Days begin early at Chinon. Many are up just at the crack of pink along the line of the earth, still an hour from full sunrise, and the evening's guard retires for the morning guards that take their shift. The limestone holds the warmth of the sun throughout the day, and it's this time of year that finds windows open and constant activity. Many peasants may dream of kings that sleep in feathered beds and lazily move throughout their morn, perhaps that's how it seems. And perhaps it would have been expected that he should sleep in, having returned from war just yesterday. But that is not the way of this duke. That is not the way of the men of that line.
     As first of the kitchen and bed staff rose, Normandy was already out of his bed, dressed, and marching through the honey-stoned corridors. In the morning, there were the spring's petitions to review, the judgments made by his wife in his stead for this corner of his holdings. Messages and letters received of Normandy were reviewed while on his way to review the horses, an apple devoured while on the way to hear his steward's report of what yet needs to be done before the fall and winter, and mid-stride somewhere in one of the fortress' halls, he heard his sister Joanna was within.
     Poor Catherine. She did not have the leisure of her own mouth or breath to tell him last night...
     And so by noon the first half of the running of the state had been done and William Plantagenet unstoppable. When one sought to find him in one place, he had already left. Mercurial as Henry. As Richard, who is expected some time this day. And, yes, William has the castle in an uproar. Well... someone has to do it.
     The clicking of dog's nails announces him, his stride following after, as he heads into the great common hall of Logis Royeaux among the throng of those who live here, royal or not. He is clothed for work now, not for war, in serviceable blacks and a dash of blue. Oh, and there's another piece of fruit in his hand, this a pear from one of Chinon's own trees.

     Normally, Catrin is up and about early enough, welcoming the sun with brisk activity, but husbandly homecomings have a way of ... delaying her. The sun is high in the sky before she's stirred from the bed and gotten herself down from the chambers and to her work.
     And, of course, with the uproar, there's people to check on, things to be taken care of, arrangements to be made, guests to prepare for and be seen to... She moves from room to room, giving clarifications and attempting to keep things from going rightly to Hell.
     By noon, though she's been looking for him, she still hasn't found him, and in exasperation, Catrin's sunk to a seat in the hall, a goblet in one hand and set of keys in the other, held to her lap as the goblet is to her chest, head laid back on the back of the chair with her eyes closed for a moment's respite. Even with everyone else running about like madmen, Chinon's lord at their heels, the lady of the place finds a scarce moment to sit, and think - or at least, rest.

     And God knows she needs it...
     There's a cold, wet nose to the lady's hand, sniffing at her, and the clicking of nails quickens with a momentary excitement. But the greyhound's well trained. There's no jumping. Just a circling and then a settling down. And maybe in your dozing you missed the footfalls of your husband. The smell of pear...
     A kiss is brushed against your forehead, and your goblet lifted as easily as a jewel by a clever thief's hand. William stands right in front of you, a leg partially flush to your own and partly against the chair. Ah, unfermented cider, pressed juice of Angevin apples. Sweet, light, and almost cool.
     He takes these quiet moments -- some of them you are aware of, others not -- to study you. A gaze that drinks you in, holding you to his senses as if you were that cider upon his tongue, held there in a savoring taste. He cannot help the smile, the soft look, the affection, the easy love that comes between you both -- so easily that you and he have become a paragon to lovers in a time of Lovers. His mother's Court of Love finds a paradigm in you.
     So if you stir, you will find your William staring. Clean-shaven once again, and almost looking polished...

     "Mm..." She makes a quiet sound under her breath, shooing the dog gently without opening her eyes. Catrin is not asleep, though perhaps almost close to it, but when the goblet is lifted away, she blinks a bit, struggling to sit up properly. There is only one in Chinon who would so dare.
     "There you are!", she exclaims, not quite angrily, but not entirely calmly. "I would have thought you'd gained some whirlwind to carry you from place to place, milord, for all that I've been running to catch you and finding only failure. Word of your passage in every place, but yourself, not at all - I suppose it's the general in you, that you found me instead." A smile leavens the tartness of her voice, as she lifts her chin up to look at you.
     There is laughter there, in her eyes, a warmth to match her fiery hair. "You've cleaned yourself up," she remarks, leaning forward to tap your stomach lightly, bringing the ring of keys to her lap properly where they cannot escape her. "And does milord find Chinon well-handled, in his absence?"

