The hum of the day still lingers on the air, the air stirred by the breezes that are yet allowed within, though Day has passed now into Evening proper. Every window stands open, hinges cranked, and the painted door stands open. The wind is warm and cool all at once, and upon it there is the now-and-again touch of moisture.
     And in and out they go as they please, the indigo, violet and green pinioned peacocks, long plumage brushing against the limestone of the Loire. And such feathers scatter, plumage lifting in a sudden rush as birds scramble to move out of his way. Their better and their lord. Violet silk is buttoned, but still near transparent the fabric is so fine. Just colored air. In the darkness of the chamber, his leathers blend in with the air, for a brief moment making him seem insubstantial. But light after light, candle after candle, the growing golden illumination moves against the black lambskin, pooling where leather gathers, spreading where it is taut.
     The shower is still fresh on him, his black hair inky with lingering dampness. The cinnamon is present on the air around him, recently applied to his skin. And something with an essence of clove lies beneath this. Earth and Fire. And the language that rolls from his tongue, his mouth, coming with the drag of extended vowels and the sharpness of consonants sends the last peacock out of the courtyard and into the garden.
     Now, he is all of that brethren that remains...

     "Sir," comes a voice, a young woman coming in. She has nothing in her hands, and gives a faint curtsey to you. "Your presence is requested by the other gentlemen in the dressing rooms of your apartments."

     There are some rooms that, when you and he are not here, are simply not used -- or have the residue of tourism. He lights the candles. He opens the windows. Life will be breathed into it again. Chinon resuscitated...
     A match is blown out just short of burning, and he tosses it in a metal bowl. Even the ashtrays and wastebins here are done with a Gothic sensibility. Turning, brows lifting, William looks to her past a shoulder and then nods, a smile beginning. "Merci, Amie," he murmurs. A look around...
     I do not know what you were in my birth, or in my youth. Or in the centuries that saw us parted, old friend. And it doesn't matter. You are old, as I. Older. But you are new. Reborn with every visit...
     With a last look to the young woman and a spreading smile -- they are all so sweet, the girls of Chinon, like the apple trees that grow in the center groves -- William heads into his garden, peacocks lifting from the ground, crying out and for a moment flying.
     When did you feel him crest, Earl?
     Was it the garden, as he moved past the lemon trees still dormant, past the fountain not yet running, past a stand of flowers showing early buds. Or was it when the doors to Angevin Tower -- the main body of the old castle itself -- were opened? When his feet could be heard mounting the winding stone steps of his tower.
     Surely, you felt and heard him then...
     In the antechamber, you could hear him breathe...smell the cinnamon...taste the clove. And then the door to the private chamber opened. The broad bedchamber that doubles as a sitting room with the thick drapes are drawn across the breadth of the room...

     He's moving about the room, Ian is, but Stephen's moving faster. A young man now, he is accompanied by two others who are simultaneously bringing Ian food, brushing his suits, hanging and folding clothing, and rearranging the room.
     The one who called you paces, moving back and forth at the foot of the bed, wrapped tightly in a towel. Still wet, he's frustrated, grey eyes watching the flurry. Cross taps at his chest, Ian's breathing shallow.
     "I realize that you all thought the room was adequate, but it's still a little..." his fingers roll together, "...clammy in here." He is not angry, but indeed, he wonders who aired the room.
     But then you arrive. Ian glances over and smiles, then goes back to watching Stephen unpack another suitcase. "That's good, Stephen," he says, accepting of the state of the pants in the young man's hands.

     It registers with a slight lifting of his eyebrows, a pause in place and then you see William agree. Clammy. No. Musty. The royal nose wrinkles. How fine and refined are the senses now that would not have noted such a thing eight hundred years ago. Civility has made a wretch of us all. But now that we're not living in squalor, no need to put up with musty, clammy rooms.
     He doesn't order the boys off their current duty, but rather goes straight to the bedroom portion of the great chamber, throws back the drapes as he goes and heads for the set of three windows. "...we'd have more ventilation in a cave, Jesu," rattles the Occitan, its syllables so...precise.
     The heel of his hand comes against the hinges of the windows. Banging. Once. Twice. Thrice. "Rien Dieu," you hear him mutter. God damn it. But then there is a sigh, a great exhalation of Satisfaction when the most stubborn of hinges releases and the window may be cranked open. "Even if it rains, we will leave it open, mais oui? Or we will be growing moss by dawn."
     Passing you, there is a kiss left upon your head, your temple, a growl and a grin, and there is another left at your neck. Boys be damned. And Stephen, man that he is becoming, is used to it. Mais oui. "I came just in time. You are about to lose that towel, yes?" Not two nights in France, and his accent is already thick and English thoroughly forgotten. William piles into one of the large chairs and settles back with a grin. To watch you.

