Chapter Text
Won't you look down on me, Jesus
You've got to help me make a stand
You've just got to see me through another day
My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way
- Fire and Rain, James Taylor
Sir Nicholas Fury, Slayer of Evil and Defender of the Realm, lay collapsed against a squat tree. Steve knelt in front of the wounded knight, squeezing water from a cloth into Fury’s mouth, but it was of no use. He was fading, and fading fast. A spear wound to his side had become infected. There was nothing either of his squires could do.
“Barton and Rogers. Listen up.” Fury’s voice was gruff and authoritative, even as he approached death. “This land is a shithole, and if you stay here much longer you’ll be the ones at the receiving end of a spear.” He coughed, flecks of blood landing on his armor.
“Tell me something I don’t already know, sir,” Clint said, hiding his grief at his master’s illness behind snark. Fury wouldn’t want tears.
“Shut it, Barton. I don’t have much time left.” Fury took a steadying breath, then winced at the pain. “When I came here I had hope of lands and a wife if I served long enough. You two don’t have that. You do have my armor and my horses. Take them, and go on the tourney. Make your money from the noble bastards and get out.”
Clint shook his head. “Neither of us can joust, milord. We’ll sell the armor and start back to England.”
“No!” Fury said. “You have time to learn. You just needs to do middling well in the joust, and compete in the archery. You can make enough money to retire. And Steve, you can start an orphanage. Clint.” Here Fury stopped, looking at the weather-beaten man with fondness in his eyes. “You weren’t meant to be a soldier. Don’t waste your life here.” With that, his eyes glazed over and he ceased to breathe.
Mouth drawn in a grim line, Steve shut Fury’s eyes.
Clint looked at Steve. The shock he felt at Fury’s death was mirrored in the younger man's face. But some part of Clint's brain had already started to plan. Fury had become a knight thanks to his prowess in battle and command of battle tactics, but he wasn’t well liked. There would be no place for his squires except in the regular ranks, under some bully who called himself a knight and acted like a pig.
Clint looked down at his hands, callused from rough work and coated in the grit that made up the landscape, among shrubs and wizened trees. Clint was so tired of never being clean, of always feeling sand or dirt against his skin. "I'll never pass as a knight. Selling the armor is a safe bet."
“Let’s plan for the future, after we bury Fury,” Steve said, tears glittering in his eyes.
“Planning now is how we honor his memory,” Clint pointed out, not unkindly. Sweat trickled down Clint’s back, as if to remind him that he was still alive, even if one of the constants in his life was gone. “The old bastard would want us to have a plan. I say we sell the armor and make for England. There will be work there.”
“No,” Steve said firmly. It had always been his hope to become a knight, any fool could tell. But Steve’s weedy frame and almost constant sickness had made him into little more than a water carrier. Still, there was no man Clint would rather have at his back. “Fury was right. We can make you into a decent jouster. We’ve seen drunk knights do it often enough. It can’t be that hard. And no man alive can match you with the bow.”
“So we just rock up to a tourney, claiming that I’m a knight?” Clint asked in disbelief.
Steve looked at Clint thoughtfully. “We have armor and horses. And so many knights are coming to and from the Holy Land, it would not be odd for a knight from the far away land of-” Steve paused. “Gelderland to try his luck in the tournaments before returning home.”
“But knights are jerks,” Clint pointed out.
“They don’t have to be,” Steve replied, the tears in his eyes replaced by determination. “They can stand for what’s right.”
Clint bit down a groan. He knew once Steve was set on a course of action, he'd end up following. “I guess we’d better bury Fury then.”
***
It's a nice day to start again (come on)
It's a nice day for a white wedding
It's a nice day to start again.
- White Wedding, Billy Joel
“Remember, Lord Stark prefers his women talkative,” Lord Ivan Romanov told his daughter.
Natasha smiled prettily, her irritation only showing itself with the violence with which she embroidered the shirt in front of her. “I know, father. But do be prepared if he does not ask for my hand. Lord Stark is known to be erratic.” Erratic was the kindest way she could put it. Lord Stark, while wealthy and a noble, had a checkered past with both wine and women.
“He has visited you almost daily for the past month. I am certain he will ask you. My dear, you deserve a suitor with moneybags and noble blood, and they are thin enough on the ground as it is. If Stark asks you for your opinion, you will be positive about your upcoming nuptials.”
Natasha was aware of Pepper’s quiet presence behind her. The older woman had her light red hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun and she was dressed in a sensible brown dress that did little to hide her beauty, a beauty that Stark had certainly noticed. “Father, I do not believe he is as enamored with me as you think.”
“Stuff and nonsense.” He turned to Pepper, the woman who had been Natasha’s lady’s maid for as long as she could remember. “Pepper, thank you for chaperoning all of these meetings,” Lord Romanov told the quiet woman.
“My pleasure, Lord Romanov,” Pepper said, head bowed, every inch the proper maid.
Natasha smoothed down her red dress. It had been made especially to add red to her wardrobe after Stark had shown his interest in her. Red was, after all, his favorite color, Natasha thought with disdain. She could live a very long time and be very glad never to hear anything more about Stark or his preferences. “Well, father, I must attend to our guest before he perishes from thirst.”
“Good luck, my darling daughter,” Lord Romanov told her, unable to hide his greedy glee at the thought of his daughter marrying Lord Stark.
Natasha walked to the guest hall of the castle, leaning against the door to listen to Stark’s movements. He seemed to be pacing. She opened the door, and Stark stopped moving abruptly. He hid his nervousness behind an aura of arrogance that he drew around himself like a cloak.
“Milord,” Natasha called, curtseying slightly, as befitted their relative ranks. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Milady.” Tony bowed his head in reply. “I assure you, the pleasure is mine.” As he spoke, his eyes flicked to Pepper, who was a shadow in the doorway. “And milady Potts.”
Pepper regarded him with steely eyes, and managed to look majestic while curtseying deeply. “Milord.”
Natasha sat in the chair next to the fireplace, watching Stark and her maidservant lock eyes. Stark remained standing, whether out of respect for Pepper or because he had forgotten Natasha’s presence entirely, Natasha was unsure.
“Pepper,” Tony began, deciding to abandon propriety. Well, it had been thirty seconds, which Natasha had discovered was a stretch for Lord Stark.
“You’ve already tried to hire me away from Lady Romanov three times, Lord Stark. The answer is still no.”
“You haven’t even heard the question yet,” protested Tony. Pepper crossed her arms and waited. “Virginia,” Tony said, the name like a prayer on his tongue. “Marry me, please?”
Pepper gawped. Natasha covered her mouth with one hand, unable to keep back a smile.
Pepper closed her eyes, moving her expression into a mask. Natasha could see her running the variables in her head.
“I know I’ve made mistakes in the past, but, you see, it would be a business proposition. You’re the most sensible woman I’ve ever met, and my fief is responsible for most of the armor-” Tony started to babble.
“Tony, stop talking. My answer is yes.” Pepper interrupted, eyes twinkling and joy in every line of her face.
Natasha rose from her chair. “I’ll tell my father the good news.” As she passed Pepper she laid a supportive hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad it’s you and not me,” she whispered.
As Natasha walked away, listening to the joyful couple behind her, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of regret at the upcoming marriage. What were the chances of her finding another maid that would be willing to help her the way Pepper had? She had plans for the upcoming tourney that would be greatly complicated by Pepper’s engagement.