Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  “Thank you,” Bran said, annoyed. He’d been perfectly prepared to give the man his seat back. For one thing, it would have given him the height advantage to be leaning over Ferreira’s shoulder.

  Ferreira nodded and left again.

  Surrendering to the inevitable, Bran had moved around by the time Ferreira returned with his mug of coffee. Ferreira actually raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t expected Bran to cede territory.

  Bran waited for him to sit down before he pounced. “Now then, Dr. Ferreira, I think we should discuss this broadening of the exhibition you’ve been planning.”

  Ferreira visibly squared his shoulders and met Bran’s gaze head on. “Sam. You should call me Sam, if we’re going to be working together.”

  Bran nodded. “Sam, then. And I’m Bran, of course.” He smiled.

  Ferreira—Sam—tensed as though fighting the urge to recoil. Good. It hadn’t been intended as a reassuring smile.

  “Perhaps you could explain to me your rationale for changing exhibits that have already been approved?”

  Sam took a drink from his mug before he answered. Typical delaying tactic. “I just think we need to make sure we’re really getting under the skin of fourteenth-century people. Visitors need to be able to relate to the characters we’re telling them about—that’s what fires up the imagination, gets people really interested. And not everyone relates to military strategists.”

  Bran frowned. “Not everyone has the ability to think strategically, it’s true. But chivalry, bravery in battle—that’s what captures people’s imaginations about the Middle Ages. Tales of knights and their adventures have been popular for centuries. Look at any medium you care to mention—the written word, television, film, even song.”

  “Knights are part of it, but they’re not the only thing worth knowing about. It’s fascinating to learn how ordinary people lived in those times, with no technology, nothing but the most rudimentary health care—how did they survive? What did they eat? What did they do for entertainment? That’s all part of the story.” Sam gestured as he spoke, as if his passion for his subject couldn’t be contained in mere words.

  Bran felt a moment’s kinship with the man, which he struggled to suppress. They were adversaries, not allies, and fellow feeling wouldn’t help him win his point. “Hardly the most important part.” Who would ever make a movie about King Arthur’s cooks of the round table, for God’s sake?

  “Don’t just assume that if you’re not interested in ordinary people, nobody is.”

  Bran’s jaw tightened. Sam was entirely—and no doubt wilfully—missing the point. “This isn’t about ordinary people. It’s the Black Prince exhibition, not the museum of medieval life.”

  “And you can’t get a clear picture of a man without knowing the context he lived in. Those battles he won—it was ordinary people who did most of the fighting. The whole Hundred Years War was a victory for the English archer, and they all came from peasant stock. Those ordinary people you don’t think are worth knowing about.”

  Lulled by Sam’s warm, persuasive voice as he was, Bran heartily disliked the tone of the last part. “Are you accusing me of snobbery?”

  Sam visibly battled to control himself. “I’m just saying, we need to see the bigger picture.”

  “Without Edward of Woodstock there would be no picture!”

  “Come off it. British people would have still lived and died pretty much the same as they always did.”

  “And as I said before, this is not a museum of medieval life. The whole impetus for the exhibition—the whole reason visitors will come to the place—is Edward of Woodstock. The Black Prince. Possibly our greatest-ever military strategist, yet he’s a historical figure of whom everyone’s heard but nobody knows anything about. It’s a crime that people in this country grow up ignorant of his many triumphs—for God’s sake, if you asked the man in the street who the Black Prince was, you’d either get a vague, Oh, was he the prince Robin Hood didn’t like? or a reference to Monty Python! And this, about one of the greatest-ever warriors of our warrior nation.”

  “Yeah, and that’s where you’ll find not everyone agrees with you. You may not have noticed, but invading other people’s countries gets a bit of a bad press these days.”

  “You’re— You know as well as I do that Edward III had a legitimate claim to the French throne. This is nothing to do with empire and conquest. This is about a king fighting against the regime that disinherited his mother and harried his lands from the sea.”

  “And again, not everyone agrees with that view. Look, obviously it wasn’t right that women were excluded from the French succession, but the Salic Law wasn’t something they made up just for Edward’s mum. And you can’t blame the French for wanting a king who was actually from France, and had their country’s best interests at heart.”

  Bran found himself on his feet, fists clenched. “Neither can you blame a man for fighting for his family’s rights and his own country’s welfare. You’re just espousing revisionism for the sake of it, as if iconoclasm were a worthy aim in its own right.”

  “Me? You’re accusing me of trying to overturn accepted thinking? Mate, this is the twenty-first century—for most of us, at any rate. And you’re the one who’s set up a whole bloody exhibition to change how people think about our history.”

  “Because they’re wrong!”

  “What, because they don’t agree with everything you say? You’ve got your own little version of history, haven’t you? And anyone who disagrees can go screw themselves.”

  Bran took a convulsive step forward, one fist rising—then caught himself, appalled. He stepped back again, managing not to fall into his chair.

  “I need to talk to Roarke. We’ll continue this discussion later.” Bran strode out of the Portakabin, knowing his retreat to be shameful but desperate for an end to the confrontation before he said—or did—something unforgiveable.

