August 6th, 1613
The bright day before the young Prince Arthur's ninth birthday was alive with color and life. The gardens of Bannoc Rise, the King's residence within the capital city of Martel, were thrown open to the entire court and visiting dignitaries, a feast laid out upon tables that groaned beneath the weight of delicacies and treats chosen specifically for the youngest of the royal children's enjoyment. Polished oak had been laid in a wide square to allow for dancing before the high table itself, each corner holding a staff decorated with winding flowers on the vine, musicians set to one side to play constantly throughout the formally informal gathering organized for the young prince's amusement. Unusually for a court function, there were children everywhere, each dressed for the occasion but still allowed to play as children would, for this was the prince's birthday party. The joust had been arranged for the day following, and though there would be a ball to follow that evening, this day was entirely for the prince and his young friends and peers.
Through the gaily dressed courtiers, the king mingled with his guests, even playing with some of the children himself, determinedly keeping away from the subjects of war and politics as best he could. His whole family was gathered there, and this was what he wanted to enjoy. The Duke and Duchess of Monceau, Edward and Cecile, were seen in public together for the first time in many weeks; their son, William, with his wife and sons; the queen, the princess, and both princes.
But many eyes turned to the Lady Alys, Cecile's daughter and William's sister, who had gathered to her several suitors in the few short days since she had returned to court. Smiling and laughing with friends and hopeful others, she was truly the rose of the royal house that day, as playful with her own peers as she was with the children who mingled through the happy gathering.
Back at court among those he considered family and friends, Charles felt at home, even amidst the rumblings of betrayal and deceit and impending war. The celebration in honor of Christian's youngest son had begun, and Charles was one who loved celebrations, refusing to allow anything ruin the high spirits of the day or of those gathered there. He was dressed in a deep red velvet doublet with a frilled ivory collar and cuffs, black hose and boot, clothing that fit his station as a duke of the realm, though not nearly as rich as the clothing worn by the royal family. He had arrived with little fanfare, though many curious eyes had followed him, as they had Alys, whispers already circulating around court regarding the pair. He had greeted the royal family as was their due, but before he could make his way toward the Marilliers, he found himself dragged off by the royal princes who had very seriously challenged the new duke to a duel.
A small space had been cleared to make way for the challenge, and Charles - who made no secret of being fond of the boys and who was known to possess a childlike spirit - had accepted the challenge on the condition that he take them both on at once, for if one defeated him, he could not very well duel the other.
The little duel had attracted a good deal of interest, both from the children who wanted to see their princes defeat the noble duke who always had time for them, and from their parents and other nobles who were genuinely charmed by what they saw. The king himself stood as marshal for the duel, laying down the rules of the bout with as straight a face as he could manage, stepping smartly out of the way before the first blows could land.
Charles drew the ducal medallion from his chest and handed it to the king for safe keeping, along with a lavish bow, before being presented with a wooden sword that was far too small for his stature. He bowed low to each of his opponents, who were half his size, but whose challenge he seemed to take as seriously as if they were equal opponents. He then spread his feet, the wooden sword held lightly in his right hand, and awaited the first attack.
Predictably enough, the first attack came from the Crown Prince, Frederick, eighteen months his brother's senior and ever so slightly jealous of the fuss being made over Arthur's birthday. His wooden sword slapped heavily against that of the duke, and as though they had planned it from the start, little Arthur rushed forward to poke at Charles' leg with his own practice sword. At the edge of the crowd watching, laughter went up, Alys' distinctive sound of amusement clearly audible along with the clink of silver as friendly bets were laid among the adults watching this unexpected entertainment.
Charles sword parried the slap of Frederick's sword, but he could only defend against one boy at a time and Arthur's sword made contact, though it did little to deter the duke. He did, however, go along with the ruse, feigning a wound and limping back with a small cry of pain, before whirling around and plucking the smaller boy off the floor, holding him against his chest with his free arm around his waist and spinning him around once before using him as a shield against his older brother, which was decidedly against the rules, chuckling madly.
The boys' laughter was enough to bring more smiles to the faces of the courtiers around them, though the smiles were far more relaxed upon the faces of those who had children of their own or spent time with young relations. Some even called "Foul!" as Arthur was swept off his feet, the little boy giggling with wild abandon as his legs flailed, fully aware that his elder brother was trying to get another blow in and delighting in frustrating both prince and duke in the continuation of their duel.
