Peter Bowen

*clears throat*

Who is more affectionate? Jacob.

Who angers the easiest? Jacob.

Who is the one too drunk to drive home? Jacob.

Who’s the the one bandaging the other after a fight? Malle.

Who is the one to pull the other to try new things? Like the weird restaurant down the street or skydiving. Peter is constantly trying to get Jacob to try cuffing his sleeves.

Who is the driving/riding shotgun? Peter is driving. Jacob does not have a license and cannot be trusted.

Who has the weirder taste in music? They both like the sound of chilling silence.

Who tears up during movies? Peter.

It was cute Bowen thought he could box Jacob in. Even cuter that he could, because this wasn’t the setting for shoving another man aside. Jacob angled a glare up at the queen’s private secretary. A word. Fine. Fine. Jacob would have a word with the man, and likely many more–but not for Peter Bowen, for Malle.

He followed the man’s gestures to stay and to sit. Jacob sat next to the man, edging the chair back enough to create a bit of distance. He directed an unamused stare at Bowen and didn’t falter when the subject was established.

“What is it about Queen Margaret we need to discuss, Mr. Bowen?”

Immediately hostile. Fantastic.

Peter took it in stride, a blink settling his features. He nodded. He’d make this brief. It was a delicate line, presuming intentions and offering guidance, and as little as he liked to think of Margaret in a state of undress, he liked considering her partner even less.

“You should know -- you should be aware,” He corrected himself. “Of the laws concerning an unmarried Queen in this nation.” He drew a breath. “And any suitors she may have.”

On second thought, this bloody sucked.

“Queen Margaret is an unmarried queen, and by all accounts, a virgin queen. If that status were to change publicly, her rule would be compromised, and the man responsible would be wanted for treason.”

Peter cleared his throat and stood, straightening out his cufflinks. Were he any less a professional, he may have blushed.

“Enjoy your evening, sir.”

“Captain, a word.”

Peter caught the man’s eye across the room, and crossed it quickly to appear by his side. He kept his voice low and covert, though his body impeded the captain from moving any further. Dinner was over, the crowd dispersing to the ballroom -- the bar, the lounge, the dance floor -- but Peter imposed upon the man to have a seat.

And then he, too, sat.

Talking about a queen’s sex life wasn’t exactly comfortable conversation. There were things he knew, that the queen was planning to wed this man, and things that he didn’t know -- all the rest of it. And yet, the prospect didn’t worry him. He wasn’t afraid of uncomfortable subjects.

Peter smiled, set his own drink down on the table. This wouldn’t take long.

“We need to talk about Margaret.”

“And we are all very fond of Queen Margaret. My eldest daughter, Lecia, in particular,” he replied, “Your queen is a clever girl with impeccable decorum.” After the summit, Afonso harbored no doubts that the Welsh monarch would go far in the position. Already had. Even though she had not been the first born among her siblings, in the end she had been chosen to lead. Interesting how that worked out sometimes.

“Tell me, how many have arrived for the event already?”

Queen Margaret wasn’t a girl, and he cleared his throat to stop from saying so. That wasn’t appropriate, not for the conversation, not for the other participant, and not for Margaret herself. Beneath the big brown eyes and wide smile was someone who -- Peter had found -- was surprisingly self-sufficient. And angry when she was not allowed to be so.

Approaching the entrance to the King and Queen of Portugal’s quarters, Peter stepped aside to let the King pass. He smiled. “I believe thirty, your majesty, including yourself.”

He cleared his throat, giving a polite smile.

She looked at him in gobsmacked silence at first before her lips spread into a grin. Charlie’s hand moved as if to fistbump him, remembering what had happened last time she tried and dropped her hand. ‘’Why, I would love to be in a pub, Mr Bowen.’’ She shoved the cigarette in her jacket pocket, something to be thought about maybe another day.

A briefing. About what had happened on the island she bet.

‘‘You can show me the living room instead. and, maybe take me the back way. Don’t want to ruin your reputation being seen bringing in a street rat again.’‘ Charlie chirped, a mischievous grin dancing on her lips. ‘‘I’m sorry, I got home late last night. I left first thing this morning, and didn’t quite think about my attire.’‘

It wasn’t something that she often thought about, but looking Peter up and down in his suit and then giving herself a quick glance told he that she probably should have giving it another thought.

He exhaled slowly, a little satisfied at her unease. Good. Princess Charlotte was a starlet darling of the royal families, with her blonde hair and her family name, but Wales was not England, and he felt oddly keen on keeping that distinction. Margaret had enough of an uphill climb. She didn’t need any distractions.

Yet, her request was reasonable. Peter nodded. “Of course.”

Leading her back through the courtyard, to a set of side stars that wouldn’t reasonably be considered for the servants’, he held open the door and followed her inside. As he directed her toward Margaret’s formal sitting room, he gave her attire one last, somber look. 

“Would you care for something to eat, Princess Mountbatten?” He paused. “The chef is available. Her Highness wouldn’t want you hungry.”

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass. Afonso held himself with a quiet dignity that had been built up over many years and could not be diminished by a single instance of being caught napping in someone else’s library. His lips turned up at the corners.

“An escort, yes,” said the king, "Your county has been gracious enough to host so many of us, and I would not wish to return to the wrong rooms by mistake. I imagine this event has been quite an undertaking, yes?”

A small, polite smile fixed on his lips, but amusement sparked in the corners of his eyes at the comment. “Yes.”

Margaret had plans, almost too many of them at times, and seemed to charm just enough people to go along with them. He occupied a strange place in the Welsh court: a servant to the Queen, of course, but an advisor, too. There were moments, glimpses, where she was clearly just thirty years old, and brand new to the job. And moments where she was humble about it, too, and impossibly shy. Peter didn’t know if he believed in divine right, but at the end of it all -- he believed in her.