     "I do, and surprised in all that Henry paid you not a visit. It is his house. But, all is quiet. Remarkably quiet." And, no, I do not trust it. But the smile tugs slantwise, and his dark eyes are lit with humor. And something else of a more...smoldering quality? Your goblet is offered back to you, and his hand lights upon your face a moment. "It means much that I may leave Poitou or Normandy in your care, Cath-fach," a Welsh play upon your name. Translated literally it means 'kitten'. And it's the gentlest thing he knows how to say in your language -- the rest can't be uttered in church. He learned 'battle Welsh' -- and that's not the sort of thing you just go blurting out. But as he has taught to you his southern French, so you have taught him the more comely and becoming of your own language.
     Of course, the surest way to teach him your tongue is to give it to him while he is in your bed. Didn't take long for you to figure that out...
     "I need no whirlwind, I am my own best storm," comes the languid pull of his voice, baritone deep and smooth, flecked with syllables of fire. And then William winks. "For my part, I'm sorry I eluded you. It wasn't intentional, but... now that you have my undivided attention..." Out comes his hand to yours. To help you stand so he can take a seat, and you on him. Such is custom between you...

     The great ring of keys is put back on her belt, and she takes goblet in one hand, leaning in to that momentary touch. "I do what I may to bring peace to my lord's thoughts when he thinks of home," she murmurs. "Though hopefully not too much peace, lest you stay far off from me..."
     "I've no idea as to Henry's disposition at any given time," comes Catrin's shrug, as she accepts your hand, rising and stepping away to give you more room. "It seems I am driven to a plague of women, though." With Joanne in residence, even when well-meaning, it still brings more women in retinue and court than Catrin has patience for, busy as she is. And with more brothers than sisters, she may be soft and womanly, but she has a liking for fire and spice. She laughs, though, the words lightened by it.
     "You are," she agrees, adding in a play of Welsh, "You stormed right through me, last night, bach." She wrinkles her nose, returning to French. "And I have your undivided attention, have I? - How do things progress?"

     "Well, if you figure it out," as to Henry's disposition, "...do enlighten the rest of us. I have given up trying to figure him out." Pot. Kettle. Black. If only his sons weren't so much like him, so keen of mind, sharp of tongue, strong (and strong headed), they might get along and there might be peace in the kingdom. But half the battles he fights are against his other brothers' own men. He at least has his alliance with Richard. It is as firm as the limestone of the Loire. Apart from his love of you, it is the only thing he can count on.
     Guillaume XI of Poitou settles in the chair and, with you upon his lap, makes comfortable his lordly half-sprawl. A favorite thing, this, of his. Holding you thus. It is easy for him to reach you, and he surrounds you. Which is how he prefers it, truth be told. And while there is movement in the hall, servants coming in and out, the laughter of those who walk the colonnades and halls between this hall and the courtyard and garden just beyond it, he cares not a pin for it. And in the shadow of a stained glass window that bears his likeness and his name, he kisses you. But in the kiss there is a grin, a chuckle as he suckles on the flesh of your lower lip, stealing it like a piece of fruit, the pear still held -- though forgotten -- in his left hand. "A great thunder we made, mais oui. And tonight shall find it the same. You know how summers in Chinon can be..." A play upon his own insatiability. Legendary before he knew you -- now, merely focused upon one end.
     Namely, yours...

