Riding in the forest around Chenonceau always brings a smile to Ian's face. With a small horde of young men in tow, and his duke beside him, why not? Dressed in black, with his master's boots on, it's the only way to turn the clock back. A team of riders and dogs, hawks and falcons. Guns and bows at the ready. Though the forest is stocked, it's unlikely the hunting party will see much action. Such is the reminder of the present day.
     His cloak falls behind him, across his horse's rump. Dailghen, he calls this one, is a 2 year old, eager to find his place and owner. Tonight, he'll get his chance. After two years of Marco and Amadeo's handling, they decided Dailghen was ready and offered him to Ian.
     "How far?" Ian asks. "We..." he bouncing at a good gallop, "...didn't prepare for an overday trip."

     William rides his familiar, a horse that knows his cues before they are even given. The stallion anticipates the motions based upon his master's mood -- and that he can read easily enough by now. The black Andalusian, larger than the modern rendition of the breed -- apart from the Angevin variety that William himself breeds -- moves in an easy canter, its naturally arched neck arched moreso as he feels his way against the lead that William is giving him.
     He might pass invisibly, were it not for the sound of the jangling tack, the arabian bit. Safir, named for his one blue eye, glides as he moves, long tail millimeters off the turf.
     And William?
     He is dressed to match, in black leather, black riding boots, a thin black sweater. Despite the fact it is a summer evening, it is still cool come nightfall. He rides as if he were born there. Sitting straight, barely moving -- or rather moving in a natural concert between man and beast.
     Thighs and calves give the encouragement for additional speed to keep in step with the much younger horse, "Until we tire of it," William offers. "Or five miles, whichever comes first..." Indigo finds its way to you, the turn of a head, the offered smile.
     Behind him, trail the others. Amadeo and Marco on Curtmantle, the white andalusian stallion, and Alejandra, the white andalusian mare, Curtmantle's dam. And alongside them, the new equestrian team, Augustin and Henri. It is quite the company...

     "Five miles?" Ian blurts, turning his head to see you. It's a strange move, that, for the rest of him remains facing directly ahead. He tilts his head left and right, as if weighing other options. "That seems short. Or maybe I have not been out so long that five miles seem so little. Maybe we can turn this into an overday," he goes ahead and suggests. Yes. A fine idea.
     "I don't recall any boar reports," he wonders. "It is a little late." A half-twist and looks to see the young men behind him. Maybe the two residents of Chenonceau know.

     Five miles isn't exactly short. It isn't exactly long. It depends on whether you want to turn around and come home. "Ten to twenty then..." William laughs quietly. It does not matter the distance. He would ride and keep riding. He looks behind him, a general's turn of his head to following troops. "What do you think, Marco?"
     Marco urges Curtmantle forward. Safir's ears shift, pointing forward, moving to the side, acknowledging his stall-mate. "We could ride twenty... stop at a ville...ride back tomorrow," he offers. "We could head north to Amboise...or Chaumant-sur-Loire."
     "We could ride to Chinon," William posits. He looks to you Ian, dark eyebrows lifting. "It is more than twenty miles, more like thirty..." He waits to hear your opinions of the offers laid before you.
     "I think the boars have been tending to their young," Augustin offers, "..Valmont," the one of the gaming men of Chinon, "... was mentioning it to me. He and Rapatel," Nico, "... had scouted not long ago. They have been elusive..."
     Safir moves slightly ahead, head bending, neck arching as a slight motion of William's hand reins him in. He is wanting to race. It makes William smile, the smile slanting as he glances back to see his other horses.

     "No, Chinon is further than that!" Ian calls, letting his horse increase his pace. "Chaumont-sur-Loire," Ian agrees. "We can stay at that Inn below the castle." Whatever its name is now, he cannot recall. "I do not know if they have a stables still," he notes for the record. Perhaps one of the local boys knows.
     "Perhaps, if we are lucky, we'll stumble upon one, hmm?" Ian grins, twisting to share the thought with everyone.
     Ian grows quiet a moment, remembering the banished mistress who so well entertained at Chenonceau, before Henri's death. Few visited her at Chaumont, where rightfully -- vindictively -- aggrieved deMedici sent her.
     "Oh...what was her name," he asks outloud, absently. "I can see her..." He looks to you, William. "What was her name? Ah! The light comes on. "Diane de Poitiers..."

