Thank goodness for Guillermo.
     What once was a lark has now become an entourage. Horses, dogs, and an attendant to keep it all in line. Two nights at the murmuring Loire were well spent becoming refreshed and more human, after a turn of phrase. With baths, rest, and comfortable lovemaking...nothing can go wrong, right? A beautiful night, and the roll of Touraine is giving way to something a bit more plateau. A rise that levels to the very gentle. South of this area, a river runs. North of here, another river runs. But in between? Higher flat country. A plain, where any defense would be hard built. It's a beautiful land, still of grasses and trees, but paths are more travelled, and here there are farmers as plentiful as vignons.
     On the open plain, the moonlight spills freely. Widely and unimpeached across the land. Shadows weave and play in the light, dark behind silver outlines of existence. A breeze moves easily, lifting the world to a gentle flutter. The horses seem to respond well to these, snacks plentiful. Some of the waving reeds look more of wild wheat, if anything.
     "Do you have an idea of where you want to ride or stop tonight?" Ian wonders softly next to you. He wanted to ride with you earlier, but since no decision was really made on a path, he figured Curtmantle could use a break. "A night on the open plain might be...chilly," he smirks, putting both hands upon the saddlehorn. Dressed in grey silk shirt and black pants, Ian appears a bit more lordly tonight, but in truth, since the river, he's been rather pleasantly content and sedate.

     A gloved hand reaches downward, open palm extended to the plateau and its tall grasses. Wild wheat. He watches the ripple of the reeds beneath his hand, caused by the invisible dance of wind. It seems, however, like magic. The lowering of his hand, and the earth shudders. And his hand lifts, taking up the reins once again. How like a lord he seems, for lord he is. Though the clothes are modern, he cannot help but seem what he truly is. Though the coat is leather, modern, Italian... it seems more like the mantle of a king. His shirt of ivory silk is untucked over leather pants. The color of sun-bleached wheat. And it ripples against the strength of the figure beneath it. Regality held in the simple, upright posture. That ...comfort. That he knows Who he is. What he is. And Why he is. The universe rests on his shoulders. It is the Oneness. He is the earth, he is the sky, and he is flesh and blood. What is that old saying? The king is the land... the land is the king...? As William looks out over the fields of high Touraine, his eyes to the northeast and eastern borders, he thinks of this. And the wheat whispers it with every brush of wind.
     Your voice wakes him from his reverie, and William turns, the slight smile playing upon his lips. A hint of grins to come. There is something...about him. Changed? No, more awakened. When he looks to you, you see Normandy's eyes. Confident. In command. We are not wandering. I know exactly where we are going. "It is good then," comes the languid baritone, its every syllable elongated, "...that we shall sleep in the same tent. Yes? And the dogs," he continues, eyes turning toward Guillermo behind him, "...may keep you warm, Guillermo. Unless you care to sleep three to a tent..."

     "Lord, no," Guillermo says quietly, a grin sliding out behind his words. "I thank you for the courtesy, but... you are ...too kind..." His polite way of saying: Oh god, please. No. I want to live!

     William can hear it upon his tone and lifts in his saddle, stretching long legs. The smile grows, warming by several degrees. Heated by dark humor. Knowing. Indigo shifts to you -- you can see the colors in the darkness. And perhaps even the blue and deep red ...hue that seems to go wherever he goes. Wind moves dark hair, and eyes are for a moment veiled. "Amours... let us ride ahead..." a nod to the direction of north. "We will get as close as we can to the river...to the north...and stop there for the night if you wish...or... we may ride onward northeast... and then turn southward once more. To head tomorrow toward Loches..."

     No, he is not lost either, but precision is relative. Some angle between Chinon and Blois. North of Vouvray. Much more than that? Not really. Ian smirks as you do about Guillaume, the colors about him flaring no less than your own. It is a wonder Girault was not blinded in his visit to Strathfayr. He should not wish another in the tent with the two of you, unless they were quite aware of what would transpire...and their likely part in it.
     Ian settles again, hands firmly upon the saddlehorn. Safir must love him now. "North it is," he agrees, and then says for you, but loud enough for Guillermo to hear, "That is too bad it will be just the two of us. We will survive somehow, I guess." A tch to Safir and Ian picks up the walk again, content to enjoy the breezing wheat. "And Loches sounds nice...another night before we head back to your castle, mon Prince?"

