Chapter Text
Dearest George,
I write to implore humbly for your help.
Our Steven seems recently to have slipped beyond intervention. He has always been spirited, like his mother, however in the last number of years it has progressed beyond the impish delights of childhood. Just this month, in a definitive display of disrespect for his station, he saw it fit to permanently scar his precious flesh, with steel and ink, in what was surely some nefarious shop populated by escaped prisoners and other underlings of society. As if it were not enough to imagine my heir marred in this primitive, undignified manner, it soon became red and angry, blood and pus oozing from sores surrounding the crude letters. Steven was very ill, and if he had died as result of this misadventure, I shudder to think of the chaos that would ensue.
Sarah and I are at a loss. My health is not what it once was. I fear the boy will be King sooner than he believes, and as it stands he is far from fit to rule. Please, my old friend, assist us. A physician will visit from Spain in the coming weeks, bringing with him new treatments that might aid in my condition. If at all possible, I wish to send Steven to you and for the duration of this treatment, in the hopes that your firm hand could guide him, as you have your own children. My failings as a father should not translate to instability for my people. Any assistance you could provide would leave my family eternally in your debt.
Send word by return note as quickly as you are able. May God be with you, and with those you hold dear.
Yours in gratitude,
Joseph
Bucky turns the parchment over in his fingers. He reads it twice, a frown tugging at his brow as his eyes travel over the neat cursive for the second time. He looks up at his father and asks, “what does this mean? Scarred his precious flesh?”
The King’s eyes narrow, a disapproving scowl down-turning the corners of his mouth. “A tattoo. Like a common sailor. On a prince, can you imagine?”
Bucky catches the inside of his cheek between his molars. He hasn’t ever seen one, but they’ve been described to him. They sound horrific. He can’t fathom the pain – or the humiliation, walking around through life with black ink etched into his skin; the mark of the lowest class permanently ascribed. The sun that filters in through the tall windows of his father’s study leaves wavy lines over his mahogany desk. Bucky watches them move, as shadows are cast by the silk curtains swaying in the slight breeze.
“And he nearly died from it?” he asks eventually.
“I know only what you do,” the King says, gesturing to the letter in Bucky’s hands. “Do you remember him?”
“Him, being Steven? No. Have we met?”
“When you were very young. His father is an old companion, from our youth. They came to stay, years ago. Steven was … well. His father called him spirited, as you read. I called him impudent. Always running about, taunting the servants, getting himself into all sorts of trouble. It seems not much has changed.” The King stands and heaves a heavy sigh. He stares out the window, and Bucky watches him closely.
Sometimes, it feels as if Bucky barely knows his father. One thing he does know, is how to sense when his father isn’t finished speaking and is merely pausing for emphasis between sentences. It’s never a good idea to interrupt this performance, so Bucky keeps his questions to himself for the moment.
“I suppose it’s no wonder he turned out this way, with his mother practically a commoner. A Lord’s daughter, of all things. Heaven have mercy on them. She found the boy amusing.”
On principle, Bucky does not share his father’s distain for the peerage class, but does not dare say so. When he’s sure his father’s speech has ended, he asks, “is he going to come here again, then?”
“Of course I would prefer he didn’t, but I will not refuse an old friend in a time of crisis. He is too ill, at the moment, to deal with his son. So the burden falls to us.”
Bucky wrinkles up his nose. “Why?”
A swift glare, and shame burns in Bucky’s chest. He drops his gaze to the floor.
“Because we are charitable,” his father intones. Bucky should not have had to ask. “Further, our relationship with Maldeta will need to be maintained. If the boy becomes King in his present state, I cannot fathom the disaster. His kingdom has been an ally to us these many years. Favors must be returned.”
“What are you asking of me?”
“I will need your help. Margaret has her duties to the kingdom as the heir apparent, and Rebecca will not return from France for several weeks. You will be responsible for our charge when he arrives. Keep him out of trouble.”
“Is he dangerous?” Bucky worries. It sounds a formidable task, considering especially this boy is older than him, although only by one year. Bucky is too meek to effectively give orders; his siblings always teased him for it.
“Hardly,” the King scoffs. “He is a deviant, surely, but harmless. He simply needs guidance. He needs to understand what is soon to be expected of him, when his father is no longer with us. You are a good son and will someday be a good man, James. You understand tradition, respect, nobility.”
Bucky would like to argue. To remind his father that he has never been in charge of anything before; certainly not a rebellious prince who leaves his castle in the middle of the night to have himself tattooed by criminals. He does not say anything. If it were his mother, he might. She allows him to speak freely. But he doesn’t argue with his father. No one argues with the King.
“I shall do my best, Sir.”
“Indeed you will.”
* * *
“I thought these might be suitable.” Natasha opens a velvet box to reveal gold cufflinks. Her auburn hair glints in the lamplight, pulled back into a tight knot at the back of her head.
