vigorli

Title: Purity of Intention (21/22)
Author:

arieltachna
Type: RPS / FPS crossover
Pairing: Diego / Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Warning: none
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, created for entertainment and enjoyment only. With all due respect, we do not own these characters, either the actors or those created by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. We just think it’s a fascinating world.
Feedback: would be wonderful
Beta:

tularia
Summary: A cynical swordsman is hired to return a runaway – or so it appears
A/N: Thanks to

tularia for the beautiful banner
A/N2: Dedicated as an extremely belated birthday gift to

rsharpe, our first instructor in the art of sword fighting

Previous chapters

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They had ridden at great speed through the night, the horse's steady rhythm lulling Diego into a half-torpid state, his eyelids heavy despite his efforts to remain watchful. He needed to move, to act – the long, tense wait before a battle was always harder on him than the fighting itself. Forcing back a yawn, he noticed the first light of dawn brightening the horizon. They had to be nearing the conde's estates, surely? He looked to Roux, riding on his left, but the gypsy shook his head, interpreting Diego's glance without words. Nodding in acceptance, the swordsman turned his head toward his right, where Orlando clung to his horse's reins with weary determination. It had better not be much farther to the Lee's pazo, he thought grimly, or they would be too exhausted to confront him.

Orlando prayed hard as they rode, the adrenaline that came from hearing the news that the king had arrived early having long since worn off. He only hoped it would return when they reached the estates, for he was in no shape for a sword fight now, his skills being passable at the best of times. He kept his eyes focused on the road ahead, the slowly brightening light allowing them to pick up their speed even more. Beneath him, his horse puffed hard, but kept the pace. When this was over, if he survived, he would owe the animal a great favour.

Roux could see Diego and Orlando both tiring, but there was nothing to be done for it. They had to ride on and confront Lee as quickly as they could or else they could be too late. Glancing back, he sought the other Inglés with his eyes to see if he fared any better than the other two.

Eric's horse was slower than the others, trying to drop back to an easier pace whenever the big man's attention wandered. Seeing the gypsy looking back at him, he waved them on, digging his spurs into his reluctant mount's side. After all but demanding to join their undertaking, he would not be the one to hold them back. He thought he glimpsed a flicker of approbation as the exotic eyes held his for an instant before retuning to the road ahead of them.

As they scrambled around a curve in the road without breaking stride, Diego's mount's sides heaved, its muscles trembling beneath his thighs. "How much farther?" he called softly to Roux. "The horses will not last much longer."

"Another hour, perhaps," Roux replied. "If we are lucky, we will catch them at breakfast still, before they lock themselves in some hall for their negotiations."

"The horses will last that much longer," Orlando assured the others, "though probably not much more."

Diego grinned, teeth flashing beneath his heavy moustache. Orlando was the surest horseman of them all – if he felt their mounts could endure, they should take advantage of it. "Then let us ride hard, and save our breath to convince the king of Lee's treachery," he called, urging his tired steed to push on just a little faster.

The last hour was the hardest, nerves stretched taut against any danger, senses on full alert hoping they would be in time. When they reached the boundaries of the conde's estate, Roux slowed his horse. "Quietly, now," he warned the others. "We will do ourselves no good if we alert Lee to our arrival too soon."

The others reined their horses in, following Roux's lead as they wound their way through the forest that bordered the property. Before long, the manor house came into view. Orlando whistled softly under his breath. "Lee doesn't believe in modesty, does he?" he muttered as he perused the immense structure. "We'll never find the king in there without Lee finding us first."

"This is where our friend Javier's knowledge will prove of use," Diego countered. "There is an entrance near the kitchens that is used only by servants. Since Roux was able to arrange for several of his associates to be hired as temporary help, one of them should be able to get us inside."

"And tell us where the king is," Roux added, pulling the horse to a stop and dismounting agilely. Checking that his sword hung loosely in its sheath, he turned to the others. "Shall we beard the lion in his den?"

Adjusting his sword belt so the hilt was in easy reach, Diego pulled the vizcaína from his saddle bag and tucked it into the back of his waistband before twitching his brown leather doublet into place. His breeches were powdered with dust from the road, his tall boots splattered with mud, the striped bandanna that covered his windblown hair stained with sweat. A glance confirmed his companions looked little better, even Orlando's more fashionable attire creased and travel-stained. He twisted the end of his moustache with a bark of laughter. "'Sblood, we are a fine set of courtiers to seek audience with the king!"