     Oh, precision. This he does not know. North and east of Chinon... at an angle toward Blois. Yet southeast of Tours. A glance to the stars and he may find his way. As he always has beneath them. The best map, and most reliable to this Medieval Knight. But he knows this land as he knows himself. Touch the wheat, skim it with fingertips... it is like glancing a touch against his own skin. William chuckles and the grin darkly rests, sensuality borne upon the very curve and shadow of it.
     "It is too bad. But," a sigh, theatrical, "... we will make do...as they say..." A turn of his head and he looks to you. Laughter lighting his eyes, warming his countenance and broadening that smile. Tonight, canines are distended. Power and potence unchecked, living at his heels like dogs. Beauty. Night, look at your son. "Ah, yes... Loches. There we will drink the native wine," you know the vintage, "... and surround ourselves in humanity before returning to Chinon..." And there... my love... you and I will make the last rounds before returning Home. There is much to do. William looks to you upon the edge of that thought, his grin slanting. "How is that for an itinerary?" Dark brow lifts in askance.

     Guillermo for his part is thankful. He even crosses himself like a good Roman Catholic. But with a bit of a smirk. The expression does not last long. He straightens and awaits your will...

     Ah, and how could Girault have been anything but blinded by you? For William himself, familiar with you, can barely turn from you. You are captivating. And like a thing of gold you inspire lust with every glance. In his dark eyes lust settles in blue and violet, and the air becomes electric around him. Girault... stared. William stares. Henry would weep. All for you, Ian. With the press of thighs, William commands Curtmantle and the white Andalusian picks up the pace into an easy, extended trot. A dressage gait. He appears to float. And Safir has taken to you. His ears cocked back for your command. To hear your voice. And he rumbles, holding equine conversations.

     "Alright," Ian passes in French. Go ahead. Bouncing upon the trot, Ian smiles a little, reins loosely held in his hands. Normally, he hates to have no horse but his own. Yet yours are exceptions. There is no work with Safir, which is thoroughly enjoyable. He picks up the pace a little, Ian does, indeed letting one hand drift down to touch the risen earth. He sees why you love it so here now.
     Wait... Ian thinks suddenly, gaze lifting from the wheat to something in the distance. Something's coming. Listen... Thought before expression. Ah, you cannot hear me. A few moments pass in your riding, and then Ian's voice comes again, "Mon Prince..." goodness, the sound is still there, approaching doppler effect, "...someone..." and he tips his chin upwards in an easterly fashion.

     There silence. For a moment. Then perhaps you hear it. A rumble, definitely growing. An engine, heading at some angle your way....

     Safir moves beneath you. Easily. Like night itself. He glides. You can see how he would be an extension of his rider and of his rider's will. Hand-trained by William, this one was. By a Crusader, for a Crusader. There is no rude jostle, and the lifting of his mane is like the rise and fall of a black veil. But he stops as Curtmantle stops, in concert with his younger peer.

     William turns Curtmantle toward the sound and then paces forward. Turning again. Listening. A motor. Over the open plain. A car? Or a land rover? It is coming this way. Where is the road in relation? William pauses. To hear if it will turn upon a road and veer away. His right hand is poised to move. He does have one of your better guns on him...

     Guillermo also pulls up, his dappled Andalusian jostling somewhat. Anxious, as there seems to be something... afoot...?

     That...is the sound of a motorbike. And it is not veering. Soon, a light can be seen in distant wheat, more than likely someone driving through it. The tops of silver-gold bend, yielding to something's approach.

     "A motorbike," Ian says in European fashion. He is a bit behind you, curiously cocking his head.
     Tick.
     Tick.
     "It's a vampire," Ian says quietly, suddenly, the feeling of surprise and faint worry flashing between you, but soon dissipating.

     The dogs hold their positions, waiting upon the say of their masters. They too know when things are off kilter, like large noises coming in the night.

