My Man Godric

by Cooper, R.

  He was new to war-making but somehow, as a possible strategy this seemed beyond wicked. This was war on unarmed peasants and not the knights, this was killing everyone slowly from the ground up. That was far worse than destroying the Keep simply to mar the legend of the royal house.

  If that was the case, then the capital could expect an eventual attack, or if not that, then to be overrun with too many people and not enough food to feed them. The people needed to be warned and supplies readied. Bertie could see it like one of his dreams and studied Godric’s profile as Godric watched his knights argue, wondering if Godric had seen that too. Bertie thought he had; his jaw was clenched.

  Bertie wanted to handle this for him somehow, or to at least balance out each strategy and horrifying outcome Godric was forced to imagine by telling Godric of his pleasanter dreams. Bertie thought of telling Godric that if he stayed it would give people hope, that though things seemed dark now they would not remain so with Godric and Aethir there to lead them, that someday his brother and his treasure would both ride into Camlann with a victorious army and Bertie would be there to welcome them amid a sea of garlands.

  He shook himself from the dream just as he was about to throw himself at Godric in front of an entire city and focused back on the heated debate before him. In his dream, Godric was wounded and Bertie almost could not bear the thought and the possibility that it would be real.

  “You are going to divide up your remaining forces,” Bertie realized aloud and did not care who he interrupted. He looked at Godric. “What of Camlann?”

  Most of those in the room went silent or looked down.

  “If they reach that, then we are already lost.” The same man repeated his same stupid thought after clearing his throat. Bertie made a rude noise.

  “Don’t speak of doomsday. Castles can be rebuilt. My mother’s people were conquered, and yet they still exist.” He had never been able to shut himself up. He felt cold all over again but resisted the urge to huddle into his brother’s clothes. Instead he walked over to the roll of blankets and pillows in the far corner of the tent to where little Godric was resting and scooped him up.

  “I should go to the capital.” He spoke into spiky fur and clutched the creature so tightly it began to purr. “I know you won’t like that, Godric, but it makes sense.”

  There was another moment of tense quiet. Perhaps two.

  “I mean… someone has to see to things,” Bertie finished, with a trace less certainty. His stomach twisted. When he dared to look over, Godric had his eyes closed.

  “Aye,” Godric agreed softly, then pulled his shoulders back and opened his eyes. “I will go with you, and then—”

  “No!” Thankfully, the others objected before Bertie had to. He wasn’t sure if he could have. Everybody began speaking at once, a cacophony that made him want to cover his ears—or run to Godric, but he thought that might weaken his argument. There was also a good chance Godric would be angry with him.

  He was angry with himself. Whatever the danger, he could have stayed with Godric and instead he was likely going to make a perilous journey with the Keep’s wounded citizens for company, to a city at risk of at best a small attack and at worst a successful invading army. But they were right. If Aethir and Godric’s forces lost and the city was overrun, then something of them had to survive. And if that was not the case, then someone still had to see to the business of governing or more would suffer.

  Nonetheless Bertie was a fool. It was no wonder his brother was often tired with the weight of this duty. This was not what Bertie wanted. He had only ever intended to make the burden lighter for his brother, for Godric, not to add to his own.

  “It is not as though I enjoy leading,” he jested his voice much too quiet. He got a snort for that, a short laugh from someone else. At least no one would not believe he was grabbing for power. There was always that.

  He focused back on Godric, on the arguments that seemed to have ended or at least subsided. Godric did not look pleased when he looked at Bertie. He kept his gaze steady on Bertie but addressed the others. “Have the riders arrived with news?”

  “Two, Sir Godric. We are waiting on the others.”

  Godric clenched his jaw to hear that, then moved, past them all, past Bertie, toward the door.

  “We will hear from them before deciding,” he grunted, hardly issuing words at all. He was angry, more furious than he had seemed in the doorway of Bertie’s tower room with a scattering of red and white blossoms in one hand. “Only then.” His voice rose a fraction, but only a fraction, and then he was quiet with stratagems behind his eyes, as though he were seeing more steps that hadn’t yet been taken, which he likely was.