     "Beautiful woman," he speaks on some authority, then eases into, "...so they say. Apparently, she had the best breasts in Europe, in her day. Of course, considering her competition..."
     Chaumont-sur-Loire it is, and the group turns toward the north. North and east the journey shall be. The horses that have been held in check -- namely Safir and Curtmantle -- are at last given their head, and they stretch the pace, extending their canters and covering distance without taxing their endurance. Safir is used to harder marches than this, after all.
     A press of William's thighs and Safir takes command of the lead, a black glide against black night, with his black haired and clothed rider with him. Synchronicity. That is the definition of what you see before you. Beautiful synchronicity.
     Beside you now, the smiling Marco and the laughing Amadeo. Such a triumverate view, Ian. Surely unparalleled. Three professional riders: one former Norman crusader, one Italian Olympian and one student of Vienna. With or without a hunt, with or without the boar, the sight and experience is worth it, non?
     Augustin and Henri, whom you met when you arrived, are excellent riders in their own right, both French and from the National School. Both are in their mid to late twenties, both brown haired and brown eyed -- one set coffee colored, the other far deeper -- and both are tall. Behind and beside them and keeping up are the greyhounds.
     William glances to you and his voice lifts, "...Any boar in its right might would be keeping away from all of this galloping ruckus..." Each look back is brief, for the woods thicken and open at haphazard moments. He laughs, the sound lingering in the motion. He bends low over his stallion's neck and he Safir lifts, clearing a fallen birch. Easily.

     "Christus," Ian says in absent French, weaving Dalghein around a series of poplar trees that suddenly appear in the darkness. Not that it was difficult, mind you, just surprising. He and his mount sweve away from you all to navigate, swinging back around once the thin tree grove is behind. He picks up the pace to rejoin you all, content to stay near the two youngest riders in the group.
     "We might tire the wolfhounds," Ian yells, turning back over his shoulder. Greyhounds, they are not. Despite his concerns, he lets the dogs run their race for now.
     The dim moon is waxing these nights. The ride home tomorrow evening will most certainly be brighter. All the better to avoid the young trees. After another glance back at the dogs, Ian says something in lower tones to the two beside them, sending them into smiling fits.

     You ride with Augustine and Henri, fresh faces, fresh souls within this world. Not long in Plantagenet's company, they are still dazzled by their opportunity, their newfound station, the horses they get to care for and the masters they serve. You yourself are dazzling just on a personal level. Young men of the top French riding academie, they are fine enough to look at, confident in their abilities and enjoying their evening.
     In the middle of the company, Marco and Amadeo ride in a comfortable canter. Amadeo looks back and forth between you, Marco and William. There are always smiles for you. Marco has dropped into an easiness with this group, and particularly within the foursome. No longer feeling the need to constantly prove himself. He is in his element, his place of comfort, his place of expertise.
     And ahead of the company is the duke, dux bellorum, moving through the trees ahead of you all. He signals fallen trees or sharp turns, making your navigation all the easier.
     How he moves. Do you forget it, not needing to ride half so frequently? How he seems, so natural. There is the feeling from all of them that they are seeing something True when William rides. There is truth in it. Doubt what you will of what that mouth of his tells you, but you cannot doubt that what is seen when he is riding is fundamental to him.
     You and I have memorized the earth. We have been here before. Safir has been here before. The trees were different, older then. These, these have been planted after the ravages of tall ships and navies emptied the forests of France and Europe. I remember the oak and beech stands, the thickness that could, and did, hide armies.
     The young men smile beside you. Your comments are returned. They feel their way with you, even as you all feel your way through the forest of Chenonceaux. The wolfhounds hang back, but the greyhounds have yet to break into their full stride. Macsen, as always, follows the black closely, leaping as Safir leaps.
     "Master d'Angevin is a master rider," Augustin notes, "... and you, sir. It is rare to find such artistry in it. We are so pleased," speaking for Henri, "... that you have allowed us to ride with you..."

     "You're welcome," Ian grins, looking ahead to William. "And," coming back to his comment of a moment ago, "...it does not bother you," meaning both, "...what I said about him?" About how handsome you were. That if you were a man who enjoyed men, you'd probably be happy with Lord Plantagenet. If you were such a man.
     "I didn't mean to upset you," Ian teases. "And I'm glad you're enjoying..." yikes, a branch, "...the trip. We...do not do so often enough, now that the horses are at Chenonceau."

     Would William hire them if they were not? He has preferences, and certain backgrounds make things easy and convenient. And you know your William: he likes his conveniences. No household drama. Unless it is from him, of course.
     Augustin looks to you, he gives a slight whistling sound to Henri, warning of the same log. "No," Augustin says quietly, "...it does not bother me...or upset me..." he smiles, he colors a bit. You can't see it in the darkness but you can feel blood moving. "I did not know ... he would be interested," not until tonight, when it became obvious that this was a world for and by and of men. "...or presume it..." The equestrians, unlike house staff, are not considered servants. They are hired professionals, more like the security staff. There is not the fear of speaking out of place, no more than may be between any employee/employer.
     Henri simply listens. He looks ahead. He rides. The younger of the two, you see that he is one that must soak things in, absorb them. But he looks at William frequently. Perhaps it could be mistaken as interest in the horse -- and, well... of course it is, Safir is an incredible specimen of his breed -- but then, so is Guillaume.
     "I could arrange rides," Augustin offers. "Itineraries..." and so on. Tonight was a bit more ...impromptu. "It would be my pleasure..."
     William slows, not that he can hear what is being said, but for the dogs sake. Safir drops into a dressage canter, easy, graceful. Marco and Amadeo likewise slow. "We are about to enter the plain between the inner and outer forest," William notes. "If you need to stretch," it has been a few miles, "... let me know. We'll let the wolfhounds catch their breath for a bit..." And they could use it. The greyhounds, on the other hand, are frolicking.

