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England, Christmas Eve - 1196
Snow falls softly, and a crisp breath of juniper fills the air as if heaven and earth are welcoming Castiel home. He breathes in deeply the fresh scent of winter and is fourteen again, bittersweet memories like ghosts all around him.
It’s been five years since he’s last seen his home, and in all that time he’s had barely a word or a letter from his father. But now, Lord Charles is dying, and has summoned his sons and his remaining family home for one last gathering before his soul breaks free from his withering flesh.
As the stone and timber framed manor looms in the distance, Castiel wonders if his impending reunion with his family will be as welcoming and filled with nostalgia as the scents and muffled sounds of the winter woods. Will it, too, be bittersweet? Or just bitter?
The party arrives at the manor just before the storm picks up. Castiel dismounts and watches while his half-brother Michael welcomes his Aunt Amara and Uncle Uriel. A young groom comes to take their mounts. Michael turns and ushers his aunt and uncle inside without giving Castiel so much as a glance. As the youngest son of Lord Charles, and a bastard at that, Castiel has learned by now not to expect any special treatment from his eldest brother - the heir to his father’s title and estate. He sighs, shouldering his own scrip and roll and follows them inside.
Castiel heads right, past the hall, and up a winding stone staircase to his bedroom, only to find it’s been given to someone else for the duration of the twelve holy days. An acquaintance of Michael’s. Someone well borne. Someone Michael respects. Someone unlike Castiel. Since his father took ill, Michael assumed governance over most issues on the manor. He could argue with his brother about it but that would garner him nothing in the end but humiliation. It certainly wouldn’t serve him well to make an enemy of Michael so early in his visit by making his guest feel uncomfortable about the room. Castiel makes a hasty apology for disturbing the wellborn knight assigned to his childhood quarters, and sets out in search of the place appointed him.
He is sent to an old storage room off the kitchen where four pallets are made up for Lord Charles’ lesser relations. Two of them are already claimed. Some traveling packs rest atop the two pallets farthest from the door. Castiel looks around and sets his bags at the foot of a pallet, unclasps his cloak, and flops down, taking a minute to close his eyes after the long journey. His thoughts are still filled with the slight over his room. His ears, hot with it. He wonders if exiling him from his room was his father’s wish or merely Michael’s doing. Then again, maybe it hasn’t been his room since he left all those years ago. Maybe everything he thought he had here was just an illusion.
He inhales deeply and lets it out, sitting up and rubbing his hands over his eyes to will away the fatigue that plagues him from the long journey. It doesn’t pay to sit and feel sorry for himself. If he has to be here, he might as well seek out the company of the people who showed him kindness in his youth. Castiel has been looking forward to seeing Gadreel again.
He stands, refastening his cloak, exits the repurposed storeroom, and heads outside. He pulls its blue wool, lined with soft black ermine, more tightly around him to protect against the growing chill. Whatever his circumstances, he’s glad not to be out in the cold tonight. He wonders about the small encampment his traveling party passed along the way in a clearing just a few miles north of the manor. A flame-haired woman clutched a shawl to her body as she made her way from a couple of two-wheeled carts to a cookfire. A few young men near the treeline were constructing a crude lean-to with deadfall they’d gathered, while another looked to be building a trench fire that ran the length of the shelter. What circumstances left them out in the cold on such a night?
Castiel is pulled from his imaginings at the sound of a horse whinnying up ahead. At the threshold of the stable, he sees the old stable master whose gaze is fixed somewhere beyond, looking off in the direction from whence Castiel came.
“Excuse me, Sir,” Gadreel’s eyes still search the distance, “But you wouldn’t happen to have encountered a young boy about this high?” he asks, holding his hand up about chest height. “I was told that young Master Castiel has come home.”
Castiel chuckles. Gadreel smirks, turning fond eyes upon him now. “Why there you are! Impossible! How is it that in the whisk of a lamb’s tail you’ve grown into such a fine young man?”
