There is an amber hue in the woods, stretching down a wooded lane, adding hue to a Romanized sphinx at the head gates of Chenonceau. The amber hue owed to the lights of Chenonceau, lit as they are every night. But this night, they burn for new residents. And the lights echo across the quick moving waters of the Cher, ripples highlighted.
And the manicured gardens, their fountains and pools also lit...
And the grass...
And the trees...
And a rider...
Long woolen coat is open and lies against the flanks of a large, white Andalusian. Against the otherwise uninterrupted whiteness of this beast, the deep blue wool is a sharp contrast. He, this dark-haired rider, and the horse seem as one beast. At once beautiful and formidable. There is a concert between the rider's position, the nearly imperceptible motions of his thighs, his legs and the motions the horse makes in response. Elegant canter that makes it seem as if horse and rider were gliding spectral across the wooded park of Chenonceau. Like ghosts of former inhabitants of this jewel of France's crown.
There are three ways best to view Guillaume d'Angevin, William Plantagenet...
In bed, rolling between the sheets, particularly if said sheets are a combination of white silk and burgundy velvet...
In the middle of painting, when his eyes are unfixed upon his work and his hands are in motion upon the paint, doing what no brush could hope to do...
And on horseback. As if he were born there...
It is when he is ...most real. Most true. Most himself...
The wooded grounds are still moist with this morning's rain shower, the scent of mud is coupled with that of the sweet winter grasses, crisp air, moss and bark. The gravel road leading to the chateau itself is well-packed, easily traveled...
"I am impressed, Will," Ian calls, dressed in his master's clothing. He's spoken nothing but French since the arrival, and seems rather cheered with the place. He spent hours making sure the limited stable staff understood the horses and his rules, but then left them with your own handlers, who'll teach them the details.
In the house, he met the present keepers, but gave them Dionnach, Stephen, and Robert, who, for a few days, will discuss households and personal service.
And on the grounds? Well, Eamonn didn't mind travelling along, in order to handle the basics of building, land, and security.
Poor Chenonceau's staff must be overwhelmed. They will need more hands, soon.
"You've outdone yourself," he grins, leading one of his favorite mounts behind him. Nothing like your Andalusian, this horse, a young French quarter, is all about beauty, dexterity, and the occasional bursts of speed across the flats. It should love traipsing the woods. "I was..." he grins, his tan coat fluttering around his tan and black boots, "...eh about a castle." Confession there. "As if we needed the expense," he closes, now on the gravel, "...or another..." hand wave, "...show...but," he nods, "... this might be rather functional as a hunting and riding holiday home." Indeed. A -reason- to visit a place. It has certain things it does very well.
"Sorry for being late, dauphin," he laughs, "...had to answer a few questions in the stables," gloves tossing at his shoulder for the later buildings built at castle's angle. "Ready?" he wonders, bringing the horse, Aberfyle, to a firm halt at his side for mounting.
A slow circle around you, the slowing canter of a well-trained horse, and then the canter halts in something of a dance-in-place as the stallion is suddenly stopped. And for you, this must be something slighly nostalgic. The white horse is not the same you saw him with on that dusty, bloody night so long ago, but he's of that tree. The last branch, in fact, even as William is. But the two of them are not relics. They do not stand before you as some monument to the Middle Ages, but are rather living and breathing.
He is wearing a long deep blue woolen overcoat, very dashing indeed. Ivory kid gloves. The shirt, too, is ivory. the wool riding trousers are a match for the coat, the boots over them, black leather with a well-cared-for sheen. The horse is lightly tacked, barely tacked in some ways. Nothing of the heavy-handedness of American riding, but of the sleek, aristocratic equestrian. Which is, of course, what he is.
"Dauphin, is it? I think every tomb in France is shuddering," comes the Langue d'Oc. It is that he speaks, switching to 'Paris French' (or modern French) only when made to out of courtesy. It is Occitan that best suits him. William is smiling as he appears before you, sitting easily and horse beneath him relaxed as he is. Indigo settles on you -- a glance given to the amber-hued chateau -- but it returns to you soon enough. "I am glad you like it, but I hope I have not truly outdone myself, amours, for I have many more years to court you." He leans forward a touch, the smile converting to a grin. "Oui... this will be lovely .... we will come here... ride here... hunt here... sip wine in the gardens. Chinon is not so well suited for riding. We needed... someplace, mais oui?"
The white horse is suddenly in motion, a pivoting, ballet turn -- once a very fine war maneuver, now simply lovely. And its long tail lifts in its slight fan as he begins a dancing trot, more a jogging in place, as William waits for you. Its neck, strong neck, arching bold, long forlocks and mane creating a white veil. And William reaches his hand out for you.
Before we charge, amours, there shall be a kiss...
