And so this Medieval wonder is in full bloom. Heady with April. Full of birds, of bees, and of the thousand smells of herbs and flowers, fruit trees in blossom. And where garden thins out and transforms to forest, the brilliance of spring is no less. The trees are full of leaves, birds, and punctuating the layers of sensations -- the plaintive call of a peacock attempting to sway a hen...
     It calls to the mind every ballad of spring ever sung. Of rounds in languages long since passed away from this earth, but for the barest whispers of remaining text. And where better to find him? Where else should he be, but here... in this time and straddling the centuries upon the very spot of earth he holds...
     It is past twilight now. The reds and pinks, the violets and indigoes have departed, leaving behind a star-pocked deepness. A depth that is beyond color, but appears as deepest blue. Nearly black. But the garden is lit by hanging lamps here and there, to provide a little ambiant lighting. Just enough not to distract too much from the stars above. A clear spring night. It would be a good night to be in the Observation Chamber. Still, the lord of the house -- one of them -- is... observing...
     He stands beneath a lemon tree, the last before the fruit trees turn to hardier wood. Dressed for a ride, the tan breeches ending in well-used boots. The shirt is white, tucked in. Something of silk. No jacket, no other trappings remain. Only the riding crop discarded upon a nearby bench. And ahead, two young men are cooling off three horses. Walking in a slow circle. Soft Italian spoken. One, you see... he has red-brown hair, lean with strong thighs. And with him, one slightly taller, dark-haired. Both handsome, both strong, both capable. Both prized handlers of the duke's horses. Known as Marco and Amadeo.
     Horses can be heard, their voices coming from the grove. The scent of lemon stirs against the air, and then of sage and basil...

     "Will, Jezebel called again," comes Ian's voice as he hurries back towards you. He is not dressed unlike you, save a grey-black color to his breeches and well-worn black boots that are scuffing lighter in the last...oh...thirty years. He departed once the horses were brought in, in order to check on a few calls, and now returns with the results.
     "Not to mention..." his hand waves, "...a call from a..." he smirks, "...Marie Lefavre of the Illyrian Child Relief Organization?" Shaking his blonde hair, he chuckles, "Guess that was...someone looking for a charitable contribution? Well, they also asked whether Victoria might be available, your girl said..."
     Ahead of the tree, still a bit from you, Ian stops. Hands come to his waist, the backs landing at the gentle sink of his flanks. He shakes his head again, clearing them of the scene, and then walks around the youths, glancing, as he moves towards you again.
     "Here's the phone," he offers, filching a celphone from his pocket, "If you want to return the calls."

     How he looks on horseback. It is when William Plantagenet is at his best. The mythos of the centaurs was truly realized by the Normans. They barely left them to take their women. Not unlike the ancient Britons before the time of the invading wolves. And among Normans, among the men of his family, it was William that most embodied the legend of Lancelot. The man that could not be unseated. And you saw glimmers of that in the ride. You could quite nearly catch the metallic glint of a mailcoat...
     As he felt you, even before he heard you, William began to turn. Already, a smile was beginning at the corners of that mouth and as you come into view the smile is full. A hand comes up, arms unfolding where they have been resting against his chest, and he waves the phone away. "I will call her in a moment," comes the southern French, languid, elongating against his tongue. "Jezebel... I want to go a full week without hearing from her..." His hand then goes out to you, a calling. A want. A wish...
     Come here and join me...
     "I have been thinking... of our impending trip... and the painting we will do. I was... thinking, amours... that it might be time now for you to learn the human form..." The smile smoothens. William's eyes flicker in the grin. Darkly. Brilliantly. A glint of violet and blue. "In particular the male form. Tell me," he drops into Gaelic suddenly, it sounds odd, "...what would you think of having Marco and Amadeo..."
     Surely, he meant to add along for the journey... and yet, perhaps that phrase was left off intentionally.
     Dark eyebrows lift and William glances over to the two young men, leading the horses in their cooling circles...

     He's still thinking, even as he turns the phone off and slips it back into his pocket. "Hmm? Forms?" Ian wonders, not quite sure where your mind has gone off to. He peers at the young men, then looks confusedly at you.

     "Oui... forma..." he says again, his hand gesticulating toward the men. As they move. See, amours, how they move. "It is something every learning artist," William looks to you, his features softening in some earnestness, "...learns to do. Deal with models..." The smile returns, first to his eyes, and then at length lazing across his mouth. "Amadeo was my model for Henry. Marco... my model for Richard..." he softly adds. Ah, you did not know this. "I thought it would be... interesting... to have a couple of the most handsome men in Chinon available... should we desire to paint something other than stars..."