"We shall hope he can see beyond our clothes to the import of the message we bring," Orlando replied, brushing ineffectually at his travel-marred clothes. He wished in vain for the outfit Íñigo had purchased for him to wear as he faced down the Cardinal in Madrid, but the trek would have ruined them as well. Clothes did not make the man, he reminded himself, glancing at Roux and Diego as proof of his silent assertion, for if they did, those two would be dressed in the finest garb in the land.

An almost imperceptible crackle of dry leaves caused both Diego's and Roux's heads to snap up, hands falling to their weapons as a slender man dressed in the livery of a groom stepped from the trees beside them. The gypsy raised a hand to wave the others back and clasped the younger man's shoulder with a smile. "What news, Fonso?" he asked softly.

"Stefan arrived several hours ago to warn us you were coming," the other gypsy answered. "I'll take your horses to the stables – there is quite a gathering here already, no one will question a few more nags. Emilian is watching for you from the kitchen. He'll see you safely inside."

"Treat the horses well," Orlando requested, "we have used them roughly."

"And keep them ready, in case we need to make a speedy escape," Eric suggested.

Roux didn't say – he doubted he needed to – that escape was probably not in their future. They would either confront Lee and put the proof before the king or they would die trying. He saw no other options before them. "Let's not keep Emilian waiting," he said to the others, continuing on toward the side door Javier had told them would provide unannounced entrance into the house.

Another of Roux's confederates met them at the door, guiding them through a kitchen bustling with activity. "The conde has ordered a special breakfast to celebrate His Majesty's presence," the gypsy told them, leading them down a wide, empty hallway. Diego frowned at the echo of their bootheels on the polished marble flooring. "All the guests are seated in the grand dining room," their escort pointed to the ornately carved double doors at the end of the corridor. "Several of our men are inside, serving as footmen," he added to Roux, before turning back toward the kitchens.

Diego's eyes locked with Roux's for a moment, then he gave a small nod. Between them, no words needed to be said. He spared an appraising glance to the big Englishman standing quietly behind Roux, recognizing that despite his doubts, Bana had kept up with their punishing pace without complaint. The larger man met his stare unflinchingly, and Diego nodded again, satisfied he had made the right decision allowing Bana to join them. Finally, his gaze slid to Orlando. His lover's slender frame was all but vibrating with suppressed tension. He brushed a smudge of dust from one cheek, his touch lingering. "You will convince him," he said softly. "The king will listen to you."

As always, Diego's faith in him settled Orlando's nerves. "I can only pray you're right," he replied with equal softness, tilting his head into the gentle caress. He wished he dared kiss Diego one last time. If they failed, it wouldn't matter – they would be dead men. If they succeeded, though, they could not afford anything that would later endanger them. "If not, I fear it will cost us all dearly."

Despite the danger, Diego could not let Orlando take the final step that might lead to their deaths without tasting his lips one more time. Wedging his boot against the doors to prevent them from opening, he lowered his head for a swift, sweet kiss. "This is worth the cost," he insisted. "If we were to fail, it would all be worth it, only to have known this." He gripped Orlando's shoulder in a soldier's embrace, his grey-green eyes shining with confidence. "But we shall not fail."

Orlando drew strength from the sudden kiss and the confidence in Diego's eyes. Taking a deep breath and drawing himself to his full height, he pushed open the doors to the dining room and strode inside. "Your Majesty!" His voice echoed through the ornately decorated space, breaking through the hum of desultory morning conversation. Every eye in the room turned his way, but he refused to let the startled gazes deter him. "A moment of your time, if you will!"

The king's guards stepped forward as if to stop him, only to find their way blocked by footmen of various descriptions. "I want only to speak with you, Your Majesty," Orlando continued, advancing into the room, trusting Diego, Roux, and Eric to keep him safe. He had one priority only: getting the king to hear him out. Even his father's voice, demanding to know what he was doing there, had no power to distract him now.

