the rock.”
David frowns. The monk’s hands are still bound, practically immobilised. Perhaps de Merville is looking for a reason to punish the monk, for disobeying. It is the sort of thing he was inclined towards when they were boys, setting impossible tasks to servants and delighting in punishing them when they could not complete them, and David doubts that that instinct for cruelty has since deserted him.
The monk seems to agree, because he meets de Merville’s gaze squarely, lips pressed together defiantly. After a moment of glaring, he speaks.
“My wrists are bound,” the monk says slowly, as if explaining the problem to a small child. “But you are welcome to withdraw the relic for yourself, if you like. My Lord.” He adds the formal address a full beat too late for it to be mistaken as respectful, and if David were not so skilled at keeping his emotions under an impassive façade, he might have snorted out a laugh.
Not easily cowed, indeed.
De Merville’s face twists, rage flashing in his eyes, and in a burst of movement he backhands the monk across the face with a resounding crack .
Blood sprays across the floor in a wide arch as the monk’s head snaps to the side. Impressively, he does not fall over. Rather, he fights to keep himself upright, blood pouring down his cheek from where de Merville’s gauntlet has cut him, and glares back up at de Merville.
Fearless, David thinks.
Before anything else can happen, the Bishop arrives. For the first time, David sees something other than blazing defiance flash across the monk’s face. He looks up at the Bishop as he approaches, eyes wide, then bows his head in deference.
“My Lord,” he mutters, the words carrying none of the antipathy he had previously directed at de Merville. “I beg of you an audience-”
“Silence, boy,” the Bishop rumbles, scorn laden in his tone. The monk’s head jerks up, startled, and for the first time David sees something like fear cross his face.
“But Sire, I-”
The Bishop nods at de Merville, who hits the monk across the face again, this time sending him sprawling to the ground. Then he steps forward, grabbing the monk by his robes, and hauls him to his feet.
The monk sways, looking a little dazed.
“The relic, boy,” the Bishop demands, imperious.
The monk blinks at him, then shakes his head, visibly forcing himself to pay attention to the proceedings. David has seen this confusion before, in soldiers who have had their wits knocked out of them.
A jab from de Merville to the monk’s gut has him gasping, doubling over slightly, before raising shaky, bound hands to fumble with the flap on the satchel at his waist. It takes him a moment, but eventually he gets it open, carefully withdrawing from within-
A rock. A large one, craggy and heavy-looking, but otherwise unremarkable. Nevertheless, murmurs sweep through the crowd as the relic is held up to the light.
The Bishop crosses himself, then begins to pray, Latin rolling off his tongue strong and clear, ringing through the room. Another jab to the monk’s side- lighter, so as to not cause him to drop the relic, but still painful judging by the way he winces- and he is praying as well, light voice merging perfectly with the Bishop’s.
The prayer ends. In its wake, a deadly silence falls, tense and forbidding. The King leans forward in his seat as the Bishop reaches out, lifting the relic from the monk’s extended hands.
There is a low whisper of noise, like the crowd is collectively inhaling, and-
Nothing happens.
The tension in the room breaks.
The King leans back in his seat. “Right then. Let us get the relic under proper guard. After all, we do not want anything to befall it before we…” here his lip curls, amusement colouring his tone, “... return it, to His Excellency in Rome. Sir Raymond, have your men take the boy to a cell.”
He pauses, eyeing the monk, who is staring at the relic in the Bishop’s hands. “And set someone to guard him. A proper soldier, or even better, a knight. I want no trouble while we determine what to do with him.”
They set David to guarding the monk.
Normally this would be the work of the castle guard, and that is indeed who stands watch during the sleeping hours. But the King had asked for a knight as primary guard, and David is among the only knights at court to whom it would not be an egregious offense to be set such basic work.
After all, it is not as though the monk poses any kind of real threat, so despite the relative import of the prisoner and the auspicious nature of his arrival, there is little glory to be found in the task. Most knights would balk at the assignment, seeing it as a slight to their skills, or an insult to their houses. But David has long since given up on seeking glory in any assignment, and does not care enough about the judgement of the court gossips to worry about what this might say about his skills or social standing.
When he arrives at the cell, early on the first morning of guard duty, it is to find the monk lying down, back turned towards the barred entryway, curled up so tightly his forehead is nearly touching his knees.
They have not provided him with a blanket, but somewhat to David’s surprise he has been given a pallet. Strange that they would allow him to be so comfortable, but at least David will not have to worry about listening to any complaints to that effect.
The monk’s back is moving gently with the deep, even rhythm of sleep, so David props himself up against the wall opposite and allows his mind to wander, glad that he does not have to endure any chatter- or worse, pleas- from the captive monk, at least for the moment.
Someone clears their throat, and David snaps to attention.
The monk is awake now, sitting up on his pallet to eye David warily. His hair is a mess, dirty and matted in some places, standing up straight in others. The bruise on his cheek is edging into the first stages of healing, sickly greens and yellows bordering the dark, angry-looking purple.
There is still blood on his face, from where de Merville’s gauntlet cut him, the day before.
David watches as the monk looks him over, an evaluating gleam in his eyes. Sees his gaze linger on the plain but well-cared-for hilt of his sword, the sturdy makeup and thick fabric of his tunic and breeches, the practical but high-quality leather of his boots.
“You are to be my jailer then, until they have decided how to execute me?” he asks. His tone is matter-of-fact, lacking in the fear or bitterness David would have expected for a man in his position.
He nods.
The monk frowns. “Well, if we are to be spending so much time in one another’s presence, I should like to know your name.”
David shifts on his feet, but of course does not reply.
The monk sighs a little, but persists. “I am Brother Diarmuid. I promise, whatever tales you have heard from your fellows about my being a witch or fae creature are entirely incorrect. I serve Christ, and you can give me your name without fear, as you can be assured that he already knows it.”
David cannot help but quirk an eyebrow at that. He has not heard any such rumours, as it happens, but if this young man was suspected of being up to some kind of fae trickery, it is not as though his word to the contrary could be trusted.
The monk- Brother Diarmuid- huffs out a breath of air, something between a sigh and a snort.
“Yes, I suppose that is what I would say if I were trying to trick you.” He slants David another considering look, then shifts so he is kneeling next to the pallet. “Keep your silence then. If it is all the same to you, it is time for prayer.”
He looks at David then, as though he is actually asking for permission. David wonders if de Merville and his men prevented him from carrying out the customary schedule of prayers, on the journey overseas. If they thought him some pagan demon, it would make sense.
