Fully restored, Chinon casts an imposing and beautiful vista upon the plateau over the old (and new) village. Though some say that his brother's Mirabeau or Galliard would have befitted Lancelot's castle, there is no better paragon of the age, no better match for the Joyous Garde, than here in Chinon.
     In the departing sunlight, the walls and structures of Chinon held the red and orange warmth of twilight upon honeyed stone, its blue-slate tiled roofs turned indigo. But it is in the retreating dim glow of late twilight, that you have come, and the castle is lit strategically, with an artist's eye to hue and shade, the artistry of light itself. Once across the limestone bridge, the gates opened wide for you, and the doors through the Tour de l'Horloge.
     You have caught Them -- the Great They of Ian and William-- just before their planned departure from France, to return to Our Scotland for the remainder of the winter and throughout the spring. Strangely fortuitous, no? For you would never venture to The Country. And They had not planned on going to The City...
     Such a handsome and attentive staff. One might think they were hand-picked (one might safely assume this, even if it was by strange happenstance that They are served by lovely servants. It is of course no happenstance that said servants are horribly polite. They are well-trained.) -- and you are shown upstairs into the main receiving area of Their residence. Breathtaking architecture, restored to former glory -- if not better than it ever was -- surrounds you. And a dozen seating areas, offering comfortable hospitality. The servant left without asking whether you wished a drink. Perhaps you think this an oversight? However, as you waited -- as you knew you would have to, it is Him we are talking about -- and hopefully in the interim made yourself comfortable, a cart arrives. Carafe of something refreshing, looks suspiciously like water, along with a selection of liqueurs, the flavors of which waft potent to your sensitive sensibilities. And, just in case, a selection of fresh fruit, berries mostly as they travel easily, a few winter pears.
     The servant does not tarry. And as soon as one door closes, another opens...

     "You are too kind," Jezebel says, crossing her legs. Dressed in grey blouse and green skirt and pumps, she appears rather sedate today. Or perhaps braced for the complexities of travel. "I will pass, but thank you," she adds, smiling at the servant.
     Burgundy hair drapes over her shoulders, highlighting the garnet necklace at her throat. Her accent remains, despite years upon the continent. She has no shame of her Scottishness, a backwards world, as some say. Surprising one of such talent could come from some such a place. But it's never worried her. A Scotsman she is, through and through, and if the world underestimates her, it is to their detriment.
     Jezebel looks up as the door opens, head tilting to the side. It should be you, and she rises, having sat most of the day. Beside her, her green jacket lies with a purse. She will not be here so long.

     First, it is a dog. What else. A brindel greyhound with bright, too-knowing eyes. He noses the ground nearby but does not halt his pace toward the comfort of the rugs near the hearth. There's a trademark greyhound grin and a yowl as he yawns...
     ... Not a half-moment later, even less if one may count all the spaces of a second, William emerges from what is probably a bedchamber. But he's been awake for hours. And he was painting. You can smell it. The dull scent of earth. The twinge of something chemical. "I hope I have not kept you waiting too long," comes the standard greeting, but with the warmth of a smile that is more than congenial.
     William is dressed in a black turtleneck, black trousers (no leather!) to go with. It offsets That Face like a jewel, the indigo eyes becoming the crown gems. There's no hint of any other adornment, no Crusader's cross or father's pendant. There is only the wedding band displayed (as it has been for years now) on his left ring-finger.
     "I had to be rid of the paint," comes the Gaelic, his own accent as persistent as yours. The lazy drag of Provencal turning the Gaelic sultry. A sound that Gaelic just should not have. The smile is quick and warm and wide, and there's a kiss Continental. "Your trip?"
     You may have passed but William looks over the cart, rubs his hands together and beams boyishly for a half-second. William at Five. But then, it is with Age Old Mastery that he chooses his 'poison'. Pear liqueuer.