"You're so kind," Ian breathes, setting one foot into his stirrup and floating over Aberfyle in one sweep. His coat flares behind the horse, who starts with the motions. "What's this for?" Ian asks, he and horse siddling up next to you. Despite his wardrobe, tan with white and black most of all gives Ian his best aristocratic look. The youth who became a huntmaster, then the lord. Aren't all Victorian tales of such social moves?
The kiss he gives is brief, for he works to put on his gloves at the same time. A touch and pull of his lips. "Have you been all around? How far does the wood go? Anything interesting out there," that might be worth killing later?
"We have two sides of surrounding woods, on either side of the Cher," he surveys, the dancing jog-in-place of his mount slowed. The horse beneath him is anxious to move -- there's a snort for all this waiting about. "Last family kept it stocked with deer and a few boar. I haven't seen evidence of the boar, but we do have a lovely little family of deer, at least. Likely a fox or two, more rabbits than we have trees. A good boar hunt," his voice goes gutteral at that, as if he were talking about parts of your anatomy rather than killing something, "... do you know how much I miss the," his hands must gesticulate on this point, "... visceral joy of thrusting a spear into something..."
As if you didn't know. Such old pleasures, they are rare these most-modern nights. And some of the Middle Ages were worth missing. Boar hunts among them...
"My hands twitch for a good lance on occasion," William laughs brightly, light of it echoed in dark eyes, as he flexes his hands in some sympathetic motion, "...is that not sad, mon ami?" He tsks at himself, looking to you to see if you are ready. What are you to do with me, what am I to do with myself? No matter how modern his look, you can't leech the knight out of him.
"Freud could write books on you," Ian grins, mock-rolling his eyes. A slight pull of Aberfyle's reigns, and the lighter horse turns about to face the same direction as you. "Well, lead on," Ian grins, hand waving at you.
The car turning at the head of the long drive lights up the tree-lined walkway. Someone coming or going, or potentially, the co-owners arriving? Whomever it is, Ian does not let it slow him. He murmurs at the horse, who begins a slow walk towards the woods.
"What does this mean?" William asks, riding slowly alongside you, his stallion taking two steps for every one of Aberfyle's, though the same amount of distance is covered. The gait of the young and fiery. There is a reason why he rides what he rides, drinks what he drinks, is as he is. Every choice deliberate, meaning something. "Am I obsessed?" he laughs at that, at the phallic notions of his previous statements. Ah me, it is true though. "There is no question of it," William answers his own question, a wink given to you. "But... what can I do, amours..." as if he were helpless to it all...
There is a flash of light from the drive, beaming purposeful, passing the sphinx head gates. William brings Curtmantle to a pause, stamping feet and snorting misty breath and all. "I wonder," is all he says, but then he is moving onward, his horse floating over the moist ground of the surrounding woods. Once again, he and his horse move spectral and in unisoned purpose, the extended trot of the Andalusian so smooth that William seems to sit perfectly still. The trot soon transforms into a slow canter. He skims the tall trees near the line of the road. High, the trees are the first majesty one encounters in Chenonceau...
Amber light...
I could begin to see it from the National. This time of night, there is little to make such light in the distance. And we were approaching it. I tried to pull the secret out of you, to ruin the surprise with my little questions, but as we came closer and closer to this light, I stopped asking and simply decided to wonder.
The passenger-side window is down. Out of it I flick my cigarette from time to time, blowing the smoke out the window. I sing to your radio...
That is, until we started pulling up the drive...
I sat forward. I looked at you. I pressed the fire out of the cigarette. I breathed the last of the smoke. What is this, Eduard. Leaning forward as we pass the sphinx gates, my eyes focus on the building at the end of the tree-lined road. Not seeing, for the moment, a pair of riders in the amber-lit darkness.
"Dieu," I say. And I look at you, on the edge of smiling.
Edward was silent after picking up the Sauber at Fleurlil. Perhaps it was the pass through Blois before turning south to Amboise. He could tell you yards and yards about both places, but he did not. He smiled though as he turned down the drive, lighting the path ahead; it needs no help, in truth.
"Welcome to the lodge," he says softly, relaxing a little. Nervous, perhaps, because he doesn't know why he did it, what you'll think, or was it an appropriate thing to do to you so soon.
The worry still frustrates him.
"If we're lucky," he says, slowing down the drive, "...we can get in without causing too much noise." And having Will, Ian, and the entire staff show up at the front door. Two hours to get to a bedroom is a little overdoing it.
"What...do you think, ami?" It's not mine. It's yours.
Sometimes lightning strikes...
Who can explain it. Or give reasons why one does this or that. Sometimes things have to simply be done...
"Lodge?" Valan says, and there's a laugh to that word. Lodge? For whom? The king of France? Oh, that is right, we do not have kings anymore. Well, other than the princes I know, like the handsome man who shares my bed. And a few of his friends. Valan blinks at the amber-lit chateau, then looks to you. Dumbfounded. But in a good way.