He nods, and to his surprise Brother Diarmuid smiles at him, expression grateful.
Then he bows his head, and within moments the melodic sounds of softly-sung prayer fill the air.
David settles back against the wall, and listens.
The next day, David brings with him a bucket of water, a bar of soap, a small handful of clean rags.
The previous day had passed in relative silence, with Brother Diarmuid attending diligently to his prayer. It had given him plenty of time to observe the monk, and by the end of the day, he had found himself thoroughly discomfited by the state Diarmuid had been left in.
David does not consider himself the most pious of men, and he knows that God turned his face from him many years ago. Regardless, it sits ill with him, to allow a man of the cloth to remain so... poorly treated. He can do nothing about the accommodations, or even the robe, but no one had given him any direction with regard to the rest of it.
Brother Diarmuid looks at him when he approaches the door, a sort of careful, fragile hope falling over his face when he spots the bucket. David shoots him a look, hoping to convey that he should remain where he is, and Diarmuid nods. Then David opens the door, sets the bucket, soap, and rags gently on the ground, and steps back again, locking the door firmly behind him. He moves backward until he is once again standing against the opposite wall of the corridor, as far away from the door as he can get. It is nothing like real privacy, but it is the best he can do in these circumstances.
Brother Diarmuid watches him for a moment more, until David nods. Then he scrambles across the cell. His hands shake as he picks up a rag, dipping it into the cool water, and begins to wipe off the worst of the grime and blood from his skin.
David keeps half an eye on him as he bathes, noticing that Diarmuid does not remove his robe, despite the opportunity to clean off what David is sure must be weeks of dirt and sweat. Not that David entirely blames him; with the front wall and door to the cell consisting entirely of iron bars, there is no portion of the cell that is out of David’s sight. David would like to turn away to give him more privacy, but as harmless as he seems, it would be foolish and an egregious negligence of David’s duties if he were to leave him unaccounted for, even for a moment.
He watches as Diarmuid dips his hair into the bucket, scrubbing the soap through it, before bending once more to rinse it out. Finally, he piles all the cloths and the soap bar neatly next to the bucket of now-filthy water, and retreats back to his pallet, hair still dripping. David enters the cell again to remove the items, then locks it and takes up his usual spot, setting everything aside to be taken away when the servants bring down the next meal for both guard and captive.
Diarmuid looks at him, something speculative in his gaze. David shifts, a little uneasy.
“Thank you,” Diarmuid says with a smile, honest and shockingly sweet. David has to tamp down the urge to frown in confusion. He is aware that the opportunity to bathe is not something many of his peers would have allowed, but it is hardly a kindness. Keeping a captive man comfortable while awaiting his death does not erase the fact that Diarmuid is still captive, and that he will still die, and that it is David’s job to ensure he meets his death. How is it possible that this man does not resent him?
After a long moment, in which it becomes clear that Diarmuid is awaiting some sort of reply, he simply nods. Diarmuid shoots him another sweet smile, then takes up his kneeling position once again, and resumes his prayer.
Two days later, Raymond de Merville pays Brother Diarmuid a visit.
He strides in, two of his men at his heels. David straightens from where he has been leaning against the wall, listening to Diarmuid’s soft chanting. There is a hitch in Diarmuid’s voice, when de Merville enters the hallway, but he does not stop his prayer.
De Merville eyes David, lip curling. “You,” he says, disdainful. “But of course it would be you. The perfect task for un nigaud.”
David just blinks at him, slow and unbothered, knowing from experience that his lack of reaction is particularly infuriating to de Merville.
Sure enough, he steps forward, right into David’s space. They are of a height, but de Merville attempts to tower over him anyway, a little flushed in anger. Out of the corner of his eye, David can see Brother Diarmuid watching them interestedly, gaze sharp and attentive even as his voice does not falter.
One of de Merville’s men clears his throat. De Merville eases back, a cruel little smile flitting about his mouth. “You are dismissed from your duties for the day,” he says, turning away from David to look at Diarmuid. “We have some questions for the little monk.”
David bristles, wanting to protest. Something about leaving Diarmuid alone with de Merville does not sit right with him, for all that he has no attachment to the monk. He looks over at Diarmuid, who meets his gaze squarely. Then, after a moment, his expression softens, and he nods, just slightly.
David frowns, but turns to leave, guilt settling, heavy and uneasy, in his stomach.
David is relieved, despite himself, when he returns the next day to find Brother Diarmuid none the worse for wear.
The collar on his robe is ripped, slightly, and David can see the faint shadow of fresh bruising on his jaw, but otherwise he seems unharmed. He is praying when David arrives, but the glance he slants David’s way is… unsettling. Knowing.
When he finishes, he stands, groaning slightly and stretching, arms reaching above his head. His sleeves fall back, revealing thin, delicate-looking wrists. David’s stomach swoops unpleasantly when he realizes they are marked not only with the red, angry impressions of shackles, but also with the bruising shadow of fingerprints.
The monk had obviously been bound for too long, the shackles clasped too tight. With proper care the marks may fade- not that he will live long enough for that to be the case, David reminds himself forcibly.
The handprints will fade faster, David knows, but are nevertheless uglier, in their own way, this evidence of direct violence done to the monk, human against human. He looks away, swallowing down bile that suddenly rises in his throat.
Diarmuid coughs delicately, and David looks back at him, reluctant. He is standing right at the bars that separate them, closer than he has ever gotten to David. He is near enough that David can make out the warm brown of his eyes, framed by long, dark lashes.
David’s shoulders tense under the scrutiny.
“They call you le muet.” His pronunciation of the French word is a little clumsy, obviously foreign on his tongue. “I had wondered if you were not somehow incapable of speech, after all these days of silence… You have taken an oath?”
David nods, a little startled. At this point, most people assume he does not speak due to some physical injury, or infirmity of the mind.
"They assume you are a half-wit, because you do not speak," Diarmuid says, tilting his head. David finds himself unable to look away, caught by the understanding in Diarmuid’s eyes.
"It is why they assigned you to me; they think because we cannot converse then there is no risk of you becoming… sympathetic."
He smiles, soft and knowing. "But you are not a half-wit, are you?"
Despite himself, David takes a step back. Somehow he has drifted closer, to the point where if he reached out, he could touch Diarmuid’s hands where they loosely grip the bars of his cell. He shakes his head, half in rejection, half to clear it.