Charles feinted, leaning in to slap his sword against Frederick's but instead he spun around behind the older boy and gave his rear a light playful whack with the flat of the sword before depositing the younger boy on his feet beside his brother and turning to face the pair again, sword at the ready.
Frederick, with all the youthful arrogance of his station in life, let out an indignant squawk at the indignity of having his rear smacked, however lightly, spinning about to step up beside his giggling little brother once again. By now, the princes were having advice called to them from the nobles who knew them well enough to dare such a familiarity, and some of that advice was taken. The next blow came from Arthur, the flat of his wooden blade aimed for the back of Charles' hand before the younger prince poked once again with the point. Yet while he did this, Frederick, Crown Prince of Francia, scuttled around behind His Grace, the Duke of Lonnare, and delivered a roundhouse smack to Charles' rear end that was painfully audible.
Charles was too fast for the young prince, moving too quickly for him to make contact with the back of his hand - a hand that he needed uninjured if he was to tilt in the games the following day as his brother's champion. He just managed to deflect the wooden point of Arthur's blade, but it was the slap to Charles' rear that finally made contact - tit for tat, as it were, as Frederick repaid the indignity done to himself. The smack stung Charles' barely-protected backside, though his expression betrayed only surprise, not pain. He turned toward the older boy, deeming he needed to save face with one final blow, just to ensure the boy knew he was truly no match for the duke, but could be once grown if he practiced, and then he'd gracefully allow himself to be beaten. He smacked his own sword against Frederick's, hard enough to let the boy know he was a worthy opponent, leaving himself undefended against Arthur.
A cry went up from the watchers as, behind Charles, Arthur lunged with his sword while his older brother held the duke distracted. Only the timely intervention of the king kept that wooden point from making direct contact with the duke's back, instead slipping with the guidance of a father's hand between Charles' arm and his side. "You're dead, Your Grace," Christian nodded, calling the duel with a grin. As soon as he saw the point of the practice sword sticking out, Frederick let out a whoop of triumph, declaring himself the victor, though it had been his brother who had finished the duel.
Ah, but Charles was not finished with the two boys just yet. He bent over as the king proclaimed him dead, groaning as though he were truly in pain, waiting for the boys to come close enough to investigate before grabbing them both around the waist and tumbling to the soft grass with them both to give them both a tickling.
The bright day before the young Prince Arthur's ninth birthday was alive with color and life. The gardens of Bannoc Rise, the King's residence within the capital city of Martel, were thrown open to the entire court and visiting dignitaries, a feast laid out upon tables that groaned beneath the weight of delicacies and treats chosen specifically for the youngest of the royal children's enjoyment. Polished oak had been laid in a wide square to allow for dancing before the high table itself, each corner holding a staff decorated with winding flowers on the vine, musicians set to one side to play constantly throughout the formally informal gathering organized for the young prince's amusement. Unusually for a court function, there were children everywhere, each dressed for the occasion but still allowed to play as children would, for this was the prince's birthday party. The joust had been arranged for the day following, and though there would be a ball to follow that evening, this day was entirely for the prince and his young friends and peers.
Through the gaily dressed courtiers, the king mingled with his guests, even playing with some of the children himself, determinedly keeping away from the subjects of war and politics as best he could. His whole family was gathered there, and this was what he wanted to enjoy. The Duke and Duchess of Monceau, Edward and Cecile, were seen in public together for the first time in many weeks; their son, William, with his wife and sons; the queen, the princess, and both princes.
But many eyes turned to the Lady Alys, Cecile's daughter and William's sister, who had gathered to her several suitors in the few short days since she had returned to court. Smiling and laughing with friends and hopeful others, she was truly the rose of the royal house that day, as playful with her own peers as she was with the children who mingled through the happy gathering.
Back at court among those he considered family and friends, Charles felt at home, even amidst the rumblings of betrayal and deceit and impending war. The celebration in honor of Christian's youngest son had begun, and Charles was one who loved celebrations, refusing to allow anything ruin the high spirits of the day or of those gathered there. He was dressed in a deep red velvet doublet with a frilled ivory collar and cuffs, black hose and boot, clothing that fit his station as a duke of the realm, though not nearly as rich as the clothing worn by the royal family. He had arrived with little fanfare, though many curious eyes had followed him, as they had Alys, whispers already circulating around court regarding the pair. He had greeted the royal family as was their due, but before he could make his way toward the Marilliers, he found himself dragged off by the royal princes who had very seriously challenged the new duke to a duel.
