As you were approaching, the Duke was alerted to it. Woken...no, not woken, for he was not...exactly sleeping. But risen from his bed, and dressed. Not for court, certainly not. But to welcome his eldest living brother. And the future King of England. At least, this week. Unsober steps are still sure. His pace quick and filled with prowess all the while. Tall, and he will yet fill out in time. There is more bulk now than in the previous summer. Next summer will find him eighteen, and even more of what he shall one day be. His hair is cut short, but long up front, and is...right now...in some disarray. Wearing a dark blue cloak, a light linen shirt, and leggings of wool that leave not much to the imagination -- and these barely tied. Dressed in haste, will be the interpretation of his appearance.
     "Richard!" The booming roar that is hereditary. It carries over the parapets of the inner courtyard. You are riding in and dogs are scattering. And hens. And sheep. And young lads with the stablery trot forward to tend to your beast. And William stands at a headstone, wearing a half-cocked and ...yes...drunken smile. And more beautiful of countenance than the young scamp deserves. Even ...or perhaps especially...when he is disheveled. William walks down the stone stairs leading to the courtyard.

     To be a whelp like that. Richard's years have seen too much. Lost too much. And he's not even King of England yet -- bastard Henry. But there's a smile to see the one whose inherited his title. The one his mother told him to give up...for something more. "Will, you are a work," he calls out, swinging down from his own mount. Dressed in reds and greys, he and his men are rather cleaned up after seeing the German borders of Lorraine. A stop made somewhere else first. A wave of his gloved hand and the men begin to disperse, Richard patting his mount and looking in his immediate vicinity. "I heard you were too busy to come meet your brother," he yells, turning about and leaving the massive creature, "...I couldn't imagine doing what." Winter hood is pushed down, and yes, bearded years of nearing thirty are upon him. And some bruising. "Ah, but what a man you are..." he laughs, a few laughing behind him, "...your father's son." Said too many ways from left. Booted feet pick up the pace to greet you, hands and arms extended.
     But did you see the half-instant of a wistful look at the lad who takes the reins of Richard's horse? Only a moment. Not desire, but something else. An instant of sadness. And almost as quickly as it arrived, it's gone when he turns to you. Crushed underfoot, whatever it was.

     The Youngest Lion. Younger by a year than Lackland. Younger by some eleven years to you. And yet, more in your timbre than in any of the other brothers. Young Henry, these last few years deceased. You. William. Most like Henry -- and for that, tensions are strained in the Plantagenet household. Of course, there are more reasons for tension than that.
     William is all grins, but the stride has slowed to something almost languid. Brandy and passion spent in his stride. "I'm out of bed, aren't I? If you were Geoff, you'd still be at the front gate...you know I love you..." He laughs. And hands extended, meet your own, but it's a brother's hug that greets you. The boy is damn near as tall as you are. A glance was given to the lads, "Bear it away. And switch the stall with Rosamund...oui?" The boy nods and they trot off. Horses are led away, and you are yet before your brother. He, always, in your shadow. But comfortably so. "I shall spare you the introductions to my bedmate, how about a warm bit of brandy. Come," he says, "tell me about Paris..." This, says the future heir to his future King. Had both lived...the history they might have made...

     Linked arms guides inside, Richard's chin up. Always up. Even at mention of Geoff...and Paris. He won't mention his recent pass through there. "What's wrong with your bedmate?" he quizzes, long strides across the filthy courtyard and to the stairs. "Bah, nevermind!" he bellows, not really wanting to know. "So. What think you of my Normandy!?" he dares, expecting nothing but wonderful words about it. "I...almost miss it, y'know..."

     "I prefer the Aquitaine. Ah, I know...let's switch and make amends..." The grin is lopsided and William matches his elder brother's stride. "As for my bedmate? A Normandy apple. Sweet but unfilling. More like her, I shall need a tree of them..." The duke's stride slows as the hall is reached. Dinner is still laid out...it was not long ago, in fact. "Normandy suits me well enough and I seem to suit it, brother." More quiet words. The hall is empty. Not even the servants wander by. William pauses by a flagon of brandy. An ornate thing -- a gift from Burgundy, hoping his daughter might serve as the duke's ...wedded prize. Truth be told, he's already had her. And he's not sold. Not even after the brandy. "On your way to London...I don't envy you that. I will have to go...Christmas court at Chinon..." He makes a face. Seems suddenly seven -- perhaps to you. But the look is fleeting, as indigo eyes lift to you...and the glass held out.

