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locker_monsterTitle: The Boy Who Waited (6/49)
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.
A knock on her office door pulled Barbara from her notes. She looked up and saw a figure out in the hall, their features blurred by the frosted glass of the door. “Ms. Wright?” called a voice.
“Yes, come in.” The door opened and, as she suspected, one of the cleaning staff entered, pulling her cart behind her. “Hello, Floria,” said Barbara, recognizing the small woman with her Eastern European accent. As was often the case, it was around ten o’clock. Once again, she had completely lost track of time.
“Would you like me to come back?” asked Floria. The woman eyed the full rubbish basket but she also took note of the numerous papers spread out on Barbara’s desk.
“No, no. I could use a break.” Barbara stood up and leaned back, stretching out her sore muscles. “I need a new cup of tea anyway.” They exchanged a smile and then she left to allow Floria to do her job. Her heels clacked on the floor as she walked down the hallway to the staff room. The sound of her footsteps were eerily loud, like she was the last person on the planet, but she knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her.
The lights were off in the staff room and Barbara turned them on. She filled up the electric kettle with water, turned it on, and then fetched a mug from the cupboard. While she waited for the water to boil, she surveyed the room. Clearly, Floria had already been in here. The tables were cleared of any mess, the condiments were arranged neatly on the counter, and even the rack of tea bags was straightened up. Scholars could be rather absent-minded and the staff room always reflected that.
Once she had a fresh cup of tea, Barbara left the staff room but she didn’t return to her office right away. She wandered out of the administrative wing into the museum. There wasn’t much here, just a bank of lifts and some signs about supporting the museum, but there was a skylight above. She couldn’t see the moon; it was just a clear night sky.
As a historian she knew about the fabled stars that used to be in the sky. It must have been a thing to see, those brilliant points of the light.
She was drinking her tea and pondering what the stars used to represent when she heard footsteps. The stride was long and the footsteps heavy. It wasn’t Floria then. Barbara looked away from the skylight and there he was. The young security guard. He stood across from her, standing in the corridor that led further into the museum.
“Hello again,” she said.
“Hello.” He strode over on his long legs. “Working late?”
“I have you to blame, actually.” Barbara smiled at him. “When you mentioned the Lone Centurion to me the other day I realized that I didn’t have anything about him in the exhibit. He might be a legend, but he’s still part of the Pandorica’s mythology. So I’ve been writing up a narrative about him to accompany the Pandorica.” It did mean more work and she could have delegated the task to one of her assistants, but she enjoyed hunting references.
“I’ve been wondering. When did the Pandorica and the Lone Centurion resurface? Clearly it was found again if it’s sitting in a museum.”
“There are books on this subject, you know,” joked Barbara.
“I like hearing it from you,” replied the security guard and he smiled warmly at her, like they were old friends.
Barbara’s cheeks felt warm. It had been a long time since a man had smiled at her like that. She cleared her throat, pushing back her embarrassment. “It was a good seven hundred years before there was a reliable record of the Pandorica…”
Jerusalem, 1118 A.D.
Surviving excerpts from the personal journal of Hugues de Payens (translated from the original Medieval French)
…long journey at an end. I have not laid eyes on the Holy Land since the end of the Crusades and not much has changed. The temperate climate is as trying as I remember and I know it will only grow warmer as we travel away from the coast. I will pray for…
… Godfrey and I were granted an audience with King Baldwin II today. He is newly ascended to the throne, but has a kind disposition and listened attentively to our proposal. I will readily admit that I did not truly believe the King would agree to our application, but…
… Al Aqsa Mosque, the Temple of Solomon itself. I could have not asked for a greater gift. We are forever in debt to King Baldwin. My knights and I are eager to explore our new home. There is also the matter of a name for our order…
… extraordinary discovery that I can scarcely get the words written down. I was exploring the grounds of the Temple Mount, marvelling at the wonders situated upon it. To the north of the temple, I came upon a bricked up well. I found this very odd. Surely the King would want an easily accessible water source. I could not imagine palace slaves having to transport barrels of water up the Mount each and every day. My curiosity c…
… masonry. It looked much newer and it did not crumble as easily when struck with a rock. I was not surprised to hear that a hollow space existed behind the bricks when tapped with the pommel of my sword. I was, however, quite surprised when I received a response: a weak tapping against the brick, from within the well. I immediately began to chip away at the brickwork, using a rock to break up large pieces and the blade of my sword to wedge them out of place. When I had created a hole as large as my fist, I received another shock. A hand reached up through the hole and grabbed me by the wrist.