A small space had been cleared to make way for the challenge, and Charles - who made no secret of being fond of the boys and who was known to possess a childlike spirit - had accepted the challenge on the condition that he take them both on at once, for if one defeated him, he could not very well duel the other.
The little duel had attracted a good deal of interest, both from the children who wanted to see their princes defeat the noble duke who always had time for them, and from their parents and other nobles who were genuinely charmed by what they saw. The king himself stood as marshal for the duel, laying down the rules of the bout with as straight a face as he could manage, stepping smartly out of the way before the first blows could land.
Charles drew the ducal medallion from his chest and handed it to the king for safe keeping, along with a lavish bow, before being presented with a wooden sword that was far too small for his stature. He bowed low to each of his opponents, who were half his size, but whose challenge he seemed to take as seriously as if they were equal opponents. He then spread his feet, the wooden sword held lightly in his right hand, and awaited the first attack.
Predictably enough, the first attack came from the Crown Prince, Frederick, eighteen months his brother's senior and ever so slightly jealous of the fuss being made over Arthur's birthday. His wooden sword slapped heavily against that of the duke, and as though they had planned it from the start, little Arthur rushed forward to poke at Charles' leg with his own practice sword. At the edge of the crowd watching, laughter went up, Alys' distinctive sound of amusement clearly audible along with the clink of silver as friendly bets were laid among the adults watching this unexpected entertainment.
Charles sword parried the slap of Frederick's sword, but he could only defend against one boy at a time and Arthur's sword made contact, though it did little to deter the duke. He did, however, go along with the ruse, feigning a wound and limping back with a small cry of pain, before whirling around and plucking the smaller boy off the floor, holding him against his chest with his free arm around his waist and spinning him around once before using him as a shield against his older brother, which was decidedly against the rules, chuckling madly.
The boys' laughter was enough to bring more smiles to the faces of the courtiers around them, though the smiles were far more relaxed upon the faces of those who had children of their own or spent time with young relations. Some even called "Foul!" as Arthur was swept off his feet, the little boy giggling with wild abandon as his legs flailed, fully aware that his elder brother was trying to get another blow in and delighting in frustrating both prince and duke in the continuation of their duel.
Charles feinted, leaning in to slap his sword against Frederick's but instead he spun around behind the older boy and gave his rear a light playful whack with the flat of the sword before depositing the younger boy on his feet beside his brother and turning to face the pair again, sword at the ready.
Frederick, with all the youthful arrogance of his station in life, let out an indignant squawk at the indignity of having his rear smacked, however lightly, spinning about to step up beside his giggling little brother once again. By now, the princes were having advice called to them from the nobles who knew them well enough to dare such a familiarity, and some of that advice was taken. The next blow came from Arthur, the flat of his wooden blade aimed for the back of Charles' hand before the younger prince poked once again with the point. Yet while he did this, Frederick, Crown Prince of Francia, scuttled around behind His Grace, the Duke of Lonnare, and delivered a roundhouse smack to Charles' rear end that was painfully audible.
Charles was too fast for the young prince, moving too quickly for him to make contact with the back of his hand - a hand that he needed uninjured if he was to tilt in the games the following day as his brother's champion. He just managed to deflect the wooden point of Arthur's blade, but it was the slap to Charles' rear that finally made contact - tit for tat, as it were, as Frederick repaid the indignity done to himself. The smack stung Charles' barely-protected backside, though his expression betrayed only surprise, not pain. He turned toward the older boy, deeming he needed to save face with one final blow, just to ensure the boy knew he was truly no match for the duke, but could be once grown if he practiced, and then he'd gracefully allow himself to be beaten. He smacked his own sword against Frederick's, hard enough to let the boy know he was a worthy opponent, leaving himself undefended against Arthur.
A cry went up from the watchers as, behind Charles, Arthur lunged with his sword while his older brother held the duke distracted. Only the timely intervention of the king kept that wooden point from making direct contact with the duke's back, instead slipping with the guidance of a father's hand between Charles' arm and his side. "You're dead, Your Grace," Christian nodded, calling the duel with a grin. As soon as he saw the point of the practice sword sticking out, Frederick let out a whoop of triumph, declaring himself the victor, though it had been his brother who had finished the duel.
Ah, but Charles was not finished with the two boys just yet. He bent over as the king proclaimed him dead, groaning as though he were truly in pain, waiting for the boys to come close enough to investigate before grabbing them both around the waist and tumbling to the soft grass with them both to give them both a tickling.