     She's been streaking around Chinon all morning with the same energy of her brother. More than once, she's managed to get under-foot and run off giggling. Always light of heart, Joanna has had a blast this morning, trying to help but only being shooed off by people who just didn't want her in their way.
     With the news of her brother having returned home, the lightness of her mood only increased tenfold, bringing with it the hyper-activity of youth. Not being needed anywhere -- and only managing to annoy several of the staff -- Joanna has spent much of the morning gathering beautiful wild-flowers in her basket and looking about for her brother. The hems of her dark green side-less surcoat could be seen in quick flashes as she'd round a corner somewhere; a quick glimpse of the rust-coloured sleeve of the dress underneath seen as she snatched an apple from the kitchens from behind a door; and glints of sunlight passing through windows caught the auburn of her hair as she peeked inside different rooms.
     Her feet have brought her close to the Great Hall, but not into the large room yet. As it has for most of the morning, her voice can be heard just past the doors, calling, "Guillaume...?"

     The ...fury of activity that has had Chinon bursting at the seam's since yesterday afternoon only rises to a pitch in the following moments. And there would only be three in all the world who would stir it so at this point: Henry, William.... or Richard.
     And he was expected...
     Even so, when servants may be seen to ...run rather than march...that can only mean one thing. Richard's arrived.
     Well, that is unless Henry's pulling another one of his famous surprise maneuvers and moving southward. No. No, we would have heard his voice by now...

     Naturally, it is while she is curled up on her lord's lap that all of his family - well, a goodly portion of it - should choose to arrive en masse. Catrin glances upwards at William, the corners of her mouth curving to a wry slant, leaning against his shoulder for a moment before moving to sit up.
     "Storms will have to wait for the other clouds that are gathering to have made up their minds," she quips at him. "I suppose I should go see to the feasts..." She moves to rise, goblet still held in one hand.

     Indeed. What was a dull roar, heightens. He cannot come alone, can Eleanor's Oldest, and it's the sound of a few dozen horses with the shouts of organizing liegemen that hearkens as a call. The retinue spills out into the courtyard, awash in dogs. Soon, they'll be in the inner halls and sanctums, as if they own the place...

     "Lord, I want just one moment's peace!" his voice fills the hall no less his father's, but it comes with a wry grin and the edge of laughter. If Joanna were wondering if he were here, she need no other clue than the great Norman voice, the roar inherited by all of Henry's sons. Guillaume sits in the chair, his woman beginning to climb down from his lap, his hands in the process of pulling her back. His grin spreading. "Non... non, I wish for you to stay," he murmurs, and then inclining his head, William turns toward the dull roar, the sound of Joanna's voice. "Good afternoon my sister," he calls, "...I think I hear the dulcet tones of a future king arriving..."
     And if Richard enters as if he owns the place, he's partially right. With Henry gone, the elder living son will have the sway.

     A mere moment later, that auburn-topped head pokes through the doorway of the Great Hall as she nearly seems to be hiding behind the door. Seeing her brother and sister-in-law, Joanna then bursts into the room in a half-skip, half-run.
     "Gui! There you are! I heard you were back and I've been looking all over for you... I picked flowers for you and my sister... and now it looks like I need to pick more because Richard's here!" Her words come forth excitedly from her, just adding to how animated she seems. She's always been easily excitable.

     Well, peace seems to have run out, certainly. Catrin looks up at her husband, even in the act of firmly keeping her in place, and says archly, "Things were peaceful enough, my husband - you bring chaos and strife with you, today, it seems." But she reaches up to snag a lock of his hair and give it a playful tug, smiling. She's not angry.
     Joanna's call makes her turn her head, more even than the cries of Richard's men. "Ah, you may give him my share, then, for there will be flowers aplenty tomorrow and tomorrow, for you to give me if you like, and a whole spring's worth that has been collected already." She smiles again, though a different, almost maternal smile, despite the age difference not being so great. "No doubt your brother will be striding in here at any moment, to receive due tribute."