     There is sympathy for the youths who try to wipe, not dust, with something to freshen the air. About then, someone arrives with a dehumidifier, rushing to set it up in an inconspicuous corner of the room. Ian smirks at your question, shaking his head. "I was about to get dressed," he motions towards Stephen, who indeed, is used to you both. He keeps on, giving quiet suggestions to the regular staff.
     "What of you?" Ian wonders. "You were up and out quickly. Good to be home, oui?"

     "That's going to keep me up at night," he mulls, watching the setup of the machinery there in the corner. Smooth, the smile spreads until it becomes a full-force grin. "My timing is impeccable then," William settles back, arms folding against his chest -- and silk nearly becoming skin in the process. A hand lifts, and makes a wave. "Don't let my leering stop you." Ah, so it has begun. The resurrection of Henry.
     "I had to see to some additional unloading. Horses arrived today," he mentions. Curtmantle, the last offspring of Baruch, is never left behind. Nor Safir. They are moved from Chinon to Scotland, and made the journey from America, land of Curtmantle's birth. "All is well there. I was just lighting the courtyard and getting rid of those damned birds... remind me again," comes the languid, droll tone, "...why I keep a menagerie as I do..."

     "I have no idea," Ian chuckles, nodding at Stephen for the moment. The young man will see to the closets while Ian takes up a stance near the edge of the bed to watch the housekeeping staff. "Take one animal with you, laird," he thinking of his own aging Ciardan.

     "At least I haven't started keeping exotics. Count your blessings, Earl Dunross," laughter eases across his words and he glances around for the dogs. "And I haven't seen Macsen all day. He's probably humping around somewhere," he finishes in a mutter and then chuckles. That whole thing about dogs resembling their owners (or vice versa) rings loud and true with he and Macsen.
     Sliding down in the chair, spreading into a nice lordly sprawl, William tilts his head, eyes fastening on you. At your face first. Then, to your waist. You see the violet spark in the indigo eyes. A flicker of flame, giving hint to a rising fire. Dark eyes, dark but brilliant, glance to the remainder of the staff. "Je pense qui le fera. Je vous appellerai si l'humidificateur ne fonctionne pas," he says, his modern French affected by the lingering sensuality of the native Occitan.
     And the servants tending the machine rise and begin to disperse...
     "I want to stare at you without distractions," William murmurs. How fiery it sounds, the old language. "I think I can tend to you from here, yes?"

     "You think?" Ian spins around to watch the servants disperse. He hopes where this leads will overcome his desire for a drier room. "What about my dehumidifier?" he wonders, looking back at you. He won't be comfortable until the room is to his liking. "And my clothes are lain out," he motions to the bed. "I guess you can tend to me putting my socks on."

     There is a sound. The white noise of a constant humming. The machine at work. Your keen senses can pluck it from the other sounds quite easily. And his, becoming more and more keen, can likewise hear it. William rises from his seat. "We could spend the night in the courtyard. The sofas are comfortable. I can fashion a bed from the bedding and cushions of the music room if it does not improve, oui?" And the smile returns, curving at the corners of his mouth. Smooth, when it spreads it seems as much an uncoiling.
     His hands, warm and strong, slide at your skin, pressing between you and your towel, and his mouth pulls at your mouth. There is a burn when mouths meet. The cinnamon is recent. The oil upon his tongue can be tasted. Your mouth hums with it.
     And you know where the ritual demands that such oil be placed. No wonder he burns when he wakes...

     "Mm," Ian grins, "I was thinking of a walk in the garden, then I would be ready for sleep again," he smirks. "I had planned the whole evening," he chuckles. "But sure, laird, we can go to the courtyard," his hands on your arms. "I guess I'll need to pick something different then," he chuckles.
     His fingers squeeze and Ian looks over to Stephen. "Hmm. Something more comfortable," he notes, looking back at the turtleneck and slacks. Then you again. "Say...whatever happened with those paintings Edward had you create?"

     The great machinery known as William Plantagenet has to switch gears. This could take a while...
     "Non, the gardens are good... fresh air will be better..." And then that's where his words ended. As you mention the paintings, eyebrows lift and then he recalls just which set you mean. The forgeries. "The originals are in the vaults. The forgeries were returned and then destroyed. I still have the originals. Edward has never called me about keeping them nor not." A roll of his shoulders. "In the meantime, they are safe and dry. Why do you ask, amours?"
     And has it registered yet...
     The lack of paintings in the great hall of Angevin Tower...
     No more Henry, no more Eleanor. Young Henry and Geoffrey and John... all gone. And Richard... retired. And gentle Joanna withdrawn. And even your portrait. The walls are... subtly but mysteriously ...empty...

Posted by rowan at August 24, 2001 01:20 AM