Chapter Text
Charles tried not to stare too openly as the guard at the door opened it and announced him. He’d had never been to the Lord Regent’s private rooms before. Back in the bad beginning times, when Lord Shaw had had to beat him in Erik’s name, times Charles never really thought about any more, he’d done it at a public audience, in the public rooms.
“Ah. Charles.” The Lord Regent turned from where he stood near the fireplace, contemplating the small fire in the ornately carved hearth. He favoured His Majesty’s whipping boy, recently named Erik’s First Companion, with a thin smile.
“Sir?” Charles hovered cautiously by the old oak door. “Y-you sent for me?” Anxieties flooded his mind. Charles could not imagine why he’d been sent for—or why Erik had not been allowed to skip his public audience giving to come along, too.
“Stop shaking in your shoes, boy, and come in.” Shaw waved, commandingly. He took a step or two, as if to set an example.
Charles crept into the room, giving the Lord Regent a wide berth. His shoes made a whispering sound as he trod over the rich carpets towards the fireplace.
“I sent for you to inform you of a sad matter to do with your late father’s estate,” Lord Shaw said, seating himself behind his vast and ancient desk. He didn’t invite Charles to sit. Charles said nothing. After a slight pause, the Lord Regent continued. “The rent-rolls—the account books—they’ve been, shall we say, mis-managed?”
“But my s—Lord Marko—” Charles faltered. Although Charles was starting to believe the Markos couldn’t touch him at Court, thanks to Erik’s outspoken support and the circle’s unwavering loyalty to their King, he was by no means sure they were completely toothless.
“Precisely,” Shaw said, shaking his head as if he was made very sad by the whole thing. “Your mother chose… poorly, a second time, I believe.” Absently, he leafed through a few of the papers on his desk.
Charles said nothing. He still wasn’t really sure how he felt about his mother, let alone who she’d married the second time. Even if he had been, the Lord Regent was very, very low on the list of people Charles would choose to talk about her to. Assuming he was on that list in the first place. He shuffled his feet.
“In any case.” The Lord Regent steepled his fingers and gave Charles a gravely sympathetic look. “I have had to remove your stepfather from caring for your estates—”
“Why?” Charles blurted. Why was the Lord Regent doing this? He wondered if that meant the monies from the manor house and lands that had once belonged to his father would now end up with the Lord Regent, or if he would ever see any of them himself.
“I detest waste,” Lord Shaw said, calmly. “Revenge is wasteful.” He gave Charles a pointed look. Charles did his best to look blank and bland. “So is tolerating the mis-management of land. If a steward cannot do his job, he should be replaced.”
Charles gulped and hoped that Kurt never heard himself described as a mere steward. Such an insult could only end in blood; most likely Charles’s. If he knew it was the Lord Regent describing him so—Lord Shaw was still talking.
“―expel them both.”
“What?” Charles blurted. “Sorry, Sir,” he whispered, tongue thick in his mouth. Had he heard that correctly? Charles didn’t quite dare hope.
“Unfortunately, it is apparent to many people that your, ah, former family are not really suited to life at Court.” Lord Shaw smiled faintly. “My researches have shown that they are not that comfortable with life as landed nobility outside of the Court, either.” He silently regarded Charles for a long moment.
Not really suited to life at Court, Charles thought, bitterly amused.
He took care not to smile or react too severely in front of Lord Sebastian Shaw, automatically. Perhaps it was simply because Charles could read so little from him; perhaps it was the memory of how matter of fact he’d been about administering a beating that had left Charles’s shirt sticking to his back, but even if Charles couldn’t quite put his finger on why, the man scared him, riding crop or no. He blinked, and forced his thoughts away from dangerous speculation.
No, the Markos were not suited to life at Erik’s Court, as it was becoming.
Erik and Emma between them had seen to most of that. The pronounced… not enmity, perhaps, but deliberate disinterest that the boy King had shown for his whipping boy’s family had begun their problems; the Queen-to-be’s gently, icy observations about Cain’s crassness, and where it must have come from―seeing how well-mannered and refined Charles was―had continued them.
If King Erik was going to make such efforts to signal his disapproval, most of the Court knew on which side their bread was buttered.
