September 20th, 1613
The aftermath of war, with its spoils and glories, was never anything but ugly to those who witnessed it. The Frankish king had needed the aid of the Pomeran army to help protect his lands and subdue the invading Coimbrans, but the blow dealt by the Crown Prince of Pomerania had been a truly mortal one. Across the field of battle joined before the great fortress of Berynsford lay hundreds of the dead and dying - the flower of Coimbran manhood cut down in their prime for the foolish ambitions of the heretical council they followed.
As Pomeran and Frankish soldiers drove what remained of the heretical army back across the borderlands and into their own territory once more, those who stayed behind began the long process of returning to some semblance of normality. Yet that normality would be altered for both royal houses within a matter of weeks, and it was for that reason Christian, King of Francia, had requested the presence of Stephan, Crown Prince of Pomerania, in his tent a few miles back from the beleaguered field of the dead.
Covered in mud and blood and exhausted from the day's battle, Stephan picked his way through the field of day, first checking on his own dead and wounded before taking a horse to meet with the King of Francia at his request. It wasn't the first time he'd bloodied his sword, but it was the first time he'd been put in charge of so large a force for such an important battle. He'd managed to wipe most of the mud and blood from his face, but there wasn't much he could do about his mail. At least, he had not been seriously injured, but for the usual bumps and bruises, scrapes and cuts. Hopefully, he had proven himself worthy, not only to his own men and to the enemy, but to that of their ally.
Guards set outside the tent of the King of Francia did not bar his way, holding their ground as the Crown Prince passed into the tent. The open space within was set with a wide table and chairs, furnished like a council chamber, and several men - both in armor and not - were stood there. As they turned to bow to the entering prince, the reason for the anxiety on their faces became clear - a loud curse ripped from behind the canvas flap at the far end of the tent, a man's voice roaring in pain. "By the Goddess, man, are you trying to rip my arm off entirely' Get out, get out!" There was a thump, a grunt, and a pair of black-clad physicians came shuffling into view, red-faced and humiliated.
The Pomeran Prince took all this in stride, making no comment on what was going on in that tent, as it was obvious to anyone with eyes to see or ears to hear. The King of Francia seemed to have suffered some injury or other - by the sound of it, perhaps a dislocated shoulder - but as far as he knew, Stephan had not been summoned to his tent to play field medic.
"Your Highness." The man who had spoken was as muddy and bloodied as he was, his expression suggesting a merry temper thinly disguising some anger not yet allowed freedom to be expressed. "I am William Marillier, the king's nephew. I have no doubt he will call for you very shortly." There was a faint flicker of amusement in William's expression. "He was not expecting the physicians to take so long about their work."
"Hmm," Stephan murmured thoughtfully, realizing that if he is to marry Christian's daughter, this nephew of his would become his kinsman, as would Christian himself. "What is the manner of his injuries?" he asked, more curious than concerned. From what he'd heard, it seemed the King of Francia was more annoyed than anything else, which meant whatever the manner of his injury, it did not seem to be a mortal wound.
Will's intelligent eyes watched the physicians scurry away, wondering mildly what Christian was going to do to them later if they couldn't do as they should, looking back to Stephan in wry amusement. "His shoulder is put out," he told the Pomeran prince, "and a sore temper it's given him, too. He cannot ride in comfort until it is settled once again." As he spoke, the king's secretary parted the canvas, bowing to Stephan. "Your Highness ....his Majesty, King Christian, requests your presence."
"Perhaps I can help," he suggested. Though he was no physician, he'd put more than one shoulder back into place after some fight or other, whether in practice or battle. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the bowing and the subservience, even among those he thought who were practically his peers, but nodded acknowledgement to the king's man. "Well, I suppose we shall see," he said, assuming William was accompanying him.
"I suppose we shall." William stepped back, allowing Mr. Sexton - a man he despised - to lead the Crown Prince into the private part of the King's tent. Christian was still in the rusty, padded undershirt that protected him from his armor, his left shoulder hanging at a painful angle as he grimaced. It had been a long, hard day, and the night promised to be harder still, but he couldn't leave the battlefield without seeing to a few details. He inclined his head to Stephan as the man entered, glancing past him to Will and Sexton. A scowl crossed his features. "Mr. Sexton, get out," he said, his voice hoarse from roaring orders for much of the day and thick with dislike for his own secretary. The man retreated, and Christian gestured for his companions to come closer. "Be comfortable, it has been a long day."