  Sam collapsed into his chair and leaned back, his eyes closed as if he could somehow shut out reality. Christ, what had he been thinking? He might as well pack up his stuff now and crawl home to Luton to beg for his old job back. He’d completely lost it with Bran—his boss. Had accused him of snobbery and egocentrism and living in the past.

  And yeah, it might very well all be true, but Jesus, Ferreira, would a little tact have killed you?

  He’d been preparing all weekend to persuade Roscarrock that going along with Sam’s plans would be in his own best interests, and more particularly those of the exhibition. He’d had a shedload of reasoned arguments at his fingertips, for God’s sake—and they’d all gone straight out of the castle window the minute Bran started in on him. No, earlier—the minute he saw that smug git sitting in his chair.

  What was it about Bran bloody Roscarrock that pushed all of Sam’s buttons? Did the bastard do that to everyone? Maybe he was just naturally talented at being a dick.

  Christ. Sam was going to have to apologise. Bran would just love that, wouldn’t he? But if it was that or lose his job . . . Sam couldn’t afford to lose his job.

  Sod it. He needed to go and find the bloke before any irrevocable decisions were made. He ran his hands briskly through his hair, took a gulp of coffee from his neglected mug, and grimaced at the lukewarm temperature. Then he headed out of his Portakabin to do some damage limitation.

  He bumped into Jennifer almost literally, not three feet from his door. “I hear—and hear would be the operative word; your walls are more than a little on the thin side—that you and Bran are getting along like a house on fire.”

  Sam scowled. “Yeah, yeah. Rampant destruction, people shouting, imminent death. I get it.”

  “Rampant, was he?” Jennifer’s eyes sparkled with humour, and unwillingly, Sam felt his mood lift.

  “If he’d been a unicorn, I’d have been gored to death, believe me. Is he still here? I need to go and tug a forelock or something.”

  “And now you’re just asking for the innuendo. I’ll spare you this t
ime; it’d be like shooting fish in a barrel. He’s in the exhibition centre, or at least that was the view from my window two minutes ago.”

  “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. Or at least a jobsaver. Any tips for getting on the git’s good side?”

  “Well, you’ll have to locate it first. I gave up trying long ago. But I wouldn’t do anything to challenge his authority in front of Mr. Roarke and his chaps, if I were you.”

  “Got it. No making him look bad in front of the minions.”

  “I meant, you’d be making yourself rather unpopular. God knows I can’t stand the man, but Bran Roscarrock has a long and successful working relationship with Roarke’s firm, and he’s known to be a good man to work for. Doesn’t stand for cutting corners with employees’ safety, for instance, and no quibbling about overtime when it’s due.”

  Huh. That didn’t exactly fit with the image Sam had formed of Bran as a petty dictator. Or what she’d said a moment ago. “Right. I’d better go and catch him,” he said, and left.

  He found Bran in the exhibition centre just like she’d said. He and the foreman stood together, poring over plans spread over the reception desk. Sam watched them for a moment. From a distance, they could almost have been father and son, with Roarke’s grizzled head bent low beside Bran’s darker one. Bran used sharp, decisive gestures that were oddly graceful, his face animated, and somehow dominated the scene despite his smaller stature—even when he stopped talking and listened to what Roarke had to say.

  Bran was obviously capable of having a rational exchange of views. Just not with Sam, apparently. Should he leave them to it? Interrupting now might just get Bran’s back up all over again. But then Roarke nodded and rolled up the plans, and Bran took a step away from the desk.

  Right. Now or never.

  Bran looked surprised to see Sam walking hesitantly over to him. He also looked a lot calmer already, which was a relief, although the animation in his eyes had been replaced by wariness. Sam found himself missing it.

  “Mr. Roscarrock.” Sam reckoned a bit of formality couldn’t hurt. “Might I have a word?”

  Bran glanced at Roarke, who was lingering nearby. “Thank you, Mr. Roarke. You can carry on.”

  He led Sam over to a corner far from any of the workmen.

  “I want to apologise,” Sam said before Bran could utter a word. “I was out of line.”

  That, of all things, seemed to throw Bran off-balance. After a moment, the tension seemed to leave his body. Odd, how much younger it made him look. How old must he be, anyway, from what Jory had said? Forty-one? Forty-two? Right now you could knock ten years off that. He’d probably always looked young for his age, and with his relatively short stature, Sam guessed that had been more of a burden than a blessing.

  Bran rocked forward on his feet. “I think tempers were high on both sides.”

  “Yeah. Look, you, uh, surprised me this morning. I didn’t express myself well. I really do think broadening the scope of the displays is for the best, if we want the exhibition to be a success. Which I know I do, and I’m sure you do too. And I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick about how major the changes I’ve got in mind will be.” Sam paused for breath. “The information boards, for instance. I’ve got no issues with the text, but it’s a bit . . . wordy. We need to get it down to, say, around six hundred words per panel. For most of them that just means cutting it by half.”

  Bran frowned. “Six hundred words? Cutting it in half? How the hell do you expect to explain the Crécy campaign in six hundred words? And why, for God’s sake?”