     "Hmmm..." And curiosity sets in. But, he does reach for his gun. He is curious. He is not stupid. The leather fastenings are undone, and the right hand coils about the HK MP5. Well disguised it was, but he would not leave without it. "We are not far from Blois... perhaps it is..." Slowly the smile grows. "An emissary... of a fashion..." comes the baritone mull. Though the gun is to his right hand, his hand is not raised. In the darkness, he merely holds ready. "We will see who it is, yes...?" William lifts his left hand, making a motion to Guillermo. It is a signal for alert and to keep back.

     Six ears perk forward and three heads lift high, arched. The Andalusian chorus peers out toward the light. The well-trained animals do not skitter, however. Though Curtmantle does make a shift. A soft word of French stills him.
     Macsen holds by his lord's side. His shoulders are raised slightly, but he seems otherwise unbothered. Attentive. Waiting...

     The motorbike races forth, certainly like it knows where it's going. The light soon becomes blinding, and not so far away, it clicks off. Whomever they are, they are not worried about being seen.
     "Ahoy, grass crawlers!" comes the voice, loud and as French as one should like. Regional even. "You have entered the land of the Dread Prince Pirate, Edward of Blois, and of course, like a good marauder, he demands repatriation!" The grass' bend slows as does the motorbike, and soon a visual is easy enough. A man in black, with a black leather jacket...

     Ian is nothing but still. Perhaps you are right. He is quiet as the grass' wild shakings still, and the bike closes it's gleaming eye. Hands rest on the saddlehorn...

     Laughter rises, full and rich. When he laughs, there is nothing more primal male and yet lyrical all at once. A bend, and William resettles the Heckler, as if he were no more than reaching to grab a bit of wild wheat. "Most likely kill me in the morning?" he quips, the sound rising enough to be heard over the slowing bike. A line from a movie that had a Dread Pirate in it. And who says he's stuck in the Middle Ages.
     Straightening, William inclines his head, his hands resting visible now at the rounded horn of his saddle -- European, it has a rise, unlike most British saddles. "By my reckoning, Blois, it's fifty mile till I have to pay the toll for crossing your bridge. What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere..." The question follows the quip. This is unexpected, cos.

     Guillermo relaxes, visibly. You can smell the tinge of sweat. He was worried. But he quiets, and he whistles for the dogs. "Here, boys..." soft in French. His Italian coloring it as oddly as William's French colors your Gaelic. The horses yet stand at alert. One ear forward, the other cocked back. Waiting for commands.

     Blois? Ugh. Ian just sighs. But he adjusts himself in the saddle for a polite wait. Grey eyes look to the departing Ciardan, who glances at Ian to see whether it's fine to go sit by Guillermo. There's a smile and nod, a Gaelic whisper of, "Go on," and then Ian looks to you and your...cousin.

     "Nooooooo," comes the brackish London accent, "...that's th' toll, laddie, for what ye already cross'd. Y' gotta pay for what y' done an' then go on through. Y'pay again on th' other side too," he notes for legal reference. Edward's now visible as the bike coasts towards the group, motor killed. "Y' people never knew how that sorta thing works."
     He beams at the crowd, giving a polite bob of his head to The Dunross. He never knows how to greet that...man. Yes, man is an alright term, he guesses. The smile dimmed, but now comes back in full glory as Edward looks at you. "Cos, don't you look like..." what in the hell do you look like, "...th' strange bloke roamin' the countryside, visitin' his people." He laughs, mixing the kingly and vagrant images. Edward smirks, leaning forward on the engine, arms folding. Waiting. Expectantly. What in the Hell are you all doing out here? All sorts of things could happen...

     "Good evening...nice to see you again..." Ian responds in kind, the formality and distance growing. Name left blank. Edward? He is not so informal and close. Blois? As if. Mr. Meurelle? Does anyone call him that? There's a soft internal sigh. He is not so good with putting up with the riff-raff as you are, and already he withdraws. A Ventrue Distance. To stay out of the way and uninvolved. A polite nod and Ian goes quiet again, letting you speak as you wish.

