The amulet still rests upon the rise of her chest. The facade that Alexandra took upon the party still holds...from Arctic cool to desert softness she remains. The reasons for it are simple enough. She is still in Pamplona, as far as the Kindred world would be concerned. And she knows...the Kindred world has eyes and ears everywhere. It would be best for her not to be caught out of the corner of someone's eye ... recognized for who she is. It would lead to...questions. And so the trip is taken.
     She is dressed appropriately for the trip, soft jeans upon her legs and a deep burgundy sweater wrapped around her chest. Hiking boots are laced around her ankles. She packed lightly...well..for Alexandra, at any rate. A large suitcase and a backpack. As for the trip itself...it was mostly taken in...silence. It was a long enough flight for quiet contemplation. To renew strength...and get herself back into the old rhythms. Returning more to herself then the woman who has knelt at William's side in New Port. Quiet...collected. Focused.

     As soon as the chill condenses, it shall go from miserable to unbearable. Why, he wonders, why? Why was Scotland ever important? It's nothing but small sheep, stubborn men, and rocks covered with moss. It wouldn't even make a fabulous fire. Just damp smoke. These are the more pleasant thoughts moving through the mind of William Plantagenet, as he is slowly striding toward the entrance and the receiving line. Looking, at this moment, every bit the Duke of Normandy and Prince of "Evil England" land of Devils.
     He is not frowning, but the ...intensity of his expression, his gaze...the placid but strong set of his features. His long coat moves cloak-like, the leather pants with the boots he wears...lordly. The Norman cross is a herald of his own presence and his own time. Leather gloves upon his hands are slowly pulled off along the way. He glances to the woman at his side. After her blood has passed his lips, his body has been...taut and tense, needing action in either love or war, but having neither. His mind is sharp, his gaze sharper...so too the pain he feels in his chest. The echo of that old wound? In more ways than one.
     He does not smile to her, but he does lift and lower his lashes...a softening look. But purpose is carrying him now, where his heart cannot. And so William moves on, by need and instinct. Will. His heart is somewhere else entirely. Behind them, their bags ...their belongings ...their...Inspiration for this. William casts a glance up. Cawdor. Seat of MacBeth. Will the ironies ever cease? He sighs. His first sight of a floating dagger and he's packing it up for Normandy.
     William glances back as the car is beginning to be unloaded and his Norman voice raises -- it was genetic, something all of Henry's boys and their boys had -- clipping out a command. "Careful with that last one." The large trunk. Ian. His gaze lingers on it for a moment, but he pulls it away, striding forward. "Donal..." Said in greeting. Quiet and even yet again.

     The host, though Cawdor is not his, but an associate's, is well-disposed. The servants do indeed step quickly, picking up bags, cases, and a team of four carefully handling the largest of items. Donal smiles as he greets you both, following after the scurrying team, Driver that he is, hands stuffed into the large pockets of the fur and patchworked leather coat he wears. A bit early in the season, but perhaps he is expecting worse weather. It drags at the ground almost, long for his stocky 5'9" build. Barrel-chested and awash in red beard and hair, he tumbles down the stairs, as if it were so much flat ground, boots matching the leather of the coat. Brown of the collar fur seems to be related to the red upon his face, so much so the coat looks a part of him.
     "Will...." he gruffly says, chin at his chest. He smiles brightly, crossing the ground to greet him. "Y'look well, laddie," his arms extending to encircle William in a true bear hug. Wrists are furred as well, no surprise, as well as the coat's hem. The fur shimmers faintly as he holds Will for a moment.

     It is slowly that Alexandra slips out of the car. A black leather duster is pulled out with her, and quickly she wraps it around her slender frame. Not just for protection form the elements...but pulled around her body as if it could also act as a shield for other things. She watches as the staff approaches the vehicle and they start to unload. The suitcase...that she lets them take. But the canvas bag is grabbed by her hands and tossed over one shoulder. That done, she lets her brown eyes wander over towards Cawdor...taking in the sight of the old castle. Memories it stirs deep within her...not necessarily of this place...but of other times and places where staying in such stone walls was customary. The jacket is pulled even tighter around herself.
     And then there is the sound of Donal's voice. She turns to it just in time to see the rugged Gangrel slip his arms around the Norman Prince in a bear hug. It pulls at the edges of her lips....perhaps this trip will be good for William in more ways then one? Quiet and slow steps mark her passage over to the two men. Not wanting to..intrude.