     "Yes, well," Richard says, taking the glass with a nod, "Chinon..." he shrugs, setting glass down and tugging at his gloves. The thought on Chinon remains unfinished. Right up there with ignoring your query on Paris. "I'd like the Aquitaine more myself, if I actually had it." Gloves tossed down. Glass snatched up. Mood becoming more foul. The cloak hangs heavy upon him as he looks up and around the hall. "It suits you, Will. My brother," he looks back warmly, wistfully. "The only one I can stand." How much more like his father he is becoming. He sighs and spins away from you, walking a few steps. Voice calls loudly, "I wonder if London doesn't suit me better than the Aquitaine? Don't tell your mother that."

     And you are avoiding it. Well, perhaps after more brandy. In the large wooden chair of the lord of the house, William settles. A lordly sprawl within it. He sees the dark cloud. William inclines his head. Resting it back against the head of the chair. His gaze sharp. A raven brow raising. "I believe London suits you well enough. A bit foggy..." comes the languid quip, full of mulling humor. Clever. "But nonetheless not without its virtues." Feet are propped up on the table. "And mother and I are not currently speaking. I'm not the...flavor of the month, this year. I believe she's moved on." They have always had an on-and-off relationship. On when it suited her...off when it suited him. But he is much like her...in many ways, the most equal blend of Henry and Eleanor. You, much more like the father. Geoffrey, too much like Eleanor. John...adopted, certainly. "And you will...send me a summons, yes...when you ....try England on for size...."

     "I will," he says, sweeping cloak around and taking a seat to face you on the table. True...when he comes quickly into England as her king and then spends most of his time away from it. Brothers will make sure he pays for the error. But for now, his blue eyes peer at you and a turned up smile grows at his lips. "So. If you're not the flavor of the month," he follows that with a massive, messy drink from the cup, "...who is?" And in a rapid upturn, he swallows the rest. Yes, he has every intent upon being totally, raving drunk.

     William already has a head start on you. You have some catching up to do. Such can be seen in the fire-bright eyes. He chuckles and takes another swallow of brandy. "Hmm...It can't be John...it wouldn't be Geoffrey. Oh dear, Richard...that leaves me and you in the thick of it together. Do yourself a favor and burn the messages." He wishes he could love her, as when he was a boy and she would sing to him. But by the time he held a sword, he was a tool. "She wanted me to marry pretty Marie. I said no..." A pause. "Besides, I've already tasted that vintage and seen what the fruit would bear. I'm off of Anjou..." A smile. Literally. And then a sigh. "But...she will come around. If she cannot nettle you, she'll be back at me again. God has too much blessed us, my brother. With parents who love...too well..."

     He makes no comment on her. Richard can never speak poorly of her, unless he's drunk or violently angry. He loves her. Always has, always will. Even when she took her love from him. She loved him once too, especially when he grew to be like her distant husband. But some ways of loving were impossible. And for that, perhaps she grew angry at Richard...when he couldn't be Henry in ways she wanted or needed. Sharply reminded that he was her son...not her lover so groomed and educated by her. He drops his goblet and pours himself another. "It's good of you to stay off Anjou. They are a...lot." Like Louis. Like Louis' son. The goblet full, he puts the decanter aside. "So. When are you off to Chinon? Brace yourself, hmm? It going to be a chilly winter there."