     Someone said tribute. The buzz of dogs and men before him give him enough, perhaps, but he'll always take more. Ever more. "I have to go deep within the halls to the chambers of ladies to find him," the voice deafens, crushing the barks of dogs and the boots of his companions. In truth, only four precede him...six come afterwards. Jesu only knows where the rest are. It is much like a series of crashing coronets, blaring the arrival of something.
     Something much like the Comte d'Anjou.
     "What should the Duchess think, hmm? A loud and rough brother, arriving without having made himself presentable. Maybe she would forgive..." he smiles, grin visible despite the dirtied face and the weeks' of growth. It doesn't hide who he is or what he will be.
     And Joanna. A blink, gloves coming off, torn cloth of a cloak trailing him. "And doubly lucky I am..."

     Content that you cannot move and with his sister nearby, William is full of grins and laughter. "Oui? And not just today," comes the Langue d'Oc. Sugar and salt -- few languages more expressive of sensuality and fire. He leans toward Joanna to get a kiss of his sister -- demonstrative family that it is -- and with a lapful of Welsh red-head, whom he even goes so far as to bounce a little -- he looks to the arrival of his brother.
     And the grin shoots across his features like the flaming arrows their own archers sent against the fortifications of the Gascons. "Where better, my brother, but in the company of the world's finest? And my duchess is of a forgiving sort. She'd have to be, n'est-ce pas?" William laughs and a hand leaves his wife in preparation for meeting his brother's own hand. "Why, Lord, beneath all of that Gascon soil I think I spy the Duc d'Aquitaine and future king of England and France."

     There is no hesitation as Joanna leans forward to give a kiss to Guillaume, hugging both he and Catrin at the same time. Flower petals fly about as her erratic, happy movements are a bit rough on the delicate things. Then, she releases the two as she hears the booming voice...
     Spinning on her heels, Joanna beams, her smile going from one ear to the other as she cries out, "Richard!" with delight. She then pauses, biting her bottom lip a moment. She glances about, as though wondering if she's supposed to curtsey, call him 'my Lord', or what. Seeing Guillaume still reclining with his wife, she deems it alright to be familiar and suddenly darts toward her other brother, all smiles and laughter.
     He'll get a hug from her, dammit, even if he is to be King.

     He's not king... yet...
     Nor is the family so formal. That takes too much time, quite frankly, and there are kingdoms to hold and family members to screw over. Time's a wastin'...

     There's a slant in Richard's features, wonder at William's display. "If you had done your part," Richard adds, "I would not need be under such Gascon soil. But I'll ask you of Navarre later... and take France, leave England to Henry..." a grin and look to the two ladies. "Jo," Richard smiles, coming to her side. "A sweet thing and surprise. You will have to tell me all of your dread parents later -- I know you have been in their...basking presence." An innocent blink.
     Richard snorts as the young woman lands at his side, a wince for the rising muss. "You do look well, sweet Jo. I am glad for that."
     A wink given at the pair upon the odd throne. "My lady," Richard says formally, "...last, but not least..."

     The liegemen have done their delivery. Each gives a bow to William and the family at large, soon taking a leave through a side archway.

     "Umph!" Catrin's bounced a bit, and she squirms to a more solid position, energetically smoothing her hair back. "Oh, yes, I'll forgive you eventually, husband," she retorts, "though giving me leave to greet our guest would not come amiss." She turns her attention, held fast as she is, to her lord's brother.
     "Greetings to you, my lord. I'd say you're looking well, but mostly you look as though you have been traveling hard," Catrin says frankly, though with a smile, tossing back her curls again with a glance upwards to William and across to Joanna. "There will, of course, be much feasting in your honour, though you might like a chance to freshen up, first?" And a bath, her tone suggests.

     Freshen...up? Richard looks at himself, then spies the girl warily. Hmph.