Glancing at them, Bucky recognizes them as one of his better sets, usually reserved for balls or visits from the nobility. He would like to say that he doesn’t think the arrival of a deviant warrants such spectacle and ceremony. But he wouldn’t say it out loud. Their guest is royalty, regardless of the way he’s chosen to embarrass his family.
“An excellent choice, as always,” Bucky compliments graciously.
Natasha offers him an appreciative nod and then goes about securing the links on the cuffs of Bucky’s shirtsleeves.
Bucky stares at himself in the mirror and tries to imagine hiding a tattoo underneath his silken shirt and heavily embroidered jacket. The idea is too ridiculous. If he’d dreamt it up, Bucky might wonder if what he’d eaten the night before had gone off.
“I’ve polished all of your crowns, so that you could choose for yourself.” Natasha moves to the case under the window where they’re kept and unlocks it.
Again, Bucky holds in a nasty retort. “I’m expected to wear a crown?”
“The King wants a full compliment. All the trimmings. He is a prince, after all.”
“The smallest one, then. The silver, with the rubies.”
“Silver with … gold cufflinks?” Natasha sounds hesitant; almost afraid to contradict Bucky. She’s been with them for years and is almost never nervous with him as some of the other servants are. Bucky must be projecting a far stormier temperament than he thought.
There’s a soft knock at the door. His mother’s voice calls, “are you dressed?”
“Yes,” Bucky answers. She enters, draped in purple and beads and golden trim as if her portrait were being painted.
“Could you leave us, Ms. Romanov?”
Natasha nods her head respectfully, gathers Bucky’s nightclothes, and closes the door behind herself on her way out.
“You look very handsome,” Winifred says, joining Bucky to look in the mirror. She brushes the fabric on his shoulders but there is no dust or lint left to brush off. Natasha is impeccable.
“What am I supposed to do with him?” Bucky asks, meeting his mother’s eyes in the mirror. They’re the same shade of wintery blue as his.
“Keep an eye on him, that’s all. He isn’t a wild animal, my darling.”
“He’s a criminal,” Bucky grumbles.
“He is a young man whose life has not been as easy as yours. His father has been ill many times. He has lived since he was a child with the knowledge that he might any day become King, far before he’s ready for it. Your sister always knew that she would reach adulthood before she took control, and she knew that she would have the support of her family and the court. The young prince of Maldeta did not have those luxuries.”
“Is there discord within the court?”
His mother’s smile is grim and sympathetic. “Much. But there’s not time for all that, now. What are we going to put on your head?”
“You’re not in your finest,” Bucky points out, glancing up at his mother’s headdress. It’s pretty, but she has far nicer.
“Don’t be impertinent,” she reprimands. Her shoes click on the stone floor as she walks to the case, and her fingers lightly trail over the options. She selects one, golden and heavily jeweled, with a red velvet insert. It isn’t the one Bucky had asked Natasha for, before his mother interrupted. It’s far more extravagant. She places it on his head, and then fixes his hair around it. “There. Lovely.”
“It’s a lot, for a boy who’s been banished for breaking the law.” Bucky would never speak in this manor to anyone except his mother or his elder sister Rebecca. Usually, he wouldn’t speak this way at all, even to them. He resents everything about the situation, and most of all resents the color it’s left on him.
“Nothing he has done is against the law, nor has he been banished. Your father will not approve of this attitude, I suggest you adjust it before we go down.”
She moves toward the door, and then stops, and softly adds, “I know you miss Rebecca. The arrival of our guest might do you well. Give you someone your own age to talk to.”
Bucky squeezes his teeth together.
“And she’ll be home soon enough.”
“For a time. And then she’ll be gone forever.”
“Not forever, my angel.” Winifred walks back to take his face in her hands. “She won’t be here, but that does not mean you’ll never see her.”
“She’ll be in France. With him.” The great, unspeakable him, the name Bucky has not been able to bring himself to utter. The French prince who is taking his sister away from him. And it is forever, regardless of the kind lies his mother spins.
“And one day, not long from now, we will find you someone as well. You’ll see.” She pats his cheek comfortingly and leaves him alone with his reflection in the ornate bronze mirror.
She’s wrong, about what she thinks is upsetting him. He isn’t jealous of Becca, he misses his sister. She was his confidant, his best friend, and now she’s in France courting her future husband, and once they’re wed, she will live with him in his castle and Bucky will rarely see her. Nothing will be the same as it was. It’s the same fate that awaits Bucky. The daughter of a noble will be assigned to him, and he’ll only be given a small amount of choice in the matter. He’ll be given a title and an estate, and he’ll become a stranger in his own shoes. Or, worse – she’ll already have a title and estate, and he’ll simply disappear, into someone else’s life.
* * *
Bucky descends the long, stone staircase, with his hand skimming the bannister. Rings wink at him off his fingers, reflected in the light from the torches on the walls. A footman stands, straight and motionless, on the landing where the stairs curve. He doesn’t move as Bucky passes, and Bucky is used to ignoring them. There was a footman, when Bucky was a child, who used to give him rides on his back when no one was around and sneak him sweets from the kitchen. Bucky doesn’t remember the man’s name, and hasn’t seen him since he was small. He assumes the man passed on. Unless they are dismissed, servants usually work at the castle for their whole lives. Briefly, Bucky wonders how many have died in his lifetime. It’s something he’s never considered before just now.