     Forms? Ian looks at the young men, not having really thought about painting much more than watercolor abstracts. Blurs and blobs of squiggles and color. His brows arch, and he shrugs, "I guess," he murmurs, "...what's wrong with stars?" wheeling around to see you again. His grey eyes are wide, wondering if he has missed something. "I...don't know how to do people."

     His laughter beautifies him. Sharpens the color of his eyes, warms his features, and in the air around him increases the already humming energy. Were you to see the colors that surround him, you would note that the sparkles declaring the magic he knows brighten...
     "Nothing is wrong with stars..." William softly replies, and he turns his head as Amadeo and Marco bring the three horses around. As Amadeo takes the three horses now in hand, Marco picks up the equipment left on the ground. Soon they will be gone for the night. His eyes do not linger on them long, just a nod to a glance. There will be nothing more. And then his eyes return to you. The smile returning. "I will teach you... we will have so many nights to fill. By the time we return, you will be painting my next portrait." And with that, William pushes away from the tree. His stride closing whatever distance remained between you.

     His skepticism is the squint of a beautiful youth. Ian's eyes narrow and lip curls, even as he flushes with the humor of it. You are tickled by his inexperience. Hands return to his hips a moment in disgusted flair, but then he smirks and shrugs. If you say so.
     "Well, I guess..." grey eyes slip their direction, "...two more will not hurt. I thought maybe I would do...a flower...next..." You know. Something simple that perhaps I will not do so poorly.

     "What is the heart of the matter," his voice is at your ear as the next moment finds him in your space. No regard to decorum or polite consideration for the two mortals nearby. Ah, but see? They have turned and cannot see. "You do not seem as... excited as I thought you might be... so!" William inclines his head, a glance given to the departing men and then to you. "Come sit with me beneath the branches of a tree..."
     And he turns toward the gardens tangled and full of growth. A last touch at your back. A kiss left at your temple. The warmth of his mouth lingers for moments after William has turned. "I will buy you fresh flowers in every port we dock..." A promise. "Tonight... if you wish... I will show you the quickest way to paint a petal. It works for nearly every kind of flower, amours..."

     He smiles as you close, nodding his head. Already he has forgotten the two young men, content on thinking of his flower. "It should be the same flower though, right, yes, laird? Because, I will have to work one flower for a while..."

     He walks slowly into the garden. A stroll -- even human eyes could mark each step. Languid, as a seraph meandering through the wilds of Eden. "Hmm... oh oui... the same kind of flower. Tell me... what is your favorite, amours. What is it you would most like to learn to paint..." William looks to you as he continues to move, heading toward a thicket of fig trees. "Is it the rose?" he murmurs, smile spreading. Slanting. "Or purple heather, Scotland..."
      He looks back to his path, and reaching up with his hand skims the flowers of a fruit tree...

     He was to agree on rose, but as you mention heather, Ian blinks and seems to leap from his skin. "Yes! That...with purples and then rose bushes in it."
     Nevermind such is ever unlikely.
     But they are his favorites. "Oh, that would be good, laird," Ian nods, rather enthused now, hands clasping at his chest.

     Laughter again, and the air is heavy with old power as much as by the scent of apple blossoms and lemon flowers. Of coriander, thyme and roses. "Then I will call for heather and roses in every port. The heather... we may have to get this from the greenhouse... have it delivered..." Pausing, William turns toward you, a hand reaching up and grasping a bough of an apple tree. "When does heather grow again, amours? Is it a summer flower in your highlands?"
     Beyond the apple tree, a thicket of fig and fruit trees stand. In the center of the thicket is a green marble statue standing amid morning glories and jasmine. The earth is softened with growth. A private sanctuary. You can imagine you and your lover shall tarry a while. Or... perhaps that is his own anticipation...
     Wild roses climb and grasp whatever they may, and their light scent lifts. William, among roses again. For a moment, a greenhouse is remembered. The stroke of a finger to a petal. The closing of his eyes for the scent. Do you remember that, amours?

     "My favorite knight," Ian stops, watching you, "...always there to get my fondest wish." But something is to follow. Ian exhales, hands slipping behind his back. "Heather grows in summer," he smiles, knowing after all this time, you do know better.
     His hand lands at your back, stealing into the reverie. "You don't have to get roses for me," he goes on. "Or heather," the word less broguish in French. His hand widen and circles as he murmurs, "I...can get them for myself." I am appreciative of how you have seen to me. "Have I...needed kid gloves for so long?" Ian wonders with a nudge and smirk, his chin landing at your shoulder.