     William does indeed look well. A bit more pale than Donal is accustomed to. In his days of knowing William, it was...a rare thing for Will to miss a meal. But those who have eyes to see can note the taut tension -- and feel it if it comes to it -- of his form. They can see the brilliance of the gaze that is quickly swallowed by the maw of something much darker. Alert and sharp, but sorrow-filled. He cannot mask it, no matter what he may do. No amount of scotch would do
it...it but brings it to the surface.
     The embrace is returned. William so much more a tower over Donal, a full six inches taller. "Aye, well... you know the English with their smokes and mirrors," he gruffs back. And then the hug is released. Another glance to Cawdor -- Donal will know what he is thinking in such a look as that. And then he turns, reaching a hand out to Alexandra. Her intrusion desired. He will allow her to make her own introduction...just in case. He glances away as he sees the four men carrying the trunk upward. "Make sure to put that in my chamber," he says. Always giving orders. Just like a Norman.

     Donal never really gets to respond, for as Alex is brought toward, his attention and demeanor changes. Rugged greeting is softened, as if possible, and he blinks to see her---it has been entirely too long. And it is wonder held there, for the girl of the Baron...always the girl...never only so. Soft features, delicate...nothing like Scotland or her women in general. And such fascination has been still for centuries, but flickers in his brown eyes.
     "Lexie..." he whispers, leaving William behind like so much dust. Coat drags behind him, opening as his hands lift, palms up to receive her own. "Aye..." he whispers, eyes flickering over her hair, face, shoulders and outfit, "...aren't ye a sight for abandon'd eye...." Another few blinks, and a swallow, Donal closes his mouth to look at Alexandra. "Such a star ye always were, Alexandra..." full name given to greet the Lady.

     William looks heavenward and rolls his eyes. God preserve him. He looks down. Sentimental old bastard. The thought that isn't spoken. He moves on a bit...giving them room. Space. And he space as well. Distraction! Like Claudius calling for light at the end of the play that revealed his guilt, William turns about, directing the boys inside. No, that goes for the lady. That is mine. Be careful with the large trunk. Yes sir, yes sir...they have heard that one three times already....

     The hand offered is a hand taken. Alexandra's fingers slip easily into his hand, offering his fingers a soft squeeze before letting go. And if the commanding Norman towers over Donal...then it is sure that he dwarfs the dark woman at his side, perhaps with the souls of her thick boots she reaches five feet at best. But unlike the last few evenings ... her Presence has returned. There is no timid sense, no insecurity within her eyes. It is the commanding Strength that has always made up for her stature.
     Even as a smile is offered to Donal...it is there. But her voice, as it falls softly from her lips, is as warm as the Spanish in the inflection and tone. "Donal...it has been too long." Her hands take his, her head tilts some to the side to look up at the man. "And thank you, dear friend..." Not just for the compliment...but for everything.

     "No such words from ye..." Donal smiles, squeezing her fingers, and turning to walk beside her to the castle, "I'm happy t' help..." he glances up ahead at William, "...ifn someone'd tell me what I'm helpin'...."
     "An' what ye carryin'..." Donal begins, then looks at the car. No Ian. His brown eyes narrow, lashes flattening. "Alrighty..." he looks back to William, "...I'm waitin'...."

     The smile remains easily upon Alexandra's lips. This isn't the ruthless world of Paris or Sabbat Spain that she is dealing with after all, surely it should be allowed? Her arm slips around Donal's as she walks with him, letting him lead her to the castle. And she raises a curious brow to his question. She should have paid more attention to what William had told him. So her own answer to it comes rather simply...it is not really her story to relate. "We need to find the old Earl, of course."