His mother and eldest sister are already in the grand foyer, their bodies almost dwarfed under the enormous chandelier and larger-than-life portraits that hang on the walls surrounding them. Flowers have been brought in from the gardens. Orange Autumn blossoms, clippings from the willow trees, and tulips from the tropical house. Theirs is one of the largest on the continent, and the King always makes a show of their wealth and prosperity with flowers in the Autumn and Winter that wouldn’t grow out of doors. Peggy smiles at Bucky as he joins them, but only briefly. Her expression fades back to stoic as their father makes his entrance, flanked by the steward, his own valet, and several more footman in ceremonial dress.
“His procession has nearly arrived, Your Grace. We received word by messenger moments ago.”
“Excellent,” the King answers. “The prince will be tired, it is not a short journey. See that the kitchens are prepared to satisfy his appetite until the feast this evening.”
“We’ve put him in the St. Michael suite, Mrs. Adley had it sorted this morning. I hope that’s agreeable.”
“Yes, he’ll be quite comfortable there.” The King’s voice is dismissive, and the steward understands their conversation has finished. He bows his way out of the King’s path and busies himself with arranging the staff that bustle in to stand, silently, and look on as their guest and his own servants arrive.
“Did you hear he has a tattoo?” Bucky whispers to Peggy, as their father addresses the head footman.
“I’ve heard significantly more than that,” Peggy whispers back, but does not elaborate.
She always knows so many things. As the heir, she has been allowed to travel, to sit in on court proceedings, to stay after dinner while the brandy is served and the men talk, long after Bucky and Rebecca were always sent to bed. Peggy has always been the heir first, and anything else second. She is Bucky’s sister but she takes her duties seriously and rarely indulges in gossip. She’ll be a great ruler. She’s been groomed for it from birth. Bucky and Becca have existed instead on the periphery of their father’s attention.
The sound of carriages on the cobblestones outside alerts the arrival, and the massive oak doors are pulled open. Bucky was expecting an excessive procession, the likes of which is usual for their guests, but there are only three carriages. The one in the middle is only slightly bigger than the other two, and trimmed with gold but far more understated than the carriages Bucky’s father rides in. The three coachmen stall the horses in unison and step down from their seats to open the doors on the first two coaches. From the first a young man emerges, maybe older than Bucky but not by much. His coat indicates prominence but not nobility. Bucky assumes this man is the prince’s valet. Bucky’s own valet has never been dressed in such a stately fashion, but he’s has never traveled anywhere, because Bucky has never travelled anywhere.
From the middle carriage, with the help of the coachman, a second man steps out into the mid-morning sunlight. It catches on his golden hair. He isn’t at all what Bucky was expecting. He’s taller than Bucky by at least a few inches, impossibly broad-shouldered and long-limbed. Bucky had assumed an air of criminality would exude from their new houseguest but instead he’s striking, classically handsome, and clean-cut with round blue eyes and perfectly combed blond hair. His dress is far more casual than the way Bucky and his family are decorated, as if perhaps hardship has left him humble. Bucky instantly feels he was right to wonder if they were overdoing everything with such an obnoxiously grand welcome.
Slowly, the prince and his man walk up the steps and through the doors. Despite the prince’s imposing frame, his stride is elegant in a way that looks practiced. His head is held high, chin jutting out, surveying his surroundings as if he were a great explorer stepping off the deck of his ship on some strange new soil. Still, there is an unassuming quality to him that Bucky can’t quite identify. His stature is daunting, but he seems to be unaware of it.
“Your Highness,” the King greets, his arms opening, a gesture that is meant to both welcome and intimidate. Bucky’s father is a master in the art of being hospitable, while still communicating his authority.
“Steve,” the man corrects.
Bucky’s breath catches. His father will not be pleased with the response.
As expected, something hardens behind the King’s eyes, although he nearly hides it. Tersely, but still polite, he replies, “that would not be proper. I trust your journey was not too arduous?”
“I suppose,” Steve answers.
“Excellent. Allow me to introduce Her Majesty, Queen Winifred. And these are two of my children. Princess Margaret, my heir. And Prince James, the youngest of our small family.”
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Peggy says, regal and perfectly poised as she always is.
“Likewise,” Steve returns, but it’s dull, and listless. He doesn’t mean it.
He seems despondent, sullen almost, and Bucky recognizes that it wasn’t humility he sensed in Steve a moment ago. It was unhappiness. As he turns to Bucky, sharp blue eyes flash in the flicker from the candles, and when he smiles there is no joy behind it. It’s cold, almost a sneer. Bucky greets their guest as he has been taught, but he is not nearly as skilled as his father when it comes to masking distaste.
“Are we going to be friends?” Steve asks him. It is a taunt, rather than a genuine invitation.
* * *