"It is marvelous," he begins, looking at it, shaking his head. Looking at you, shaking his head again, speechless for a moment. "Beautiful, Eduard..." And, yes, it sounds like 'Edoowahrd'. Valan falls quiet a moment, his hand rising to his mouth. A gesture of surprise. It lowers soon after. "The... chateau..." Is this the gift? It can't be...
"Edward," William informs you, blue-violet eyes lifting from the Sauber and returning back to you and the surrounding forest as you ride yet side by side in the slow, gentle canter. He still rides by the lane, lifting a hand as the car moves by. But he does not stop.
Easily, William rides beside you. "A hunting, riding lodge for us. A first property for him," he murmurs. And he did this out of love for everyone involved, bankrolling whatever he had to bankroll, uncaring of whether he would ever see a dime of it returned. For of you all gathered here, there is only one truly fond friend missing.
Edward. Well, of course. Ian lifts a hand too, but keeps on the pace with you. "I guess they can make their way inside?" he wonders. Do we need to help? Ian's gaze stays on the car until it passes. Once gone, he exhales and turns his attention ahead once more, picking up the pace. "I hope they like it," he finishes, rather content to focus on the riding and the woods.
"It is," is all Edward says, nodding. He cannot help but smile at your delight. "All yours," he adds softly, passing the lions that stand guard.
The car rolls to a stop once it crosses the first bridge and reaches the stairs to the castle proper. Edward's swung the Sauber around so that your door has the leading view. "You...never said what you thought, ami? I...I want you to have something nice..." without me. Even as I bring you closer to me, I prepare for the night when I am no longer here, with you.
And maybe...that's it.
Edward inhales and looks over to you, hoping to find joy in it all. There is some, seeing your face. He sits still, waiting for you to let him know your thoughts.
There is no move to follow his friend inside. They will all see one another soon enough. This moment, the first sight, the first tour -- this belongs to them. And he does not play voyeur, nor host. It's their home, as much as ours.
Your pace is matched and William looks to you and smiles. You know what's behind it. You know each curve that mouth has ever made. What the quirk means, what the grin conveys, what the smooth smile portends, what the face of love looks like.
The woods are dark, the rays of amber light extending from the chateau have ended. The two of you proceed into the dark, moist world. In contented silence...
Valan looks up at it, this beautiful home straddling the water. He stares at it for a moment, a moment more. When he looks to you, it is with an expression of wonder, gratitude, overwhelming... surprise, the residue of shock. "Ami," Valan says, smile easing over him. "I... love it... it is... amazing, beautiful. I... don't know what to say. I have never gotten a gift like this..." He shakes his head, then leans in, capturing your mouth in a sudden kiss, his hand to the back of your head. Even when the kiss parts, the touch remains. "I am very flattered you would do this... I ... with..." he sighs and smirks at his own speechlessness. Intent, he leans in toward you. "Show me the interior," he says, hand landing on your thigh. And then he grins. "Of my chateau. Dieu! Eduard," Valan suddenly laughs, "... you treat me like a prince, you spoil me, ami... "
Before he leans back to get out, he whispers at your ear, mouth brushing it. "I love it very much. I love you more than any item you could ever give me. But... I will make a home of this. For both of us."
His seeming serenity is more melancholy. And at a time such as this! Edward accepts the kiss, needing it very much. He grins and nods, opening his door to sprawl out. A quick close of his side, and he's on yours, opening the door for you.
"I wonder where everyone is," Edward says, looking around. One of the two large doors do open, but the greeter is no one he recognizes.
Out in the forest, there is a soft, rising song. Upon baritone voice, smooth and suited for song, though rarely used. An old song of this very region, but before this castle ever stood. It dates, in fact, from Edward's time, the 14th Century, and it goes something like this...
L'amour de moi, s'y est enclose
dedans un jolie jardinet, ou croit la rose et le muguet
Y aussi fait la passereose...
Ce jardin est belle et plaisant, il est garni de toute fleurs
On y prend son ebattement, autant la nuit comme le jour...
Helas il n'est si douce chose
Que de ce doux rossignolet
Qui chant au soir et au matinet
Quand il est la il se repose...
My love is enclosed in a lovely garden, where the roses grow, and the lilies-of-the-valley and the passerose. This garden is beautiful and pleasant and garnished with every flower. We go there for our pleasure, in the day, but mostly in the night...
Maybe you hear that from where you are, Edward. Dunross and Plantagenet are out and about, if not nearby. Valan does not hear it, he is getting out of the car, grinning to you, still ... dumbfounded... but not so much that he doesn't kiss you once more upon standing. "Maybe we are, as you said, lucky, hmm? Come on," Valan murmurs, taking your hand, lacing his fingers in it, guiding you with him. "Let us go while we still can," he darkly teases.
And from the song in the forest, you'll probably have a while...
Posted by rowan at June 18, 2003 06:19 PM