     "I will be there by the Lord's birthday, and pray I make it to my own." William says this casually. As only a fifth son can. His life is more in balance than a king's in some respect. Legs lower to the floor and he reaches forward. Eyes on the second goblet as he pours it full. He loves her...but...he cannot seem to love her. You are the only one who knows the ...enigmatic William well. "I should write her," he murmurs. More sounding like Eleanor's boy than a duke. A sigh. New topic! "I have a new shipment of mounts from Spain, you should see them. Bays and greys. But for one white. Him, I keep for myself. The rest go into training. And do you know something I do not...that I should brace myself so well..." He has her grace of tongue...in and out of themes like a poet. "I will have to balance father and mother on separate hands like uneven blades..." He is favored by Henry -- this year. Next year, he will be the only one left standing. Who could know that over this cup of brandy? He sighs. "I wonder, brother...what it would be like to...just love...for the sake of loving without having to count the knives hiding under the pillows..."

     He would not know. Favors given and then taken so quickly. Beds and hearts abandoned so quickly. Yet the Lionheart remains steadfast. But why? Why not. "No, I don't know anything special," he says quickly, downing much of his goblet. "And you should write her... I understand that she keeps exiled hands busy with tapestry. Or better yet," he thinks of it, "...maybe you shouldn't write. If she's forgotten you, that might be to your benefit." He smiles. That is as cutting as he shall get so sober. He looks at you a moment, then says, "I see both of them in you, Will. I hope that is a positive. Moderation in all things. Myself..." he finishes goblet again, drops on his beard, "...I can never know moderation." Every moment is a fight, a struggle. "I'm not allowed. You..." he looks over again, "...I hope you...are luckier and better than the rest of us in that."

     Thoughtful gaze moves from you to the contents of his cup. Heady brandy. He takes a drink of it. "I do not know if it makes me...moderate. According to Brother Justinius, I'm only slightly less immoderate than Satan Himself. But...perhaps he's being dramatic. I could never understand men of God..." A reflective moment. No, he's never been a religious young man. He wears it well...when there is a need for it. "As for mother..." A pause. A slim and smooth smile. A look to you. "She loves Christmas. I will surprise her with a gift. I will kiss the cheek that once graced emperors as well as kings. And stand in the middle. Like the center of a storm." And he laughs, throaty and mature. Seventeen, and a man. With occasional boyish moments. His head inclines, leaning back against the chair. "I am lucky to be a fifth son and so favored by my brother, whom I love." A lift of his glass to you. "But...how does it preclude you from moderation, Richard?"

     He waves a hand, "You...have Normandy. It shall be your legacy," Richard explains. "I don't have Aquitaine. I don't have the Vachhund. Tell me, William of Normandy, what do I have?" Goblet up, filled with bitterness. "Tell me...what I have?"

     "As long as Henry believes I can be trusted. He could take it from me. It's his you know. I'll be out of favor one week and it'll be John's. I have it by your will and work and by Henry's acquiescence. I am the fifth son. It is fortune. And god's grace. My life is in the hands of Fate. So far...she has been a mistress worth paying to keep around the house..."
     William matches your bitterness with simple and unadorned fact. Cutting through layers of debate in minutes. He is a warrior, cut from your cloth. Henry's cloth. But his glass is set down and William moves to you. "You have the sword, and you have the repute to back it up. You have your command in battles, what man wants to take you on. As long as Henry's frightened you will have your crown from him. In time, he will have no choice but to give it to you...You have ...a brother's love, you have a mother's love though it would fain to kill you both if it went on...she will always back you. And you will have the Aquitaine. That is what you have, Richard of England." Using a future title. "More I cannot tell you without pissing off the Almighty," he says quietly -- always with that humor to end it. That taste of sugar after the salt of some report. The diplomat within the young man. "Shall I tell you more, brother?"

     "All untested future, Brother," Richard murmurs, the sadness boiling up. "For now...nothing. Save myself. My sword. My hand. I gave up Normandy to your trust...for a chance at the Aquitaine. At England. And that..." he spits the name, "...tired father of ours will not cough it up. Eleanor's love keeps me at Henry's beck and call. He will not do as long as he knows she waits. Even if he keeps her in a tower on the Thames." And there are other things that shall not be. "What...does your love, her so-called love...get me? Truthfully, little. What I get..." he cocks his head and says through seething teeth, "...is given to me. Or...I shall have to take by force. Those are my options." Pursing his lips, he goes on, "...and Henry would not dare to take Normandy from you. You're right, he'd have to face me. And to face me on the Aquitaine and England is enough for him, I shall guess." Goblet drained again. "Moderation? Tell me, Brother, when do I have time or the leisure?" Then he smiles. Temper changing like the wind. "But oh!" hands raised in clenching fashion, "how I do like the name Richard of England!"