His Most Catholic Majesty Phillip IV had not expected to face any danger at a private breakfast in the home of one of his most powerful noblemen. His ceremonial guards might perhaps have been forgiven for being taken by surprise by the sudden interruption, an advantage Roux's gypsies were quick to exploit, disarming the three men before more than one of them could even pull his sword from its scabbard. A babble of voices erupted from the shocked guests around the table, increasing in volume as Orlando stopped before the head of the table, his three companions aligning themselves protectively around him.

"Who do you think you are, daring to disturb my household and guests this way?" a man Orlando presumed to be Lee demanded, rising from his seat and stepping out from behind the table. His clothing alone proclaimed him a member of the high nobility – only the king's pourpoint was more luxurious – but his bearing was even more unmistakable. The patrician cut of his features under heavy, greying brows and the confident, even arrogant expression on his face declared him an aristocrat of the first water. He might have been considered handsome – he was certainly stately – but Orlando was too aware of the evil that lurked beneath the surface to be swayed by his appearance.

"You mean you don't recognize me, conde?" Orlando rebutted. "And you've tried so hard to make my acquaintance. Don Orlando Bloom, at Your Majesty's service," he finished with a low bow to the king.

Phillip raised an eyebrow, glancing down the table at the chief English negotiator. "A relation of yours, Lord Bloom?" he asked, his attention piqued by the young man's persistence.

"His son," Orlando replied, not giving his father a chance to intervene. "I'm sure Your Majesty has heard of the plot to assassinate you. We've brought proof of the other conspirator's identity."

"Another conspirator?" the king questioned, looking toward Lee. "Did we not deal with the Englishman involved?"

"He had a partner among your courtiers," Orlando explained. "We found letters in the man's own hand." He gestured for Diego to present their evidence to the king.

Stepping forward toward the king with a slight bow, Diego slipped a hand beneath his doublet to retrieve the letters. He had of course seen the monarch from a distance many times, but had never approached this close to the royal personage before, and he found he was not particularly impressed. Phillip's heavily pomaded hair waved back from a high, pale forehead, his narrow features aloof and indolent, as if even the continued threat against his life was not of enough import to disturb his dignity. Diego could not help but contrast this waxwork of a man with Orlando's passionate energy. What might his lover accomplish if gifted with Phillip's power and authority?

At that instant, Conde Lee lunged forward, his sword hissing from its scabbard, the blade arcing in a deadly path toward Orlando's chest. Diego whirled, clutching for his sword hilt, knowing even as he did that neither he nor Roux he would be able to reach the conde in time to block his attack. Neither Orlando nor Bana had the skill and lightning reactions needed to counter such an unexpected strike. He shouted Orlando's name in warning, cursing himself for not anticipating that Lee might panic, even though the conde had surely damned himself by his desperate action. Diego's heart clenched in horror at the inevitable outcome, when suddenly the big Englishman launched himself, not at Lee, but at Orlando, knocking the younger man from his feet.

Bana's weight bore them both to the ground, leaving the conde's blade slicing through empty air in a slash that a fraction of a second earlier would have pierced Orlando's heart. The tip, however, caught Bana's shoulder, a bright splash of red appearing on his sleeve as he fell. Before Lee could recover, Diego's sword met his with a dissonant clang, parrying the blade upward in an attempt to wrest it from the older man's hand.

Orlando grunted as Eric's weight crushed him into the floor. Then it was gone as his friend rolled them toward the table, taking refuge there as the clang of swords echoed above them. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, the nerves that arose from facing the king replaced first by fear for his own life and then fear for Diego's. He had seen his lover fight, knew that he could hold his own in a fair engagement, but the odds were stacked against them now. They weren't on neutral territory where the spectators would observe but not participate. He fully expected to hear the sound of booted feet at any second, Lee's guards coming to his aid. Then, too, Diego was still less than full strength and the wild ride to get here had surely not helped. Pushing Eric off him, he moved to the edge of the table so he could watch. He noticed immediately that Roux and the other gypsies had formed a protective circle around the combatants, wisely not drawing their own swords, for to do so in the king's presence bore the penalty of death. Orlando could only hope that if Diego survived the fight with Lee, the king would view Diego's actions through the lens of Lee's treachery.

The door opened and the sounds of shouts reached his ears as soldiers, the king's or Lee's, he couldn't tell, came running. Either way, Orlando clambered to his feet, ready to defend Diego as his lover defended him. At his side, Eric rose as well, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Hold!" Philip commanded the guards and gypsies, though neither Diego nor Lee so much as paused. Lee's actions did much to condemn him already and the king did not want to see his defender slain by any outsider. "Do not interfere if you value your lives."