     Giving both Henri and Augustin a look, Ian turns from them to respond. "A stretch might be good," he calls, his horse dancing sideways now. There's a nod to Augustin, "Indeed, trips are good. Evening. Overday," he confirms. "With full pack would be nice. Tent, staff. Particular staff," Ian smiles, winking as he tsks at his horse to head forward to the leader. He'll let the young man stew on that a while.
     "They are tired," Ian says as he returns to you, William, the coy grin bright at his face. He cannot even help himself anymore, considering the flirt he has become. "A few minutes, hmm? I could use with..." Ian smiles, "...a moment myself."

     And stew the young man does. He knows what you are getting at -- he is a quick study. He glances to Henri, who smiles. Well.

     Indigo eyes take in your look and William cannot help the smile, the look -- you are up to something -- and his eyes shift to those coming behind you. Marco and Amadeo, Augustin and Henri, and then the dogs.
     The wolfhounds circle and sit. The greyhounds just circle. And two pairs of men dismount. William, for the moment, remains mounted, turning his head to survey the area. There is no one around. Nothing. Just countryside that belongs to Chenonceaux and the government of France.
     And then his eyes and that smile of his train on the young men in the company, yourself included. "You look like you could use a moment," comes the soft inflection of Occitan as you look from him to Augustin. William's smile is bland, smooth, holding a broader grin in check. I love to see you like this.
     A moment and a moment more, and as other boots hit the turf, William begins to swing down. Equine noses bury themselves in the sweet grass of the Loire Valley.

     Ian grins, a black, gloved finger coming to wipe at the corner of his mouth. His brows arch faintly, and he chuckles softly. You do know him.
     "A drink!" Ian says, swinging down from his horse. The cloak falls around him, a double darkness. If it were not for Ian's hair and gleaming face, he'd be invisible.
     Hands unravel a large skin from the side of his horse. "Someone has to be prepared," he grins, opening the top and offering to you, William, firstly.

     The horses are so well trained that there is no need to do anything but drop the reins upon the ground. Even the two year old behaves -- and if it should get out of line, there are two older stallions to keep him in check. And like his master, Safir lords over his companions.
     William grins and takes the skin from you. "Merci," for the deference. Even as Safir would be the first horse to drink, so too William. It is the natural way of things. A swallow and the skin is offered back to you. Offered with a look. Though the color of his eyes is muted with the lack of light, the smoldering energy cannot be mistaken. It is evident in his stance, in his face, in the whole of his expression. His finger slides against one of your own as the skin is passed back.
     Henri and Augustin do stretch and like Marco and Amadeo, who also took a moment to stretch muscles and pop a couple of joints, come forward to join in the drinking.
     "Ah, you were not the only one," Amadeo says, his French heavily Italianate. He brings out a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. Ah, the wonder of saddlebags.
     "I have some fruit and cheese as well," William notes, if any of you want anything. William gives Safir a pat, and takes a moment to study the men around him. A smile given to Augustin and Henri.

     Of course, it's scotch. Warm and soul-stirring. Ian smiles as you take a drink, then turns to survey the travelling horde. His eyes settle upon each young man in turn, but immediately, his energy dissipates obscure.
     "So," Ian begins, the drink returned to him, "What think you of my horse?" he asks the men generally, including the two who have raised it. He smiles, cloak dragging the ground around him as he moves about. A hand reaches out to touch the horse's rear haunches. "Not the worst colt we've had in a while..."

     Marco is the first to speak, even as the flask goes from hand to hand and the bottle in Amadeo's hand is freed of its cork. "He is developing very nicely. In another year, two years, he will grow into his knees. He has a nice neck and seems to have a good head between his ears. He learns quickly. He will be good. Taller than Safir," a nod to William's mount, who is no small animal. "But not near as full. But I recommend leaving him to stud. He has nice lines..."
     "Si, si," Amadeo says after, taking a sip of scotch, backed with wine. And soon the bottle and the skin are passed. The bottle going to Henri, the skin to Augustin. "Dai," as he calls him for short, not able to pronounce the Gaelic, "...would be an excellent stud. I think he would pass on the features of his face, overall conformation. He will take to jumping easily. Guillermo," a look tossed to William, even as William takes up the bottle of unlabeled wine, "... would like to breed him to Alejandra," the white Andalusian mare that Amadeo was riding, "... warmblooding. I think it would be a good match. Maybe not for coloration, but Guillermo ..." a look to William, and Amadeo smiles, "... is not primarily concerned with color, even though he is an artist."
     Get a group of horsemen together, and they are loquacious about their interest...
     Augustin passes the skin back to Ian, smiling. "He is still coltish, but I agree with Marco, he is quick-minded. With the thoroughbred, this can be an issue. But his bloodline shows in him. He is out of Cuchulain... he is sure to be an anchor to your already impressive stable." A look to William. "I have not seen Andalusians like these. Not even in Madrid and Vienna. You must tell me your secret..." He smiles.
     Henri has been quiet during all of this, taking the bottle of wine from William's hands. There is much to be made of his silence and must being communicated without speaking at all. But now that everyone has taken a turn, he takes a breath. "I believe he will have more success with hunter training than pure course training. I would also recommend dressage. It would compliment his lines and provide a nice riding discipline. But it will be two or three years before that training could truly begin. He will need to be more mature. And at that point, I think we would have to call upon Marco and Guillaume. I understand," a look to Marco first and Guillaume after, "...that you two are the dressage masters..."