Diarmuid retreats as well, that soft smile still on his face. David works his shoulders and breathes, trying to release the sudden tension that has gripped his muscles.
Diarmuid sits down on the pallet, shifting slightly for a moment, as though making himself comfortable.
“I would like to tell you about my home,” he says, determination flashing in his gaze. “Would you like to hear about it?”
David should shake his head. Diarmuid is clever, that much is clear, but he is not subtle. He has caught on to David’s discomfort with his captivity and is openly trying to prey upon his sympathy. If David were any other knight, he would go into the cell and beat that notion out of Diarmuid’s head.
But because he is not, and because he cannot, David nods.
Diarmuid smiles, wide and dazzling, and launches into a story.
Over the next few days, David learns much of life at the monastery. Diarmuid is a good storyteller, vibrant and engaging. David gets some sense for what he must have been like, in that other life, before he came to be held captive by the Normans and their King.
Tales of collecting dulse and razor clams on the seashore, foraging about in the nearby forest for wild herbs and berries and mushrooms. Tending a small garden under the supervision of Brother Ciarán, debating theology with Brother Rua, learning about medicine from Brother Cathal.
There are others who show up in his stories, a full cast of characters to populate the details of Diarmuid’s previous life, but those three are by far the most common.
At first David wonders a little at that, but then he notices the way the breath sometimes catches in Diarmuid’s throat when he says their names, the way he deliberately uses only past tense to refer to them, the way that occasionally David looks over to see the sheen of tears in his eyes.
Diarmuid had been travelling with companions, David remembers, before the Normans had found them. Companions who had been killed by pagan savages, according to de Merville.
Diarmuid’s voice wobbles, slightly, in the middle of a story about learning how to make ink at Brother Ciarán’s knee. David’s chest pangs, entirely against his will, with unbidden sympathy.
The next day, David smuggles a honey cake, wrapped in cloth, and slides it into Diarmuid’s cell along with the plain meal of bread and brose a servant brings down.
When Diarmuid spots it, he stares, for what feels like an hour but must only be a few seconds. Then he whips his head up, delight stretching his face into a wide smile, gratitude shining from his eyes.
David clears his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and looks away. He can feel the slight heat of a flush in his cheeks, and hopes that Diarmuid cannot see it.
De Merville and his men visit Diarmuid on occasion, dismissing David from watch duty whenever they do. They must have orders not to injure the monk too much, because to David’s relief Diarmuid always seems relatively unharmed after these sessions. Certainly he has fresh bruises each time- and David ignores the flash of protective rage that burns through him, whenever he sees new marks on Diarmuid’s skin- but no lashes, broken bones, missing fingernails, or other signs of torture.
Diarmuid is always reserved after these visits, inclined more towards quiet prayer and contemplation than storytelling. David ruthlessly smothers the disappointment at the loss of Diarmuid’s energy, his sweet voice and engaging stories.
He also smothers the aching desire to comfort that wells up within him, when Diarmuid is in these subdued moods. Or rather, he tries.
Despite his better judgement, he finds himself slipping treats into Diarmuid’s cell after these visits, relishing the smiles they bring to Diarmuid’s face, the warmth they return to his voice.
One time, he returns to find that de Merville has torn Diarmuid’s robe, from collar to belly-button. To his chagrin, he only lasts one day of watching Diarmuid clutch the garment closed self-consciously, shivering as the slight chill of the cell touches newly-exposed skin, before he cannot abide it anymore.
He brings his sewing kit with him the following day.
Diarmuid looks up when David enters the cell, though David is gratified to find that he is not wary, only curious.
He locks the door behind him, then turns back to Diarmuid and holds up the little sewing kit, nodding his head at the torn collar of Diarmuid's robe. Diarmuid stares for a moment, then smiles, as he always does when David pays him a kindness. David should be concerned with how much pleasure he takes in drawing out those smiles, though he somehow cannot bring himself to muster up the appropriate worry. At least not for the moment.
When David gestures at him to remove the robe, Diarmuid balks, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. David came prepared, however, and lifts his hand to display the shirt he has brought along- it is a spare from his own stores, and should be more than enough to cover Diarmuid while he works.
After a moment, Diarmuid nods, holding out a hand for the shirt. David passes it over, then turns away, to afford Diarmuid some measure of privacy while he changes.
It is not until Diarmuid has confirmed that he is decent, a note of something odd tingeing his tone, that David turns back toward him and discovers that he has made a terrible mistake.
The shirt is large on Diarmuid- so much larger than David thought, never having taken into serious consideration their relative size difference. It falls to the middle of Diarmuid's thigh, the collar gaping open to reveal an expanse of smooth skin, a delicate collarbone, and the curve of a shoulder.
Diarmuid hands over the robe and David takes it mechanically, trying to draw his gaze away from the scoop of Diarmuid's collarbones. A slight mottle of pink is spreading across the exposed skin of his chest, creeping up his neck, and David is suddenly struck by the mad urge to place his hand there, overwhelmingly curious as to whether the skin is as soft to the touch as it looks like it might be.
He clears his throat and retreats over to the far side of the cell, spreading the heavy wool robe over his lap and opening his kit to begin working. After a long, tense moment, he hears Diarmuid settle on his pallet.
Another pause, longer than the first, and then he begins speaking, as has become his custom. He launches into the story of how one year, the spring chicks had imprinted upon Brother Rua and spent several weeks following him around the monastery, elsewise if they were locked in their coop they would do nothing but scream.
David listens, as has become his custom, and does not think about the odd, slightly winded note in Diarmuid's voice.
Eventually, it fades away.
Then, one day, weeks after Diarmuid’s arrival, word arrives that turns the castle on its head.
The Bishop has fallen gravely, direly ill.
The illness came upon him swiftly, according to the servants’ gossip. He was reportedly incoherent with fever by the time doctors could be dispatched to attend him, and they have informed the King that it is only a matter of time before he succumbs to the illness.
The news settles uneasily in David’s bones, though perhaps not for the reasons the others find it disturbing.
Sure enough, his worst suspicions are confirmed when he receives word via courier: he has been relieved of his guard duty for the next three days, and will be informed if his services are required again.
If, David realizes, being the operative word.
David spends the first day on the practice courts.
There is never a shortage of opponents to be found, especially with the men from de Merville’s retinue milling about. David knows from experience that it is difficult to transition back into courtly life after months- in some cases years- out doing active duty, the comfort and civility of court chafing against sensibilities that have become attuned to hostile lands and dangerous enemies.