     William is already entering the...warm?...embrace of Cawdor when Donal speaks. He may say, but it won't be bloody outside in the bloody cold. His stride has slowed. There are so many ghosts. He can feel them in the stones as he passes by. Not warm, not entirely. What castle ever
was. Not even Chinon in her winter could be called balmy. He glances here and there as he passes through. From entry way to corridors, spilling out into the Great Hall.
     He pauses his stride, his gaze following the lads carrying up The Box. And then his gaze goes to his hands. The gold ring about them. He tucks the gloves into his longcoat's pockets. That is how you both will find him. Pause mid-step. Gaze lowered. In the light and whatever warmth there is. Waiting for you both.

     Donal looks down at the Lady. "Aye, that I be knowin', Lexie..." but he glances evenly at William. Oh, definitely, there is more. He escorts her up the stairs and inside, his coat holding more warmth than any coat should. It must be stifling. He doesn't say anything more, not even when the doors are closed and all are crowded into the reception area and then to the Great Hall. Alexandra is brought forth, and Donal unwinds his arm, patting hers lightly. His boots stomp a moment as he repositions himself, his head left upon his shoulders, eyes spying William. "Yer alone?" he asks, chin rising now as he looks ahead. "What's it..." his head jerks, motioning to the box, "...an' that?" Strangely, he has an idea. And he doesn't like it.

     There is a slight wry smile to that. Yes, I am alone. William half-turns, his coat moving with him. Gods, he looks transported
through time just now. Henry's Son. His head inclines. He waits until all others have moved out, his gaze cutting to the side slightly before speaking. "Ian," is what he answers. Quietly. And then he turns away again, looking for scotch-brandy-anything. Norman cross catches the light with a flicker of gold.
     The Great Hall is less a hall now and more a living room. Even Scotland has to go modern eventually. And so it is vast. For entertaining. For seclusion. And William seems to cocoon himself quite nicely in the idea of Seclusion. It is...wholly not the William you have all come to know and love.

     Brown eyes dance across the Great Hall. Pausing on detail...bringing a slight tilt to her head. As Donal releases her arm, her hands find their way deep into the pockets of her duster. And eventually, her eyes return to William with the sound of his voice. The dropping of that name from it. His movements in search of drink. William...has not been the man she knew for a while now...and as much as it scares her, she is getting used to it. And with such...Hope that William might recover starts to recede. A deep breath is taken, let out slowly. "It is why we must find the Earl, Donal." She adds on the whisps of that breath.

     Ian? Donal physically twitches. The coat rustles about his broad shoulders and wide back. Brick shithouse is the common appellation...and he does throw logs each season. Quit the contests cause it wasn't really fair. A swallow and his hand comes out to wave at a servant, who does disappear and in the silence, returns with McReedy's scotch. The really good stuff....sends the Glens' shelf to shame.
     As it's prepared, Donal steps forward to stand beside William and the coffin, casket, box, whatever the hell. Brown brow arches and he looks down, exhaling. "Oh...Dunross..." name said like only a Scotsman can, every letter rolled and dropped. Well. His lips purse in and out and he blinks. "Aye...um..." a flicker, "...he travels well, no?" Smacking his lips, he can suddenly use a drink too.

     "As much as comfort can matter, he is comfortable." William has visibly withdrawn. His body is here. His mind is about. It's just the rest of him that's gone missing. "He travels...well. It's not first class, but..." He shrugs, then his head tips back -- gaze cast to some upper portion of a wall. "I'd like to...I need to know a place that is...safe. Secure. Quiet. Where I can let him rest with a bit more honor."
     Until. The unspoken word hangs on the air. As heavy as Donal's coat upon his shoulders. Until what? Until he wakes? Until I can get the blood to even attempt such a thing? The questions run through William's mind. "Until I return from Liam." With him or a part of him in tow. Carting him about the countryside will not be...possible. William looks back down, eyes skirting about for the scotch.

     William is...contagious. When he smiles, the room does so with him. But when he pulls back and withdraws into his own sorrow ... Alexandra pulls her duster around her all the more. Yes, she is in the castle, and without doubt, the sweater she wears is thick enough to do her fine. But she sinks into the black fabric all the same. She does not approach the two men, get anywhere near the box. She watches them speak in silence, turning her attention briefly to the scotch being prepared. She never was much of a scotch drinker. And she has had too
much to drink since leaving Pamplona as is. But still....

