François lounged on the fringes of Alden's tent, watching his friend speak with the Lady Carstairs. She was a charming woman, if a little simpering... but then, there was no accounting for Alden's taste. He recalled that night, and that drunken kiss, and tried to shake off the roiling that built in the pit of his stomach. He had Pippa, and Adam; whence his desire for more and more? But he'd always have it, some insatiable thirst for transcendence. The desire not to slake his lust nor his physical appetites, but a yearning of the soul: what Augustine had called the blackest of sins. The desire to defy God.

Or man's conception of God.

His duel was over, and shortly he would join his admittedly respectable dueling partner, the Lord Fleetwood, in the king's pavilion. In the meantime, he needed a break; he needed to cool off; and most importantly, he needed a drink.

François motioned to the serving-girl, a slight woman with a head of brown curls and a diffident way of holding herself. "May I have some wine, and the pleasure of your company?" His smile broke up the dour gauntness of his face, and drew attention from his battered, oft-broken nose.

He loved to flirt with servants. The consequences were so often overlooked by everyone important.

Renna stiffened. A man's voice summoned her, and worse yet he summoned her with friendly words. This man didn't want just a drink of wine; he wanted her specifically. He was smiling.

She stood frozen for a moment or two, then forced herself to turn on her heel and walk to him, staring at the ground. The servant held the tray of drink out to him and tried to stay the fluttering panic of her heart. She had to do this; if she didn't do this it would mean her job and her child's life. When she spoke her voice was only a wavering whisper, and she planted herself firmly outside of his personal space. "I have excellent drink for you, my lord, but I fear very poor company to offer."

The young lady turned slightly to let him see the child on her back, hoping he would assume she was married, or something-although judging by past experience, that wasn't likely. She tried to say more to him, something polite. "You fought well."

Renna could manage no more. Terror had bound her tongue behind her lips and she simply lowered her head further, praying that this smiling lord would just take his drink and leave her be.

François opened his mouth to request a glass of wine, but found himself immediately distracted by the sight of a very small baby on the woman's back. Why had she brought her child to work? Had she no one at home to watch it? No husband, probably, who had a job and could pay for a nursemaid...

He couldn't help himself. There seemed to have been a strange--thaw somewhere inside of him, so that now when he saw small children he spontaneously wanted to hold them.

"May I? I'll be careful." She didn't disagree or forbid it, so he reached out and carefully lifted the infant from its carrier, supporting it as Pippa had instructed him. He'd missed that bit with Adam, of course, but he wouldn't with the next one. Not that he could quite get over the fact that there was going to be a next one.

It was a girl, he could tell by the clothing, and she had wide, alert eyes and round cheeks. He bounced her a little, then took a quick glance around the tent to make sure no one was witnessing this embarrassing spectacle. At least he hadn't sunk to cooing, or speaking baby-talk. "She's beautiful," he said quietly, looking at the servant-maid. "We're going to have another one, too--" 'We'? When had he begun thinking of himself and Pippa as a unit? It must be the baby's fault, softening him up. Those things were deadlier than priests when it came to imposing morality by their mere presence. "What's her name?"

She sagged in relief. He was interested in the baby now, not her- Mara had done her job. Renna watched the lord handle her child quietly, noting that he held her correctly. This was the second person to call her daughter beautiful today, and she found it a little shocking. Still, the way he studied the child coaxed a wary smile out of the servant's lips, and she had to give a sigh to be relieved of some of the weight burdening her slender frame.



"Thank you, Lord. Her name is Mara--and congratulations to you and your wife. I hope it all goes well."



There, she could say that much at least. After all, it was true. And he was married, and excited about the arrival of another child. She had nothing to worry about. Renna's smile widened as Mara wiggled in Francois' hands, blinking up at him with an expression combined between wonder and bewilderment. "She likes you."

"Oh, we're not married." How wonderfully insidious to say that now. He smiled at the woman, bouncing Mara gently, and shifted her so that she rested against one shoulder, bearing most of the baby's weight on one arm and steadying her with the other. "We live in sin. Here, hold still for a moment, I'd like to give her back..."