Not that life at court is any less hostile or dangerous, per se, but David knows he is one among few of the only soldiers here who is inclined to acknowledge that.
Regardless, there is less opportunity for active battle here in the castle, at least of the physical kind, and so David finds himself going up against knight after knight, channeling the portion of himself that longs to be in that underground cell into the clean simplicity of sparring, controlled violence crowding everything else out of his mind.
At the end of it, David has a sweat-soaked tunic and a renewed reputation for ferocity, but none of the peace he had been seeking.
He spends the second day attempting to tend to the chores that he has allowed to fall by the wayside during his stint as prison guard. He starts out in his room, with his pile of mending, but soon sets aside his needle and thread, the image of Diarmuid draped in his shirt vivid in his memory.
He goes out to the stable instead, setting himself to the task of methodically cleaning and oiling his horse’s tack. When that only takes him partway through the day, he moves on to scouring his armour and tending his weaponry.
Finally, frustrated and irritable at himself for it, he drags himself out to the archery fields, firing arrow after arrow, until it becomes too dark for him to see.
The third day, David knows that there is nothing else for it.
He rides deep into the woods, tethers his horse in a clearing with plenty of fresh grass, and ventures out among the trees.
Then he strips off his shirt, holds his arms out to God, and prays.
On the morning of the fourth day, he receives notice that he has once again been tasked with guarding the prisoner.
He allows himself a moment to breathe, to give thanks for God’s grace. Then he heads to the infirmary to gather some supplies, stops by the kitchen briefly, and heads down to the cells.
When he arrives, Diarmuid is laying on his pallet, curled up with his back to the barred entryway. It is a jarring echo of the first day, what feels like years ago but is, in reality, only a few short weeks.
Whereas at that time, David had been glad to find his charge quiet and still, quiescent, today the sight sets his heart pounding in his chest.
He sets aside his provisions and opens the door carefully, trying to make enough noise to announce his presence but not enough to startle Diarmuid.
He need not have worried; Diarmuid does not move.
David carries everything he has brought with him into the cell, then locks the door. Slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal, he advances upon Diarmuid’s bedside.
Kneeling carefully next to the pallet, he reaches out a hand to gently touch Diarmuid’s shoulder. Diarmuid stirs at the contact, a soft groan escaping him.
“My friend?” he asks, voice rough and rasping.
David pauses. He hopes Diarmuid is not so injured that he is hallucinating, or has suffered a head injury that has left him confused as to where he is. Diarmuid grunts, then rolls over gingerly, and squints up at David. After a long moment, he smiles, tension leaking out of his body.
“My friend,” he mutters again, eyes closing, expression peaceful.
David… does not quite know what to do with that. He supposes it makes some sense, given everything Diarmuid has endured at the Normans’ hands, that he might consider David a friend. The thought is disturbing- David is, in practice, little better than de Merville. They are loyal to the same crown, and he does not want Diarmuid to be disappointed when he realizes that.
He sets aside that problem as one to be dealt with at a later time, however, and lets his gaze sweep over Diarmuid, cataloguing his injuries.
The sight that greets him is not a pleasant one, and David must take a moment to breathe through the fury that rushes through him.
Every visible inch of Diarmuid’s skin is bruised or cut in some manner. His robe is largely intact, which leads David to believe that they stripped him while they were torturing him. That also means that David will have to remove it again, in order to tend to those injuries.
His face is as bruised as the rest of him, lip looking as though at one point he bit through it, nose evidently broken. Looking down at Diarmuid’s limbs, he is relieved to see no evidence of any other broken bones or fingers- though he wagers Diarmuid’s ribs were not so lucky- but one hand is missing several fingernails.
Regretfully, he touches Diarmuid’s wrist to gain his attention, plucking at the sleeve of his robe when Diarmuid’s eyes flutter open. Diarmuid’s eyes narrow, confused, then widen in realization.
“No,” he shakes his head. David is alarmed to see tears well up in Diarmuid’s eyes. “Please, I do not…”
David rests his hand gently on Diarmuid’s wrist again, stroking the skin there in an attempt at comfort. With his free hand, he picks up a roll of bandages, then nods at Diarmuid’s torso. He catches Diarmuid’s eyes with his own, trying to convey his regret with his gaze.
Some of what he is feeling must come through, because Diarmuid relaxes by degrees, the longer David sits there, gently stroking his wrist. David waits patiently; he will take this at Diarmuid’s pace.
Eventually, Diarmuid takes a deep breath, and nods.
David helps him sit, then the two of them work together to slowly remove the garment. It sticks in places- Diarmuid mutters that he had thrown it on after the Normans had left the night prior, and the blood from his injuries had dried in that time, adhering the fabric to his skin. David patiently soaks those patches with water from the bucket he had brought with him, gently peeling the fabric away from the skin.
The damage visible on his face, neck and hands continues here, and David has to fight to remain impassive. He does not want Diarmuid to see the anger on his face and become frightened. Some of what he is feeling must come through, however, because Diarmuid reaches out to touch the back of his hand, smiling when David looks at him.
“I am alright, my friend,” he says.
David sets to work, first wiping away as much of the blood as he can, slowly cleaning each of Diarmuid’s wounds. Luckily, none of the cuts on Diarmuid’s body are deep; it seems that de Merville stuck mostly to fists and, from the shape of some of the bruises, kicks. Painful, and dangerous in their own way, but less prone to infection.
David cleans the wounds Diarmuid does have, slathering them with a healing ointment he took from the infirmary, wrapping the worst ones in bandages. More bandages go around Diarmuid’s torso, to try to keep him from jostling his ribs- David had guessed right, he has several broken ones- and eventually the last injury to tend to is his nose.
He has Diarmuid bite into a spare belt that he brought along for this purpose, waiting until Diarmuid nods in affirmation. Then, in one swift movement, he resets the nose.
A muffled scream ekes out from behind the leather, tears automatically springing to Diarmuid's eyes, spilling over to flow down his cheeks. One hand flails out to grasp David’s wrist in a vice-like grip, and David uses his free hand to cup Diarmuid’s face gently. Diarmuid leans into it, letting his eyes fall shut. After a moment, he lets go of David’s wrist and reaches up to tug the leather from his mouth, turning his face to nuzzle more fully into David’s palm.
It occurs to David that this is the first kind touch that Diarmuid has experienced in what must be many, many weeks.
Indeed, it is the first kind touch that David has experienced in years .