     And last, but not least, that leave William himself. He is quiet, leaning against Safir as the others speak, his hands empty of both bottle and skin now. Indigo settles on Ian and he smiles. "They have stolen my thunder," he mulls, baritone voice quiet, lingering in the chest and throat. It colors the spreading of his smile. "But I will say he will be quite quick, quite strong, quite graceful, and I hope quite prolific. Alejandra has several years of good brooding left. She is only ten. I would like to diversify the group somewhat. I have my bias," he grins, as Safir lifts his head, setting it across his shoulder. He gives the old stallion a pat. "But I am not blind to good flesh when I see it..."
     And then indigo eyes make a circuit to each of the men gathered around. No... not blind...

     There's a nod from Ian as he glances at the assembly. There is no argument. "Guillaume does have a marvelous eye." There. Grey eyes alight on each person. The skin is absently passed to you again, William, as Ian takes a step closer to you, arm at yours.
     "Maybe I am too early to bring Dai," nice name, "...out for such a long ride. But, I got no objection," he looks at Amadeo and Marco in turn. "As for stud," Ian spins to look at Henri, "...and dressage, I think you are correct." A hand on Dai again, "He will not see a racecourse," Ian admits. "Just the occasional hunt." A horse's life determined.
     "At least we are all in agreement," Ian grins to the throng, the night breeze picking up his hair, making it nearly platinum white in the light. "I wonder...this must be a first. Is there anything else we are al in agreement about..."

     Oh, very smooth. That was good. You see it hovering in William's gaze, the slant of his smile, the laugh that hangs in the throat and chest. The sound of it, when he does it. It moves right through the crowd. Particularly, if you might notice, the two quieter ones -- Amadeo and...
     Henri...
     "Well, let me see how I might work this," William posits, eyes trailing from you, Ian, to Amadeo and Henri -- yes, he noticed -- and straight up to the summer stars. He laughs. Yes, what else can I get someone to agree with me about. Safir shifts slightly behind his master, nose returning to the earth. The stallion grunts, as if in concurrence, or a chuckle at his own lord's joke.
     Amadeo grins to you and William -- Marco's gaze is fixed on you, as always. Augustin is unaffiliated. As of yet. He looks to you all. It seems, Ian, that Henri has made his choice. Ah, the quiet ones. It is always the quiet ones. "The night is good," he offers, "...the drinks are great... and the company..." He grins, as Ian steps in toward William, a touch exhanged, "... the best in Europe."
     "Ah, we are out on a summer night with men of Italy and France. There are only two ways this could go." William's voice is coiled, the lilt and drag of Occitan. Honey and wine, and the swirl around him, against the air, and around those gathered -- and gathering closer -- moves electric. William looks at you. A soft and silent signal in the lifting of eyebrows, the spread of his mouth.
     There is not an exchange of nervous laughter. There is not the hem and haw of uncertain men. There is the pulse and exhange of tension. Of possibility. And the drinks go round and round.
     What are you planning amours... what is it that you would like to see? You have planted the seeds, mais oui, and it is sprouting mandrake all around us...

     "Time to sing!" Ian chimes, arms coming up which sends his cloak open. "Too bad we have no guitar," he laments, spinning about as if one should appear somewhere, attached to a horse. Or dog. Ian laughs, attempting to lighten the mood.
     "Well," Ian tosses back another swallow, handing you his skin, "...guess we should press on, yes?" Of course. The grass crunches under his feet as he twists to see about the horse beside him.

     "We can a cappella, no?" William speaks it, even as he turns and mounts. Such quick and fluid motion. So well practiced. None of these men have seen such a rider, someone this comfortable with horses. Eight-hundred and some-odd years of practice. Not that any of them know the full extent of it.
     And Amadeo and Marco know more than most...
     Sitting upon Safir, Duke William smiles and he lifts the skin of scotch for another swallow. "I have had scotch, mais oui... I am ready to sing..." And the crusader does not need much of an impetus to do so. He sings at the drop of the hat. And he's not bad.
     Amadeo takes the bottle back from Augustin -- ah! The flirt! -- and he puts a stopper back in, tucking it back in his saddlebag. Marco mounts, he smiles to Amadeo -- flirt -- and then to Ian, bringing Curtmantle up beside Dailghen. "I am not a singer, I will listen," he protests.
     "And I," Augustin laughs, mounting one of the others.
     Henri is quiet as he mounts, making a circuit around William, then you, Ian, and around Marco and Amadeo to come up alongside Augustin. The greyhounds, smelling a run, are on their feet first.
     "Cowards," William chuckles. "Am I the only one brave enough to make a fool of myself? So be it."