The grip was surprisingly strong. I do not recall my exact words, but I assured the poor soul that I was…
… sopping wet with vestiges of chains still tied around his feet. He climbed over the edge of the well and flopped down onto the ground. Doubling over, he threw up an alarming amount of water before falling back and turning his face up towards the sun. The stranger wore armour, seemingly Roman in origin…
* * *
The warmth of the sun on his face was pure ecstasy. He had honestly forgotten what it was like. Closing his eyes, he let the midday heat dry the water from his skin and clothes.
Someone cleared their throat, loudly, like it was their second or third attempt to catch the other person’s attention. He opened his eyes, wondering if he had drifted off, and reluctantly sat up. A scruffy looking man with a tan and weathered face stood beside the well. In one hand he held a rock and in the other, strangely, a sword. He was dressed simply in leggings, a tunic belted at the waist, and sandals. In combination with his dark hair in need of a cut and thick beard, he looked like he could be a beggar. But beggars didn’t carry swords.
The sight of a weapon made him wary, but the man had freed him. And he was alone. If it came down to a fight, he had a chance.
“You have nothing to fear,” said the man in French. He spoke calmly, as if trying to soothe a spooked horse. Throwing the rock into the well, he placed his sword down on the ground and took a step back.
He thought of making a grab for the sword. No, he didn’t need it. He pushed the urge back. This man wasn’t here to hurt him.
“My name is Hugues, Hugues de Payens.” Each word was enunciated with care. The man was treating him like he was hard of hearing. “Do you have a name?”
A name? Yes, he had one of those. What was it though? “Centurion.” It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone. It felt strange to form words and say them aloud. Any sounds in the well had been stolen by the water. He had almost forgotten what his own voice sounded like.
“Centurion?” The man, de Payens, thought this over. “Yes, that explains the armour,” he said, mostly to himself, “but that cannot be your only name.”
He thought hard. There was another name, buried deep, one that hadn’t been spoken in centuries. It meant something to him. He had been holding on to it for so long.
“Amy.” He whispered her name and it all came flooding back.
Darkness. Loneliness. Endless roads. Silent glares. Chains. Whips. Hopelessness. Knights and peasants. The clash of swords. Fire. Fear. A prison of water. Light at long last.
Rory sucked in a sharp breath, his first real breath of fresh air in ages. For so long he had slept but now he was awake again. No more endless drowning. No more water in his lungs. He was free.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside of him, but it came out as a sob.
“Do not fret, ami.” De Payens crossed the distance between them and squatted down beside him. He placed a comforting hand on Rory’s shoulder. “You are safe here.”
Rory looked up at him and felt the pull of a smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled. Amy. The man had heard something else, a word in his native language.
Friend.
He had started to dry out on the walk back, but he was still thoroughly soaked beneath his armour. De Payens directed him to a small room with a bed and told him to rest while he went to fetch a change of clothes.
Rory wasn’t tired, at least not physically. He could have run a marathon if he wanted. His fatigue was more on a mental level. He had fought so hard to stay sane in that watery grave. Going in, he thought he could beat it. He had already survived something similar once; a second time would be nothing. But he hadn’t counted on the water. Intangible, but inescapable. He couldn’t push it back, couldn’t make it feel like he was conquering his surroundings. The water made it seem like he had melted away.
He might have lost it if de Payens hadn’t come along.
Rory stripped off his helmet and his cape and tossed them onto the bed. The room had a small window and he saw that he was still in Jerusalem. Obviously. It wasn’t as if the well’s water source had carried him out of the city. He hadn’t asked de Payens what year it was. How many years had passed, he wondered? Five? Ten? A hundred?