Eventually he must withdraw, however, as Diarmuid’s shivers become more and more pronounced. The cell is chilly, and Diarmuid is clothed in nothing but a loincloth.
David uses a wet rag to scrub as much blood out of Diarmuid’s robe as he can, thankful that at least the garment is black and the stains will not be visible. Then he helps Diarmuid back into it.
Diarmuid shivers again as the damp fabric touches his skin, but he sighs in relief once he is fully clothed. David helps him settle back, propped upright against the wall, then holds a cup full of now-lukewarm brose to Diarmuid’s lips, encouraging him to sip slowly. He does the same with a cup of clean water, ensuring that Diarmuid drinks the entire thing. Remaining hydrated will be essential for him as he heals, David knows from experience.
When the water is gone, Diarmuid lays back down, curled carefully on his side once again. This time, however, he faces David, one hand coming out to loop gently around his wrist as he makes to move away.
“Stay, please?” he asks. “For the moment, anyway? I have a story I would like to tell you, but I do not believe I have the energy to make myself heard, with you so far away.”
David hesitates, but nods, settling himself more comfortably on the floor next to Diarmuid’s pallet. Diarmuid’s voice is weak, and slightly thready. It is still early in the day; there is plenty of time for David to remain here for one of Diarmuid’s stories.
“I do not believe I have told you of how I came to be here, have I?” Diarmuid asks.
David tenses, but shakes his head slowly. He had heard de Merville’s account, and whispers from his men, but the story that had struck him as oddly incomplete when he had first heard it seems almost laughably false, after all these weeks of getting to know Diarmuid.
David has met many thieves and murderers, in his time. Diarmuid is, without a doubt, not among them.
Diarmuid cracks another smile, but this one is humourless, bitter. “Yes, I am sure you will not be surprised to learn that the story Sir Raymond told His Majesty was…. Slightly lacking, in essential details.”
David cannot help but snort at the understatement. Diarmuid’s returning smile is softer, lacking that unnerving bitter edge. David is glad to see it. He nods at Diarmuid to go on.
At first, Diarmuid's version of events is not all that different. The arrival of the Cistercian- and at his first mention Diarmuid’s eyes flash with an emotion that is gone before David can name it- and the ordinance from Rome, demanding that they transport their holy relic to Pope Innocent so that he may use its power in the upcoming crusades.
He recounts how the four of them- himself and Brothers Cathal, Rua, and Ciarán- had been selected for the task, how normally he would have been elated, to finally see some of the world outside the monastery.
How he had been unable to muster up any excitement, not with the air of foreboding hanging over their heads, worsening with every step that carried them farther and farther from home.
He tells David about being abandoned by their guides at the border, then meeting Sir Raymond in the woods. Being taken to the camp, meeting the Baron- a man more jovial than his son, if David recalls correctly, but just as cruel- and being promised the protection of de Merville’s troops for the remainder of their voyage.
Being abandoned by those same troops. Travelling through the Hollows.
The attack.
Diarmuid’s voice goes flat and distant, as he recounts the violence. Instinctively, David reaches out, wanting to soothe, to comfort, and knowing it impossible. Diarmuid clings to his hand like a limpet, cradling it close to his chest. His voice, when he continues, is a little stronger.
“Brother Rua took an axe to the head. Brother Cathal died there too, arrow-shot, though Geraldus-” his voice twists around the name, as close as David thinks Diarmuid can get to a sneer,” -survived, hiding from the warriors. They took the relic, and with it Brother Ciarán. I ran after them, but lost them in the woods. I was not fast enough.”
His voice wobbles, and David squeezes his hand.
“When I returned to the battlefield, it was to find that Geraldus was the only survivor. He insisted that we try to retrieve the relic. I thought- I thought he was devoted to duty, to honouring our vow to preserve the sanctity of the Saint Matthias’ relic. I learned later though, that was not his desire at all. He was simply afraid to return to Rome without it.”
Diarmuid’s eyes flick to David, then away. His grip on his hand remains firm.
“We resolved to attempt to follow the cart tracks through the woods. That was easy enough, but they had abandoned the cart not far beyond where I lost them. I should not have been able to follow their footprints- I know nothing of tracking- but I believe that God gave me the knowledge, to divine from the impression left in the underbrush where they had gone.
“We came across a guard, eventually, a scout. I knocked him across the head with a torch; I do not believe it killed him, but I cannot be sure. I pray to God for his soul every day, either way.”
David cannot help but smile, at that, something in his chest aching. Of course Diarmuid would pray for the soul of a man he almost certainly did not kill, a pagan who had already turned his back on God. A man who would have killed Diarmuid without hesitation, given the chance.
“We came across the camp, just as night was falling, and that-” his voice trembles. “That is when we found Ciarán.”
David listens with mounting horror as Diarmuid recounts what followed. The Cistercian ordering him to abandon his Brother. Diarmuid, of course, disobeying. Sneaking into the camp after nightfall, trying to free Ciarán from his bonds.
Discovering that the relic had been abandoned, thrown out of the moving cart.
Then, learning of de Merville’s treachery, watching as he interrogated Brother Ciarán. Diarmuid, frozen in rage and anguish, unable to look away as Raymond de Merville tortured him to death.
Diarmuid falls silent. At some point in the retelling, David’s free hand had found its way to Diarmuid’s curls, stroking softly through the strands. They remain there for several long moments, David providing what comfort he can, Diarmuid gathering his thoughts.
“We found the relic, of course, from the clearing. But Geraldus… he had become- agitated. Obsessive. He was convinced that my having disobeyed him at the camp was a sign that the devil was in me. He attempted to take the relic from me, but I was- concerned.
“The lore is clear- only the pure of heart may touch the relic and live. We had already seen lightning strike it, not leaving a mark. A pagan who touched it was immediately shot through the throat by one of his own brethren’s mis-shot arrows. Even Ciarán- he threw it from the cart, and he… well. It was safest if only one of us handled it, to limit the potential consequences when God saw fit to punish us.
“But Geraldus… he would not listen. We quarrelled, and he struck me, knocking me to the ground. In the struggle, the relic fell from my bag. He picked it up and attempted to beat me over the head with it- he would have seen me stoned.
“I- it was a reflex. I kicked him. We were on a ridge, near a deep ravine. He dropped the relic as he attempted to regain his balance, but he could not get a grip and I could not reach him in time.”
Diarmuid falls silent. Then he swallows and says, small and tremulous: “He fell.”
David squeezes Diarmuid’s hand again. With the other, he sweeps his thumb under Diarmuid’s eye, wiping away a tear that threatens to fall.