He stepped forward and carefully placed Mara in the carrier again, though he couldn't resist running a hand over her face and down one tiny arm. She seized his finger in her little fist and tugged at it, and François couldn't help but smile. Quickly, however, he drew back. A Lord he knew was passing by. It wouldn't do to act like this. His mind scrambled to keep up with the odd changes in his way of thinking. Since when had he ever thought--really thought--what people thought of him? It was... uncanny. Wasn't the whole point that he didn't care--except, it turned out, that he did. He wanted to be seen as... what, transgressive? Ridiculous. He could as easily not care about being seen as a man who liked babies as he could be seen as a maleficent drunkard rake...

Admittedly, some of the glamor wasn't quite...

"So what about some of that wine?" he asked the servant. "--Oh, and your name. I am François Villon, in case you didn't know." His smile, now that he was out of view of the baby, slid into faint maliciousness. There were few who didn't know that name, and its associations.

Her heart plummeted at his request for her name, and she flicked him a very brief and very pleading glance before she lowered her gaze once more and simply offered him a goblet brimming with wine. Lord Francois. She was speaking with Lord Francois; she would never have guessed it with how gently he held Mara but he'd said it himself. Renna could only pray that he offered no orders to her. It wasn't in her power to refuse them.



"Pleased to make your acquaintance, my Lord. I'm called Renna Little."


The servant's tone suggested that she was anything but pleased, but she shifted the heavy tray in her arms and the child on her back and sank to offer him a proper curtsy, albeit a slightly unsteady one. This was beginning to get unnerving. This lord was conversing with her like she was a person, and in any other circumstance that might be vaguely refreshing. More so if the conversing noble was a lady, but still. This was Francois, the legendary seducer of maids and everything else that moved, the constant murderer of unarmed men. It was almost ridiculous to look at him and realize that he'd cuddled her Mara just moments before. Completely impossible to believe, in fact. Renna took a nervous step away from him and waited to be dismissed, shifting uneasily on the balls of her feet.

François noted her reaction, and reached forward to steady the tray as she curtsied. He took a goblet of wine and tossed it back with practiced nonchalance. He'd found a method of drinking whereby he didn't exactly gulp... merely sucked at it, very genteelly, until it was gone. He'd emptied the goblet in moments, and carefully replaced it on her tray before picking up another.

It was a little sad, he realized, that she so clearly feared him. François didn't mind it if men feared him, but as a rule, he preferred to charm. He preferred it when his roguishness was a faint patina of--that word again--glamor, and not the tarnish of stigma. That was no fun. Damn reality, he thought, toasting this idea and taking a sip of his second goblet. He couldn't have more, or he would be tipsy in his joust; so he lowered the rim from his lips and held the goblet idly in one hand, watching Renna.

"I fear I'm at a disavantage. You seem to know who I am--and rest assured half of what you've heard are lies and the other half distortions--but I don't share that privilege."

Renna hesitated, watching him drain one goblet and start on another. But at his comment to her a blush rose in her cheeks, and she snapped her head up. He thought she was avoiding him on stigma! Well, she was trying to avoid him, but-she knew exactly how it felt to be ostracized for events in one's past, so that certainly wasn't why she was trying to avoid him. Still, she took another step back.


"I assure my Lord that I'm not one to believe every rumor that comes my way, and that I'm not treating you any differently than I do any other man. You were kind to my daughter. That's all I need to know."


She tilted her head cautiously to one side, peering at him warily. "And I'm afraid I don't have much to say about myself. I'm a servant. I have a daughter. I work for her. There's no more to be said."

"No husband? No lover?" François raised an eyebrow, looking her over. She would be pretty, if she weren't so careworn. It was that peculiar sort of ugly fragility--ugly was the word, though she wasn't ugly herself--that came only with poverty. By the same token, he knew that for all his ill health, brought on by a few too many beatings at the hands of men stronger than he and too many days spend drinking his dinner instead of eating it... his skin was burnished with that glow of health only money could buy.

"Many terrible men are kind to babies and old women, you know," François admonished her teasingly, twirling his goblet by its stem. "There are examples scattered throughout history, if you care to look. In fact, I'd venture to say that the best sorts of men are not overly sentimental with children, but spread their noble love out equally upon all." He sneered, his face ugly with distaste. "This is why I detest the best sorts of men. Life is no fun unless you choose carefully what you care about!"