Most of his armour was off by the time de Payens returned. None of it was ruined despite his extended submergence. Thank goodness for alien plastic.
“Please let me know if you require anything else,” said de Payens as he handed over an outfit very similar to his own.
“I will, thank you.” Rory’s French was a bit rusty and also from the wrong century. He lapsed back into Latin, hoping the man would understand him. “Could you tell me what year it is?”
“It is the year of our Lord, 1118,” replied de Payens in perfect Latin.
Rory might have been pleased that he wouldn’t have troubles communicating, but he was more distracted by the year and its implications. Ten years. It was enough to make him cringe but he supposed that it could have been longer.
“We may discuss this later.” De Payens’ cordial manner was refreshing. Rory was more used to people attacking him first and asking questions later. The man exited the room and closed the door behind him.
The warm air had dried Rory’s clothes a little further, but now they clung uncomfortably to his skin. He happily peeled off all of the layers and draped them over the window ledge to dry completely. Rubbing his hands through his hair helped to dispel any remaining droplets. He relished the sensation of water evaporating off of his skin. Who would have thought he would miss being dry.
The new clothes felt incredibly light compared to his waterlogged armour. Rory thought he might float away. It also felt very strange not wearing his armour. He had worn it for over a thousand years now. It was part of his identity, plus, it was armour. It had probably saved him from a sword’s blade or an arrow puncture a thousand times over.
But he wasn’t against going incognito for a few hours. Even if he had been fully dressed for battle, he was sure no one would recognize him. He was merely a legend now, a story told to entertain children and scholars.
He had recognized Al-Aqsa Mosque on the walk over, with its lead coloured dome. Rory never had the chance to go inside the last time he was up on the surface so he was forced to wander the halls for a bit before he found the front entrance. A dry breeze blew in through the open door and it felt like a gentle caress on his face. Everything was so peaceful, unlike the last time he was here.
Right in front of the mosque, that’s where it had happened. He felt his right shoulder twinge at the thought of it and Rory absently massaged the spot. Unbidden, a brief memory came back to him. Chains, and a lot of them. He had no love for them and just seeing those heavy metal links had caused his plastic stomach to twist in knots.
The gash on his right shoulder, courtesy of a superstitious Crusader, was still there. He could feel it under the fabric of his shirt. Even after ten years it still wasn’t healed and that was the down side of being plastic. He would have to stitch the wound back together or find some other alternative to close it up.
Tentative footsteps approached him from behind. Rory glanced over his shoulder and saw de Payens, who was trying to be discreet. The man hesitated when he realized he was no longer anonymous. They regarded each other for a second or two, waiting to see who would speak first. It was de Payens who broke the silence.
“I hope you are not offended, but you are him, yes? The Fabled Centurion of Rome? The Protector of the Pandorica?” He spoke eagerly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like an excited child.
Rory looked away, trying to cover his surprise. So maybe he wasn’t so forgotten after all. He briefly considered denying it, but it would have been an obvious lie. Who else would be dressed like a Roman soldier and could survive in the bottom of a well without drowning?
He turned around to face de Payens. “Yes, I am him,” he said formally.
The man dropped down onto one knee and crossed his right arm over his chest. With his head bowed solemnly, he said, “I am humbled to be in your presence.”
It had been a very long time since anyone had bowed down before him. Rory was vaguely embarrassed. “No, you don’t have to do that,” he muttered in English. In Latin, he added, “Um, rise, de Payens.”
The man lifted his head, seemingly surprised to receive such a command. He rose to his feet but didn’t quite meet Rory’s gaze. “I would be honoured if you met with my knights and our patron, King Baldwin II.”
Rory tried not to frown. Knights? A king? What was going on here?
Things were becoming more complicated than he liked. He didn’t need knights worshipping him and he didn’t need to meet another monarch. It would be like Rome all over again.
But one look at de Payens and he couldn’t say no. The man was so modest. It was like the sad, puppy dog eyes Amy always gave him whenever she wanted something. Rory knew he needed to put his foot down, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was easier to be tough when everyone else was treating you like dirt.
“All right.” De Payens had rescued him from the well. He owed the man.