     The kiss was quick, a formality. She bobbed her head left, right, left, then sighs when you move to the cart. "No worries," Jezebel says, retaking her seat. "The trip was fine...I have been in Breda the last few days. I decided to see you here instead of at home...I already have a full schedule when I get back to Holyrood." Court Central in Edinburgh. "How is Ian? Where is he?" she wonders, glancing at the door. His imminent arrival is not felt, but he's somewhere about. "Will I not get a greeting?" Tsk. He's always been one to keep for himself.
     Crossing her legs again, Jezebel's lips purse as she waits for you to get your drink and respond.

     "Ian is fine," a warm assurance, and fingers pluck the already poured glass of pear liqueur. "Busy these nights." There is a pause, a grin as he takes a seat across from you. William's energy is everywhere. He is the spirit of this building. The stone has a pulse and it matches his own. And has he ever, in your recollection, seemed more alive? "Even when on holiday vacation," comes the languid baritone, mulling over Ian's ... tremendous work ethic. With the smoothening of a smile. "I told him you were coming. I am sure he would want to see you before you leave. And... I'm glad we are meeting now. I think I am booked after straight until summer, and I haven't forgotten about the Boy With The Basket," he speaks of the Caravaggio. Just in case you were curious. Though he has been keeping you informed of his progress. He is ahead of schedule, truth be told. "He is my summer and autumn project." Indigo flickers, a flame's dance, in his wink. "Are you sure you don't want anything?" an offer to the cart. Impeccable host he's become.
     And he waits for you to segue into the Matter At Hand.

     "No, no," Jezebel says. "I am fine, Will, thank you."
     "I saw your piece in M," she says. "Interesting. Who was the girl?" she wonders for a moment. "And where did you find her.."

     "Lady Arundel found me," he quietly quips. "She's... an interesting case. She's been loitering around Llywelyn," Davydd, "... met her incidentally through him. But," he sips at the pear, his eyes fastening on you, that palpable look, "I had no idea she was working for the magazine until I turned around that day and she was there." That essential mouth pulls a half-smile, smooth. "A virgin with a chip on her shoulder." A pause, a sip. "And still a virgin, despite the fact that she was naked by the end of the night." Needless to say, that didn't make the article.
     William settles back in the chair and sets the glass aside. His fingers lace together against the cashmere of his sweater, which lies against his musculature like a shade of dark paint. "I was particularly... hmmm... she caught me in a sharing mood." William breaks into a grin. Beautiful.

     "Apparently." The name doesn't mean much to her, but Jezebel smiles anyway. "Llewelyn. That's a name I haven't heard in a while." She sighs and lets it go at that point. "Well," Jezebel grins, "it was interesting reading. How did the Dunross take it?" She's aware of his...insularity. "You all over the cover of M? I'm sure half the island read it." Jezebel smirks, imagining the response.
     "Though, the photographs were nice. Not a horrid job for a trendy rag, with brooding man on the front cover," she acknowledges with a smile.

     "Ian took it surprisingly well," considering. "But he is much changed. Still insular. He is still Scottish," a mull of a tease. You are all a rather insular breed. "Still," William continues with a nod, "...he was shocked. I think the... dismay of having his naked back discussed has worn off, and was I brooding?" The smooth voice ends in a quipping question. "I thought I smiled," so he says, with the slant of a grin.
     A hand reaches out to take the glass of golden liquid. One sip more. So potent, it begins to move through him. "I wasn't sure what the fallout was going to be, in truth. I didn't think about it. I so rarely say anything about what I do, and even more rarely demonstrate it. It was bound to happen." William inclines his head, a moment of seriousness settling. "For one so apparently in love with himself, I am rather closed-lipped about it." He chuckles at that. It is funny because it is true.

     "You are? I hear about your quiet self-devotion every time I see you -- but look, Will," Jezebel smiles, leaning forward a little, fingers tickling her garnets. "It occurred to me," 'me' sounding more like 'meh', "...what about a follow up to the article? It got great buzz, that's for sure. A show, maybe. Of your work of late." She certainly is aware of your last one.
     "I know, I know," Jezebel sighs and leans back. "You're going to say no. And nothing recent," she can understand that. "But...people are curious, you know..."