     Ian laughs, swinging boot and leg over Dailghen. "I'll sing with you...showing myself a fool is nothing particular to this night, yes?" A glance is given to Henri first, then the rest of the riding throng. Ian exhales and lets Dai snort and twist beneath him, taking the moment to tie the drink back to his saddle.
     "How do the dogs look?" he asks, trying to see them as well.

     Yes, on any other night, Henri would already be drawn into the lord's room. He has William interested. You know your husband. He likes the quiet ones. If Henri were blonde, his fate would be sealed. "That is why I love you," William murmurs, and he and Safir swing about, Safir lifting in a modified and very controlled rearing.
     As the rest of you get settled, the duke moves his stallion forward, dressage paces carrying him to the side. Is there anything better to see than an andalusian moving in dressage with a very well-versed knight on his back? They both seem to glide, Safir moving in place.
     Henri, Augustin and Marco all watch him. Marco turns his head, murmuring to Amadeo. "... amazing, look... even though there are a thousand movements, he seems not to move at all, and the horse and he are in perfect unison. I could only aspire to this."
     William turns his head, "The dogs seem fine from here... Henri?" Henri looks to you, Ian, nodding.
     "I think they are fine. I have never worked with this breed before," meaning the wolfhounds. "You like big animals, I see..." And his face colors. Well, you like big men as well, that is evident.
     William does not chuckle, lest it seem he is laughing at, not with. But he looks to you and he grins, dark eyes fixing on you. Yes, you do like them big. "Are we ready?" he asks the group. Amadeo rides up beside William and then past him, Marco following.
     "Si, si... this time, Marco and I will ride ahead..." Henri and Augustin come up at your flank... Augustin on your side, Henri on William's. The dogs fan out, the greyhounds moving ahead, apart from Macsen who always remains with William, and the wolfhounds riding alongside the second group.

     "Chaumont-sur-Loire," Ian says, the horse beneath him taking a moment to question authority. Unlike most, Ian will let Dai do as he likes, until Ian insists upon his mastery. He picks up reins and looks about.
     "I think..." Ian says to you evenly, no smirk upon his lips, "I am ready for bed." Matter-of-factly.
     A low noise clucks from Ian's lips, and he encourages Dai to quiet, pointing out the companion horse Augustin's at his side.
     "Let's go..." Ian calls loudly, suddenly wanting to head onward.

     As you make your wish known, the riders at the head, Marco and Amadeo, gently squeeze the sides of their mounts, Curtmantle and his dam heading into a canter, easy at first and then stretching out to the first gear of a gallop...
     Once a charger, always a charger. Safir lunges forward, head tucked and neck bowed strongly. He is without a doubt the cock of the walk, in a manner of speaking. William looks to you, a turn of his head though the rest of him is moving forward, and he winks. As am I... pity we did not bring the tents... what were we thinking, amours? And then there is the sound of his voice, coming in time with his motion in the saddle, in tempo to the percussion of hooves. A rich and galloping song.
     Well, he is the grandson and brother of troubadours... there are some things that are simply in the blood...
     Henri and Augustin ride along closely. Augustin looks to you Ian, looks to William and then back to you. "How far again is Chaumont-sur-Loire?" Henri, for his part, says nothing. He just rides easily, smiles easily. And then laughs.

     "Oh...another two hours, maybe," Ian guesses. What does it matter? It'll still be dark, and there will be stables for some and beds for all.
     Now that thought brings a strange smile to Ian's lips.
     "It is not so far," he affirms, voice crescending against the thundering sound of hooves and barking dogs. "Don't worry. I think we'll live..." he assesses, whistling at you, William, to pick up the pace.
     Indeed, what were we thinking?

     We should be better at this by now, amours. How is it that we are so woefully unprepared?
     The whistle is his signal and his song halts. Safir lunges from his easy canter to a full gallop (though not yet at full speed) and the stretch of open land becomes dotted with trees again as the second stretch of woods is reached. Marco and Amadeo are no longer ahead, but the group moves together, fanning out slightly.
     Each man is an accomplished rider, yourself included. Such a sight, such a feast for your eyes, Ian Dunross. Is there anything better than this? Ah yes... stables and beds...
     The greyhounds are sprinting. Their motions indicate where brush and logs are located. They are the speedy scouts. The wolfhounds stretch their own gaits and all move in one charge.
     William sits straight. You see his hands move, a subtle sign that he wishes he had a spear. You know his palms are itching. And then those thighs of his squeeze Safir and the gallop quickens, the stallion's long mane and tail fanning outward. At this pace, it will be an hour and a half...