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49
Part Three: Crusaders
A knock on her office door pulled Barbara from her notes. She looked up and saw a figure out in the hall, their features blurred by the frosted glass of the door. “Ms. Wright?” called a voice.
“Yes, come in.” The door opened and, as she suspected, one of the cleaning staff entered, pulling her cart behind her. “Hello, Floria,” said Barbara, recognizing the small woman with her Eastern European accent. As was often the case, it was around ten o’clock. Once again, she had completely lost track of time.
“Would you like me to come back?” asked Floria. The woman eyed the full rubbish basket but she also took note of the numerous papers spread out on Barbara’s desk.
“No, no. I could use a break.” Barbara stood up and leaned back, stretching out her sore muscles. “I need a new cup of tea anyway.” They exchanged a smile and then she left to allow Floria to do her job. Her heels clacked on the floor as she walked down the hallway to the staff room. The sound of her footsteps were eerily loud, like she was the last person on the planet, but she knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her.
The lights were off in the staff room and Barbara turned them on. She filled up the electric kettle with water, turned it on, and then fetched a mug from the cupboard. While she waited for the water to boil, she surveyed the room. Clearly, Floria had already been in here. The tables were cleared of any mess, the condiments were arranged neatly on the counter, and even the rack of tea bags was straightened up. Scholars could be rather absent-minded and the staff room always reflected that.
Once she had a fresh cup of tea, Barbara left the staff room but she didn’t return to her office right away. She wandered out of the administrative wing into the museum. There wasn’t much here, just a bank of lifts and some signs about supporting the museum, but there was a skylight above. She couldn’t see the moon; it was just a clear night sky.
As a historian she knew about the fabled stars that used to be in the sky. It must have been a thing to see, those brilliant points of the light.
She was drinking her tea and pondering what the stars used to represent when she heard footsteps. The stride was long and the footsteps heavy. It wasn’t Floria then. Barbara looked away from the skylight and there he was. The young security guard. He stood across from her, standing in the corridor that led further into the museum.
“Hello again,” she said.
“Hello.” He strode over on his long legs. “Working late?”
“I have you to blame, actually.” Barbara smiled at him. “When you mentioned the Lone Centurion to me the other day I realized that I didn’t have anything about him in the exhibit. He might be a legend, but he’s still part of the Pandorica’s mythology. So I’ve been writing up a narrative about him to accompany the Pandorica.” It did mean more work and she could have delegated the task to one of her assistants, but she enjoyed hunting references.
“I’ve been wondering. When did the Pandorica and the Lone Centurion resurface? Clearly it was found again if it’s sitting in a museum.”
“There are books on this subject, you know,” joked Barbara.
“I like hearing it from you,” replied the security guard and he smiled warmly at her, like they were old friends.
Barbara’s cheeks felt warm. It had been a long time since a man had smiled at her like that. She cleared her throat, pushing back her embarrassment. “It was a good seven hundred years before there was a reliable record of the Pandorica…”
* * *
Jerusalem, 1118 A.D.
Surviving excerpts from the personal journal of Hugues de Payens (translated from the original Medieval French)
…long journey at an end. I have not laid eyes on the Holy Land since the end of the Crusades and not much has changed. The temperate climate is as trying as I remember and I know it will only grow warmer as we travel away from the coast. I will pray for…
… Godfrey and I were granted an audience with King Baldwin II today. He is newly ascended to the throne, but has a kind disposition and listened attentively to our proposal. I will readily admit that I did not truly believe the King would agree to our application, but…
… Al Aqsa Mosque, the Temple of Solomon itself. I could have not asked for a greater gift. We are forever in debt to King Baldwin. My knights and I are eager to explore our new home. There is also the matter of a name for our order…
… extraordinary discovery that I can scarcely get the words written down. I was exploring the grounds of the Temple Mount, marvelling at the wonders situated upon it. To the north of the temple, I came upon a bricked up well. I found this very odd. Surely the King would want an easily accessible water source. I could not imagine palace slaves having to transport barrels of water up the Mount each and every day. My curiosity c…
… masonry. It looked much newer and it did not crumble as easily when struck with a rock. I was not surprised to hear that a hollow space existed behind the bricks when tapped with the pommel of my sword. I was, however, quite surprised when I received a response: a weak tapping against the brick, from within the well. I immediately began to chip away at the brickwork, using a rock to break up large pieces and the blade of my sword to wedge them out of place. When I had created a hole as large as my fist, I received another shock. A hand reached up through the hole and grabbed me by the wrist.