Diarmuid does not continue, but David can well imagine what happened next. De Merville and his retinue coming across Diarmuid in the woods, attempting to take the relic from him. Accidents befalling all who try; perhaps even another act of God, like the lightning strike. Deciding to allow Diarmuid to continue to live, and carry the relic for them. Perhaps even occasionally growing overconfident, throughout the voyage, and attempting to take the relic again, only to be swiftly corrected for their hubris.
Arriving at the castle and having the relic taken from him once again, being thrown in this cold cell with only a mute for company.
And now again, the relic is to claim another life.
David will not mourn the Bishop- he is as corrupt and cruel as any man with his amount of power inevitably becomes. David only wishes that de Merville had been one of the ones to touch the relic. That, at least, would have been a blessing. Something good to have come from all that tragedy.
They sit there for a long while, David’s hand in Diarmuid’s hair, entwined fingers resting on Diarmuid’s chest. Then, Diarmuid speaks.
“You know, we have a saying in my homeland. Fillean meal ar an meallaire.-- Evil returns to the evil doer. That is what I thought my captivity here was. I do not believe, when we left for our pilgrimage, that I was any more sinful than any other man. But I had dedicated my life to serving Christ and I thought, initially, that was what allowed me to carry the relic.
“Truly, no one is pure enough in heart to be worthy of its miracles, but given the circumstances, I assumed I was good enough. But then- then came the pilgrimage, and everything that followed.
Then I killed the Cistercian.”
David wants to protest- does Diarmuid truly not see how good he is? How absurd it is to think that God would turn his face from him because he defended himself from an attack?- but Diarmuid continues before he can think how to.
“It only made sense to me, what I should endure during my voyage here, and during this captivity. That is my evil returning to me, the earthly punishment for my sins before I am sent to face God’s judgement.
“So I did what was only appropriate, and I prayed that he might forgive me.”
Diarmuid looks at David, a fresh sheen of tears in his eyes. “I am ashamed to admit that I doubted, during the voyage here, that God was hearing me at all. I thought he had abandoned me entirely, and that was what I deserved for my sins. I continued to pray- how could I not?- but I had lost hope.”
Something soft creeps into Diarmuid’s eyes then, something unbearably tender. He lifts one hand, keeping David’s clutched tightly in the other, and rests his palm on David’s cheek. David’s breath catches in his throat.
“And then, after all that, I came here, and understood finally that God had been listening to my prayers.”
Diarmuid strokes a thumb over David’s cheek. “The Lord provides, even if we do not recognize it for what it is, at the time.”
David cocks his head, uncertain.
“Of course God has been listening,” Diarmuid says, peaceful smile stretching his mouth, touch warm against David’s skin. “After all, he sent you to me, did he not?”
Days later, David is returning to his quarters when he nearly runs into Raymond de Merville in the corridors leading to the cells.
David takes a step back, body sliding automatically into a defensive position, eyeing de Merville warily. He is alone, a rarity for him, and there is a slightly manic gleam in his eye. David’s back stiffens. There is only one reason de Merville would be in this area of the castle at this time of night, and from the look on his face, whatever he has planned cannot mean good things for Diarmuid.
Unconsciously, David centers his body in the hallway, blocking de Merville’s path. De Merville’s eyes track the motion, lip curling.
“Have you heard the news, then?” De Merville pauses for effect. David stares, waiting for him to get on with it.
“But of course, you would not have. Too busy entertaining the little monk, I take it? Or perhaps being entertained, as the case may be.”
David blinks, keeping his face impassive.
De Merville smirks, taking a step toward David. “Of course, no one would blame you. It is your right, is it not? To take payment for all your hours spent in that dim little cave, to ask for recompense, in kind? After all, the little monk is so very pretty… though perhaps less so, after my men and I were through with him, last.”
David’s jaw twitches, but he remains still. De Merville is only attempting to get a rise out of him.
De Merville leans closer. “I hope you were able to get your fill, because the time has come for the little monk to answer for his crimes.”
With that, he attempts to push past David.
David does not move.
De Merville stumbles back, clearly not expecting the resistance. His face twists and his hand flies to the weapon on his belt. David moves to draw his own, blood rushing in his ears-
“Sir Raymond!”
Two of de Merville’s men come around the corner, one of them holding a sheaf of parchment in his hand, waving it ahead of himself slightly. They stop abruptly, taking in the scene- David and de Merville standing feet apart, each with hands on the hilts of their swords.
De Merville rolls his shoulders, then takes a step back, turning towards his men.
David lets out a breath, letting his hand fall to hang by his side.
“Is that news from Dugald?” de Merville asks, reaching for the parchment.
The soldier hands it over with a nod. De Merville reads through the document briefly, a little smile of satisfaction playing around his lips.
The sight of it weighs heavily in David’s gut. Anything that brings a smile to Raymond de Merville’s face cannot possibly be good news.
Eventually de Merville looks up, first to his men, then to David. “Some interesting news concerning our friend. Would you like to join us while we deliver it?”
David does not do anything, does not move, but when de Merville makes to push past him again, he allows it. Then, heart hammering in his chest, he follows.
Whatever is in that letter, David is not going to let Diarmuid face it alone.
Diarmuid is sitting on his pallet when they arrive.
He scrambles to his feet when he sees de Merville and his men, jaw tightening, shoulders falling into a familiar defiant set. Despite the churning anxiety in David’s gut, he cannot help but be warmed by the sight; after all he has endured at the hands of this man, Diarmuid remains strong as ever, unbroken.
Diarmuid’s eyes flick over to David, softening slightly at the corners. David knows that whatever news de Merville brings cannot be good for either of them, but he is selfishly glad that his presence can still bring Diarmuid comfort.
De Merville nods to one of his men, who opens the cell door. The three Norman soldiers step through, not bothering to lock the door behind them, trailed by David.
Diarmuid steps forward, meeting de Merville in the middle of the room. De Merville approaches until their chests are nearly touching, taking advantage of his superior height and forcing Diarmuid to tip his head back in order to continue making eye contact.
It is a blatant power play, an obvious and crude bit of intimidation, but Diarmuid does not falter.
De Merville tilts his head slightly, eyes sweeping over Diarmuid. “You are looking surprisingly well, little monk. Curious, as I do not recall a healer being authorized to attend you.”
Diarmuid is too smart to be fooled by the obvious bait. His gaze does not waver, remaining squarely on de Merville, not even so much as flickering in David’s direction. De Merville smirks.