     "That is why I love her," William intones, "...for the delicacy of her tongue." And yes, if you think there's a side meaning to that, you're probably right. But, he lets her go, at last. He will have his time with her later. God knows, she's already had to bear him through a very full night.
     An eyebrow lifts slowly and the dark eyes find their mark on Richard, the smile yet showing. "Done my part? And where were you when I was surrounded? Writing another poem," he answers, in jest, but soon he is rising, gently to let Catherine find her feet, and fearing not the dust of a ride, he grabs his brother in a hug. Lion to lion -- each horribly tall, both broad, through Richard yet broader with 11 years on his brother, and all of them filled with war one might imagine. "I missed you as I quelled Robert," one of your Gascon rebels. "I could not bear any more of his troubadour's songs." He expects a cuffing. So it is, even with him as Duke and general both. Campaigns under his belt like a ring of stars around Orion's own waist. He is of your humor, Richard.
     Hug done, William gives a wink to Joanna, "I received a letter of my mother yesterday." Eleanor. Still confined, so shall she be for the rest of his life. "Believe it or not, she sends her love." And he includes Catherine in this, of course, his arms scooping her back up, holding her, tiny as she is, as he stands.

     Joanna likely couldn't smile much wider. How blessed she is! Two bothers and her sister... and a feast on its way! So much excitement, she will no doubt be bouncing off the walls of the Great Hall by nightfall this eve.
     She doesn't seem to mind Richard's state as she hugs him energetically. She nods about her parents but keeps quiet for now. There's time for that later, as he suggested.
     Waiting for William to stop speaking, as she does try to be polite, she smiles a bit at the mention of Eleanor's letter, but says nothing of it. She then looks back up at Richard to speak. Holding up the poor flowers and seeing what shape they're in now, she says, "These are for you...but, I fear they've seen better days." They do look quite scraggly, but it's the thought that counts, right? And she can pick more.

     Almost, she slipped away once placed down, to tend to business of the manor, that satisfied little woman's smile firmly on Catrin's face. Then, though, she's being hauled back up, with a slight squeak. "William! Put me down!"
     She glares and she laughs, both at the same time, not bothering to struggle - it'd be too much indignity, after all. "You'll have to forgive him, he'll use me as a shield at the moment, me and quelled Robert's songs alike," she laughs to Richard, smiling down at Joanna with her arms round her husband's neck. "Joanna, perhaps we'll set aside some space for a garden for you to design as you choose. Then you may have such flowers as you best love."

     Richard glances down, taking the flowers in his free hand. "They see no better day than now, given by a sister." Richard takes the flowers, stuffing their stems into a pocket in his overvest. "They shall remain with me until they can travel no more." Hand pats his pocket gently, causing the petals to stir.
     "Did someone mention a mother's love?" Richard says dryly, now looking around. A drink needed. "Poisoned milk," he finishes, still looking left and right.
     "Can't you get a blessed drink around here?" he demands of no one in particular. Joanna still encased in one broad arm, Richard swings them both in circles.

     You want to play the hostess? Now's your chance. William sets his tiny wife down -- she seems half his size, how do they manage? -- and twists to give a whistle. But servants are already on their way, preparations for a feast beginning. And this hall is the one that shall bear it.
     "She likes my wife," William remarks as he, with a gentle pat to Catherine's waist, steps to the side and takes a seat once more. "While I can appreciate her... taste," his smile smoothens, "I wonder upon the timing. The ...sincerity? Well... this isn't even a question. I feel another tug of war..."
     Macsen rises, shakes off and noses his way around the chamber, and around the sudden influx of strange dogs. "How long do you plan on staying?" William wonders. He himself not sure how long he shall be for Chinon. "Any word of Henry's movement? John's?"

     Looking at Catrin as best as she can as Richard swings her about, she beams and laughs excitedly, "My own garden? Oh please?? I would love that..." Lord knows young lady needs something to keep herself out of other people's hair. She may be close to Guillaume in age, but her demeanor is still that of an innocent child most days. Not being married off will do that...extend the childhood a bit.
     She's merely happy to be around her brothers and sister, instead of her parents. It's a much better place, surely. She falls silent as talk of her mother ensues and she contents herself with hanging off of Richard like she did with him and Guillaume when she was but a small child.
     How often did she tag along behind them, wanting to be involved in everything? Not much has changed, has it?