     That gets a grin. Almost a blush. Cheeky thing. No matter what he says, who'd believe That Face? But grin tucked in and in check, William inclines his head, listening to the rest of what you have to say, hands lacing against his stomach again. As you make your offer, he seems to think about it. Much as he usually does when it is asked. But instead of the requisite No, a raven brow lifts. "What are you thinking... in terms of work. What do you want to see?"
     There's no following grin. No wink. No 'I gotchas' or any other similar expression. There is instead the matter-of-fact of Business.

     Ah, but her smile. It is beatific. Something of Gaelic magic. "Well," Jezebel leans in conspiratorially. "Something...intriguing. Insight of a man and his love. An artist and his muse? The living canvas, perhaps. Or..." she cocks her head, "...love made visible through the combined beauty of a man and his lover-artist?" Terribly provocative, isn't it?
     "It's be a killer show, Will. Just brilliant! Love, true intimacy. Art beautiful, but given something divine? It goes beyond art, how love blends on a shared canvas..."
     "They'd see, Will, what beauty and love really are..." she adds quietly. "Hyper-real."

     You make a good pitch. You can see he's intrigued. But you also know it would be venturing into territory that even Plantagenet doesn't usually allow. For while William is more seemingly accessible than Ian, he is no less private. Most of what others have experienced have kept them at a distance from him. Though insight is gained, it is rarely the artist that is spoken of. But what you are proposing...
     Well, to borrow a term from Meurelle, you're asking for the full monty. Metaphorically speaking...
     "You know I could not do it without His blessing," William softly speaks of Ian. But if you came in search of a big catch, you have found a willing barricuda. He stops to think, a palpable pause of conversation as tangible as a touch and as audible as a breath. "I've been painting him as long as I have been painting," a revelation, but likely you suspected it. "You could see it throughout the ages," he offers. William inclines his head again, tipping it back, his eyes following the curves and lines of his castle's buttressing. Indigo searches there a time. Perhaps, searching for an angle that The Dunross would allow such a thing? He is thinking. His eyes are in motion. Keen mind cannot be doubted in such a look, in such intensity. "It would have to be limited," he murmurs. Limited run or exclusive guest list. Indigo eyes return their attention upon you.

     Goddess! You're going to consider this?
     Jezebel nods politely, not ruffled at all. "Absolutely. Your show...I'm there to help, of course. Give a space, maybe." She may not have known about the painting, but there is no betrayal of her awarenesses. "Private show, invitation only, maybe. One night only? An elegant affair, or..." Jezebel offers, hand flipping over, "...something more familial? Folks should consider themselved blessed to even see such a thing..."

     I am considering it...
     How am I going to explain it to Him? Maybe there is no explanation to give. Simply the offer. Let him mull it over...
     William stops himself mid-train of thought. "I have held the secret of how stunning He is for nearly a thousand years. I think that ... one night... is at least what It," the relationship, "...deserves." And he's not kidding. Indigo eyes narrow in thought. "One night only, invitation only. Something for Scotland," William says. Nowhere else. It could not be anywhere else but Home. "I may be able to get him to agree to that." At last, he smiles. Slight, smooth, but deep in its warmth. "You have a gallery in Inverness?" He seems to remember something of that. Someone does. He is not in Inverness much, the mind dims the details of who owns what where after a time. "Or Edinburgh," he continues, "...would be appropriate." Dunross' city it yet is.
     William takes in a breath of thought, holds it a moment. "If He approves, I will need some assistance in picking through all I have. Six centuries worth of art," his mouth slants and amusement edges his expression, "... I am not sure I would know what to do with it all. I would appreciate your guidance there." If he agrees. "I will, of course, give him final veto..."
     The nudes are right out...