“Regardless, I have come to bring you some news that you may find of particular interest. Would you like to hear it?”
Diarmuid raises his brows. “I would rather not hear from you at all, truthfully.”
David sucks in a breath through his teeth, shifting his weight forward on his feet, sure that de Merville will smack Diarmuid again for the insolence. Indeed, one of his soldiers steps forward, hand raised, but de Merville stops him with a gesture. He smiles, as though Diarmuid’s cheek amuses him.
“Yes, I imagine that is so,” he says, falsely agreeable. “But nevertheless, I do bring news.”
He pauses, cruel humour blazing in his eyes. “The Bishop has died.”
David lets out a slow, silent breath. Across the room, Diarmuid’s eyes slide closed, shoulders slumping slightly, and he crosses himself, lips moving in silent prayer. It is not a surprise- from the moment the illness had befallen him, the royal doctors had treated it as a near-certainty that the Bishop would be dead within a fortnight. Still, it bodes ill for Diarmuid that the time has finally arrived. Whispers have been circulating throughout the castle ever since the Bishop fell ill; that it was the result of witchcraft, some curse cast by the foreign monk.
After all, how else could it be explained, that Diarmuid had touched the relic and lived, but the holiest man in the land had not?
It bodes worse that this is the news that de Merville chose to lead with. He is a man inclined to draw out suffering; whatever is in that letter, de Merville expects it to be more devastating than the death of the Bishop, which has all but guaranteed that Diarmuid is to be executed.
For the court, the news of the Bishop's passing will be deeply unsettling. For Diarmuid, it is a death sentence. After all, the Crown cannot allow it to be implied that a common monk is favoured by the relic when a man much higher up in the ecclesiastic hierarchy was felled by it. Better to call it witchcraft, the work of the devil, and execute the witch.
“Yes, a pity, and a great loss,” de Merville continues, in a voice that does not even pretend at sorrow. “And it will likely not be long before you are called to face justice for his death, I imagine. Of course, I suspected long ago that the power of the relic had been poisoned by your wickedness.”
Diarmuid’s eyes flash, but he keeps his mouth shut, jaw clenched so tightly it looks painful.
De Merville’s lips curl, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “That is why I sent my men to investigate your little monastery, to see how deep the poison runs.”
Diarmuid stumbles back, eyes going wide. David’s response is reflexive; he steps forward, towards Diarmuid, only to be stopped by one of de Merville’s men drawing his sword.
De Merville turns to look at him, and so too does Diarmuid’s head whip around. He holds out a hand in David’s direction- not beckoning, but warding away. For a tense moment, they stand there, frozen. Then, eyes on Diarmuid, David eases back.
De Merville smirks. “Even a fool can exercise wisdom, it seems.” He turns back to Diarmuid and gestures with the hand that holds the letter. “Would you like to learn of what befell your brethren, then? The report is quite lengthy, but there are some passages I think will interest you.”
Diarmuid backs away, shaking his head, not stopping until his shoulders hit the rough stone wall behind him. De Merville pays him no mind. Shuffling the sheaf of parchment in his hands, he begins to read.
"Ah, here it is- ‘and I must impart upon you, sire, the severity of what has transpired during our investigation of this monastery, how we did in fact find it populated by witches and traitors to the Crown as you had intimated to us. These treasonous men have turned their faces both from God and their King, yet they did not throw themselves to the ground before us and beg for mercy, as would be proper in this circumstance.’”
De Merville pauses, eyes flicking over to Diarmuid, who has hunched over slightly, eyes wide and horrified. Cowering away from the words falling with such malice from de Merville’s lips, undone by this in a way that nothing, no trial or violence done to his own person, has managed before.
He knows what is coming.
“‘Rather, like jongleurs they made a show of bowing their heads in false supplication to a God they knew well had already thrown favour to His Royal Majesty, and they did therefore condemn themselves to death. We have beheaded them down to the man, and too slaughtered all barnyard fowl and penned livestock, salted their fields, and left their corpses lined among the road so that all the heathens in this accursed country may understand what befalls those who do not surrender to the rightful King's justice.’"
Diarmuid is shaking, hands clutching at the rough stone wall behind him, whether in an attempt to keep himself upright or to prevent himself from giving de Merville another scar across his face, David is unsure. De Merville steps forward and leans in closely to Diarmuid. For the first time that evening, he touches him, a hand shooting out to close around his pale throat.
Somewhere in the distance, David believes he can hear a faint ringing, like the toll of a bell echoing against a grand cathedral's stone archways.
"And he goes on, little monk, to describe the exact manner and last words of each of your clan's members, as they continuously chose to deny the authority of His Royal Majesty. Would you like to hear about the final moment of the Abbot perhaps, how he cried out for Christ's absolution and how we, in our wisdom, obliged? Or perhaps I could inform you of the way many of your brethren screamed, and cried, and cursed the name of their traitorous brother who brought this fate upon them? Which do you prefer, little mo-"
This last is cut off abruptly, a wet choking sound bubbling out of de Merville’s mouth. Blood sprays, dark against Diarmuid's pale skin, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gasping deeply as De Merville's grip falls away from his throat.
It is upsetting to see blood on Diarmuid’s face again, David thinks, as he slides his blade out of de Merville's corpse and pivots to draw it across the throat of one of the soldiers. He will have to be sure to help his friend wash thoroughly, and hope he can forgive him the mess.
The remaining soldier moves to shout and scrambles at his belt for his own sword, but David is too fast, too skilled. He lunges forward, thrusting his sword up beneath the chest armour of his opponent, through his heart and lungs, cutting his cry of alarm off with a wet gurgle. The final soldier falls to the ground with a great clatter of mail.
David stands, staring down at the corpse, his own breath harsh in his ears. A noise from across the cell has him whipping around, sword raised to meet the new threat.
Diarmuid steps forward, eyes wide in that pale face, and reaches out, stepping past the sword to set a hand on David’s arm. He presses down gently, and David obeys the unspoken command without thinking, dropping the weapon with a great clatter of steel against stone.
Diarmuid does not stop his advance, not until his body is pressed directly against David’s, delicate hands coming up to cradle David’s face. One remains resting on his cheek, the other sliding around to the back of his head, burrowing into the thick curls there and gently tugging him forward, until his forehead rests against Diarmuid’s.
They stand there, pressed together, feeling their chests rise and fall in tandem, breath intermingling, surrounded by the cooling corpses of the men David killed.