     In truth, he's a great-grand-and some nephew. But cousin suits well enough and is vastly more familiar. Deep and soft, that laughter leaves him again, holds deep into his chest where is resounds. Across and within that broad expanse now covered with ivory silk. Vagrant and Kingly, he looks -- in part -- a bit of both, does he not? William leans in a bit, his head tilting. "I suppose you could call it that," the baritone mulls. "I had no idea you were in France. Worried about the approach of the Angevin?" Brows lift and the grin spreads. "Cos, it's been years since I've threatened Blois, and always from the north." Normandy by way of the Vexin, that is. And by the tone of his voice -- well of course he's kidding. "It's good to see you," that more warm and familial. "I didn't know you were in France. I would have called..."
     Indigo leaves Edward and shifts toward you. He knows there is no love lost between the two of you. But you do both have something in common. Love of him. William turns back to Edward. Always, however, there is a part of him focused upon you...

     Guillermo lifts his hand for a wave. Edward is known at Chinon, of course. And being Girault's great-great-and some grandson, he is part of the family. So to speak. "Bona sera, signor..." he says quietly.

     "Passin'," Edward replies, grin slanting. Blue eyes move among members of the group, notcing Guillermo there. "Hello, lad," he waves too, brightening a little, "Bona sera...they drug y'out on this too, eh?" A laugh and Edward's eyes return to you, "Actually, I'm in Paris this week, an'..." he rubs his chin with a broad hand, "...I got a weird ring or two from...some eyes down near Fontrevaud?" Ah yes, recall that stop?
     "Now, laddie, I'd 've sent a couple of coolers any other time, save some said somethin' about there being two...one blonde," he nods at Ian, "...an' one not. An' that he was a big fucker." To quote the source. Edward's brows lift and he laughs loudly, "I'm figurin' Fontrevaud...an' two...one big...maybe I should come wit' me own eyes instead."
     He lifts a finger, "An' I'm ignorin' that load o' old cobblers you just tried t' pass at me." About Vexin and being threatened. "O' course," blue eyes roll to the forgiving moon and down again, "...by th' time I manag'd t' leave, m' phone was ringing again..." And you know who that time. Villon. "So, then..." he had to come himself, just to make sure so that the troops weren't sent out accidently. "I know, you all look like Sabbat," he says dryly and without much humor.

      "I'm often mistaken for Sabbat," Ian says, English infinitely...more clear. That was humor, of an old-Ian sort. He sighs. How in the Hell do I get this way? There's something about the face he needs to present to the world. It is not what you and the intimates of the castles see. It is...old. Practiced. Defense. Offense. Habit. The Ventrue Way -- even if it's not yourself. He cannot put it down, even with trying. Frustrated a little, Ian clears his throat. Better to just stay quiet. And not offend. Or raise tensions. It recalls animals in the yard...someone must posture. Someone must show his dominance...even when it's not required. He looks down, trying not to look disinterested for fear of giving the wrong impression.

     Passing. Likely. Not. As if you'd be caught in the sweet meadows of Touraine. The Big Fucker -- he rather likes that nickname, he may keep it -- grins. "I was paying my respects and drinking sacramental wine. Across the river from Chinon... " Fontevraud is very close and is, truly, on his property. What he has amassed. Here, it is more open country... but still within Chinon's proximity. Tours and Poitiers both, though Poitiers moreso.
     But it is not the mention of that first sighting that truly amuses him. It is Villon's call. "Ah..." comes the roll of his voice and the smooth grin to match it. "...It has been years since I have wandered my field of France," using the old term and meaning it, "... and caused the heart of Paris to ...leap to the throat. I should have done this years ago..." A look to Ian, "And shall do my utmost to make a yearly journey of it...If you should like." Warmth for Ian, he does not hide his affection.
     As William turns back to Edward, Edward most likely can see that it does amuses him to make Villon ...jumpy. But not too jumpy. Just a little wave -- and a reminder. I am here. Though that was not the original intent, it is a lovely side bonus. "So... they were worried and sent you out to see. Well, we are circling to the south from the river... " The north river, that is, yet ahead. "...and will be returning to Chinon by way of Loches. Visiting my villages and vineyards along the way..." The smile is permanent, smooth curving. Sensuality there, in equal parts to amusement. "And it was meant to be ignored, cos..." About the threat of Normandy. A joke, Edward.