     Coming from the south to Chaumont-sur-Loire was a ride. Once past Amboise, it was an uphill battle for the horses and the dogs. At least there was no need to cross the Loire. Homes and fences now block the old routes in favor of more concreted ones.
     A bit to the left of the chateau's grounds was an inn that was more than likely part of the chateau's old grounds. In fading, cracked white, Le Chaumont de Poitiers seems like a rather elaborate servant's quarters, with three floors and several buildings around, including a stables in a separate building nearby. A stone barn remains in use as well.
     The arrival of a team of horses and barking dogs was enough to bring a man, perhaps in his late forties, from the rear of the main house. A rather modern man, his inn is perhaps meant for tourists -- at least sayeth his expression -- not for a motley crowd of assuming lords, courtiers, and dogs, right out of a scene from the nineteenth century. However, Ian, upon his horse, strode forth to greet the owner, and after a moment, there was an agreement and bobbing of heads.
      Ian probably could have gotten the place for free.
     The man returned to the main building, where more lights came on - in stark comparison to the dark chateau looming a few hundred yards away - and motion began within.

     The evening breeze picks up so close to the river. Downhill and across the B-road, the Loire sits wide and low. Ian tosses himself from his horse, the wind picking up his cloak's edge.
      "We have an option gentlemen," Ian says loudly for all to hear. Cormac, his lead dog, moves towards his master's voice. "The third floor of the inn, or...the stables." A motion to the darkened building nearest. "Your choice. Our host and hostess are frightfully accommodating," he chuckles.

     Amadeo and Marco, Henri and Augustin all exchange looks, but they defer their answer to the man dismounting. William takes his time in answering, although you know his mind is already made up. The decision fired as quickly as his own preternatural synapses. "The stables," the duke says. The last thing I need is for some over-gracious and accommodating mistress to barge in on us during the day.
     Or to be alarmed at what they shall hear tonight...
     Henri and Augustin, Amadeo and Marco nod simply to this. Of them all Marco seems the most enthused. And as they are all accustomed to stables -- and there is little doubt that they do not know what goes on in stables apart from feeding and mucking stalls -- there is congenial and unanimous agreement.
     William stands for a moment, upon the very precipice of forward motion, turning to look at the quiet and dark chateau, the slope of the land into the Loire. There's not much hair these nights for the wind to play with, but it manages. You see the eyes taking in everything. Taking in how the valley has changed. How it has not changed. There's no meloncholy or anything of that nature. It is the simple recognition of the passing of time...
     Indigo is merely dark as his gaze turns first to you and the smile traces its way slowly. The stables. And slowly the smile becomes a grin.
     "Let's go see what we're in for, mais oui..." Laughter traces along the edge of his words, warmly, and he leads Safir toward the building. Henri comes alongside him, and on either side of you Marco and Amadeo and Augustin, a group of wolfhounds and a group of greyhounds.
     Motley crew indeed...

     The stables are relatively clean. Not a huge place: at the end of the double doors is a tack room and an office of sorts. Before then? A corridor of six stalls. Only two have hay and are adjoining. The third is clean, along with the three opposing. Open rafters allow the breeze to pass through the building, and on a near wall, rakes and other utensils stand relatively unused.
     "Needs a little arranging," Ian murmurs, following behind with Daghlein. His boots scuff the cold stone floor, while hand reaches out for something aside.
     With a flick, the stable lights up.
     "They're bringing blankets. Should make place for the horses and dogs. It's a...tight fit." Ian glances over his shoulder to the men behind. "I'm sure they'll figure it out."

     That is why I pay them...
     Henri is the first to size up the number of men and the number of animals, including dogs. His coffee-colored eyes, more visible in the sudden lighting lifts to the ceiling and to the floor he knows it serves. "Walk the horses and untack," he says to Augustin primarily, but it includes Amadeo and Marco as well, "I am going to see what they have in the way of storage upstairs..." There is always place for feed and hay upstairs, and other means of storage, particularly in the older buildings -- which this most certainly is.
     Augustin takes two horses, Marco takes two horses and Amadeo takes two horses and form an orderly line for untacking. The dogs know this drill and pile into the barn area, giving it the proper inspection.
     A hand lands upon your hip, squarely, and it lingers there a moment. William says nothing. The silence conveys it, weighty on the air as the men of your company tend to settling in -- and discovering just how this will all be done. William is confident and with that general air of ease he opens the door to the tack room and peers within. "We are in good hands," he murmurs, "...I have no doubt. We can make it work. If we have to sleep in close quarters," indigo settles on you and his smile tilts slanting. "So be it..."
     Above, the sound of Henri's feet and the creaking wood of an old building. He is exploring the storage above. He can be heard coming down the ladder a few moments later, even as William is giving quiet directions to his lead dog, Macsen, who thereafter makes sure the rest of the greyhounds are in line. "There's not a lot of headroom," Henri begins, his Normandy showing as he drops into comfortable conversation. "... but we will all fit above. There are just enough stalls here for the horses. It is a nice summer night. The dogs should be fine in or out. It will be ... comfortably crowded but it is just for one night..."
     Outside, the sound of conversation. Amadeo, always good for starting talk, getting the more reserved Augustin to laugh. Augustin has a lovely laugh, it hangs in his throat, it comes with all the casual warmth of the genuinely living. There is also the sound of horses being brushed down, tack set upon the ground. They speak of the ride, of the night, a little of how Augustin is liking Chenonceau. Augustin is amazed, even stunned at his fortune. Respectful he is. And quite handsome as he steps into the light.
     Henri has all the bearing of a modern man from Normandy. Country estate living, love of wine. He, like William, probably tastes of apples. "I should go help them..."