  Godric thought that way, one event after another in many combinations, and many of the outcomes he saw were too dark and fearsome for Bertie to dwell on. Whatever Godric was seeing now would be just as terrifying, Bertie could tell from the furrow between Godric’s brows and the tension in his shoulders. He did not want to think of what could ever frighten someone as brave as his Godric. It would be something terrifying indeed, like his army divided up and outnumbered, or Aethir stranded and hopeless, or Bertie killed on the road. Perhaps even in one scenario, Bertie lived, only to allow Camlann to be overrun because of his foolishness.

  He could see it now as well, as vividly as if Godric had spoken the words out loud, and each image left him stiff with fear.

  There was no going back, as much as he might wish it, and he frowned back at Godric while clinging to the cat’s skinny frame. The decision was all but made and Bertie cursed his stupid mouth for once again getting him into trouble. Why could he never be silent when it counted?

  “Godric,” he blurted anyway, shivering when Godric paused but did not turn, “I must go where I am needed.”

  “And so must I, my lord.” This time as he left Godric did not offer him a smile. “So must I,” the rest of his words were nearly lost as he disappeared from sight, “no matter what I might want.”

  ~~~

  The plans, as near as Bertie understood them, involved small groups of forces within days’ rides of each other, spreading the word, protecting what needed to be protected, and flushing out any invaders they found. Any in need of aid would be sent to the capital, which would have to rely on the armies to the north for defense if need be. Then, when word of any attack from Aethir reached them everyone could head on different paths to the wall.

  Bertie spent his afternoon and evening considering the scope of the task he had given himself, frightened as he hadn’t ever been before, even in those moments of danger at the Keep. He realized that he would not be anywhere near Godric, that he would not even know where Godric was except that it would certainly be in the thick of danger. If it was cold here, it would be an icy wasteland of high winds and snow up at the old wall. The more Bertie imagined it the more he could not completely keep his hands from trembling. The chill was creeping back into his bones. Godric had survived thus far but this time there was no guarantee, and the Green Men would gladly claim his head.

  There was very little to do now however but to fret and pet the cat and force himself to eat as his stomach tried to reject his meager supper, and then to sit and wait and pray to every god he could think of. He managed to even his nails, to borrow a better change of clothes from the Count, but he had impulsively, stupidly, decided to leave his face unshaven for one more day. He could not think of why the hair on his chin mattered when tomorrow would take Godric from him.

  The braziers were burning low and he was sitting atop Godric’s bed in his borrowed skirts when Godric finally returned. Godric was alone and obviously tired. Perhaps he had forgotten Bertie’s presence there in his tent, for he removed his cloak and outer armor and washed his face and hands before settling into a chair and letting out a heavy breath.

  “Godric,” Bertie whispered.

  Godric did not move. “First light, you and your people will ride out with two small wagons for the wounded. If all goes w
ell, you could be within the city’s outer walls in under a week. I will not accompany you, my lord. I am sorry.”

  “I see.” Bertie worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. “Do you think this was right? That I did right?”

  Godric raised his head and turned at last. “I have realized that as odd as your decisions might seem to others, they are always the correct ones. So yes, my lord, I do.”

  How Bertie longed to hold him up, make him smile again. But he only gave one sad shrug as anything else he might have tried would have no doubt been unwelcome. “Don’t worry, Godric beloved, all will be well. I’ve suffered worse in the past weeks then some uncomfortable travel.” There was no need to mention his possible slow death by vengeful marauders aloud; it already sat with them.

  “Aye, I know.” Godric must be weary indeed, as his accent was becoming more obvious. “I spoke to your people,” he said again, significantly. Bertie did not get a chance to ask what he meant because Godric went on. “I am very sorry, my lord, that you had to kill a man.”