     Guillermo glances between the three of you and lastly to Edward. A nod given there. With a soft sound, he backs his mount up and away. Giving the three of you peace and distance. The dogs follow him. As for Safir and Curtmantle, they stand relaxed and take the opportunity to dine on fine wild wheat.

     There was a slight twist to the smile at the joke. William looks to Ian. That was funny, though. He feels, however, what lies beneath. There is a surge of warmth across the Bond for that. "I've been called worse..." he adds. As if to ease it all away. Tension, worry and all.

     "Oh, I know 'twas," Edward sighs, settling back onto his bike. Talk of Villion always gives him indigestion. Okay, not really, but if he was alive, he'd have indigestion. "I'faith," the archaic rising in him, "...tis good t' see ye here, Will. It's a big space an' needs more of us around." Not the younger once, but those with long-rooted heriditary power. Certainly the various councils see to things, but there is nothing like a heriditary peerage vampire. Their claims are as much as a vampire charge as a mortal one. From the Old Life.
     "An' don't be too harsh on Villon, eh, Will? He's...got real stones t' carry now." Perhaps Alexandra's problem was not so isolated. And Edward's spent plenty of time in the Arondissments finding stray Sabbat. They are watching, certainly. "Jes'...we all jes' wanna know tis you, lad, that's all." And Dunross. He may not care for the man, but at least he knows what his presence means. "It's good it's....both o' ye." That said. Edward smiles a bit, giving Ian's stature acknowledgement and respect. An inhale and he pushes himself up. "I should let y' be an' get back t' the City an' then...home." London.

      He was looking at you, Ian was, when Edward seemed to suddenly include him. He blinks, returning from his anti-reverie. Lips part, and it's another second before a stunned Ian gets out, "Thanks," said casually. He swallows and nods. He..was talking to me. And somewhere inside, Ian smiles a little.

     Unfortunately, though William is immortal, he can have indigestion. And has on occasion. He did not expect that leading such a small city should lead to such a large ulcer, but... so it goes. "I will hold him to his task. No more, no less, cos..." A hand lifts at that. William was known to be a most fair Duke. But that sense of Fairness and Justice -- to get exactly what one deserves. Yes, it does sound unpleasant, doesn't it. He cut his teeth upon Angevin vassels. There were none more challenging in all the Christian world in his Day. So, Villon now has his attention. He will ...silently...and subtly...let him know that. By merely being here. William need do nothing but be Himself.
     But to the archaic, and to the meaning behind it, the smile softens. To something more of friendship. "It has been too long. I could not ignore my duty, or my land longer. This journey... is as much a reminder to myself as to the soil under Curtmantle's hooves, oui?" He is quiet as Edward addresses Ian, and something between the two passes. Respect is what it is. You do not have to love, in order to respect. In habit, it is the langue d'oeil -- the Medieval, regional dialect of Blois and Normandy -- that leaves him. In its lilt and clip, rougher stuff and more exacting than the more sensual, southern and William's native tongue.
     "Carry the comforting news back," William says, leaning forward with a grin, weight upon the arched neck of the Andalusian, "...it is only William Plantagenet... making his rounds..." As if that should be a thought to comfort anyone. Indigo sparkles with a wink and he straightens. "It was good to see you, Edward. We will visit in London, yes?" A hand pats the stallion's neck.
He was, amours... he does respect you... And he knows he does. "If Guillermo weren't opposed to riding that thing, I'd suggest you'd take his horse and join us, cos. But... I should let you go. The night is young... I'd hate to delay any carousing...Paris should weep but that you are even delayed..." I am not the only one with a reputation for a certain...prowess and pastime...afterall...

     He laughs a little, Edward does, fishing for the ignition. Something restored from The War. "Paris misses me not, cos," he blushing faintly at the idea. Really. "Now London, that's diff'rent. I'll see y'both there," he smiles, turning on the bike. It coughs, but finally rumbles to life. "An' I'll tell Villon exactly wot y'said, Will," Edward's voice shouting over the roar. He's sure that'll go over well. At least he might hear something in the Toreador's voice. "Cheers, mates!" he calls, backing away by pushing. "Don't stay out too late, eh?"