"That's true; the best test of a man's goodness is how he treats young women that have something to offer him."

Oh, dear. That was too bold, and she blushed to have said it. But he'd asked about the child's father,which never failed to unnerve her. Her tongue was tripping all over itself. Unfortunately now that it had started there was no way to stop, and she barreled onward despite her rising panic. "There's no husband, no lover; there never has been. Mara's da could be one of twelve and-"


She clamped her lips shut. What was she saying? This was stupid. Renna never let anyone pry her secrets out of her so easily. But Francois had managed it, somehow, and she didn't like to think that she could be so easily manipulated by someone who so obviously wished her harm. "Forgive me. It's not my place. If you must know about me, I do needlework well."

François laughed at her comment. "You'll find I treat young women very well indeed!"

Her comment, however, puzzled him. One of twelve? Generally, that meant the woman was a whore. 'Needlework,' too, could be a euphemism for prostitution. She didn't seem the type, but perhaps she'd had a religious conversion? It would explain the poverty and the strained look she had about her, as though carrying some great burden.

Faith could do that to you. "Don't worry about your place," he added gently, putting a hand on her arm and setting his other hand beneath the tray to help her support it. "Why don't you put that down, and come walk with me? Let people pour their own drinks for the nonce. It will hurt no one, and I know from experience that Marcheford wine is best taken in small doses anyway..." He began to lead her gently toward the entrance to the tent.

He'd known many whores, and she didn't precisely fit the bill... but how else to fit together what she'd told him?

"What?"

She blinked, but he was already towing her to the door. There was nothing to do but set her tray down before the wine spilled all over the place. Renna flinched at the feel of his hand on her wrist. Where was he leading her? Her eyes flew wide in shock as her mind connected what she'd said with how it must have sounded to someone out of the loop, but she could hardly refuse him.

"No, my lord, you don't understand-"

All at once they were out in the sunlight, and something about the glow helped her gather her wits. The servant yanked her arm out of his grasp and stared at him, her shoulders shaking. "Whatever you wish to say to me will be done right here in the open, if you please."
She sounded as if she was afraid to ask it, but on the other hand lifted her head and set her shoulders ramrod-straight. Renna trembled just beneath the surface of her skin but forced herself to keep her eyes on him, watching for the first indication of an attack. "I have duties to attend to; it'll be my head if I'm gone without permission."

He laughed. "Oh, I doubt very much it'll be your head! Come now, I know Alden, and he's far from barbarous. We Marcheforders are enlightened folk. And if it comes to it I know Ambrose too. Trust me, you're safe from any beheading-mad tyrants; I have influence aplenty."

François held out his arm to her once again, indicating that she take it. It would do his bad reputation some good to be seen strolling with a serving-woman, and one with a baby on her back, no less. Why do you care? flashed through his mind, but it submerged as quickly a the flicker of a minnow in dark water.

"Come on, Mistress Little, it's so hard to amuse myself alone, because I constantly feel the moral obligation to spread the glory of my presence and the enlightenment of my words. It's an onerous burden, to be sure, but there you are..." He moved his arm a little. "Come on, then, God may be prepared to stay in the same place, the Unmoved Mover as he is, for eternity, but I an not so hubristic as to think I can too." He winked. "Not that I lack for hubris, of course."

Renna wrinkled her nose, not quite following all of this nobleman's vocabulary. What, for example, was hubris? Was it a good thing to have it or bad? She stared at him, completely bewildered, then shook her head and let her curls fly in front of her face. "No."



The girl looked terrified to even be near him now; wall-eyed like a doe cornered by the hunter. "Please, my lord. No. I cannot touch you. I'll walk if you will it but don't ask me to take your arm. I cannot." She shied away from his touch, wishing for something, anything or anyone to save her from this nobleman. He obviously had the wrong impression of her, and she had no idea how to fix it. She couldn't just -tell- him everything like it was some kind of pleasant conversation to be had over tea. "I promise you I'm flattered at the offer, but I-I just can't. Please don't ask it of me."



The servant quickly reached around her body and snatched Mara up in her arms, filling them so Francois had nothing to hold onto. Hopefully this tactic would actually work in keeping the eager young man at bay.