  The knife had stuck. Bertie was struck by the memory more than he had been by the action at the time. It would hit him again later, he was certain of it, but for now he regarded the moment as almost foreign to him, as someone else’s memory. He had not expected it to take such force, that it would take two strikes before the man had fallen to the ground, gasping, choking, bleeding a mess atop the screaming serving girl he’d been attacking.

  “I didn’t have to.” Bertie shook himself and tried a court smile. “Anyway, I thought it was the business of soldiers. Why be sorry? All I need now is a tattoo to commemorate the event.” He could have been sick. He knew Godric saw through his attempt to act brave, but still he had to try, anything to lift some of the weight from Godric’s shoulders. “Isn’t that why soldiers get them?”

  Godric considered the question, and Bertie, then stood up. He left Bertie to stare as he pulled off first his thin outer shirt, and then his chainmail and the shirt beneath that. His chest was broad, and furred, and paler than the rest of him, decorated with marks and old scars and inked designs of various, mostly dark, colors. Bertie could make out nothing distinct at this distance in the candlelight save the slashing language of the Old Ones down his forearms and the trail of hair leading down from his stomach.

  He eyed the sight greedily, flushing with heat. He learned each line of muscle from shoulder to hip before starting over to learn it all anew.

  “Some soldiers do,” Godric murmured. “I do not. I see no need to mark myself with my nightmares. We are not likely to forget, are we?”

  Startled out of his ogling, Bertie looked up into Godric’s eyes. He caught his breath, then slowly shook his head. Godric nodded sadly in acknowledgment of this and then repeated himself. “Then I am sorry.” He laid out his clothes on the table and Bertie licked his mouth.

  “What are yours then?” He wanted no more talk of death, not tonight. Godric stopped again but he must not have been too angry with Bertie after all, for he answered.

  “Things, places, people I wish to remember or to have close to me.” He touched a spot on his hip then hesitated. He stared at Bertie for a moment longer before he gave a sigh and bent to remove his boots. Bertie blinked to see Godric’s bare feet at last then struggled to recover himself. By the time he did, Godric was laying down on the collection of blankets on the floor, gently pushing the cat aside to do so and Bertie forgot all about his dignity once again.

  “That is where you sleep?” Bertie exclaimed, already up and shaking his head. “That is ridiculous.”

  Godric sat up and stared as Bertie descended on him, dragging a fur blanket behind him.

  “I will sleep here. You should be sleeping in your own bed, Godric.” Bertie realized this was skirting the edges of an order, but it was necessary. He deliberately stretched out on the blankets next to Godric and covered himself as though he had every intention of sleeping there.

  “My lord!” The duke of war was practically sputtering. Here Bertie had thought soldiers a brave, lusty lot.

  “I am not moving.” He stopped short of touching Godric, but Godric was so warm and so near that Bertie felt dizzy with it. “I know you are mad at me, but you ought to get your rest, you stubborn, precious fool.”

  He expected an argument, or a refusal, or at least to get picked up and dropped back into the other bed. Godric, still sitting up, only stared at him.

  “I am not angry, my lord,” he said at last.

  “What?” Bertie was quite tired and frustratingly close to the fire of his soul. Eloquence was beyond him. “But this is just like before at the Keep, when you tried to tell me and I insisted on staying anyway.”

  Godric only continued to regard him with bemused wonder.

  “I was not angry then either, my lord.” He spoke as though this had been clear. Bertie almost frowned. Godric could stuff his apologies, if that was what he was on about. Bertie squinted at him in the near dark, trying hard not to get too distracted by the bare skin within reach.

  “But….” Bertie started to argue, then rethought it and went silent as he pulled over Godric’s pillow to him so he could be more comfortable as he relived those last moments.

  The night of the feast, riders had come with the news of boats off the coast, boats carved with the griffins and eagles of the Green Men. The court with all its knights and soldiers had ridden out the next morning.

  It had been a bright morning, not too cold. Despite the sunshine, Bertie had stayed inside his room in one of the towers, holding his new cat and regretting that he’d given in to the pleading looks of the villagers.