"And it will be a very long night if you do not see to that arm," Stephan pointed out, coming straight to the point. They could talk politics later. The man was not going to be in any sort of mood for anything until he had some relief from his injury - and Stephan knew just how painful that sort of injury could be. "If you will allow me, I've had some experience with this sort of injury before."
Christian considered him for a moment, and nodded. "You speak truth," he agreed. "I am to strike my tent this eave, and the journey will be painful enough without this. Come, set me to rights. You are almost my son, after all." Will rolled his eyes at the less than subtle hint toward trouble at home, moving to sit his uncle down firmly in a chair and brace the man. They had all suffered a dislocated limb at some point in their lives.
"It's going to hurt like hell, but once it's done, you'll feel immediate relief," Stephan warned as he moved closer. Why the King's physicians couldn't manage this, he wasn't sure, but he suspected it might be the fact that in order to do it properly, Christian needed to relax a little. "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and count to ten," Stephan instructed as he placed his hands where they were needed in order to pop the offending limb back into place.
That, and Christian was a strong, well muscled man. Court physicians tended not to have to deal with such injuries - most knights and nobles had friends who could handle them. With Will gripping him to hold him still, the king did as he was bid, closing his eyes as he breathed deeply, the tense muscles under Stephan's hands loosening just a little.
Stephan didn't wait until Christian reached ten - the counting was nothing more than a distraction. Once the King's eyes were closed and he'd taken a deep breath, Stephan nodded to William and then gripped the other man's arm, twisted it slightly, and pushed until he felt the joint pop back into place. While it looked easy, it was not, for either of them.
Predictably enough, the king roared with pain as the joint scraped its way back into the socket, but as Stephan had also predicted, the pain dulled almost immediately. Christian leaned back in his seat, his chest heaving for a moment, right hand groping for the cup of wine Will pushed into his grip. He downed it in one, grateful for the numbing effect of the alcohol. "My thanks, your highness," he nodded to the prince. "Please, sit. I am sorry to say I do not have much time to give you. Will, see to the arrangements." William nodded to his uncle, bowing to both king and prince, and strode from the room on some unspoken errand that was evidently of some import to the king, his uncle. Christian eyed Stephan quietly. "What are Pomerania's demands, your highness?"
The aftermath of war, with its spoils and glories, was never anything but ugly to those who witnessed it. The Frankish king had needed the aid of the Pomeran army to help protect his lands and subdue the invading Coimbrans, but the blow dealt by the Crown Prince of Pomerania had been a truly mortal one. Across the field of battle joined before the great fortress of Berynsford lay hundreds of the dead and dying - the flower of Coimbran manhood cut down in their prime for the foolish ambitions of the heretical council they followed.
As Pomeran and Frankish soldiers drove what remained of the heretical army back across the borderlands and into their own territory once more, those who stayed behind began the long process of returning to some semblance of normality. Yet that normality would be altered for both royal houses within a matter of weeks, and it was for that reason Christian, King of Francia, had requested the presence of Stephan, Crown Prince of Pomerania, in his tent a few miles back from the beleaguered field of the dead.
Covered in mud and blood and exhausted from the day's battle, Stephan picked his way through the field of day, first checking on his own dead and wounded before taking a horse to meet with the King of Francia at his request. It wasn't the first time he'd bloodied his sword, but it was the first time he'd been put in charge of so large a force for such an important battle. He'd managed to wipe most of the mud and blood from his face, but there wasn't much he could do about his mail. At least, he had not been seriously injured, but for the usual bumps and bruises, scrapes and cuts. Hopefully, he had proven himself worthy, not only to his own men and to the enemy, but to that of their ally.
Guards set outside the tent of the King of Francia did not bar his way, holding their ground as the Crown Prince passed into the tent. The open space within was set with a wide table and chairs, furnished like a council chamber, and several men - both in armor and not - were stood there. As they turned to bow to the entering prince, the reason for the anxiety on their faces became clear - a loud curse ripped from behind the canvas flap at the far end of the tent, a man's voice roaring in pain. "By the Goddess, man, are you trying to rip my arm off entirely' Get out, get out!" There was a thump, a grunt, and a pair of black-clad physicians came shuffling into view, red-faced and humiliated.
The Pomeran Prince took all this in stride, making no comment on what was going on in that tent, as it was obvious to anyone with eyes to see or ears to hear. The King of Francia seemed to have suffered some injury or other - by the sound of it, perhaps a dislocated shoulder - but as far as he knew, Stephan had not been summoned to his tent to play field medic.