The grip was surprisingly strong. I do not recall my exact words, but I assured the poor soul that I was…
… sopping wet with vestiges of chains still tied around his feet. He climbed over the edge of the well and flopped down onto the ground. Doubling over, he threw up an alarming amount of water before falling back and turning his face up towards the sun. The stranger wore armour, seemingly Roman in origin…
* * *
The warmth of the sun on his face was pure ecstasy. He had honestly forgotten what it was like. Closing his eyes, he let the midday heat dry the water from his skin and clothes.
Someone cleared their throat, loudly, like it was their second or third attempt to catch the other person’s attention. He opened his eyes, wondering if he had drifted off, and reluctantly sat up. A scruffy looking man with a tan and weathered face stood beside the well. In one hand he held a rock and in the other, strangely, a sword. He was dressed simply in leggings, a tunic belted at the waist, and sandals. In combination with his dark hair in need of a cut and thick beard, he looked like he could be a beggar. But beggars didn’t carry swords.
The sight of a weapon made him wary, but the man had freed him. And he was alone. If it came down to a fight, he had a chance.
“You have nothing to fear,” said the man in French. He spoke calmly, as if trying to soothe a spooked horse. Throwing the rock into the well, he placed his sword down on the ground and took a step back.
He thought of making a grab for the sword. No, he didn’t need it. He pushed the urge back. This man wasn’t here to hurt him.
“My name is Hugues, Hugues de Payens.” Each word was enunciated with care. The man was treating him like he was hard of hearing. “Do you have a name?”
A name? Yes, he had one of those. What was it though? “Centurion.” It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone. It felt strange to form words and say them aloud. Any sounds in the well had been stolen by the water. He had almost forgotten what his own voice sounded like.
“Centurion?” The man, de Payens, thought this over. “Yes, that explains the armour,” he said, mostly to himself, “but that cannot be your only name.”
He thought hard. There was another name, buried deep, one that hadn’t been spoken in centuries. It meant something to him. He had been holding on to it for so long.
“Amy.” He whispered her name and it all came flooding back.
Darkness. Loneliness. Endless roads. Silent glares. Chains. Whips. Hopelessness. Knights and peasants. The clash of swords. Fire. Fear. A prison of water. Light at long last.
Rory sucked in a sharp breath, his first real breath of fresh air in ages. For so long he had slept but now he was awake again. No more endless drowning. No more water in his lungs. He was free.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside of him, but it came out as a sob.
“Do not fret, ami.” De Payens crossed the distance between them and squatted down beside him. He placed a comforting hand on Rory’s shoulder. “You are safe here.”
Rory looked up at him and felt the pull of a smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled. Amy. The man had heard something else, a word in his native language.
Friend.
He had started to dry out on the walk back, but he was still thoroughly soaked beneath his armour. De Payens directed him to a small room with a bed and told him to rest while he went to fetch a change of clothes.
Rory wasn’t tired, at least not physically. He could have run a marathon if he wanted. His fatigue was more on a mental level. He had fought so hard to stay sane in that watery grave. Going in, he thought he could beat it. He had already survived something similar once; a second time would be nothing. But he hadn’t counted on the water. Intangible, but inescapable. He couldn’t push it back, couldn’t make it feel like he was conquering his surroundings. The water made it seem like he had melted away.
He might have lost it if de Payens hadn’t come along.
Rory stripped off his helmet and his cape and tossed them onto the bed. The room had a small window and he saw that he was still in Jerusalem. Obviously. It wasn’t as if the well’s water source had carried him out of the city. He hadn’t asked de Payens what year it was. How many years had passed, he wondered? Five? Ten? A hundred?