     "Absolutely," Jezebel says again. "I have several options," she hiding her delight, "...including the City, Inverness, Glasgow. Depends on how you want to frame it all -- but Edinburgh is his, Will. That, in my opinion, is where it should be? Or, in a smaller place first, then a night in Edinburgh?" Okay, you're pushing it, woman.
     Six-centuries. Jezebel tilts her head, "I'd be honored...to help you paint the picture," which is what the last choices are. "Two men, a love," she smiles, falling into her own romanticism. "I'd be honored, to help you." Not to rifle through the collection, but to help set this setting. "Season, invitations...all your choice. I am happy to make all arrangements, even send to your guest list. Flowers, other things in the space, lighting...all your choice, Will, of course."

     It is his city. It always will be. "Isn't it strange, in all this time. With all the galleries. I've never had a show." William grins. "It is strange being on the other side of the table." A little overwhelming, in a way. If William can be said to be overwhelmed by anything. "I will talk to him," he says, which is as much an acceptance as he can give before he does speak with Ian.
     "Of course, nothing will be for sale. No price too high to refuse," he murmurs. I could not let them go. It would be like letting a part of myself go, a part of him go. No one else should have such access. He will admit, readily, to his possessiveness. So be it.
     William nods, to his thoughts, to your words, to the magnitude of it all. Slowly. As if still mulling it over himself. "It's very personal. I've never let something so personal be displayed so freely. But he deserves it." Without hesitation, he says this. "He absolutely deserves it. If he is willing, then we will have a show."
     A pause. "How would you like to proceed? I will probably wait to talk to him until we get back home," as if this weren't home -- it is, but Scotland is Their Home, much more profoundly than glorious Chinon. "It will take me a little while to go through my vaults," here. "But I will have time over the summer." William grins suddenly, "...when I'm not hard at work on the Caravaggio, of course."

     "Well, first," Jezebel says thoughtfully, "...dates and season. Space. But," she smiles, exhaling as if she's almost done, "...we have time. After you get home. I will write to you for your needs. What is the mood you wish to set. Each gallery is different, but the ones in Edinburgh especially so. In fact," she thinks, "...maybe my own studio near the Mile? Over from Holyrood? Not so formal, an artist's space?" You think about it. Only then does she stand, reaching for her jacket.
     A glance at her watch, then Jezebel looks at the door. "I will have to see the Dunross at home, aye. I will want more than a few minutes with him, and I have a flight to catch to get home." Some's schedules aren't so flexible. "You will tell him I was here and that I will see him in the city, hopefully?"

     He rises after you. His mind is already far ahead. In the future. Organizing, planning, while his body (though sizable it is), is left to fend for itself. William smiles, the look gentling by several degrees. "I will tell him. He will be sorry he missed you, but maybe we can stop in the City on our way back to Strathfayr and see you then..."
     A pause and his mind returns, like a scout with news from the Way Ahead. "Something intimate... informal I think... I'll toy around with it," his hands gesticulate as he speaks, a habit he falls into when he is most himself. "We should be there tomorrow, unless we fly into Inverness. I suppose it depends on the Scottish weather. I'm trying to brace myself for the cold. It's one thing when you're in it and you expect it. It's quite another to enter into it with eyes open," William chuckles, eyes widening a touch in appreciation for it.
     The greyhound lifts his head as his Other Self rises, but he remains at the fireside, even as William rounds the chair and moves toward the door. "Whatever the outcome, Jezebel," William murmurs. "I appreciate the opportunity. It would be... well, the show of a lifetime. Both literally and figuratively speaking." A once in a lifetime (many lifetimes) event.

     "It would. Hyperreality," she's still selling, "...A marriage." There. Not bad. She'll have to work on that. Ah well.
     Jezebel comes out of her reverie long enough to turn at the door and place alternating kisses on your cheeks. "Alright then. I will see you in country. Say hellos to Dunross. I will talk to you soon."

     "I will give him a flourish worthy of a greeting from you, to be sure," the Gaelic lilts, leaping off the languid tongue, chased by a languid smile. "Go safely," goes the old farewell-thee-well for now.
     A marriage...
     That's not bad...

Posted by Criseyde at June 20, 2003 07:32 PM