     A shake of his head. Not Henry moving. "Phillippe," Richard grumbles, not wanting to get into it at the moment. He'd rather the drink. "Nancy," he says for a place, ending it there with the single word answer. "And not long."
     "But, long enough for me to hear Jo sing, and to enjoy your table," Richard grins at William and Catherine. "And then," he shrugs, disposition seeming momentarily soured.
     Maybe he really does need that drink.

     She brushes back her rumpled hair one-handed, looking around quickly, uttering sharp orders to the servants rushing about before turning back to her extended family. "Your mother," Catrin says without particular heat, "must want something, for such glowing praise to come from her in honour of me." Mothers and daughters by marriage, indeed.
     Looking up to Richard with hands on her hips, the little Welshwoman declares, "I believe you might find a drink in here, if you come to the table. Else, if you are so impatient, then here," she picks up her discarded goblet of wine, and shoves it at him with a gay laugh, "no lips but mine've touched it, no hands but mine and your brother's."
     A smile to Joanna - and perhaps the diversion for that boundless energy was one of her reasons for offering. "Of course. You might begin thinking what you would like in it, and we will see where to place it that it gets the best attention."

     The cup's accepted and Joanna relinquished to the world. He'll take it, despite knowing better, and after a nod, tosses it back with a close of his eyes...

     "Careful, brother," William warns, but there is an underlying warmth, "... when I tasted it, it seemed suspiciously like apple juice. Ah, too late," William chuckles. "And I think we are not bound here long," a glance to Catherine, meaning-crammed. "We will be heading to Rouen," he murmurs. "Back to Normandy for the remainder of summer and fall, at least. I owe my wife a few consecutive months of my company. And I would like to glower at Phillipe from a closer range." Phillipe-Auguste, King of Paris and what land around Paris as we decide to part with. Wretch. And he would coin us all into gold if he could. He coined Henry the Young. He coined Geoffrey. He's coining John. All that's left is you and I.
     "Ah, thank God," William quips as a flagon of brandy is brought to him directly. and three goblets, long stems, short and shallow bowls. "Though staying at Mirabeau is tempting..."
     Mirabeau, the oft-contested property, coveted by Henry's remaining sons and even Henry himself...

     Suddenly released by Richard, Jo stands there on her own, watching the three of you. She's trying hard not to fidget, as she's been told that's a bad habit of hers. Sometimes she just can't help it...the energy needs to be used somehow. Maybe a garden will do the trick. Maybe not. Only time will tell.
     Hearing that Richard will be staying for a bit, and that he wants to hear her sing, she beams again. "Oh, the feast will be so lovely," she comments simply, but falls silent again after that. Seeing the soured expression on Richard's face can only mean something bad...not to mention she hates to see any of her brothers leave once they show up.
     The smile offered to her from Catrin is returned brightly as the younger lady actually bounces a bit on her heels, then settles. She listens quietly about the trip to Rouen, her eyes getting a bit large for a moment as she wonders if she'll go with them or be shipped off elsewhere. Curiosity shows in her face...she's never been able to hide her mind much, being too honest.

     "I can't go to Rouen," Richard says dourly, reaching now for the next drink. It's turned up at his lips. "I go towards Nancy," he moving towards the table as directed. Absent motions.
     But Jo stops smiling for a moment. Unforgivable, that. "You will have your feast and you," he looks at the married pair, "...will have your time at Rouen," cup waved at them.
     For me, it is nothing such. I must lie in the bed I have made...
     "So. I will do as my sister has asked," he grins at Catherine, "...and make myself somehow presentable before things get too far here." In feast-makings. "It is the least," Richard half-bows at the duchess, '...I can do."

Posted by rowan at January 04, 2004 01:42 PM