Most of his armour was off by the time de Payens returned. None of it was ruined despite his extended submergence. Thank goodness for alien plastic.
“Please let me know if you require anything else,” said de Payens as he handed over an outfit very similar to his own.
“I will, thank you.” Rory’s French was a bit rusty and also from the wrong century. He lapsed back into Latin, hoping the man would understand him. “Could you tell me what year it is?”
“It is the year of our Lord, 1118,” replied de Payens in perfect Latin.
Rory might have been pleased that he wouldn’t have troubles communicating, but he was more distracted by the year and its implications. Ten years. It was enough to make him cringe but he supposed that it could have been longer.
“We may discuss this later.” De Payens’ cordial manner was refreshing. Rory was more used to people attacking him first and asking questions later. The man exited the room and closed the door behind him.
The warm air had dried Rory’s clothes a little further, but now they clung uncomfortably to his skin. He happily peeled off all of the layers and draped them over the window ledge to dry completely. Rubbing his hands through his hair helped to dispel any remaining droplets. He relished the sensation of water evaporating off of his skin. Who would have thought he would miss being dry.
The new clothes felt incredibly light compared to his waterlogged armour. Rory thought he might float away. It also felt very strange not wearing his armour. He had worn it for over a thousand years now. It was part of his identity, plus, it was armour. It had probably saved him from a sword’s blade or an arrow puncture a thousand times over.
But he wasn’t against going incognito for a few hours. Even if he had been fully dressed for battle, he was sure no one would recognize him. He was merely a legend now, a story told to entertain children and scholars.
He had recognized Al-Aqsa Mosque on the walk over, with its lead coloured dome. Rory never had the chance to go inside the last time he was up on the surface so he was forced to wander the halls for a bit before he found the front entrance. A dry breeze blew in through the open door and it felt like a gentle caress on his face. Everything was so peaceful, unlike the last time he was here.
Right in front of the mosque, that’s where it had happened. He felt his right shoulder twinge at the thought of it and Rory absently massaged the spot. Unbidden, a brief memory came back to him. Chains, and a lot of them. He had no love for them and just seeing those heavy metal links had caused his plastic stomach to twist in knots.
The gash on his right shoulder, courtesy of a superstitious Crusader, was still there. He could feel it under the fabric of his shirt. Even after ten years it still wasn’t healed and that was the down side of being plastic. He would have to stitch the wound back together or find some other alternative to close it up.
Tentative footsteps approached him from behind. Rory glanced over his shoulder and saw de Payens, who was trying to be discreet. The man hesitated when he realized he was no longer anonymous. They regarded each other for a second or two, waiting to see who would speak first. It was de Payens who broke the silence.
“I hope you are not offended, but you are him, yes? The Fabled Centurion of Rome? The Protector of the Pandorica?” He spoke eagerly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like an excited child.
Rory looked away, trying to cover his surprise. So maybe he wasn’t so forgotten after all. He briefly considered denying it, but it would have been an obvious lie. Who else would be dressed like a Roman soldier and could survive in the bottom of a well without drowning?
He turned around to face de Payens. “Yes, I am him,” he said formally.
The man dropped down onto one knee and crossed his right arm over his chest. With his head bowed solemnly, he said, “I am humbled to be in your presence.”
It had been a very long time since anyone had bowed down before him. Rory was vaguely embarrassed. “No, you don’t have to do that,” he muttered in English. In Latin, he added, “Um, rise, de Payens.”
The man lifted his head, seemingly surprised to receive such a command. He rose to his feet but didn’t quite meet Rory’s gaze. “I would be honoured if you met with my knights and our patron, King Baldwin II.”
Rory tried not to frown. Knights? A king? What was going on here?
Things were becoming more complicated than he liked. He didn’t need knights worshipping him and he didn’t need to meet another monarch. It would be like Rome all over again.
But one look at de Payens and he couldn’t say no. The man was so modest. It was like the sad, puppy dog eyes Amy always gave him whenever she wanted something. Rory knew he needed to put his foot down, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was easier to be tough when everyone else was treating you like dirt.
“All right.” De Payens had rescued him from the well. He owed the man.
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