  He’d had no business staying, not that his brother had tried to change his mind. With Godric silent behind him, Aethir had swept in to embrace Bertie and told him he was pleased to see Bertie honoring their father, although he’d warned Bertie to hurry back to Camlann before the first snows. Godric had said not a word, not then. He had returned moments later and stood by one window, not seeming to hear the nervous crowds far below.

  Bertie recalled hurrying over to him and then barely stopping himself in time to save Godric’s dignity, and how instead of being grateful, Godric had seemed strangely taken aback by Bertie’s restraint. He had stiffened and then taken a small step toward the door.

  “Have you lost my brother already, my dear Godric?” Bertie had teased hurriedly to keep him there, and because what he’d wanted to say had been praise for Godric’s appearance, and worry for him, and entreaties for Godric to take Bertie with him.

  Godric had frowned, just as he was frowning now, and so Bertie had dropped his gaze.

  Outside in the courtyard, Godric’s horse had been waiting, with a saddle with stirrups as his people rode, bedecked in Aethir’s colors. Godric himself had been armed with his broadsword at his side and a helmet under his arm, an array of short daggers in his belt. His other hand had held flowers, long red amaranthus and the white stars of bittersweet.

  Someone must have thrown them at him. It was how soldiers were honored. If someone had especially longed for his return, if Godric had had a lover, the flowers would have been woven into his hair.

  After the incident with the cat the night before, Bertie had deliberately kept himself from sneaking out to pick some. Godric had been embarrassed enough about the cat, and then furiously quiet since Bertie had announced his intention to stay. He had only broken his silence once they had stood there, after long moments of staring without saying farewell.

  His words had been sharp and unusually plentiful, shaking with hints of what the invaders had done during the last wars, of how far away Godric would be from Bertie and what would happen if Bertie stayed in the valley much longer.

  “But they need me to, beloved,” Bertie had tried to explain, babbling away about traditions and blood and duty as Godric’s frown had only intensified.

  “Then you must promise me that you will send for me if you feel the faintest threat, and that you will return to the capital as
soon as possible. You must, my lord.”

  They were nearly words to swoon over. Bertie had tried to control himself with a laugh. “Really, Godric, I don’t….”

  “Promise me, my lord.” Godric had shifted and with his armor gleaming had ducked his head in a manner too like begging. “Please.”

  “I….” Bertie could not see him like that. “I swear,” he had promised, as though he would not fly to Godric if he had the chance. It had seemed a fool’s request and an easy vow to make.

  He should have known. Godric was not the fool here.

  “Well I am sorry I did not listen. Though I do not think my answer would have been different.” Bertie tried a laugh and shook away the memories. “I find I don’t much care for duty, Godric.”

  “It can get in the way of your plans, yes.” Godric closed his empty hands.

  “How often has it led to you following after me and putting up with my ways?” Bertie sighed. “It’s never my intention to embarrass you. I just seem to. But I do try not to bother you, my Godric.”

  “That….” Godric was still peering at him, with that face he made when receiving new information and had to quickly adjust his strategies. His brow furrowed. “That was never a duty, my lord.”

  Bertie knew he looked startled. It took him a moment to remember to blink. When he did not speak, Godric turned and extended a hand to little Godric, who trotted over like a puppy, or a very, very smart cat. It rubbed its cheek against his fingers.

  “This cat….” At the words Bertie nearly flinched but Godric seemed not to notice. “You gave it my name.” To distract himself, Bertie reached out to pet the cuddly bag of bones and felt fur ruffled from Godric’s attentions. “To keep it with you,” Godric went on with a sigh. “You shame me for doubting you.” Shocked, Bertie almost pulled his hand back, but then Godric went on. “You are quite brave, you know.”

  Bertie very much feared he squeaked.

  “For taking in a cat?” He was hot all over. Godric simply took his hand from his feline counterpart and let it rest atop Bertie’s for one inconceivable moment. Bertie held his breath, but there Godric’s hand stayed, two heartbeats, three, and then Godric took his hand away to resume scratching the cat and speaking calmly as though he was not leaving Bertie devastated and yearning.