Charlie & Malle, ft Peter. > sometime after the Island rescue.

She had finally heard the “short story” of what had gone down on the island in those few months, and then had driven all the way to Wales immediately. Charlie leaned against a brick balustrade in the Welsh gardens, an unlit cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other that she was tapping against the side of the balustrade in deliberation.

She had stopped smoking five years ago, but hadn’t been able to resist buying a packet of twenty Chesterfield when paying for gas in the petrol station as well as a strip of spear mint chewing gum and a bottle of Pepsi max. Her hair was still thrown up, hidden underneath a battered NY baseball cap, a gift from Henry a few years ago, large sunglasses covering her eyes and civvie clothing in a poor attempt to hide who she was from the public.

Charlie pulled at a loose piece of the frayed edges of her denim shorts, chewing on her bottom lip as she waited for Malle to be informed of her unexpected arrival. By habit Charlie took out her phone from her jacket pocket, remembering only when she tried to check the time that it had died three hours ago.

She toyed with the cigarette in her hand, wanting to smoke it but at the same time also not wanting to get back in that habit. But the disturbing news had been enough to make her drive herself for four and a half hours straight to Wales and buy the packet of cigarettes. Gideon, Kane. Footsteps made her turn around and her lips twitched up.

“Oh, hey.” A pause, her eyes behind the large dark sunglasses sliding to the large building behind him before flickering back to him. “I’m honoured that you want to see me, but I gotta break the bad news. I’m not here for you, I’m here for Malle.” Charlie grinned at Peter. Her fingers once again toying with the cigarette, it was starting to go limp in her tight and anxious grip. “I’m guessing she’s busy? I didn’t exactly call ahead. Slipped my mind.”

@peter-bowen

“Pardon me?”

The woman’s accent was -- by all accounts -- similar to his own, but Peter was a Welshman through and through and this was distinctly foreign. 

Not altogether unexpected, given the diplomats and ambassadors that seemed to flock to Cardiff after Isolde’s return. That was exhausting enough, putting aside that the one remaining member of the Tudor-Pembroke-Dafydd line looked more like a lost woodland animal than a queen. 

He looked up from his papers only latently, taking in the Princess of England.

“Princess Isolde Malle,” he corrected, a little sharply. The battle ahead would be difficult at the least, insurmountable as a small minority. Best not to cut themselves off at the knees. “Is in a briefing.”

Charlotte Mountbatten came from about as impressive of a lineage as one could muster --- and had a reputation for trouble.

Peter came to a stop, looking over the young woman.

“I’d be delighted to show you to a sitting room. Or, perhaps,” her own attire was in such direct opposition to his, a Vivienne Westwood three-piece suit in navy check, that it was almost comical. “You’d prefer the inside of a corner pub. Your Highness.”

He smiled.

Afonso awoke with a snorting gasp. He straighten up in his chair, clutching a copy of An Outcast of the Islands to his chest. It took a moment to reorient himself to his surroundings. He was used to traveling, but as the years piled on he found himself growing confuddled when he woke up in rooms that did not belong to one of his own palaces. His smack his lips together rather unbecomingly. His mouth was a little dry.

“I apologize. I believe I drifted off,” he answered. Gently he set the book down on the table beside his chair, and blinked in the sudden light of the table lamp. Off-balanced shadows stretched across the shelves, growing upwards toward the ceiling like clunky boogie-men. Sofia had never liked the dark or the shadows. Afonso raised his hand to cover a yawn and said,“Peter Willems does not usually put me to sleep, but…”

Perhaps he would try listening to the book on tape next time.

“Bring me a glass of water, please. No bottle, preferably. Unless it is the reusable kind.”

“Ah, apologies sir.” He bowed out of habit, a polite smile fitting comfortably onto his features. Listening to his request, he nodded and disappeared, clicking his neck and rolling his eyes once he was in the hallway. His feet ached. He’d worn the same clothes for nearly eighteen hours. It was time to--

“Here you are, sir.” Peter returned with a glass balanced on a small silver tray, having ransacked the servingware and not bothered to put any of it back. That was someone else’s job. He’d hear about it tomorrow.

Tucking the tray underneath his arm, he waited for a moment.

“Is there anything you require, sir? May I escort you back to your room?”

He didn’t often sleep in his castle quarters, preferring the sleek, nearly empty flat he considered home. But they were useful, especially on nights like tonight. Pirate security clearances were not as easy as one would think... and he wasn’t foolish enough to think anyone thought they were easy to begin with.

Stifling a yawn, Peter took a left out of the commerce hall and trotted down a half flight of flagstone steps. His loafers, shiny cognac leather, glinted in the low light. While much of the castle and its grounds had been modernized, there were still ceremonial candleabras mounted on the walls. The book under his arm was another testament to the monarchy’s longevity -- a record of laws and cases brought forth in 1604. He intended to return it to the library, and return himself to his bed.

Entering the room, he hardly noticed another inhabitant until the silhouette caught his eye. Peter froze, his hand falling to his side and slowly working its way underneath his jacket to where his gun was holstered. He brushed his fingertips against the cool metal and took a breath.

“Erm, hello?”

He was, after all, a servant of the crown.

Bending to turn on one of the table lamps in the long, low library, he took a step forward.

“May I help you?”

“If you’re going to try that--”

Daintily, he reached for the small, plastic bag, his fingers clothed in a silk handkerchief. Dark brown eyebrows lifted; the guards around the perimeter watched amusedly as Peter strode around the small jail cell. The other man, seated in the corner, and considerably dirtier.