Orlando breathed a sigh of relief. That assuaged one of his fears. Now it remained only for Diego's strength to hold out.

Diego circled Lee warily, letting the conde bring the attack to him. It was always wise to assess one's opponent's skills, and the swordsman knew he would need to conserve his strength. Lee might be at least a dozen years older than Alatriste, but he was lean and agile, and had obviously been well tutored in swordplay. Diego would not be surprised if the older man still sparred regularly – the speed and power of his assault argued frequent practice.

The conde's blade feinted right, engaging the foible of Diego's steel, then with a sudden flick of his wrist the blade skipped free and Lee lunged, aiming for the heart. Diego twisted aside, parrying the thrust as he did so, the tip of his sword catching the sleeve of the conde's doublet and slicing a rent in the rich velvet brocade. He took a step back as the nobleman's face contorted in anger, his keen eyes scanning the room around them for further threats. The king's command had at least held the others back – he would not have to face multiple opponents, or worry for his friends' safety as he dealt with Lee.

Roux couldn't decide whether to sigh in relief or curse in frustration when the king ordered all others to stay out of the fight. He didn't relish pitting his men against the conde's guards, for however good they were, he would surely lose some in such a fight, but neither could he now go to Diego's assistance if he needed it. He watched Lee critically. The man had skill, obviously, but no imagination, it seemed, all his feints and parries straight from the fencing master. That heartened Roux considerably. Diego had never felt so constrained.

"Uncouth buffoon!" Lee hissed over the clatter of their blades. "I thought I had rid myself of your interference. How did you escape the Inquisition?"

"Your prey was not so powerless as you thought him," Diego answered, nodding toward Orlando while deflecting yet another lunge, his pulse already pounding from the brief skirmish.

"McKellen was a fool to hire you," Lee panted, pressing Diego back with a flurry of quick cuts. "But then, his greed always outweighed his sense. He should have known you'd be tempted to keep the boy for yourself. You have barely enough taste to appreciate him."

"Pederast," Diego spat, his lip curling in disgust. "Had you laid a hand on him, I would have cut off your cojones and fed them to your own pigs." Catching the conde's blade on the quillons of his sword, he shoved back forcefully, setting Lee staggering. Before Diego could press his advantage, drawing a deep breath and tucking the hank of hair that fell over his forehead, threatening to blind him, beneath his bandanna, the conde had recovered his footing and resumed the attack.

Orlando's breath caught in his throat as Diego fell back, only escaping again when his lover pushed the conde away. He couldn't tell what words passed between them, but they seemed to incense Diego. Orlando could see the sweat beading on his protector's brow, dripping from his hair. He was tempted to draw his sword and join Diego despite the king's command, but he feared he would be more hindrance than help. He must have made a move in that direction, though, because Eric's hand was suddenly on his arm, restraining him.

The sound of steel on steel grated through the room as the two men vied for supremacy. Neither had any illusions as to the mercy of the other. Everyone in the room understood this duel could end only one way: with the death of one of the contenders. Orlando could tell Diego was tiring, though his face still bore the signs of grim determination. Fortunately, though, it seemed Lee's age was taking its toll as well, for his parries were slowing, too.

Diego's arm muscles ached near to trembling, his breath rasping from his throat as the pattern of advance and retreat, parry and riposte wore on. He could tell that Lee was wearying too, but he dare not gamble on which of them could endure longer. His half-healed shoulder wound from the duel with McKellen's men, the Inquisition's torture, and their desperate ride to reach the king in time had all eroded his strength to a point he knew was near to exhaustion. He needed to find a way to end this, soon.

Orlando couldn't stifle a cry when Lee bent suddenly and drew a wicked-looking knife from his boot, stabbing at Diego's side while he had the mercenary's sword locked with his. Diego sidestepped quickly, barely avoiding the tip of the blade, and reached behind him, drawing the vizcaína from its sheath. Whether Lee underestimated the length of the knife or whether he simply wasn't fast enough, Orlando couldn't say, but seconds later, the conde had bent double, his hands clutching his belly as he fell to his knees, blood pouring from his abdomen onto the floor.