Any hopes Kurt might have held for advancement had long since faded; any hopes Cain might have had of harming Charles were—well, not fading, because Cain hated giving up on anything he enjoyed doing; but his attempts to harm Charles had become remarkably ineffective, surrounded as Charles was by people—by friends—who seemed to just itch for the chance to protect him.
Cain had asked for lessons in arms from Swordmaster Logan.
Possibly Cain had been hoping to get closer to Erik, or get at Charles at the same time, or just hoping to take for himeslf something his step-brother enjoyed; Charles wasn’t sure. It didn’t really matter, given what had resulted from that simple request.
Logan had not refused Cain. Had, indeed, offered to teach him privately, which was unusual enough for people to comment on the matter. Cain had been delighted. Charles had been a little surprised, until the second lesson the Swordmaster taught Cain had sent the older boy in search of a physician.
Specifically, Dr Hank McCoy.
Charles is absolutely sure that neither of his favourite adults (it’s a short list; Queen Edie is also on it) would ever disrespect their separate crafts to the point of actually harming a pupil or a patient, so he can’t be certain, but he’s still sure that Cain’s broken arm, and subsequent confinement to bed rest and a gruel diet is due to them somehow.
Lord Shaw was still staring at him. Charles blinked himself back from his musings.
“Sir?” Hastily he checked, but no, he hadn’t put his hands in his pockets, or belched, or-or anything.
“As I said, due to this, ah, mismanagement, your lands –and his own—are in poor shape. Acting as your guardian in the king’s place—” Lord Shaw gave Charles a grave look—“I shall appoint a new steward to your lands; hopefully he can bring the books back into better standing so you may come to inherit more than debts.”
“Thank you, sir,” Charles said. The manor in Westchester did not really mean anything to him, other than a place of painful memories, but it was nice to hear it would be looked after.
“Do you have anyone in mind that might be fit for the job?” Charles blinked at the question. Why would-?
“I’m sure you know best,” he said firmly. “I trust your judgment, sir.” Charles was sure the Lord Regent was a clever man as well as a powerful one; and he was also sure that it would be a good idea for him to know Charles knew that, too.
The Lord Regent gave Charles a steady look, before he continued speaking.
“Due to this, and—other matters—I have been forced to request that His Majesty expel the pair of them from his Court and also strip his lands from Lord Marko.” The Lord Regent said, patiently. “As well as yours.”
“You—he—they have to leave?” Charles blurted. “Westchester and—”
“And the Court, yes. As a courtesy.”
“How is that courteous?” Charles said, adding, hastily “Sir?” The idea of the Markos—landless, penniless—was strangely unappealing.
“Expelling a man is not exiling him.” The Lord Regent leaned forwards. “It’s less wasteful.”
“He—they can’t stay at the Court, and they can’t go home,” Charles thought aloud.
“Just so.” The Lord Regent looked quite pleased about something.
A sudden thought struck Charles “What’s—how are they going to live? They—they’d make terrible peddlers.” He tried not to grin. Wishing misfortune on other people was –bad. Even on horrible people.
“I’m sure they’ll cope.” The Lord Regent leaned back.
“If they can’t be at Court, or leave the country,” Charles guessed. “What if they complain to other nobles? Even if they can’t get to other nations, they can complain here. Or tell them things about—anything?”
“Oh.” Lord Shaw leaned back in his chair a little more. “I think they’re sensible enough not to do that kind of thing.” He smiled. “I have spoken to Kurt about the matter.”
“Did he- did he listen, sir?”
“You are a clever boy.” The Lord Regent’s eyes narrowed as he glanced sharply at Charles. Charles shrugged, uncomfortable. “I do hope,” Lord Shaw said softly, “that you continue to apply your intelligence to such matters as a fit for your years and station in life, and not to any, ah, unprofitable speculation.”
Charles blinked, his thoughts racing.
“My intelligence,” he finally said, equally softly, “like my loyalty, and—and the rest of me—is always going to be at Erik’s service.”
“As your King.”
“And as my friend,” Charles said.
“Commendable,” the Lord Regent told him, dryly. “If predictable.”
“My friend,” Charles said again. He smiled. He liked the sound of it. “But I’m not—I don’t think Erik—His Majesty—is really predictable, much.”
The Lord Regent sighed, as if he was suddenly very tired.
“So I am coming to learn.”