“And how is it that you’ve grown shorter and grayer?” Castiel counters. With fond eyes, he tugs gently at Gadreel’s beard.
“Ah. The two go hand in hand.”
Gadreel limps slightly as he turns to lead him into the stable. Castiel doesn’t miss the wince of pain that flickers over the older man’s face, even though he tries to hide it.
“Gadreel, what's happened?”
“Oh, nothing but foolishness on my part. Got myself kicked by that new war stallion of Michael’s. Nothing time won't fix.”
The man claps Castiel on the shoulder and ushers him inside, pointing him in the direction of his horse, knowing that Castiel will want to check on her. They return to the room Gadreel and the stable hands use to meet and eat. Gadreel pours Castiel a cup of ale and beckons him to sit down and talk.
Castiel’s reunion with the old stable master is most welcome. He's missed his home and fears his forced exile has not amounted to much. Shortly after his mother’s death, Castiel was sent to the estate of his uncle, Count Uriel, and his Aunt Amara to be fostered. At the time it was his father's intention for him to earn a knighthood. But at Lord Uriel’s estate, he was largely ignored, put off, and left to his own devices as the count traveled again and again on some secretive business. He hadn’t learned much soldiering there, but to escape pure boredom had perfected his letters in Latin, English, and French with the chaplain and learned from the head gardener the care and keeping of an apiary of bees.
Whatever education Castiel tried to cobble together, he feared his father would be disappointed at all the things he failed to accomplish, even if it was hardly his fault that the proper training Uriel promised had never been provided. Perhaps if his Lord Charles had answered his letters. In any case, whatever his father’s plans are for him now, at least he gets to see Gadreel again.
“I am happy to see your beloved horse is still in good care,” the old stable master notes.
“Of course. I care for Gwenhwyfar myself, the way you taught me.” Castiel smiles proudly.
When he was six, his father gave Castiel a jennet of his own. Michael scoffed under his breath that it was a lady’s horse, and yes, his other brothers had at least gotten palfreys as their first mounts, but Castiel would take what he could get. Besides, she was a beautiful dapple grey, that nuzzled into him upon being introduced, and Castiel fell in love at first sight.
“You've done an excellent job. She still looks hale and happy though you’ll need a different mount if you’re to become a knight.”
Castiel nods, regretfully.
“How have you been, young master? Does your aunt’s husband treat you well?”
“Well enough, when I see him,” Castiel replies. “Is Gabriel coming?” he asks, changing the topic to avoid admitting how little progress he’s made on his way to knighthood.
Before Castiel was sent away, his older brother Gabriel, having no rights of inheritance, took up the Cross at Lord Charles’ urging, so that he be granted two hundred acres of land and a small manor in the north. He left his young wife and three sons behind to seek his honor and glory and to provide for his own heirs. When Gabriel returned home to England little more than a year ago after six long years away it was to a ruined manor, empty of all but a few servants. He was heartsick to find his wife and eldest son had perished just two years prior when a sweating sickness swept through the countryside. His remaining two sons had been taken in by their mother’s family. Gabriel disappeared just three days after arriving home to news of their deaths and was now, according to gossip and rumor, making his way from one raucous party to another across England and Aquitaine, drowning his sorrows in debauchery.
“I’m just an old stable hand and not privy to all the news of the household,” Gadreel explains, looking at Castiel meaningfully. “But I believe your brother has not responded to Lord Charles’s invitation.”
Castiel’s lips press together. He nods stiffly, trying not to let his disappointment show. He’d already prepared himself for this kind of news. Even away from the manor Castiel has heard the stories of Gabriel’s vagabond-like life and worries for the brother who always looked out for and stood up for him when Luke or Michael were….well, being Luke and Michael.
It’s late by the time Castiel finishes catching up with Gadreel. With the clouds blanketing the moonlight it’s quite dark, and the cold is settling deeply into his bones. The glow of torches in the main hall signals that the family and guests will soon be gathering for supper. Likely some bread and a stew of beans or maybe some fish. Nothing too extravagant for the last night of the Advent fast.