     "It is," William murmurs, his hand lowering from the bough, "...what old knights do. Or... at least this old knight, mais oui. It is..." He tilts his head and dark hair drapes in silken fashion. "... an exercise of Courtesy. It helps to civilize barbaric men." And then he smiles. The knowing smile. This barbaric man. "This knight knows not what to do," comes the old French, languid and lilting from the old tongue, "if he cannot grant a wish or two... it is not because you are delicate, amours."
      Laughter sounds at the nudge. Soft, like a whisper. And he closes his eyes. Even beneath the silk, you feel him react to the rubbing hold. A phyical gratitude. "I am looking forward to painting with you as much as I am sailing on the Rigel... you know this...?" You can feel it. On the blood. Indigo flicker as William opens his eyes, looking to you, unmoving from your hold. Do you know that there is nothing I would not give you. Seeing to you... it is the least that love asks of me...

     "Me too," Ian grins. "Just a change of pace will be nice," his hand moves, sliding around your formidable waist before dropping away. He moves around the front of you, between you and the tree. "To sail, to dream...for a while."
     "Will we race camels in Egypt?" Ian wonders idly, trying to steal you from the petal, "Or lie near the waters of Luxor? Shall we wander down the Nile itself?"

     Stealing him is easy. You find that when you touch him, when you move to face him, William is already making the first motion to follow. A duck to place himself fully beneath the boughs of the apple ... to move you, finally, to the thicket of fig trees and apple trees, jasmine and morning glories. "Why not all of it? We can stay in Egypt for a while. I will not mind lingering there..." The mouth makes the motion of a spreading smile. "For a while..." A long while -- implied in the tone. "I think a journey down the Nile is required, is it not?" And upon the edges of the spreading smile, a chuckle. "I will let you determine where we go. The boat is my gift from you -- our journey... will be my gift to you. Show me the world again," William whispers, "... as you did long ago..."

     "Ach, you are a terrible romantic," Ian laughs, hands reaching for a hold at your waist. "I do not..." Ian reddens, "...recall showing you much of anything. When did I show you the world, laird?" he smirks, cocking his blonde head askance.

     "I get this way sometimes... when I have been around handsome men and horses. But why do I say this to you, you know it is my way..." Even if the darkness hid the blush from you, which it does not, you would be able to feel the heat it generated, radiating outward from his skin. A grace of the magic you showed him. "It was you, I recall, who showed India and America to me...anything east of Jaffa and Acre." And the grin is sudden and broad. "I never made it to Jerusalem either... but you took us there. And to the north... Germany. I had never been to my nephew Otto's kingdom..."
     Inclining his head, William looks past you, past the tree branch canopy and to the stars. This, to retrieve immortal memories. "And Africa...you took me to Kenya and to the Gold and Ivory Coasts..." Then indigo is back upon you, fastening even as the colors swirl blue into violet, violet into blue. "I believe that officially constitutes most of the world that should be seen. I know we have missed a couple of spots, but... we have seen the best it has to offer, I think."

     His head remains tilted, smile wonderous. Ian grins, closing his eyes, remembering all of the places. "We have done a lot, Guillaume of Normandy, this is true. I cannot say I have been the most informative tour guide, but...we have...you are right...done much. Experienced much." So much. It is around us. What we are is part of where we have been...
     "Agreed," Ian continues. "A bit of time in Egypt then, hmm? Goodness only knows what Kindred we might see there..." he rolls his eyes, expressing his true sentiment.

     "Ah, now... that is not true. You are nothing if not informative, magister..." he murmurs, and the last syllable lands upon your neck. A lean, a tilt, and a kiss is landed. It is mating season for peacocks, did you know this? A chuckle hums against your skin, but even though his mouth lifts from you William does not lean away. "It has been too many years since I have been on the Mediterranean... and with you, with art, with male models and the promise of adventure..." Sensuous, his mouth holds the smile that follows with a scandalous curl. "What could be better than this? Hmmm... well... maybe apart from Carnivale and a week in Monaco's best casino...as for our Bretheren? They will be eating the dust we kick up, oui?"
     A hand lands upon your side, splaying, curving against your waist. "Do you want to learn the secret to painting flowers?" Again, William bends. This time his mouth brushes at your own, you feel the tickle of the half-grown beard. "I can teach you tonight..."

     "But mais oui, Gui," Ian chuckles, blushing at the kisses, leaning into you, "...I'd like that." He twists and pushes away faintly, taking your hand. "Summer in the Mediterranean...I will have the Captain set the course soon. Ah! You have not met him," Ian chimes. "Fine man. Romy... ah...what is his last name. Well he is called Romy, but I believe his name is Roman..."

     Summer in the Mediterranean. Yes. You can see this sinking in. From ears to mind to realization. To blood. To skin. And lastly to the smile. "Swimming... must be done..." he lifts your hand to his mouth and then turns, stepping from the tree. Not leading further into the thicket, non. But turning back in the direction of the castle proper, Angevin Tower. His hand pulls lightly inward, to draw you to him. "A sea captain named Roman..." comes the mock-lament in a stream of Provencal. "How am I to compete with this, amours... is he handsome, this sea captain named Roman... if so, I have only a short time now before I must meet him in Marseilles and challenge him to some archaic, macho contest..." The scent of lemon is not the only thing stirring against the air. There is also an augmented jolt of Angevin energy...