"We have to go," Diarmuid says eventually, voice barely above a whisper.
"We have to go."
They move through the corridors, swift and silent as shadows. It is late, everyone long since abed, and David uses his knowledge of the back-corridors and servant’s passages to keep them from coming across any patrolling guards. He had knocked out the men guarding the entrance to the cells, swift and efficient, stowing their bodies in an empty cell. They will not awake for hours, and with any luck no-one will discover what has happened until the dawn shift change.
Plenty of time for David and Diarmuid to escape, if they have any luck at all on their side.
They come upon an intersection of two hallways, and David hesitates. One passage will lead them out to a side-door near the stables. From there, it will be quick work to saddle up David’s horse and ride out. The other corridor leads deeper into the castle. Specifically, to the armoury, where the relic of Saint Matthias is being held under constant, armed guard.
Everything Diarmuid has done to protect the sanctity of that cursed rock, everything he has endured… Despite every instinct screaming at him, telling him to take Diarmuid by the hand and run, never looking back, it would be selfish not to at least try to retrieve the thing that Diarmuid has sacrificed everything for.
Just as he is about to turn down the hallway that leads to the armoury, he feels a warm hand settle on his wrist, fingers gripping him lightly. He turns toward Diarmuid who, in that way of his, has seemed to pluck David’s thoughts and intentions directly from his mind.
There is a look on Diarmuid’s face that makes David want to wrap him in his arms, or perhaps turn back the way they came so he can stab Raymond de Merville once again.
He shakes his head. “Let us go, my friend.”
Something hard as steel and twice as sharp enters Diarmuid’s eyes, then. “Let them test their faith against the relic - and may God have mercy on their souls.”
As David had anticipated, tacking up is fast work, and soon he is boosting Diarmuid up to sit in the saddle. Diarmuid winces as he goes, the movement jostling his ribs, but does not complain.
David considers, then discards, donning his armour. The additional protection would help him feel more secure, and will certainly be beneficial if any pursuers catch up to them. But it is also heavy, and loud, limiting David’s range of motion. Right now, speed and silence are of the utmost importance.
He will worry about the rest of it later.
He leads his horse, Diarmuid astride her, out a small gate that David knows is manned by drunks and layabouts. Sure enough, there is not even a whisper of acknowledgement from the castle wall when he opens the gate, and he smiles grimly to himself. Surely their good fortune will run out soon enough, but for now, David will take the blessings where he can get them.
He leads them away from the castle on foot. He will mount up when they are farther away from any populated areas, but he knows that sacrificing stealth for haste at this stage could be a death sentence. He keeps his grip on the reins tight, so much so that his knuckles are white, and reminds himself to be patient.
Their first challenge- or first challenge since fleeing, at any rate- comes when they reach the river that borders the land between the castle grounds and the royal forest.
There is a bridge, of course, but David has maneuvered them away from there, to a lesser known portion of the river where it is wide but relatively shallow, the current easy. He has swum it many a time before. Crossing here means they can confuse their trail, disappear into woods David knows like the back of his hand, and hopefully lose any pursuers in the process.
He helps Diarmuid down from the saddle, nodding to the river, then looks at Diarmuid's robes and frowns. Diarmuid cannot swim entirely of his own volition, not with his ribs still injured, and putting him on the horse is inadvisable. Horses can swim with riders on their backs, but Diarmuid is inexperienced, and that could be dangerous for both him and the horse. The only option is for David to help him across, but the weight of the sodden wool would drag them both down.
He casts about, scanning the dark for an alternative, but Diarmuid presses a palm on his chest. "It is fine," he says. "Look." And he shucks off his robe, casting it to the side to reveal that underneath, he is wearing the shirt that David left in his cell, all that time ago.
David stares.
For the first time that evening, a ghost of Diarmuid's familiar smile twitches at the corners of his lips, and he ducks his head slightly, shy. "It was a comfort," he explains quietly, "to have a- a piece of you, so near, when you could not be physically present. I hid it under the pallet when the Normans came around, and kept it under my robes at all other times."
David… has no idea what to think of that. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to cough to clear it, averting his eyes from Diarmuid’s earnest gaze. He leans down to pick up the robe, then wraps it around the saddle horn. It will get wet, but his horse will not notice the added weight, and keeping it means Diarmuid will have something more substantial than David’s shirt to wear once they cross the river.
Then he takes a deep breath and holds a hand out to Diarmuid. Diarmuid takes it, fingers warm in David’s own, and allows him to lead him out into the water.
The swim takes longer than it does when David is alone, of course, but they make it across in what David feels is adequate time. The woods are thick on the far side of the river, so they walk a ways into the forest before stopping to wring out the worst of the water from their clothes, turning their backs to each other for privacy.
When David turns around, Diarmuid is back in his robe. Now that David is looking for it, he sees the flash of white from his shirt at the collar and cuffs. David’s cheeks heat, and he is glad that it is dark enough that Diarmuid cannot see it.
He helps Diarmuid once more into the saddle, leading horse and rider to a wide game trail he knows is not far off. The ground here is clear that he will be able to ride at some measure of speed, without worrying about potentially laming his horse. They can make some headway in the woods here, then rejoin the more well-travelled paths once they are sufficiently far from the castle.
He makes to mount up, but Diarmuid stops him with a quick touch to his hand. David looks up at him, curious.
Diarmuid bites his lip. “I… cannot thank you enough, for the kindness and compassion you have shown me, these last few weeks. Please never think I am ungrateful for anything you have done. I do not know what I did to deserve you, but I thank God every day for your presence in my life.”
He takes a deep breath, and casts David a tremulous smile, eyes shining with sincerity. “But I know this is not your fight. You do not have to stay with me. I know you cannot go back, after that, and I am truly sorry that I have taken your home from you. But I do not want you to feel as though you are obligated…”
He trails off as David, shaking his head slightly in incredulity, reaches a hand up to rest directly on Diarmuid’s chest, over his beating heart. They stand like that for a moment, staring at each other, until Diarmuid sighs, resigned smile playing over his lips.
David smiles back, then pulls away. In a swift, practiced moment, he pulls himself into the saddle, throwing his leg over his horse’s wide back, settling in behind Diarmuid.
Diarmuid immediately relaxes, body molding against David's, back to chest. David leans forward, just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to Diarmuid’s cheek. Then he kicks his horse into a trot.
Behind them, the first golden rays of dawn crest the horizon, piercing through the dark of the night.