     "Please," Ian murmurs to Henri, distracted at the moment. He touches your hand, then walks deeper into the stables, eyeing each stall, the office, and tack room. "Surprise it's not more used," he observes, Cormac and the other wolfhounds examining as much as the greyhounds did. "Hmph," Ian shrugs and exhales, turning about to head back towards the doors.

     From the house, a young teenager comes. A boy of brown hair, laden with old woollen spreads and a few small pillows for heads. He coughs as he comes behind you, William, his eyes barely visible above the heap.
     "Sir," he murmurs, "...where...to put these? And my papa...he says that food will come in a bit. My mama is preparing leftovers..."

     Henri departs with a smile, and he is greeted outside by the others. You can hear him telling them what he has found and what he thinks they should do. They do not simply take orders. Marco has his questions, Augustin has his. Amadeo's questions center on light. Is the roof in good repair? Are there windows that we will need to shutter? You hear Henri admit that he did not look at the windows, but that the roof seems well enough. I will go before we all pack in and check the windows.
     Amadeo has learned much in his year or so with you...
     William turns at the cough, though he heard the boy before that, he has his own distractions, and his smile seems permanent. It lingers at the corners of his mouth. "I will take them," William says, arms coming out to take them. "You and your papa and mama are doing more than enough. Be sure to tell them we are very grateful..." While we could have had the room for free, I would never think of such a thing. They will get more than they asked. The farm and chateau have seen better days and nights.
     There is something about the young boy. Ah well, you know your William -- but he doesn't leer at the lad. He just takes note of him, of his place in the world. There is an exchange between them that is as old as it is new. The blankets and symbolism.

     The boy, perhaps fourteen, blinks as he's...examined. Not sure what to make of it, he bobs his head and turns around to head back to the house, his pace quickened.

     "I'm starving," Ian says softly, returning to you. Weird. You have blankets. Ian's head cocks to the side, and he finally pushes his cowl away from his face. "Where'd you find those?" he asks, lifting his hand to remove his black gloves. "Ach, I hope it doesn't get colder," he adds, sighing an exhale as he suddenly pats Cormac's head as the dog passes on a trot back to the outdoors.
     "What do you think, Guillaume?" Ian asks, stepping outside further to turn his face to the moon.

     So am I...
     William turns to you and smiles, "The boy of the house brought them... it should do. And I can't imagine it getting more cool than this, amours...." What do I think?
     He stands in the doorway and watches the men of his company. It's comforting. Old fashioned, true, but comfortable. He doesn't mind seeming traditional suddenly. "Amadeo," he calls quietly, but calls all the same. "Take these upstairs... and if you would, please check for ...drafts..." Where light might come through and make things really annoying later. "I'll finish up with the others."
     Amadeo smiles. He knows that William heard him -- he knows many things -- and he approaches, taking the blankets from William's hands. The smile? The smile is bountiful, and as he passes you, Ian, his hand brushes against your arm, along your side.
     "I think we will be fine," Guillaume says, stepping out, looking at the moon and then taking one of the horses. While the andalusians are all untacked, the young thoroughbred still wears his bridle, not yet trusted not to run off or bolt at air currents. "It is a beautiful night, a little cool for summer... still... the blankets are wool and once we are out of the wind..." It will be close quarters...
     And it will be warm soon enough, amours. Our mouths will be full, like their bodies. He smiles, your Guillaume, and as he moves among them, standing out among them though he does, you see how this all fits, how it pleases him, the company of men. Men like him, men who want him, men who want you. It is as close to that old system of courtiers and liegemen as it gets, and he fits into it easily.
     Marco moves toward you, there is no mistaking his pleasure in having a moment of your time. He stands in the doorway, a hand moving to your back for a moment, then waving the first horse in with a series of clicks that follow William's whistle. Safir first. The others, one by one going in. The mare and the colt will be bunking together, the other stallions in the neighboring stalls. Once all are in, Augustin and William take up the tack, two armfuls. William could carry more, of course, but there's no need to show off...

     "Problem?" Ian asks Marco, figuring full well that there is not. He's content to let everyone work around him, while he waits to enjoy the results. "You'll see to Dalghein?" he asks, wondering why his horse is last. Hmph. Ah well. Eyes wander to the passed Amadeo and then to Henri as he waits upon a reply.