     "Whatever fate you may bemoan, think of this, my brother England..." William leans in a little. "You are not John." And to that William laughs. Hand clapped against your back. The little brother is not so little anymore, ne c'est pas? And the future king's hair is mussed by a future Chancellor's hand. William chuckles. "I thank you for Normandy, my brother," he says quietly. "If for nothing than for the look on John's face. If I were stricken poor and blind this very instant, I would still consider myself blessed for having seen it!" And he roars again. So much brandy. Another glass poured as another glass is emptied. "Enough of the family, they are ruining good brandy. I know you were at court, give me the latest gossip..."

     "Court?" Richard looks up, coming back to attention. He smiles, words you said now sinking in. No, he's not John. Thank God. He would give up all, just as long as he is not his least brother. "What of it?" he asks, eyes going to the large hearth. Recollections there, in his eyes. Then they evaporate. "It was as it was. Louis...as ever...complaining about Burgundy...and those lands your father managed to slip from him last year. I told him to take it up with England, not with me...save that..." he smiles, "...they weren't of interest to me." And that he'd return them when France supported him as King. "Other than that, a passable week or so." When he turns to fill his goblet again, his jaw is set. No, there was more. Much more.
     "I want to see those horses," Richard says, moving on. He leaves his seat, the overlays and cloak shifting around him, falling to his boots. "And what's this of a Rosamund?" he says flatly, apparently not all that amused.
     "I also heard..." he says louder, "...that you have been sniffing around that Marlene of Champenoise..." he swings goblet around to face you, some feet down the table.

     "Ah, the lovely Rosamund. She's my favorite bitch." Greyhound that is. "She was taking up the lord's stall while the horses are on the back portion of the lands. It was time to bring her in. Ah Christ...I forgot to run her..." He's half way out of his chair just thinking about the damn dog, but then he settles. Well not much to do for it now. William lifts a brow to the rest. And then there is that small...damnable grin. Marlene of Champenoise. "Did you hear that? I wouldn't call it sniffing..." He wouldn't but the rest of the world would. "She's a lovely creature...." he mulls. "Do you not think?" He's thinking of it, in fact. "Who was doing the talking? Marlene?" He chuckles a little, held in his throat. Oh well he knows how to use the gifts God has given...

     "No, she was not," Richard smiles a little, "...but her brother's friends are. If the rest of her family are ignoring it, they aren't. She...isn't bad. You could spend time with worse. Too bad it is that fluff of Champenoise." There's a wink to you. Not too much talk of such things where he's concerned. Marriage, certainly. Sniffing, no. Not enough time, its said.

     Marriage? He's not even considering it. Bedding her in fine linens on her next visit to the court in Chinon or Mirabeau? Almost certainly. She is lovely. Fair skin and walnut hair. Small but rose-colored lips. And an ample bosom. You can almost see William running down a list of her ...attributes. As he rests his head against the back of the high-backed chair. "Champenoise is not for me...not...for matters more serious..." Marriage. He cannot even say the word. He grins, smooth. Damnable. He could claim hearts with such a smile. No doubt he has. "I could come to ...like her, I think...but...I like so many others. I do not think Marlene would understand..."

     "She might," Richard says, still working on that decanter of brandy, "...she's stupid enough to believe you." Then he winks again at you and laughs. "Oh, dear...this isn't what it looks like. She's been ill, and I am checking on her before we think we need to call a physician!" He tosses drink back, "Dear Will," his voice pitched high, "...you are so thoughtful. But how can you see her when her back is to you and she's under you like that?" The ensuing laughter is a mighty roar, enough to cause his drink to splash. A leonid cackle.