His chest heaving, Diego let his hands drop to his sides, the tip of his blade touching the carpet, the vizcaína dripping with Lee's blood. The conde glared at him with pure if powerless hatred. Diego's cut had slit him from groin to gullet – a soldier's attack, not a move Lee would have learned from his cultured fencing-master, but seeing Orlando safe had become Diego's own personal war, and he would accept any consequences, knowing his lover was finally free of the conde's threat.

The entire room seemed frozen in shock, a tableau captured by one of Phillip's court-painters, and then the conde crumpled to one side, catching his fall with one shaking arm. Spitting out a curse to rival any Diego had heard on the battlefields, Lee's lip curled into a sneer of disdain. "I hope you enjoyed him," the dying man gasped, "you will never keep him now you have served his purpose." Blood-fletched spittle accented a final curse as Lee slumped lifelessly to the floor.

Orlando forced himself to remember where they were and why they were there, despite the nearly overwhelming urge to fly to Diego's side and make sure he was unhurt. He wanted to deny Lee's dying claim, but that would condemn them both before the king himself and no amount of trickery would save them then. Instead, he turned to the king. "The conde's actions accuse him as completely as any word in his own hand, but we will lay the proof of it before Your Majesty if you would see it."

As Orlando spoke again on their behalf, Roux broke the protective circle, hand going to Diego's arm to draw him away from Lee's body. Under cover of that innocent gesture, he imbued his touch with as much healing energy as he could without drawing attention to his actions. It wasn't much, but hopefully it would offset the exhaustion he could read on Alatriste's face long enough for them to finish with the king and withdraw. They needed Orlando focused on their diplomatic efforts, not worried about Diego.

"His actions have condemned him already, else he would never have attacked to prevent you from showing the letters," Phillip replied simply. "You have the gratitude of the throne for bringing it to our attention and preventing his crime, but we see you have not arrived alone. Present your companions to us."

Orlando inclined his head in acceptance of the thanks the king had offered and gestured for Diego, Roux and Eric to join him. "Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, formerly a soldier for Your Majesty, Eric Bana who came with me from England to protect me from the conde's threats, and Roux..." He trailed off, not knowing how to describe the enigmatic gypsy.

"Also one of Your Majesty's former soldiers and loyal subjects," Roux inserted smoothly.

"Our gratitude to you all," Phillip declared. "Señor Bana, you saved your master's life this morning, taking a blow intended for him." He slipped a simple garnet ring from his finger and held it out. "Such dedication deserves a reward."

"It's only a scratch," Eric demurred as he bowed low before the king and accepted the offered token.

"I'll be the judge of that later," Roux murmured when Eric returned to his side. The Inglés shot him a surprised look, but Roux ignored it.

"Señor Roux," the king continued, drawing their attention again.

"If Your Majesty would thank me for my service, then stop the Inquisition from persecuting the gypsies simply because they are Rom," Roux interrupted smoothly. "My people have served Your Majesty loyally these past days while I returned to Madrid to seek the proof we brought you. Grant them your protection."

"Done," Phillip declared, taking the time to look more carefully at the servants whose demeanour was suddenly less than subservient.

"As for you, Señor Alatriste, we should be put out with you for daring to draw your sword in our presence."

Orlando tensed, ready to defend Diego's actions, but the king went on before he could speak. "By your quick reactions, though, you saved our life. You shall have a captaincy in the Royal Guard, where hopefully those quick reactions will continue to serve the crown well."

Diego inclined his head, fully aware of the distinction the king was offering. Once, he would not have hesitated an instant before accepting such an elevated position, but while he had served his king faithfully for many years, he owed his loyalty and his allegiance to another now.

"I am most honoured by Your Majesty's consideration, but I must respectfully decline," Diego replied, conscious that the king's offer was not truly a request. He and Orlando had still not spoken at length about their future, but despite Lee's dying words, Diego finally believed they would share one together. "I fear I would fit poorly into your royal household."

Phillip frowned, unused to being refused. "It is not wise to reject the patronage of your king," he pointed out, his voice hardening slightly.

Taking a step back, Diego stood at Orlando's side, resisting the temptation to meet his lover's eyes, sure if he did so his expression would reveal more than the king and his court had any right to know. "I am honoured," Diego repeated, "but I have already the patronage of a powerful man. My sword is pledged to him, for as long as he has need of my service."

tbc…