     Donal nods, half turning to see Alexandra. What in the world is this--clearly upon his face. "Well," he begins, patting the box
friendly-like, and turning to see the tray of double old-fashioneds brought over, "...here's safe. Anglesey an' I have good lads here...he'd be well-done by stayin'." He serves himself, turning about with glass in each hand, offered to the both of you. "Here..." he says, "....brace up."
     Task lain out, Donal nods. "Looks like we got much t'do." No, he won't ask what the hell happened, what is going on. But there is resolution there. For William. For fixing things and making them right. For the one in the box...not that they were ever close, but words of Honor do cling to him. Softly, letting Will's glass go, he says simply, "We'll fix it...."

     She's been trying to do that for the last few nights. And Alexandra has come to the conclusion that there is nothing about this situation that she can fix. That is not why she came on this trip. She pauses, regarding the scotch with a raised brow...and then with a slight smile shakes her head. "No thank you, Donal. I never did care much for the stuff." No, she likes her drinks cool and sweet. She can still taste the wine in her mouth...that she drank way to much of in the party.
     "But you are right. There is much that will need handling. And it needs to be done..descrietly...Donal." Her eyes say what her lips do not. It's important...for Ian's condition not to be known. For anyone to learn that the Lady of Navarre has descended on this cold place.

     The scotch is taken, his eyes on Donal. Can the world see him so easily... grasping for hope? Grasping for a line. Grasping to stay on and in the light? Brace up. To that end, is the scotch downed. Not sipped. Downed.
     Fix it? Will we? He turns his gaze away from the thoughts that fill his own mind and the doubts. Doubts that ...William was rarely seen to have. William was ever the first in the saddle. William was ever the one with the bold smile. The charge before dawn. The one so confident that God had brought him here for a reason, and he had been struck by an immortal arrow for a purpose -- there was no room for Doubt. What was there to cast a question on? What did he ever have but success in the total of his years? But now...is not then. And it is not that William who is left behind. Where a hand would already be to sword and rump to saddle, there is thought. Cawdor, thought was ever thy enemy too.
     William takes her scotch instead. "I do not want France to know. More importantly, I do not want Earl Clyde to know," comes William's murmur. And he turns, Alexandra's scotch in his hand. It meets a similar end.

     Donal's face twists...those were not cheap, old boy. He reaches behind for the third, saying, "Jes' leave 't..." and the young girl nods, turning about to head out. This he offers around William to Alexandra. Other hand pats -- beats -- William's back in supportive camaraderie. "Well, travellin' is travellin'...lots gets around. But, nothin' ye hear outta me an' my lads, that's fer sure."
     "Y'wanna visit yer room an' the girls' place?" Donal suddenly asks Alexandra, realizing his impoliteness. Certainly, women need to freshen
up. Make pretty. He is angled, turning the bottle of McReedy's up to his lips--as William has absconded with both glasses.

     William turns about, even as Donal places that beat to his back. It's like patting stone, William is stalwart and doesn't move... apart from the slow following his gaze makes of the young girl taking her leave. So preoccupied, he missed her entrance. And his sighs. Christ. He misses Donal's question entirely. It takes a moment for his blood to... rearrange itself for conscious thought. He looks to them both, then away. Hoping he wasn't as obvious as he just felt he was.

     There is a slight shift of her weight. It slides the canvas bag across the smooth fabric of the leather duster. The attention of her eyes waver. Between William and Donal. The sigh that would fall from her lips does not actually come. Nor does any about his mood or action. Instead, she finally lets her brown gaze settle on Donal. "Nasr should be joining us, soon." To let the man know there will be one more old spirit haunting the castle during this trip. And as to his offer? She gives him a soft smile. "I know the way."
     Yes, she would like a moment to herself. And not so much to freshen up from the trip, either, but to reinforce herself mentally. It is not spoken, but it carries on the strength of her gaze to Donal. We need to talk privately, old friend. Sometime. And then....with that...she is gone.

Posted by rowan at June 07, 1998 11:45 PM