     It is met with the roar of the Youngest Lion. Eyes squinting and flashing in it. "I'm feeling for her pulse, my love!" he protests, baritone rich and carrying. Soothing...and far too smooth. "I think...she has a fever..." And then William falls to cackling as well. Booted heel hits against the table, rattling dishes. When laughter quiets, he wipes his eyes free of the water that had gathered. And he sighs. "She is not so smart, but her..." His voice begins to cling to his throat. You know the rough sound of Lust when you hear it. "...skin is so soft. She blushes easily. And her breasts fit the hands well..." Apparently he ...has been sniffing...at least sampling.

     "Ooh," Richard nods, "...you have been testing," he teases. "Well, good on ya," he says loudly, turning the goblet up again in a fell swoop. He wipes at his beard with the back of his gobleted hand. He smiles, but what else is there to say? He has no such story he can tell. Not like that. A grinned sigh and he begins to refill. "What think you of that Alice?"

     "I love her," William murmurs. He looks down then. All teasing and mirth and lust are gone. And does he not? She, his sister and yet not his sister. She, who most often cared for him...most of the other girls already gone by the time he was six or so. "I haven't spoken to her in a while. How is she?" William looks up. All rakish, roguish pretense behind. He is serious. And strong. There is regality there. Majesty there. The Duke has awakened. "I can imagine Phillip is...anxious for the wedding. I do not think it will happen...anytime soon..." Henry is enjoying bedding her too much. The Church would frown on that once she's married to one of his own sons....

     That comes as a surprise. He was not expecting to hear his name. "Who cares what...Phillip...is anxious for." Richard shrugs, drinking a messy draught from his goblet. "Your mother..." he notes, "...has made mention that I may have to...." he frowns, voice slowing. He can't even finish the statement.
     "The...Duke of Orleans..." Richard goes on, moroseness about him, "...he...has gained some peacocks. A gift from Spain. I figured...it was appropriate enough."

     A roll of his shoulders. William hadn't wanted to say his name. But Alice....is...Phillip's sister. But, more on that later. "Ah...my mother now is she?" William's lips pull into a slight and slanting grin. It does not last. "Yes...well...Henry will not be anxious to give her up. And I think even Canterbury would complain about him bedding the wife of one of his sons. I think...you dread too much...what may never be. Crown first...wife after, Richard." William inclines his head. He does not advise often, unbidden. But with you... "Peacocks, hmmm? From Spain? Are they so anxious to part with their own court?" Yes, a jab at Spanish noblemen and a joke...to ease your sorrow. "I have never actually courted a woman and meant it...perhaps I should try it one day so I know why poets groan..."

     "What need is there to mean it?" Richard shrugs. "What is it...to mean it?"

     "I do not know," William says, seriously. Voice smooth and tone languid. "I just want to feel them warm beneath me and be face down in soft skin and pillows myself." And then he grins broadly. "It is enough for me..."

     He could do without the recollections. Richard only groans and tosses back more of the brandy. "Yeah, well, you keep on it, Brother," he says low. Maybe your time will not come. Mine has arrived. A consideration of the cup, then Richard finishes it. "I should let you get back to your mount," he says crudely, a distancing of such notions from himself.

     He chuckles softly and makes a wave. "Non...she is asleep, for certes. I would rather sit and talk with you..." A pause. But about what? What else. William's laughter has faded. So, too, his smile. There is the quiet look of Knowing. Understanding. Well...not understanding but at least sympathizing. He pours himself another brandy. "The world sits heavy on my brother's shoulders...and I...I am nothing if not his easement..." He settles back, propping feet upon on the table. "You know, brother. I hold our trust in faith..." There's your opening.

     He looks over at the assessment, smiling. "You are an ease," Richard taunts, pun intended. A grin and he goes to refill his cup. Then, he stops. A consideration. Cup is set down and exchanged for the brandy decanter itself. He turns it up at his lips, but looks to you beside it. What means you here, hmm? Richard brings it down in a swift swing, exhaling after it. "And I know our Trust, Will," he says, "...this is why you sit as Normandy."

Posted by rowan at May 12, 2003 07:38 PM