He enters the hall, hoping to find a friendly face, but there is no one he knows as of yet. Perhaps he’s been away for too long. Aunt Amara and Lord Uriel have likely taken their supper in their guest chambers, not that they would welcome his presence, and everyone here seems to be engaged in their own conversations.
Castiel takes a seat by himself at the end of a long trestle table and tries to feign interest in the rafters…the mantle…the torches…anything to look occupied and unbothered. Anything to look like something other than the unwanted runt of Lord Charles de Devin’s litter.
A smiling maid soon arrives with a tankard of ale and a bowl of bean stew. He reaches for a loaf of bread set in the center of the table, tears himself a piece, and eats quietly, listening to the chatter of conversation around him. He’s about to sop up the last of the meager stew with his bread when he feels a slap on his shoulder. It's Ed, and behind him is Harry - his cousins, -second? Third cousins? Castiel remembers not how they’re related exactly, but it seems he's to share the storage room with them, along with another cousin Samandriel, who Ed has only just seen arrive.
They seat themselves at the table and assail him with a legion of questions.
“So Castiel, is it true your father is reviving the holiday revels?” Harry asks, leaning in.
Ed’s eyes are a’light. “My father said he summoned all of his relations. We assumed it was just so he could make his peace with everyone, and give one last feast and a few masses for his soul over Christmastide. But I heard the maids say there’s a troupe of players and musicians coming!”
Castiel’s brow furrows and he looks between them “I…I don’t know.”
When he was a child his father, though frugal to the point of parsimony on most occasions, allowed one great outlet a year in the form of the Yuletide revels. Castiel remembers magicians and acrobats and spectacles that amazed and delighted him. For those twelve days, it was as if they entered a whole new world. A topsy-turvy world where a king might defer to a fool… a noble heir pay deference to a bastard. Castiel remembers being jealous as a youth, that he was sent to bed before most of the merriment, his mother assuring him that one day he’d be old enough to partake in it himself. But then his mother died, Lord Charles put aside the practice, and Castiel was sent away.
Samandriel arrives just in time to get a morsel of food, and Castiel reports that if the revels of his youth were any indication, then there will be a troupe of players, minstrels, and perhaps even a magician. Each night for twelve nights there will be music, feasting, and dance.
It’s a warm memory, and one that Castiel might welcome again if things were different. If he felt at home here - but to be honest, Castiel wants none of it. He’d as soon make whatever peace with his father he must, and then be on his way. This manor…these walls… are a constant reminder of what he’s lost. For a long time Castiel has felt alone in the world, but the most terrible thing of all is feeling alone in your own home.
The cousins continue their excited predictions and speculations about the fun to be had in the weeks to come. Harry tells them a story of his last Yule - a scandalous tale of a blond maid who’d introduced him to a friend and the wild night they’d spent together. Castiel fades into the periphery, content to drift into his own thoughts.
He wonders if the rumors of a troupe of revelers are true. They finish dinner and head toward their shared room. Castiel makes his way past it and into the kitchen to ask. Mildred will know. Mildred knows everything.
“Mildred’s gone a’bed,” one of the servants tells him as he carries some scrubbed-out cauldrons back to the hearth. “Up before dawn she’ll be, preparing for the Christmas feast. Can I help’ye?”
“I– I was told there'd be revelers coming. I just thought Mildred would know if they were.”
“They’re coming alright but they’ve not arrived yet,” a kitchen maid answers. “The Master doesn’t want them underfoot until the proper day.”
“The Master? Or Sir Michael?” came the sharp reply from the young man with the cauldrons. “Everyone seems to forget he’s not yet the Master, especially with Lady Hester ordering everyone around like the queen herself.”
“He might as well be. Lord Charles barely rises from his bed,” the maid replies. “They say it’s not long now.”