     From the house, another set of footsteps. This time, the owner and his son appear, each carrying the side of a table, perhaps no more than three feet square. Upon it rests several teetering bottles and two stone carafes. They nod as they pass Ian and Marco, stopping at the inside of the stable doors and to its left. "For drinks and food," the man says, hand on his son's shoulder as they pass once more, heading back to the house.

     Dalghein is last because he is going to be housed with Alejandra, and it is better to have all of the older stallions in when the younger is moved in with the mare. Besides, most two year olds spook when entering a strange barn, as if they had never seen such a building before. There is a momentary pause, but with William's guiding hand, the youngest of them all finds his way into the adjoining stall with Alejandra.
     Marco smiles, a spreading, slanting smile, a smile that matches the up-and-down look he gives you. That was a stare, a very palpable stare. Augustin and William head into the tack room again, all tack stowed and William closes the door. "Ah, food... good..."
     "I will see to it," Marco offers, at least to the drinks. He calls up, eyes going to the ceiling, "Amadeo, caro... there is food..." Amadeo's steps can be heard to approach the ladder.
     Once all are in that will be in, William closes the door to the barn. "Here we all are, horses, dogs and men all packed in, five to a bed," he murmurs. Amadeo, Henri, Augustin, Marco, you and your Guillaume, who waves to them to help themselves. No need to wait on our account. Amadeo takes the lead, not to serve himself but to serve the rest. He is such a good boy. "The blankets have been lain out. There are no windows upstairs. It is dry," he says in his Italianate French. He looks to William and then you Ian. "I think there will be no drafts to speak of, si..."

     "I guess that means no problems then," Ian says, answering his own question. He moves towards the table, finally shoving his gloves into a pants pocket. "What shall we drink to?" he asks, turning to face you, William.

     From the house, voices lift as people approach. The wife and husband return, along with their son, bring wheels of cheese, knives, bread, butter and a large plate of cut meats. She's tall and lithe, and the son's looks are easily accounted for.
     "Bonne nuit," she says hurriedly, smiling as she sets the food down beside her husband's carriage. "Please," not really knowing what language everyone speaks, "...bon appetit."

     To my sore ass. I am so out of shape, amours... so out of practice. I have not had a ride like this since Spain.
     There is laughter against your blood, starting at your gut and radiating outward. Soon, everyone has a glass of the country wine, something very local. It will go well with the food -- the local cheese, the homemade bread, the butter and cut meats. It is all very simple. It speaks of the countryside. William looks to you, glass cradled. You are looked at with an open fondness, and indigo glances to the other men. William tilts his glass to Ian's, making a short chime. "It has been a great night. Who can complain when surrounded with a company of men, horses and dogs and being brought treats from generous strangers...how about to this," William posits. "Salut..."
     "Salut!" the Italians chuckle and chime. Henri and Augustin do also.
     "You see... it is more than tending horses," William continues. "I could tend them myself," he reveals. "So, to comraderie..." an old phrase that, and old meanings meant. Each man around knows the meaning of it. And each glass touches each glass, each man gives a soft assent to what is said. William touches his glass to yours again, and murmurs "I love you," he murmurs.

     "Slainte," Ian murrs, grinning at the toast and personal salute. His feelings for you are well known and evident in the twisting smile of bemused coyness. The food brought out and the family gone, Ian finally looks around and nods. "Nicely done. So," Ian grins, "...let's let the Arnaults know that we appreciate their food, hmm?"
     The food is for the young men, of course. They have had a long night and it portends even longer. Ian is content with his drink and to watch them all, for now.

     "Mais oui, to the Arnaults," William seconds, with a chuckle. Like you, he leaves the food to the four men. Augustin is not shy when it comes to food. He, Henri, Marco and Amadeo get a selection. Easy conversation starts. It is like familie...
     A familie one sleeps with, but a familie nonetheless...
     A ducal arm lies across your shoulders and he draws you in. His other hand holds the glass. "It is not bad," he remarks on the wine. No, not bad at all.
     And while they eat, and the conversations swirl, eyes look around. Brown, grey and indigo. Laughter follows, and with it the dispensation of nervousness. Augustin is actually quite the conversationalist, and quite funny. An intense personality, to be sure. Henri is quiet, but underneath that quiet lurks a burning fire. A passionate nature that lights those coffee eyes. Marco and Amadeo? Well, you know them. Amadeo is a flirt and Marco is smoldering.
     And also to the Arnault's young, teenage son...
     I should be ashamed, but I am not...
     The tilting of his glass hides William's grin...

     Ian grins at you, nodding in agreement. All in all, it's not bad. He surveys the men in conversation and the dogs lying in pack boredom. Some of them have already fallen asleep. The poor Arnaults have gone inside, and by the time the food is downed in earnest, the main inn lights have gone off. Things become relatively quiet around the grounds outside of the stable, and the darkest parts of night are yet to approach.

Posted by rowan at August 05, 2003 09:20 PM