     "Good...bye..." Ian says, lifting his voice as his hands come up to expect to shield his eyes from the light's glare. And when Edward flicks it on, the light radiates, but at an angle where he's turned the front tire. Safir moves, but Ian steadies him with a lowering pat.

     A blush from the great Meurelle. He shan't tell a soul -- well, that and he did not see it. But if he had, would he have grinned any less? Rich, that ease of his voice in laughter. Warm, filled with much both Dark and Light. "You do that, Blois! I'll pay your toll when we get to The City," London, "I'll buy you a drink..." A gloved hand lifts in a wave, and then settles upon his stallion's neck as the younger Andalusion pitches at the sudden light. Indigo eyes squint to slit at the sudden illumination. "Cheers, mate..." That said, though doubtful it was heard.

     Curtmantle turns with the tossing of his head, his feet lifted in a gait though he remains in place. Nervous, it is like a pavanne. A dance. "That was unexpected and rather pleasant..." The langue d'oc now firmly in place. "We shall go to the river... set up camp... drink wine and stare at our stars," how like a lord and king to claim to own them. Well, by divine right... as a chosen ruler by God, he supposes they are his to share in, yes? "... tomorrow, we ride toward Loches... how does this sit with everyone?" William actually asks, even as he leads his stallion into a prancing circle around Ian. A look to you. Heated. His form, perfection as it moves, a part of the horse between his thighs. They are becoming One Being. "Amours...how is this idea with you?" Soft, his voice sounds then.

     Ah me. I am in for another long and sleepless night, thinks Guillermo... catching that sound. Catching that look. Rabbits know more restraint...

     He may have heard your call. His ears are adroit enough. But after the light comes on, Edward turns and dashes off to the south, more than likely to pick up the faster road. A hand comes over his head and waves lopsidedly to you all, and soon enough, he is unseen, save a receding light...

      He'd already agreed. Ian watches Edward until he cannot see him anymore and then smiles at you with a nod. "Loches," he says again, grinning when you begin to circle around him. A blushing roll of his eyes soon returns him to the humor he has for you. "It sounds fine," he agrees. All of it. He shifts and sighs, picking up the reigns and lifting from a stopped position on the saddlehorn. Motion once more.

     But not an easy motion. Too long have the stallions held their gait and claimed the hills and valley in peaceful strides. No. Now the wild wheat is split, arching back and rippling in the wake of a white lunge. And in the gallop, urged by your husband's thighs, he holds out both arms, hands outstretched. He is balanced by the grasp of legs and by the motion of hips and form. The reins, interlaced, lay about the saddlehorn, slack enough for the stallion to feel free to continue. It is like the last time he rode Baruch as a mortal man. But then, the golden earth was sand. And his arms were outstretched in pain rather than pleasure. Bending, a hand rests upon the rounded horn of the saddle as his other sweeps downward. Plucking a little wild wheat from its stalk. The earth hisses behind him. Long reeds bending and waving in his wake.

     Guillermo laughs as the dogs lunge after. They know a race when they see one, and the grey he rides eases into a canter. He shall bring up the rear. For now, Medici holds the pace in check... until you go ahead.

     Well, alright, a fast ride. Ian directs Safir on, to follow at his leisure. He laughs a little, shaking his head as you go forth. He must have seen this in a movie once. But he'll not worry you about it right now. He claps, somehow, as you perform tricks, moon at your backs now as you head off across the tall grasses and deeper into the darkest parts of the Night.

     He can thread a needle from horseback. All of those knightly games that seem so romantic? They all have a deadly point behind them. He can grab weapons in motion. He can use his horse as both sword and shield. It's all a part of riding for him. But there is nothing he loves so well as a full charge. Of course, you know this. William loves like he rides, yes?

     Ahead, you can hear the river. Another night of wine... of water... of him. Though... there shall be little that is sedate about it if this charge is any indication...
     I am here. It says it simply. It says it profoundly. In the charge of electric air around him, making itself and him known. In the percussion of Andalusian feet...

Posted by rowan at May 10, 2000 07:24 PM