  Christ, this was supposed to be the easy bit. “Because there’s no point having a detailed analysis of the political background and military strategy if ninety percent of your visitors look at it, think ‘Too long; don’t read,’ and walk away. Trust me—it’s the first thing I learned at the Museum of Scotland.”

  “So you’re suggesting we throw away all Dr. Banerjee’s work.” Bran looked as though Sam had just forced him to swallow a rotten oyster.

  Sam actually had some sympathy. It’d been a hard lesson for him to learn too, that not everyone was as interested in history as he was. But he wasn’t going to back down on this. “We can put the fuller version in a booklet and let people read it at their leisure. So they’ll still be taking away something of value, educationally speaking. Look, all the major museums work on this principle.”

  Bran folded his arms. “What about the other changes you were planning?”

  Yeah, Sam hadn’t missed the way Bran had failed to actually agree to Sam’s proposals. And he had a strong feeling the next bit was going to be even less popular. “Okay, well, it’s essential, when seeking to inform the public, that we present a balanced picture,” Sam began.

  Bran’s frown deepened. “It’s essential that we present the truth.”

  “And the truth is a matter of interpretation. You must know that.”

  “Which is why it’s so important that the correct interpretation is given.”

  “There can be more than one valid interpretation—”

  “There is, however, only one truth.”

  It was like banging his head against a brick wall. Sam grabbed at his hair, frustrated beyond belief. “You can’t spoon-feed people your version of history and expect them not to spit it right back up again. People don’t work like that. If you want someone—anyone—to come round to your point of view, you’ve got to reason with them. Show them the evidence and let them make up their own mind. Otherwise, yeah, people might go away thinking you’re right—if they think about it at all, that is, because failing to engage with people’s brains makes you and your subject about as memorable as last year’s X Factor winner—but the first time they come across any conflicting evidence, they’re going to think that’s the gospel truth and your whole argument’s a load of bollocks.”

  He was breathing hard by the time he finished. Didn’t Bran see that what he was trying to do would set the exhibition up for failure? For all those journalists they’d invited to the grand opening to give them the worst possible reviews? Did he want the place to look like a vanity project?

  Bran’s face had darkened. “You talk about the visitors as if they’re reasonable, intelligent men and women. If history teaches us anything, it’s that most people aren’t. How do we know they’re even capable of reasoning to a conclusion? What if they get it wrong?”

  By which he meant, come to a different conclusion than Bran clearly had. “Then they get it wrong. What does it matter? Seriously. What does it matter?”

  “Have you any idea the harm that can be caused by what people think? ‘Give a dog a bad name and hang him.’ I’m sure you’ve heard the saying. A man’s reputation doesn’t just govern how people think about him; it governs how they treat him as well. Or does the phrase witch hunts mean nothing to you?”

  “Oh, believe me, I know plenty about all that.” Shit, was that giving too much away? “Growing up brown and gay in Luton wasn’t always easy. And when the hell did you ever have to worry about anyone treating you bad because of what they thought about you, Mr. White Privilege Poster Boy?”

  Bran looked close to apoplexy. “When I was beaten in the street in my own town!”

  Oh. Oh crap. How the hell had Sam forgotten about that? And while half of him wanted to snap out No, that was just what you get for being a total git, that would have been going too far. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “But you have to understand—”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Have you any idea what it’s like to be born into a position of responsibility, of duty, and to have to make hard decisions for the good of those who depend on you, only to hear yourself described as brutal, ruthless, and uncaring?”

  Were they even talking about the Black Prince anymore?

  “When have I ever described you as . . . as all that stuff?” Sam was losing his words. This was not a good sign. But Christ, was that really how Bran thought people saw him? Was he right? Sam couldn
’t imagine living like that.

  Except . . . Sam knew exactly what it felt like to be a disappointment to the people around him. It felt like crap. Was this why Bran was so bloody prickly and defensive all the time? Because he was used to people thinking the worst of him?

  “You seemed perfectly willing to ascribe any number of other vices to me, so I’m sure it’s simply a matter of time.” Bran drew in a deep breath, and now that Sam was looking for it, he could see the hurt in those dark eyes. He wasn’t sure it made him like the git any better, but he couldn’t help feeling sympathy for him. No wonder the bloke idolised a much-maligned military hero.

  Bran turned his face away from Sam’s scrutiny. “This discussion is going nowhere.”

  “Finally something we agree on.” Oh Jesus. Sam made a superhuman effort to get himself under control. “Look, why don’t I prepare a detailed list of the changes I’m suggesting, and you can go through them and see if there’s any you’d actually be happy with?”

  Maybe he’d see the issues more clearly once they were set out in black and white, although Sam wasn’t going to hold his breath.

  Bran gave him a long look, then nodded curtly.

  “Right. I’ll get onto that.” Sam hesitated a moment—why, he wasn’t sure—then turned on his heel and strode back towards the castle.

  By five o’clock, Sam had something more-or-less fit to send to Bran: all his proposed changes detailed, together with his best arguments in their favour. The ones that increased inclusion and diversity, he was fairly confident about. The ones that simply sought to show a more balanced picture of Edward of Woodstock . . . well, he’d just have to see how those went down, wouldn’t he? There were only so many times he could repeat the same line of reasoning.