“Oi! You two!” another servant yells. “You mind your tongues and who you’re talking to!” She calls, swooping over. She's slightly older. Castiel thinks he recognizes her.
“Jo?”
The woman dips her head at him. “Forgive them their insolence, Master Castiel. Empty heads and lively mouths, both of them!”
The last time he’d seen Jo she was a foot shorter, though just as fiery. They’d raced each other through these halls as children.
“You needn't call me Master, Jo.” Castiel huffs a laugh, with a chagrined smile. “Lord knows I’m no one’s master.”
She smiles politely but curtsies to him still, the old familiarity they once had, stolen by time and propriety. An awkward silence settles over them leaving Castiel anxious to break away.
“Well…I- I’ll come and see Mildred in the morning. Thank you, all…” he glances at each of them, giving the group a nod. "Good night.”
Castiel makes his retreat through the kitchen door but the murmur of voices stops him just the other side of it.
“You two’ll end up flogged if you don’t learn to mind your tongues!”
“Didn’t know, did I? And he came right in the kitchens like a servant.”
“He’s the one, though isn’t he? Lord Charles’s bastard– OW!”
“I said mind your tongue! You’ll get worse than a slap on the back of the head if you don’t watch yourself.”
The words of the young servants settle uneasily like a stone in his chest. Lord Charles hasn’t been well for some time, but hearing it spoken so plainly and callously strikes a nerve. All the venom he’d stored up for his father seems to drain away and he wishes he could be ten again, before his mother took ill, before Gabriel went to war. Before everything changed.
He slips away before they can notice him lingering and goes to his shared storage room-turned-bed-chamber, their voices trailing after him like shadows.
The room they share is warmed by the ambient heat from the stones of the kitchen’s great hearth, the back of which takes up one whole wall. It’s late by the time Castiel and the others settle in with their belongings, but midnight, and with it the solemn mass of Christ’s birth, is still an hour away. He washes his face in a basin to try to revive himself, then settles in for a game of dice with his cousins until, at last, the bell in the great chapel tolls.
The inhabitants of the manor make their way to the chapel for the service. It’s crowded, but at least he’s not crammed in with total strangers. Ed and Harry seem a bit foolish, but harmless enough. Samandriel seems a quiet, thoughtful soul, which is fine by Castiel who never had much of a gift for conversation himself.
His father is not present at the mass. Castiel inquires with Michael and is informed that Lord Charles has been told of his arrival but is tired from his ailments and taking mass in his chambers. His brother assures him his father will summon Castiel sometime tomorrow when he’s ready to address him.
Summon when he’s ready to address him. He wonders if these are his father's words or Michael's.
Having done his duty to God, Castiel returns to his makeshift chamber, Samandriel, Ed, and Harry close behind. It’s too late for dice and too cold for anything but burrowing under the blankets. The young men prepare themselves for bed.
The wind outside is howling now, so unlike the soft welcoming of flurries he’d ridden through on his way here. Behind him Harry decides to make use of his chamber pot rather than suffer the cold wind on the way to the stable yard privy. Ed comments on how much he drank and warns Harry that he’d better not steal his pot if he ends up having to go again in the night.
Castiel is glad he’d visited the privy after his visit to Gadreel and drank little at dinner. He pulls off his tunic, folding it and placing it atop his scrip before laying down in his shift and woolen hose. He covers himself and tries to sleep, but his mind is buzzing with thoughts of meeting his father on the morrow. What will he say to Castiel, after so long a time apart? What does he want of Castiel when he dies?
He tries to settle but he’s shivering so he reaches over for his cloak and pulls that over himself for good measure, hunching down under the covers and silently cursing the cold. He thinks then of the flame-haired woman from the forest…the small, inadequate, shelter and the young men gathering wood for warmth, and is grateful for the cramped but sheltered accommodation he’s been given. Could they be the troupe? He sends up a prayer for their health and safety before closing his eyes and hoping for sleep.