     A shrug and Ian sways, peering at you with sudden curiosity. "So few men of the sea are unattractive, Will," he smartly replies, "...in all honesty, however," grey eyes peeping from beneath blonde strands, "I wasn't looking..."
     "But if you want to challenge him to some...contest...I will gladly be the judge..." Ian smiles.

     There is only a chuckle for that, the sound held at the throat and lowly in the chest. Paired with the smile that shows itself bold and broad, it is positively damned. Something beyond wicked. "We will see..." Perhaps you should call Roman and give him proper warning...
     The stroll now winds its way to Angevin Tower. Past lemon trees. Past the fountain. Your arm in his arm. "We will paint flowers. I will send out one of the young girls to pick a few lillies with dainty fingers... ah, and we should smoke tonight," when it is stated thus, you know he means opium, "...it will help, trust me. Hmm... and I should return those calls. So... it was..." Dark hair half-veils his indigo eyes as he turns his head toward you, "... Jezebel The Insatiable and... the Illyrian...what was that again? Liberation Front Fund...? Did they ask for me?"
     His free hand extends as you and he pass by a stand of flowers, not far from the entrance to Angevin Tower. A grasp, a snap, and the iris is handed to you. "That is one..." William murmurs. "Hmmm... yes... purple, red and white, this will be good..."

     "Why lilies?" Ian wonders, taking the flower and staring at it. "And...yes...Jezebel and...the Illyrian Children's something Foundation..." he recalls vaguely. "Yes, they asked for you and or Victoria." Okay, now that he thinks about it, that is strange.
     "We are going to paint lilies?" he stumbles after you, rather confused.

      "Lilies have finely sweeping flowers. Long and tapered petals. Besides... I like them." How's that for an answer. It seems decided. But why are you lagging confused, my love? William half-turns to you, his stride picking up in that way he has. Of covering enormous territory. Rather like every other man of his family. And then he stops. "I thought you wanted to learn to paint flowers, did I miss something?" The smile lifts to his lips again, spreading smoothly. Sensuous curve, it is warmed by love and humor.
     Near the great doors of the tower, William releases your arm and steps ahead. "Hmmm... they asked for me... in particular...." mulls the languid baritone. The sound of Plantagenet Thought. "By what name? William Fraser, William Fitzroy, William Plantagnet or Guillaume d'Angevin..." The grin follows. A sudden, heated flash. And indigo glitters. "I really should use fewer names, non?"

     Oh. Painting now. Ian gives a look of realization and then waves the flower at you, dismissing his confusion. "Name? I do not know...I didn't take the message," he reminds. "Ask...Lille." That girl. "You do have too many names," he smiles, walking up behind you, tapping your back with the stem he holds.

     "Lille..." The word is held upon the tongue as he tries to recall her. Which servant is that? The one blessed by god with endowments that would make Helen weep -- or the little slip of a girl who continually drops things when I enter the room. Ah, that is right. Lille Loosefingers. "I'll ask her then... maybe I should ask her to bring us something to drink as well. I want to see if she can make it across the room with every glass in one piece..."
     He's such an ass...but there was a wink for the tapping of the flower as he turned to you...
     The door is opened... and from foyer to hall to Great Hall you and he wander. So much more felt than said. So much felt. And William passes in silence, occasionally with eyes closed. The smile is constant. I will teach you my secrets... you I trust to hold them...
     And the images of flowers. And the sudden smell of paint and leather. And other images pour in... of fruit and flowers. Of still lifes and models. Of him... of canvas. Of cloth. Of wine taken. Swallowed. Painted...

     A sudden tap at your back again. You have been found out. Ian smirks, getting a drift of the emotion and thoughts that rifle through your mind. "I heard that," his French comes, and he chuckles as he catches up with you, deciding to pass you by.
     "You're going too slow," he offers, taking a turn towards the staircase that leads to your private sanctum.

     "Always with you it is rush-rush-rush," comes the teasing quip, filling the hall. You are already to the tower entrance. He is only halfway to the throne. Arms come out, outward extending. "I am a man who likes to take his time, mais oui? I thought you of all people would appreciate this..."
     Such a mood he is in. Perhaps it was the company of such handsome men. Perhaps it was the horseriding. Perhaps the vaulting over stone walls and assailing the rise and fall of his own mountain. But he is... as they say in America... full of It.
     His steps sound next upon the winding stone. Following you in vaulting steps. Three at a time...

Posted by rowan at March 03, 2001 03:48 PM