"Your Highness." The man who had spoken was as muddy and bloodied as he was, his expression suggesting a merry temper thinly disguising some anger not yet allowed freedom to be expressed. "I am William Marillier, the king's nephew. I have no doubt he will call for you very shortly." There was a faint flicker of amusement in William's expression. "He was not expecting the physicians to take so long about their work."
"Hmm," Stephan murmured thoughtfully, realizing that if he is to marry Christian's daughter, this nephew of his would become his kinsman, as would Christian himself. "What is the manner of his injuries?" he asked, more curious than concerned. From what he'd heard, it seemed the King of Francia was more annoyed than anything else, which meant whatever the manner of his injury, it did not seem to be a mortal wound.
Will's intelligent eyes watched the physicians scurry away, wondering mildly what Christian was going to do to them later if they couldn't do as they should, looking back to Stephan in wry amusement. "His shoulder is put out," he told the Pomeran prince, "and a sore temper it's given him, too. He cannot ride in comfort until it is settled once again." As he spoke, the king's secretary parted the canvas, bowing to Stephan. "Your Highness ....his Majesty, King Christian, requests your presence."
"Perhaps I can help," he suggested. Though he was no physician, he'd put more than one shoulder back into place after some fight or other, whether in practice or battle. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the bowing and the subservience, even among those he thought who were practically his peers, but nodded acknowledgement to the king's man. "Well, I suppose we shall see," he said, assuming William was accompanying him.
"I suppose we shall." William stepped back, allowing Mr. Sexton - a man he despised - to lead the Crown Prince into the private part of the King's tent. Christian was still in the rusty, padded undershirt that protected him from his armor, his left shoulder hanging at a painful angle as he grimaced. It had been a long, hard day, and the night promised to be harder still, but he couldn't leave the battlefield without seeing to a few details. He inclined his head to Stephan as the man entered, glancing past him to Will and Sexton. A scowl crossed his features. "Mr. Sexton, get out," he said, his voice hoarse from roaring orders for much of the day and thick with dislike for his own secretary. The man retreated, and Christian gestured for his companions to come closer. "Be comfortable, it has been a long day."
"And it will be a very long night if you do not see to that arm," Stephan pointed out, coming straight to the point. They could talk politics later. The man was not going to be in any sort of mood for anything until he had some relief from his injury - and Stephan knew just how painful that sort of injury could be. "If you will allow me, I've had some experience with this sort of injury before."
Christian considered him for a moment, and nodded. "You speak truth," he agreed. "I am to strike my tent this eave, and the journey will be painful enough without this. Come, set me to rights. You are almost my son, after all." Will rolled his eyes at the less than subtle hint toward trouble at home, moving to sit his uncle down firmly in a chair and brace the man. They had all suffered a dislocated limb at some point in their lives.
"It's going to hurt like hell, but once it's done, you'll feel immediate relief," Stephan warned as he moved closer. Why the King's physicians couldn't manage this, he wasn't sure, but he suspected it might be the fact that in order to do it properly, Christian needed to relax a little. "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and count to ten," Stephan instructed as he placed his hands where they were needed in order to pop the offending limb back into place.
That, and Christian was a strong, well muscled man. Court physicians tended not to have to deal with such injuries - most knights and nobles had friends who could handle them. With Will gripping him to hold him still, the king did as he was bid, closing his eyes as he breathed deeply, the tense muscles under Stephan's hands loosening just a little.
Stephan didn't wait until Christian reached ten - the counting was nothing more than a distraction. Once the King's eyes were closed and he'd taken a deep breath, Stephan nodded to William and then gripped the other man's arm, twisted it slightly, and pushed until he felt the joint pop back into place. While it looked easy, it was not, for either of them.
Predictably enough, the king roared with pain as the joint scraped its way back into the socket, but as Stephan had also predicted, the pain dulled almost immediately. Christian leaned back in his seat, his chest heaving for a moment, right hand groping for the cup of wine Will pushed into his grip. He downed it in one, grateful for the numbing effect of the alcohol. "My thanks, your highness," he nodded to the prince. "Please, sit. I am sorry to say I do not have much time to give you. Will, see to the arrangements." William nodded to his uncle, bowing to both king and prince, and strode from the room on some unspoken errand that was evidently of some import to the king, his uncle. Christian eyed Stephan quietly. "What are Pomerania's demands, your highness?"